Battle to Burgos - The Route VIII (part 2)

Having pedalled over a mountain the day before, what we needed was a nice easy recovery day. One of those days when you don’t have to push it, any incline is gentle and the day feels like ends before you ever really got into the thick of it. What lay before us was anything but. It proved to be the toughest day cycling of my life. A real battle against time, light and limited physical capabilities.

THE NICE PART

Tracing out our route at the breakfast table, we pin-pointed Burgos as our must-meet objective for the day. The only city for miles around and, vitally leaving “only” 150 kilometers for our final day into Bilbao (we could not afford to leave longer as we had no contingency day and any material mechanical or crash would mean Uwe missing his plane). What therefore lay ahead was at least 170 kilometers on the road at an average altitude of 900 meters.

The day started great. A fat Spanish breakfast, friendly words with the hotel proprietor and bright sunshine to greet us onto the saddle. Surprisingly the legs (and bum) did not feel too bad and the first 30 kilometers were top notch. A good road cutting through pretty countryside of small vineyards, tiled farm houses and the odd dramatic minor ravine.

We topped off this section with a second breakfast refuelling stop sitting at charming cafe in the central square of Pedraza. Spanish omelette, strong coffee, some chat with the local old men (who I got the impression were pinned to their stools all day) and a view across the quiet, sun-reflecting streets to a castle. Not bad at all!

THE TOUGH PART

Riding out of town full and content, we quickly found a hill, circling around the castle and then up to a plateau. From then on, little seemed to change for hours. Kilometer after kilometer of arid, flat, uninspiring land. Barely any buildings and certainly no towns. It felt like a semi-desert and, at nearly 1,000 meters up, sucked both the air and excitement out of us.

We each took our turn on the front, and made OK time on a long straight bit of road before finding our turning and lying on the ground by a farm shed for a few minutes rest.

On and on we went, the energy sapping out of us. We did not see any person or car for what felt like an age and then, sods law, the one time I need to go to the road side for a rather urgent call of nature, a farmer passed me on his tractor, gesticulating while the others pissed themselves with laughter. A moment distinctly lacking dignity!

Another hour on and we had run out of food and were low on water. Having not past so much as an shop since our morning break, we took a a detour to the only place of any size in our vicinity on the map, Roa. Before we even got there, the first signs of group disillusion were raising their head. One of the reasons why I love riding with Uwe and Dave is they are mostly upbeat sort of people who take difficulties with good grace and more than a touch of humour, but it was made clear that our situation was not amusing.

After another schlep, 100 kilometers into the day, Rosa finally came into sight. A fortified town on a hill that dominates for its surrounds.  I am sure we may have appreciated its spectacle had we been on better form, but we weren't. 

Just our luck, the town centre was right at the top, so with a grumble we took the winding road up and through the walls, via winding streets to the main square. 

It was a strange place. Clearly with history and the odd grand old building like the church that dominated the square, but equally evidently rather poor. A strange feeling that modern times, young people and certainly prosperity had left this town behind.

Having said all that, it felt great to stretch out the legs on a rickety metal chair in the square, soaking up the sun and mediocre local fair served by a cafe. The lady serving was also welcoming and none of us really wanted to get moving. We duly had a second beer and stared at the map. It was getting late in the afternoon and we still had another 90 kilometers to cover before Burgos.

THE EVEN TOUGHER PART

Given the lack of other options beforehand and the aforementioned issue of time/distance to Bilbao, we agreed to at least give it a go to get there.

Sometimes it feels horrible to get back on a bike, and this was one of those times. Carves ache, the deep bruises on your arse pinch and knees feel like they just won’t start. A pinching grind. Fortunately a little distance and pinch of adrenaline usually pushes such things aside and such was the case here. With a distinct lack of chatter we pushed on in peloton.

In truth, I don’t recall too much about the landscape for the next few hours. While I doubt there was much of remark, even if there was, I missed it concentrating on the tire in front. Toying with that mesmeric balance between keeping close to save energy and not risking a clash through bashing the wheel in front. When tired, invariably there is the odd fizzing “tsssshhk” as rubber meets rubber for the briefest moment.

We passed my longest day’s cycling (the Ride-London Surrey 100 miler) and the morale visibly improved as we started seeing signs for Burgos. 50 km, 30 km, 20 km… I got a fifth wind and was genuinely enjoying the struggle when the light began to fade and fast.

Yet again, we were soon cycling in the pitch-black on unlit roads. Singing broke out amongst us and I recall desperate laughter as we encountered a steep hill and willed our way up in single file, one light on Uwe’s bike at the front and one on Dave’s bike at the back.

This was one of a number of unexpected hills, with the best part being the hairy descent. Letting the muscles sag as I followed in Uwe’s wake with nothing to guide me but a single LED lighting the road 5 meters ahead to the front of Uwe. I am pretty sure we were euphoric, but I might be confusing that with crazed.

Up another hill and over the top the lights of Burgos came into sight. What a sight! By the time we rolled in we had 190 kilometers under our belt for the day at an average altitude of nearly 900 meters. It It was past 10 pm and we were utterly spent.

I just about took in the beauty of the lit cathedral, as we stopped and worked out where to stay for the night. Uwe was unquestionably clear. No fucking about. He pointed at the high end grand hotel in front of us and that is where we went. To my surprise the guy at the desk welcomed us with our bikes, dirt and slightly unpleasant odour.

A scorching shower, hotel robes and filthy takeout pizza later, we were all zonked out on luxuriously fluffy beds. Every muscle ached, the head buzzed and it was heaven.

I slept the dreamless sleep of the shattered. Needed rest before another 150 kilometer day awaited us to Bilbao and what proved to be the best day’s cycling of my life. As always with cycling, ups follow downs...

Tackling the Spanish Sierra to Segovia -The Route VIII (part 1)

Dave and I arrived in Madrid late on a Thursday night and rendezvous'ed with Uwe in the bar of a cheap airport hotel. what lay before us was three days to get to Bilbao and some 450 plus kms.  I have to admit planning for this trip had been on the lazy side of minimal. We did not even obtain a proper map, just some Google map printouts. A bit of last minute route research had highlighted a rather large impediment -  the Sierra de Guadarrama.

Barring Northern Spain from Madrid is a 2000 meter high ridge of mountains. Given that I had never cycled over 1000 meters and none of us had done any training for this trip, this posed an intimidating obstacle. I kid you not, our only viable route took us over an actual Vuelta mountain stage! There was not much we could do about it now, except for plotting a route to Segovia, downing our beers and heading for some kip.

ROLLING OUT OF MADRID

After waiting for an inordinate amount of time for Dave to sort his bike out (we are talking champion level faff), we finally set off on our annual ride.  I felt great. Adding to the general excitement of a new adventure, I also had a new bike. Gone was my repeated break-down hybrid, in was a road bike with proper brakes, better gears, less weight and... a harder saddle.


The cycle out of Madrid was long and occasionally lost. Leaving any big city is a bit of a mess and this was no exception. Thankfully, we eventually found a cycle path heading due North and followed it all the way until city gave way to suburbia and suburbia gave way to fields.

It was at this point that the challenge ahead of us became all too evident.  Rising out of the middle distance was the dark, high ridge. Any thought that it might not be too bad was dispelled by a very fit looking cyclist who, upon being asked the direction of Segovia, waved North-West to the mountains and said "muy dificil" while glancing at our laden pannier racks.

The next 25 km or so in the foothills was actually very pleasant. The sun had come out and the road was flanked with black cattle that looked straight out of a bull-ring. We lunched at the pretty castle town of Colmenar Viejo, fortifying ourselves with far too many carbohydrates.

UN POCO DE VUELTA - LA SIERRA

As soon as we left the small town, the road started climb. Long sweeps and then shorter as we climbed quickly above the foothills. As we entered switch-back territory, I have to admit I questioned what I was doing and why! As the air noticeably thinned, the road cut into the forest. We took it nice and slow, conscious of going into the red and burning out. I tried to keep in my second lowest gear (leaving a safety net ...) and concentrated on careful, efficient pedalling. We were rewarded with some fantastic views back to the valley and Madrid, as well as to the mountainside falling precipitously on our left. Thankfully the road was guarded by rails in all the hairiest parts.

Taking breaks for water and air, we persevered up the 20 km climb. As the road steepened, Uwe pushed ahead a little and I just sat on Dave's wheel, determined not to drop. To that end, I have to thank Dave for patiently pulling me along (whether he knew it or not...). To my surprise, in the thick of it I was quite enjoying myself. My masochistic side was getting a buzz, surfing on endorphins. Up and up and up. 100 meters altitude at a time, each marked by gladly passed sign posts.

Predictably, the final schlep was the steepest part, rearing up sharply and causing me to set aside the dramatic views for trance-like fixation on Dave's back wheel. We were into gritted teeth territory. As a final "FU" to the ascent, I glanced back to the view, focused forward and just about managed to get out the saddle for the final few meters, pumping all the way into the strange little town at the summit of the pass.

I say strange, but that is not really fair. It seemed strange to us from where we had come, but was perfectly ordinary if you had a pair of skis. Yes, we had somehow lugged ourselves and all our gear up to a ski-resort 1800 meters into the sky! Never before, quite possibly never again.

High fives were out in force before the adrenaline seeped out and the cold rain seeped in. We ducked for shelter in a wooden ski-bar and were delighted to find vin chaud that tasted like heaven.

DOWNHILL THROUGH HEMINGWAY COUNTRY

Sadly it was getting late, so we had no time to hang. Within 30 minutes we were back on the road, rain gear on, high gear selected for the run down the mountain. It was bloody cold and I was shivering within 5 minutes of rolling out of town. |

The descent was steep and sweeping, cutting through swathes of thick, drenched forest. Not since Sweden had I been so cold on a bike (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-route-vii-swedish-summer-cycle.html). The high speed of the descent made the chill factor worse, replicating a 50 km/h ice wind. We had to stop half way down to put on whatever extra layers we had (i.e. yesterday's shirt) and then continued down the mountain in a dark mood.

Perhaps I would have focused more on my surroundings had I known at the time that we were passing through the very place where 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' is set - fierce Civil War fighting in this area was captured in fiction by Hemingway's powerful epic - but I did not find that our until later and was concentrating on surviving.

Wet roads, sharp bends, big drops, bad vision, freezing muscles and tired reactions. Not a good combo, but survive we did. Who would have thought that pedalling up the mountain would have been more fun than gliding down it...

CYCLING UNDER A MARVEL OF THE ANCIENT WORLD - SEGOVIA

At the bottom we took a brief detour around the slippery cobbled streets of Real Sitio de San Ildefenso (I love grand Spanish names!), a royal palace and surrounding town often compared to Versailles  - impressive place, but poor relation - and then set off full pace for Segovia. Thankfully the sun had come out again and I felt something approaching contentment as we powered to our focus for the day.

Visiting Segovia added over 30 km to our route. While not a good idea when we were already pushing our distance capabilities, I was not going to give it a miss. I am a bit of a history nut and ahead of us was one of the remaining wonders of the Roman world. The Segvoia aquaduct. My word it did not disappoint.

As fortune would have it we entered town from just the right angle, taking a left turn to a sudden sweeping view of the aquaduct, city walls and old town. It was magnificent.

We cycled right to the base of the aquaduct bridge. As its giant, double-level arches towered over me, I stared open mouthed and thought all the natural thoughts. How was this thing built? How has it survived? Simply WOW.

Two thousand years old, originally 17 km long, culminating in the nearly 30 meter high aquaduct bridge we were parked underneath. I mean WOW!

We somewhat overdid our stay in town - you can't blame us given the surroundings. I even legged it up into the heart of the old town for a glimpse of the cathedral - but the sun falling behind the buildings hammered home that we had to get our arses in gear. One final push for the day.

DARK 1 - 0 CYCLISTS

Fortified by ice-cream and a beer, we struggled back up the hill and headed East and a little North in search of somewhere to stay another hour or so down the road. How I would have loved to stay in Segovia, but that would have left a minimum of 350 km in 2 days, a plain stupid distance.

Used to falling upon random places to stay in villages, town and road sides across much of Europe over our last 7 trips, I suppose we assumed we would find the same here. No luck. As the sun gave way to a pitch black moonless night, the settlements we had vied for on our map turned out to have no signs of life. Half abandoned villages in the Spanish countryside, with no shops or restaurants, let alone rooms to stay - a bit of a theme through our journey.

There was a marvellous moment when a lit road turned into an unlit road, then a track, before settling on being a tractor churned stretch of mud and then a field gate. You have to laugh when you are standing in Lycra in the dark in a field with no clue where to head for shelter. Retracing our tracks and finding a proper road again, we decided to keep heading East. With our 2 lights between 3 people (not clever) on the front and back of the peleton we rode for another 10 km or so before making it to a sight for tired eyes. A small, perfect little hotel!

Out of Madrid, over a mountain, past some history and through the dark, we had made it to the end of our first day. After a giant meal refuelling on pig trotters (a local speciality) we were soon knocked out, getting what rest we could before what proved to be the longest and hardest day cycling of my life...