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Sometime in July, 2016
OK. I Concede that I may have strategized poorly when I chose Spain as my first destination. There were a few personal reasons that led me to choose Spain over Ireland (my original, and the most obvious choice for a more or less West-East pan-European trip) or Norway or Germany, any of which would have been lovely in in mid-July and miserable later. Instead I picked Spain. It was brutally hot in summer, and would have been perfect in late fall or early winter when I did finally find myself in Northeastern Europe. But hindsight is 20/20, and I started my cycle trip in Valencia in the middle of July, with the temps cresting 30° every day. But I picked the table and that's the hand I was dealt.
I was a week off schedule in departing due to a prolonged search for a suitable bike. Back in The States, a cursory look at the online second-hand market had given me confidence that I'd be able to find one upon arrival. After being in the country for a minute, however, the reality became clear. At 6'3" I'm much larger than the average Spaniard, making used bikes my size very rare. Then add the additional filters of wanting a hybrid or touring style frame, x amount of gears, transmission type, et cetera, and the available stock dropped to nil (it occurs to me that I'm not willing to settle when I have the cash to do it my way). Spaniards love to bike. They just prefer mountain or lightweight race bikes. Nothing in the middle, really. And so I found myself spending a pair of days researching unfamiliar European brands, assessing all options, and ordering a bike from an online shop and having it shipped from Germany to my friends' place in Valencia. Truth be told, I was enjoying my time with Todd and Bilye -friends from my Seattle days- so much that I wasn't in a hurry to leave. Plus, we had an overnight trip to Barcelona on the books anyways, so I had time to spare. Still, it was a delay that made me anxious to get rolling, literally. Time moves as it will, and before I knew it I had a very large box under my Christmas-in-July tree. It took me an additional 3 days to cobble together a few pieces of bike luggage that worked with the stuff I brought with me from home and other incidentals that it only just occurred to me to buy. Spare tubes are useful. Shame I didn't start with a decent seat, but more on that later. Early evening, July 13th- Todd and Bilye accompanied me to the street to see me off. I pleaded with them to go inside before I rode off, self-conscious about how wobbly and unsure I'd look riding a fully loaded bike for the first time evah. They agreed and I got underway, not knowing they came back out from their apartment lobby to watch anyways. Cheeky bastards. I navigated the busy streets of Valencia with relative ease, and cruised through the gorgeous Parque del Turia a length of the exit route. The city was smaller than I realized, and I watched the wall of buildings dissolve into farmland with an unexpected abruptness. Just outside the city, before even reaching proper rurality, large gardens bordering on small fields became a majority of land use. Within a couple of hours I was in the mountains on dirt tracks more suited to proper mountain bikes than my rigid, touring set-up. When I settled on the bike, I knew I would encounter some of this on my elected routes (downloaded primarily from Wikiloc.com). Little did I know how large a portion that would encompass, and how bad the "roads" would get. Again, I digress. As soon as I left the pavement the grades got steeper. Naturally. My smooth street oriented tires clunked against large rocks and sunk into deep gravel as I labored up hill, and I had to plant my feet frequently to keep from going down. But the views kept getting better and better. I passed a huge, ancient looking monastery set into the mountainside, walled off from the world by an actual wall, as much as its isolated setting. As much as I was enjoying the scenery, I needed to focus on finding a spot to camp. The sun hadn't gotten higher in 8 hours, and my chances of finding flat space here were looking grim, as steep pitches and/or thick forest met me on both sides of the road. Coming up on an abandoned shell of a house, I paused for some time looking at it and considering it as a pitch for my tent. Something urged me on though, and not 200 meters on I happened upon a bend in the road where that path wound its way deep into the side of the mountain and intersected with another smaller mountain bike/equestrian path with a large flat space, hitching posts, and a SPRING!. ¡Que suerte! Sleeping "late," I got up and packed the next morning and was on the move by 9:00. There was still some climbing to be done, and right away I went from shaking off the morning chill to huffing and sweating. But again, the views got better as I climbed. And before long I got the downhill that logically follows. Some of it was quite steep, and the deep gravel in parts got a little dodgy. But I managed to stay upright. For the most part. I slid out a little on a particularly steep spot, but got not a scratch on me or the bike. Just enough of a scare to open my eyes to the limits of my chosen bike and my skill in handling my new bike. All in all, not bad considering the pitch and my unwieldy, weighty rig. But I'd have to take it slower. When the pavement started up again I was thankful for it. Shortly after lunch I discovered that the route was not in fact suitable for touring bikes, despite being filed in that category on the site I pulled it from. Outside the lovely little town of Segorbe I followed the route to the end of a single lane road that wandered through groves of fruit and olives. At the road's end, my GPS was pointing me through a gate and down a track too steep, too narrow, and too rocky for any touring bike, or even a moderately loaded mountain bike. I hiked my bike up it a bit, but looking down the 1/8 of a mile or so that I could see it didn't relent. So I went out the way I came and spent the day on pavement. I happily cruised along the little used, pristine highways rolling over the countryside, parallel to the track I was meant be on. Besides a short siesta hiding from the brutal sun in the shade of a supermarket, slamming calories like it was my job, I kept moving. The miles ticked away. Or kilometers, as it was. |
My trusty steed.
Parque del Turia
Aqueduct feeding monastery vineyards.
Membership has its benefits. I had to reach over a high wall shooting blind to get this shot. Nice little refuge, you just have to give up worldly pleasures to be invited.
Perfect pitch.
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Near the end of my day I was filling up my water bottles at the town fountain in Barracas, drawing attention from many of the townfolk. You see, if I didn't stand out enough for being a giant, pale, man-bunned cycle tourist, I went and got myself some sunburn in a tank top. Some young girls walked past staring unabashedly, yet timidly, at me and walking very slowly as if tiptoeing past some dangerous creature. One, with eyes fixed on my sunburnt shoulders, paused and addressed me.
"Señor, eres muy rojo."
Yes, little girl, I am aware of how red I am. But I appreciate your concern. "Si, yo se," I replied. The first day of any given trip I have to relearn this lesson. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will apply sunblock, I promised myself.
"Señor, eres muy rojo."
Yes, little girl, I am aware of how red I am. But I appreciate your concern. "Si, yo se," I replied. The first day of any given trip I have to relearn this lesson. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will apply sunblock, I promised myself.
Poster Boy.
"Señor, eres muy rojo..."
After the girls shuffled out of the square, a cyclist cruised over and struck up a conversation as he drew water from the fountain.. He asked me if I was looking for alojamiento (accommodation), and when I told him I was planning to camp a few kilometers on he said there was a good campsite just a bit up the trail, abandoned, but with running water. The campsite I was aware of, but what grabbed my attention was his use of the word "trail." I had only seen the road on my map, and a kilometer of sidetrail to get to this campground. "Trail?" I replied, to which he countered, "Si, la Via Verde."
Now, apparently there is a network of bicycle trails throughout Spain occupying old rail lines. These are named the Via Verde trails. This particular one, this Via Verde de Ojos Negros, led me straight to Teruel, my destination for the next day. The digital route I was currently following overlapped it a bit, but also meandered a ways off it from time to time, over God-knows-what kind of terrain. Judging from the contributor's idea of what constituted a "cycle touring" route, I thought it better to take my chances with this mellow, nicely graded, dedicated cycle path I had at my disposal. The 3 kilometers or so to the camp that night sold me on my choice. It was gravy.
And the campsite was nice too. An admin/facilities building stood amidst some derelict playground equiment situated next to a large, flat camp site. But it was wide open, directly adjacent to the trail. I'm not overly skittish, but I prefer not to be the only camper in a field next to a fairly well traveled path. So I opted to hike into the bush behind the official camp area and pitch there, out of view of any passersby. I did some laundry and laid it out to dry on some covered picnic benches. The sky was edging into ominous, and the wind was picking up. I put rocks on each article to ease my concerns of having to play "Where's my underwear gone to?" in the morning, and decided to lash on the rainfly to my tent. Just in case.it.
Now, apparently there is a network of bicycle trails throughout Spain occupying old rail lines. These are named the Via Verde trails. This particular one, this Via Verde de Ojos Negros, led me straight to Teruel, my destination for the next day. The digital route I was currently following overlapped it a bit, but also meandered a ways off it from time to time, over God-knows-what kind of terrain. Judging from the contributor's idea of what constituted a "cycle touring" route, I thought it better to take my chances with this mellow, nicely graded, dedicated cycle path I had at my disposal. The 3 kilometers or so to the camp that night sold me on my choice. It was gravy.
And the campsite was nice too. An admin/facilities building stood amidst some derelict playground equiment situated next to a large, flat camp site. But it was wide open, directly adjacent to the trail. I'm not overly skittish, but I prefer not to be the only camper in a field next to a fairly well traveled path. So I opted to hike into the bush behind the official camp area and pitch there, out of view of any passersby. I did some laundry and laid it out to dry on some covered picnic benches. The sky was edging into ominous, and the wind was picking up. I put rocks on each article to ease my concerns of having to play "Where's my underwear gone to?" in the morning, and decided to lash on the rainfly to my tent. Just in case.it.
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I was torn from sleep by a noise that can only be described as the bellowing of a very large goose-bear-dog being choked while watching its children being brutalized. Before I could even shake the sleep from my head and assess where I was my heart was already beating out of my chest. As far as I can tell, I must have rolled over as whatever strange beast this was approached, and the noise of my inflatable camp mat -that melodious squeaky crinkle of a Thermarest NeoAir, to those of you familiar- must have startled it. It cried out in fear, thus causing me to in turn "shit my proverbial pants." These bleating cries went on for about half an hour as the creature arched its way from east to west in a wide semi-circle around my encampment. Meanwhile, my heart never slowed from its sprint, and I lay there wide eyed and still.
But I needed to get out of my tent.
No, not to change my drawers. That was hyperbole. You see, this animal had probably come sniffing out my food which was Ziplocked, and hung in a dry bag from a low-ish tree branch. Now, I was pretty sure there were no bears in this country, but I didn't want some daredevil fieldmouse to come gnawing a hole through my fairly expensive tent just to get at a 1€ bit of chorizo. So alternatively, I'd hung it up in a fairly expensive, not easily replaced dry bag that was an integral part of my bikepacking set-up; i.e.- something I absolutely needed to carry all the things I needed for the next few months. I thought it best to rethink my food storage method, so out I must go.
Well, I'm here typing this, so I obviously didn't get mauled or eaten. I did the deed, lay back down, unharmed, and managed to sleep the majority of the rest of the night. My ability to stay asleep was probably due in no small part to a dream I had where my friends Todd and Bilye were camping with me, thus safe(r). Upon waking, I realized the absurdity of this.
Bilye would never go camping.
Well, I'm here typing this, so I obviously didn't get mauled or eaten. I did the deed, lay back down, unharmed, and managed to sleep the majority of the rest of the night. My ability to stay asleep was probably due in no small part to a dream I had where my friends Todd and Bilye were camping with me, thus safe(r). Upon waking, I realized the absurdity of this.
Bilye would never go camping.
Surprise, surprise. More wheat fields.
Just about the fanciest bocadillo I ate in all of Spain.
Teruel!
Barely a trail.
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Albarracín in photos.
Further Reading.
Adjusting My Approach
The next installment in the saga.
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Madrid, Etc.
My last set of scribbles.
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Gear List.
People been askin', and who am I to deny 'em? From why I picked my bike(s) to what's in my food bag & everything in between.
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