Barcelona

Barcelona has big boulevards. And bike lanes. And lots of Gaudi.

The Sagrada Familia basilica (started 1886, with construction to finish sometime in the next 50 years) is a modern wonder. It is also a wonder that the catholic church let Gaudi build the SFB, because the whole thing seems like a drug-fueled fever dream. Faceted pillars start with 8 faces, then double to 16, 32, 64 in geometric progression as they reach nave-ward, and explode into branches of a tree. The staircases of the belfries dive to the floor of the sanctuary in tortuous, logarithmic spirals. From the outside, rows of slender towers are topped with the "fruits of the spirit." Or are they giant stalks of grass, laden with grains? Gaudi seemed to find God in nature, and used his architecture to convey this. I have rarely seen this so centrally featured in Catholic imagery, but it is a school of thought that I can relate with, and probably why I enjoyed Gaudi so much. Needless to say, admission into the cathedral and a ride up the elevators was worth the 15€ pp.


nautilus mimicking winding staircase


shadows cast on the streets below by the Sagrada Familia towers


intricate stained glass


tree sprouting branches of columns inside the Basilica

We tested the bike lanes riding across town to the bus station later that evening. Those worked pretty well: wide, off-street lanes and bike-shaped stop lights all the way to the station. We arrived with 20 minutes to spare. However, Mordor conspired against us to the very end. We nearly had to wrestled the bus conductor to let us take the bikes on board, despite our duly purchased additional fare for the beasts. We finally placated him by buying 10€ "bike bags" that did nothing but make the bus late. Oh well.

After the usual nightbus antics, we were unceremoniously dumped at dawn at the "Avenida de Americas" in Madrid, wherever that is. Ando had slightly learned his lesson from Barcelona and this time had the name and address of the hotel (correctly?) memorized. Somehow, that was enough to deduce a sensible metro stop, navigate our bikes through a couple of transfers, then find our way under/over two (count 'em) limited access freeways and bike to the hotel, feeling certain that we were the first people in the history of Madrid to have arrived on bicycle at that particular hotel. All this transpired without the benefit of Internet. Yeah, we are two badass hobbits. We gave each other a high-five once the bikes were ensconced in the luggage room of the hotel, then proceeded to shop 'til we dropped at the Plenilunia Centro Comercial, which really did have some excellent ofertas. Ando plans to fill his bags with discount euro-tailored clothing when he returns.

Costa Brava

After some bike fixing, food buying, late sleeping, internet using, and being kicked out of a nicer restaurant for trying to change into biking gear in their bathroom, we headed out of Toroella and promptly got lost. After an hour of repeatedly asking directions from randos on the side of the street, we ultimately ended up on the wrong road in the right direction. It was one of those roads that was too wide and straight for cars to want to slow down in anticipation of obstacles in their path, but not quite wide enough for one bike + two cars. We quickly tired of the rapid traffic buzzing our shoulders, and took a detour on more quiet roads.

Happy to find a less busy road (with goofy glasses)

From bikinggirona

The coastal winds on the Costa Brava kicked up. Pedaling our loaded bikes against walls of headwinds coupled with more than a few detours due to not having sufficient maps landed us near Empuria Brava in late afternoon. We found ourselves blocked by a newly formed river over the road. The wet ford looking unappetizing, we headed to the signed camping to ask directions, and decided to stay the night. I am beginning to think that wrong turns in the Mediterranean only bring unexpected delights.

"Dangerous Currents" blocking our passage

From bikinggirona

The view from our beach side campsite. Note the Rosé in the water cage.

From bikinggirona

Wednesday we began our climb into the Cap de Creus on the easternmost part of Spain's Mediterranean coast. I soon remembered how different meters are from feet, as the 400 m climb to the pass with a loaded 50 lb bike quickly dropped me to my lowest gear. I was passed by several Frenchmen yelling "Bonjour" and "keep up" as they blew past me in race kit. I was barely able to mutter a hurried salutation before they were out of view.

When I caught up to Andrew near the top, he had a huge smile, and said proudly "I passed two racers and was complemented by a French man." Which, yes, is a pretty big deal in this land overrun with bikers training for great races.

View from the Top, road to Cadaques

From bikinggirona

We topped out to amazing views and the scenery kept coming all afternoon as we dropped from the road to Cadaques into a line of tiny towns linked by fun, banked turns. I could have ridden those roads forever.

Self portrait attempts on fast and fun roads through northern spain

From bikinggirona

The riding was so fun, it was tempting to continue on into France, but being advised of the type of roads past Llança into France by several bikers, we decided to take a quick local train across the border.

By early evening we were wandering the deserted streets of Cerbere, searching for a place to spend the night. In the window of the closed tourist office, we saw a flyer for municipal camping. Using our very minimal French with much hand gesturing, we were able to find out that the camping was a few kilometers out of town on the right...so we headed off in the direction we had been pointed.

Arriving to a closed appearing registration station, we were bummed. But hadn't we seen campers in the distance across the water? We continued down in good faith, and sure enough, hidden on the cliffs, we found a city of squatters/campers. Again using our jibberspanishfrench we found out that the camping was free for however long we would like to call it home. We pitched our tent and cooked dinner with a mindblowing view of the sea. Free squatting privileges with such a view...France you've got my heart.

feral flowers at camp

From bikingFrance

not too bad for a free campsite

From bikingFrance

Chapter 4, in which your heroes discover their great power

Ando and Erwise were bummed. Their burdens had been weighing heavily on them since they entered the land of the Euros. Even the smallest staircase, which the lithe Eurofolk bounded up, required great toil. And while their shoulders were heavy, their purses were becoming distressingly light, for their Shire coins were worth very little.

Dusk was fast approaching as they wandered another unfamiliar town, understanding none of the strange tongue spoken. A sign, mercifully legible, indicated they might make camp for the night someplace outside the town. But their legs were weary, and the sign said nothing about the distance to camp. Erwise sat and contemplated the deepening shadows the headlands cast over the immense, blue Meditteranean, when suddenly she was struck by a vision so vivid it was as if Gandalf himself had returned with his wizardry. They would mount their burdens, and pedal them to camp! In fact, they could really pedal them anywhere in Middle Earth! They were not burdened at all. Instead, they possessed a great power.

"Ando! Alack! Grab the reins of your stead and let us flee this town, for the wind is at our back and the world is ours!"

Ando mounted his stead with a hearty yell, and started up the sinuous highway. As soon as his foot hit the stirrup, the world seemed to shift. The azure Meditteranean appeared an even deeper blue. He charged up the steep hill that lead out of town, not feeling the grade at all, as though he was being pushed by an invisible hand.

Your heroes banked through turns and raced the birds, and soon, too soon, camp appeared on a headland across a cove. Provisions, they had not, but they now understood that it didn't matter. On their faithful steeds, the immense world had become a little smaller.

Vías verdes (and not so verdes)

Girona is known to be a center of competitive cycling in Spain. The US team trained here, Lance had a house, etcetera. Which is all well and good, however we are operating on an entirely different plane than 17 lb bikes and 80 liters/kilogram VO2 maxes. Fortunately for us, it is also a center of anti-competitive cycling, with lots of rail-trails and rural cycling routes. We took one such rail-trail from Girona to Platja d'Aro, on the coast.




After very pleasant 42 km through small towns and alongside fields of poppies and rapeseed, we arrived in Platja d'Aro. La platja was a raging shitshow of traffic and vacationing Madrileños. Whoops, we forgot it was Semana Santa, which means Spring Break! for all of Spain. And just like Spring Break! in the US, everybody goes to the beach. We found our camping, where they assured us that it wasn't really all that crowded, which although incredible, might have been true. We were camped in site 5207, and an entire half of the campground wasn't open yet. God help us if we had arrived mid-summer.



The roar of traffic on the carretera throughout the night assured us that we should find a route that didn't involve the highway. The next morning, traffic through town had calmed substantially, and we rode next to the water through fancy-smancy beach towns and steady, but not terrifying traffic, before finding another rail trail that led inland. A propicious wrong turn lead us up a couple hundred meters of climbing to a pleasant viewpoint. If only all wrong turns were so scenic.

From bikinggirona

Some fast kilometers downhill and a wrong turn onto the carretera (which was actually not too bad, and far less terrifying than "smaller" roads we rode on) lead us to more routefinding through beautiful, medieval towns, and eventually the town of Torroella de Montgrí. We were bushed from pedaling our distressingly-heavy bikes into the wind all day, and couldn't convince ourselves to look for the camping outside of town. So we settled for an over-priced hotel in the city and a underpriced, and very delicious Catalan supper of sausage, salad and lasagna.

mm-mm-mm-my Girona

We hurriedly stuffed our bikes into the bus bound for Barcelona where we would connect to Girona. Our bikes were mostly built by this time, boxes discarded. We soon found ourselves back in disassemble mode - racing to take off parts of our bikes to make them fit into the luggage compartment while encouragements (if you want to call them that) were yelled to/at us by the bus conductor. We were soon on the bus with more than one annoyed look from strangers for holding up travel. We were soon settled in to fitful sleep.

The morning in Girona was dark and rainy, the clouds menacing. With café con leche in hand, we settled into a coffee shop to wait out the Seattle-like weather. Soon enough the clouds burnt off, the sun came out and we were able to explore the city of Girona before setting off on two wheels.







To Andrew's eyes, it was like wandering around a section of disneyland, but real. And it made the old parts of Chile and Perú less impressive, with the possible exception of Cusco.

Madrid is a very fine city, but it ain't no Rivendell

Despite the best efforts of the barrowights, also known as Air France, your two adventurers and their Great Burdens arrived in Madrid.



Ando argued mightily with the Wights that they leave us in Rivendell, aka Paris, but it was for naught. $1800 must be abandoned, p.p., for the privilege of getting off the plane early in Paris. That they left one of our bags to marinate overnight and closed the boarding of our plane 15 minutes before scheduled in Rivendell, I can only theorize, was to punish us for the asking.

But yes, Madrid. Quite nice.





Lots of parks, an absurdly extensive subway, and strangely desolate, due to Semana Santa (note foreshadowing)



We did some more investigating and found that Alsa would help carry our Great Burdens by auto-coach towards France, via way of Girona. They were intact, mostly. So we built them, mostly. Then we pushed them, cajoled them up stairs, held them while speaking in soothing tones on train and subway (they spook easily in crowds), did delicate ballet to corral them onto elevators. Then dumped them in the luggage hold of a bus.