The ride of my life to Bilbao - The Route VIII (part 3)

We all woke up sore. Very sore.

In two days we had gone over the biggest climb of my life and then smashed my longest day’s ride. We were already 320 kilometres and 1000s of meters ascent into our 3 day tour. What lay in front of us? Another full 150 kilometres to Bilbao. Suckers for punishment.

Despite the aches, pains, saddle bruises and not being able to fully stretch my legs until at least post breakfast, I felt mentally great and buzzing to get on with the adventure (if not the hard saddle…).

OUT OF CASTILLE AND LEON

Fuelled to the throat with the poshest breakfast we had eaten on any stage of the Route, we managed to put off putting bum to saddle for a bit, cycling upright to the cathedral square. A stunning, vast piece of Gothic architecture, set off by an empty medieval square, fortified gate and pastel blue skies.

 

Starting late as usual, I was out voted on taking a detour recce into the cathedral and we were soon off again carefully hovering above our saddles, only momentarily interrupted on our way out of town by me toppling sideways while stationary at the lights in an amateur click out of cleats fail. Brushing that off with a bit too much laughing (thanks guys), we found an easy if roundabout laden route out,  crossed a large road, fixed a puncture and headed due north into sparse countryside.

 

Predictably, this involved a climb. Up and up, leaving Burgos in the middle distance, with the land opening up to pretty, dry rolling hills. To my surprise, the legs felt good, powering up the hill. As often happens when touring, the legs and bum get over the shock of being asked to work a lot, go a bit numb and are somehow in better shape a couple of days into a ride. A bit like the pros growing their way into the Tour de France, just with slightly overweight, unfit, untrained, proto-middle-aged guys on cheap bikes doing a fraction of the distance.   

At the highest point we were blessed with a gorgeous 360 degree view (though nothing on what was to come later…). Merciful gravity then gave its gift as we descended through an arid landscape that looked like a mini Arizona. Cliffs, canyons and a semi-desert feel. We had a good 20 minutes of descending though this scenery on pitch perfect roads.

 

Now in the dry valley proper, we cycled on and on, eating into the kilometres until out of water and hungry. The only town or village of note anywhere near on the map was Poza de la Sal. Ahead and off to the left, the medieval town with castle atop rose out of the valley. I have been told that the prevalence of hilltop fortified towns in Spain is a result of its natural topography and tumultuous history of the reconquista and before (think titanic struggle between Moors, Catholics and lawless lands in between). Looking up at a place like Poza de la Sal, I found myself thankful for the spectacular legacy of history.

 

We had little choice but to detour uphill to the town for a late lunch. It was nonetheless a great call. As we approached the land became a touch more tilled and green. Then the real hill kicked in. A crazy incline bit into the thighs as we struggled up into the town. This was steeper than anything on the mountain two days before, but I sure as hell was not going to get off and walk… until I did, for a couple of steps. The protective powers of hilltop settlements in action.

 

The heart of the town was twisted, old, crumbling and beautiful. It was also almost empty. The only people we bumped into were the elderly sitting outside their houses watching a limited world go by, a very friendly pharmacist who while doing good trade out of said elderly complained of the lack of the young, and a welcoming youthful (i.e. under 75) bar tender who served us cold beer in the tiny cave like bar under a NUFC scarf.

We topped up the beer with baguettes and stretched out beneath the main church in the narrow slats of sunshine aside the cool shadow. Life felt good. Father time was though ticking and we eventually had to give each other a kick, reluctantly got back on the saddle, enjoyed our final look at this charming town and set off for the final leg of our Madrid to Bilbao journey.

INTO THE BASQUE COUNTRY

 

On our way out of town my disk-brakes screeched like banshees fighting some extreme gravity downhill. The next couple of hours on the road were swift and exceptionally beautiful. Much of it followed an ever tightening river valley, culminating in a run through a twisting canyon. In peloton racing between cliff and ravine.

 

The land then climbed again and passed through an area devoid of traffic or people.  At the end of a long, slow tiring, straight ascent, we stopped for Haribo and a cheeky swig of re-fortifying single malt. Ahead of us was a mountain, a tunnel, the dividing border of the Basque country and and a lot of contours on our map.

 

We rolled out, over the highest point of the road and then down into the tunnel. What a rush. As we quickly picked up speed around the curving, downward bends of the tunnel, I felt like I was in an F1 car at Monaco. Suddenly, we burst out of the dim into bright light and truly fantastical scenery.

To our right was a sheer drop into a deep, wide canyon, rising to flat topped bare cliffs that resembled Table Mountain. Everything was a verdant green. Cutting through the mountain we had crossed the watershed from dry, semi-desert central Spain into lush, wet Atlantic Spain.

 

We pulled up at the first opportunity and lapped up our surroundings. To our left the road hugged the side of the mountain, plunging down into a series of sharp valleys, cliffs, ravines and small hills. Without a doubt, this was the most beautiful place we had stumbled upon during our thousands of kilometres route across Europe.

It was exhilarating. My heart beat fast, tiredness fell away from the legs and I could not wait to take on the road ahead.

The next hour was the best cycling of my life. 40 kilometres of barely interrupted, hair-raising downhill through this amazing scenery. Hardly a need to pedal, carving around wide arcs in the road and then screeching around hair-pin bends. Topping 60 kmph on sections, the adrenaline thrill was right up there. After three days of hard grind, this was some payoff and so worth it. Adding to that, the views just kept on giving as we descended into the lush, dramatic valley.

A couple of ill-advised beer stops in pretty villages at the bottom of the vast valley were the only thing that stopped us from powering on towards the capital of the Basque country.

BILBAO AND OUT

The closer we got to the city, the less pretty it became. While the geography was still interesting- narrow sharp valleys and cliffs, the rivers were straddled by decidedly smelly industry and the unattractive sprawl started to hog every semi-flat space available. Through another tunnel and we arrived in the imposing valley of Bilbao proper. From up above, the city was an impressive if not exactly beautiful sight. That was though soon forgotten as we entered treacherous commuter roads as the light failed.

 

It took some serious concentration to navigate the traffic right across Bilbao and arrive at our cobbled road in the old town. I was navigating with a small Google map print-out and quite elated when I spotted our road on the right. Just as we turned our final corner of 470 kilometres, in my distracted tiredness I missed the dreaded tram track across our path. My front wheel snagged, back wheel flipped over my heard as the bike and I conjoined in a somersault up and then down towards the tarmac. I managed to commando roll out on contact and somehow got away with only bruises and a bit of shame.

 

At least it woke me up! We arrived at the hostel and were pretty chuffed at having finished a pretty gruelling cycle from Madrid to Bilbao, over a mountain, across vast tracks of empty aridity and then through the stunning Basque country.

 We celebrated with an immense pile of pintxos - delectable Basque finger food plus - large glasses of red wine and a tour around the city into the wee hours. The Guggenheim lit up at 3am was quite something. Once we had cracked the no-bike box riddle (always painful with a hangover, but worse when all boxes have been pre-booked by riders on the Camino de Santiago), Uwe departed for another year and Dave and I had a great half day strolling Bilbao. This ended in a cable-car trip up the mountain overlooking the Blbao to a breathtaking farewell view.

 

I really like the city, loved the trip and couldn’t wait to a new year and the next stage of the Route! Before that we could savour the aches and memories, as well as the sick profile of the best day's riding of my life...