Tales of Green Spain: Across the North Coast

 

”A journey of a thousand miles begins with at least one clusterfuck” (Lao Tzu’s first, less famous, but more accurate, draft)

You can plan all you want, down to the most meticulous detail, but that doesn’t stop reality from stepping in your way. In spite of this, though, if you’re flexible, creative, and able to think quickly, no hitch in your plans will throw you astray.

We started with a couple days of exploration in Madrid, visiting museums and the Palacio, sampling the tapas and doing our best to eat all the anchovies and calamari we could find.

Well, at least I was. Mrs Mamil enjoys anchovies and squids as much of the next person, but she doesn’t seek them with the determined focus I have perfected. Cuttlefish as a whole are fast to move into new niches as we overfish the oceans, and I see it as my responsibility to help keep their population in check.

Due to a simple brain fart on my part, I had scheduled our upcoming bike ride across the northern coast of Spain to start on a Sunday morning. While this in itself is really no big deal and was based on the overall itinerary, it did not take into account that the Spanish post offices are closed on Saturdays. We had arrived in country with bikes securely packed in their cases, and the plan was to ship them to the end hotel in San Sebastián, where our ride would finish. This meant that we would have to ship them on Thursday, as our Friday train left too early in the morning to get the task done.

This in itself was actually remarkably easy. We built the bikes up on Wednesday, packed our excess stuff in the cases, and went to the post office early Thursday morning. Remember to take a number, even if you are the only person in line, or you will be ignored. The counter man was very helpful and we sent them via standard service (about 3-4 days) for a total of 76 Euros.

What made this a challenge was that now we needed to take assembled bikes on the train, which although free of charge, is not free of hassle. In theory, it’s pretty easy: put your bike in a big soft bag with the front wheel off, let the conductor complete the process of rolling his eyes and sighing heavily, and you’re good. The challenge we faced was the bags themselves. Thanks to the vast knowledge of the internet, I was informed that Decathalon carried the bags. ‘Easy,’ I thought, ‘There’s loads of these stores around the city.’ I trundled off to the nearest store, smug in my confidence at the simplicity of it all.

The first crack in my confidence was delivered when I realized the Decathalon I had entered only carried running and swimming gear. The clerk directed me to a different store, about 2km away. ‘No problem,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just re-connect with Mrs. Mamil on the way and get the bags.’

The second crack was when that store, purportedly the largest in Madrid, had no bags. A clerk helped us create an online order, said they would be delivered in the morning, and we could pay at pickup. While at the time it felt like the solution was at hand, I woke the next morning to an email saying the order had been cancelled, because we had not paid. At this point, the crack had traveled through my confidence, propagating wildly, and threatened to shatter the whole thing. I thought of large garbage bags or bedsheets and safety pins as possible solutions. Mrs Mamil came to the rescue and created a new online order for 2 bags, which said they would be available within a couple of hours.

Confidence restored, we had a lovely breakfast and headed back to the Decathalon, where the helpful clerk explained that they had indeed been delivered, but to a store that was a 40-minute train ride away. Not metro, but high speed distance train. However, she said, there were 6 in stock at a store that was much closer, about 2km. Why the first (or second) clerk had not looked up this info remains a mystery to this day.

We trundled over to the 3rd stop on our Vuelta a Decathalon, hoping the remaining 7 would not be required. As promised, the bags were in stock, as well as a 2-bag set at a savings. Naturally, we grabbed the 2 separate bags, which while more expensive, matched what we had ordered and pre-paid. The clerk at checkout listened to us fumble through the story in poor Spanish, and answered in perfect California-accented English that he could take care of it with no problem. Thus, with bike bags in hand and bike cases in the post office’s care, the initial clusterfuck of the journey was behind us, and we were able to head to the train the next morning with everything under control.

Friday morning we rolled out of bed, loaded the bags onto the bikes, and realized Mrs Mamil’s rear wheel was not holding pressure. I could hear air at the valve stem, meaning that the tape inside had sprung a leak. I was reasonably sure I had re-taped these wheels before we left, but perhaps that was something I had just planned on doing. After a couple of fruitless efforts, I removed the wheel and put in a TPU tube. Note- these tubes are great for backup while traveling. They are light and pack very small and are a critical piece of gear. 

Flat repaired, we rode across Madrid to the train station, following sharrowed lanes and arriving with ample time. Going through mag-and-bag meant removing all the bags from the bikes, but the Tailfin design makes this very easy and fast. Once the track number was posted on the reader boards (this information is usually not provided until about 15 minutes before the train rolls in) we got in line, then were quickly told to exit the line to put the bikes into the bags. You are not allowed to wheel the bikes trainside before bagging, because that would be easy and convenient. Although it was early morning, the already beleaguered conductor showed us where we could put the bikes (I suspect he had in mind a different, less comfortable place he would like us to put them). We were in our assigned seats 10 minutes before the scheduled departure, which as is the norm with Spanish trains, was exactly on time.

Prologue

Oviedo is a relatively small town, population around 100,000. It is nestled in a bowl surrounded by hills on all sides, but the views there are much more found in the streetscapes. In the older city center, most buildings are about 4 or 5 stories and each has a wonderful facade. Put your phone away and look up: the tile work, paint, and trim details are wonderful and present a vast array of designs.

There is a very good art museum (with spectacular daylighting design) and an excellent archeological museum, both free of charge, around the cathedral.

The cathedral itself is worth a tour, especially if you spring for the tower tour, which takes you inside the lone Gothic tower.

The cathedral, started in 791 CE, was built with capturing pilgrims on the way to Santiago de Compostela in mind. Given that the pilgrimage could be considered an early form of adventure tourism, the clergy in Oviedo provided a medieval tourist trap in order to enhance both the spirituality of the pilgrims and the coffers of the church. Over the next 700 years, the cathedral architects tried out every architectural trend to keep the building fresh and interesting, from Romanesque to Gothic to Bauhaus, but fortunately for everyone concerned, had the wisdom to skip Post-Modern.

Oviedo is packed with small restaurants serving a wide variety of food, from sushi to burritos, and no shortage of tapas to fill the belly. Cafes, coffee shops, siderieas, and bakeries abound, and if you leave here hungry, it’s your own damn fault. 

The atmosphere, particularly if you’ve been to Madrid or Barcelona, is decidedly more relaxed and easy-going. People move a bit slower, smile a bit more, and chat pleasantly – but that’s why smaller cities can be so much more welcoming than huge metros.

We spent a day-and-a-half exploring the city, which showed us that we had barely scratched the surface, and knew that we would need to return.

Stage One: Oviedo-Madieu-Villaviciosa

The day dawned overcast and cool, reminding us that the climate here is very similar to the US’s Pacific Northwest. Basically, there’s a reason it’s green: rain. Despite that, we hardly saw a drop over our 37-mile ride. The foliage was a deep, rich green, while at home leaves were turning and leaf peepers were clogging roads. Even in spring, we rarely see these colors.

Being a Sunday morning, getting out of town was easy and the roads were uncluttered with cars, which is always welcome when you’re in a new town. We left the city proper, heading northeast past light industrial areas and finally onto tiny roads meandering through low hills and farms.

“Bucolic” and “pastoral” sprang to mind as we rolled along, with the route providing only gentle grades as we headed towards the coast. Morning fog clung to the hills around us, lifting slowly as we passed and the sun attempted to come out. Patches of green pastures interspersed with thick tree stands covered the hills, somewhat reminiscent of the Willamette Valley.

As we rode on progressively narrower roads, we got to the only real climb of the day, which was about 280’. The fact that about 200 of those feet hit in a half-mile meant that the grades tickled 18%. While I pay attention to the grades and the countdown of vertical feet left to climb on my computer, I learned that Mrs. Mamil does not see calling either data set out as motivational. I was reminded, not gently, that I was to ride and say nothing. Staying out of her field of view was also strongly encouraged.

When we got to the top of that grade, she said, “well, now it’ll be just as steep going back down,” thinking of the descent. What neither of us knew was that she was correct- but rather than a big descent, we got short, sharp climbing ramps of up to 14% with minimal steep descents between them. It is always good to keep in mind, however, that 9, 12, and 14% grades are still not as steep as 18%, so you can keep going since you’re nicely warmed up.

We took a sharp right at a tiny town perched on a ridge, and climbed a narrow, twisting grade that took us to a tiny collection of a few dozen houses. This was the town of Madieu, believed to be the town where Mrs. Mamil’s great-grandfather hailed from before setting off to Cuba in the late 19th century. The hamlet has a mix of very-well maintained homes and some in need of TLC, with traditional horreos behind nearly every house. Nestled in a small valley, it was silent except for a few barking dogs. We took pictures and left, descending about 10 miles into Villaviciosa.

Centered in the heart of cider country, Villaviciosa is a small town of about 18,000 people and 17,000 siderias. This place lays claim to inventing hard cider, and they take it seriously. About 500 varieties of apples are grown regionally, of which almost 80 are used for cider. The cider is quite young when bottled, about 3 months, and is poured at arm’s length into a glass held at waist height. The intent is to pour a small amount (about 2 fingers) into the glass, aerating it and giving it a fizz. It must be consumed immediately, before it goes flat, then the waiter will pour more while making their rounds. While pouring, they stand in front of a waist-high catchbasin on wheels, and mostly turn their back to you and look away from the pour to demonstrate their skill.

We were fortunate to watch a training session, as a young waitress was coached, cajoled, timed, and tested. The experienced staff showed her proper wrist technique, bottle-tilting, glass-holding, and more before she finally got a round of applause from the bemused staff watching the process. As we left, I peeked into a catchbasin to see how much was spilled. My guess is there was less than an ounce after several hours of serving. Practice makes perfect, and the cider-pouring trophies on the wall in the bar made it obvious this is serious business.

Somehow through the great randomizer that is booking a hotel in a foreign country, in a region I’ve never visited, several weeks in advance, I found a proper and good one. I had to buzz the front door because no one was behind the counter, and when the proprietor came out to register us, he was a bit distracted. There was a small bar room adjacent to the lobby with the television blaring, but I ignored it until he slid the piece of paper and key across the counter to me, indicating the Wi-Fi and password: Pantani98. I stuck my head into the bar to see the final 40km of the Men’s Elite World Championship race playing live, and I decided that taking my bags upstairs could wait for a beer and the race finish. Suffice to say it’s always good when on a cycling trip to find a hotel far from Belgium with large posters and murals of Paris-Roubaix and the Ronde.

Stage 2 Villaviciosa – Ribasedella

The day dawned overcast and cold, not that we were awake that early to witness it, but nonetheless, it was a safe assumption. We packed up quickly, ate a small breakfast, and stepped out into a cool morning with heavy, low-hanging clouds. After a quick stop at an excellent bike shop, we donned rain shells (while the PTFE-laden Gore Shake-Dry may be forbidden now; having one is fantastic) and set off into a light drizzle. I was willing to wait for it to end, but Mrs. Mamil pedaled off, saying we would ride out of it.

And she was entirely correct. The rain ended for us within a few minutes, and a warm sun peeked through. Today’s stage was the shortest of the trip, and we were in no hurry, so we pedaled slowly and worked our way to the coast. You could smell the ocean before seeing or hearing it- that briny scent of sea water that is so foreign to our high-altitude noses. 

After a brief stop at a small beach where people were surfing, we had an easy climb over the headlands before a 5km drop into Ribasedella. The town abuts a C-shaped bay with a long, narrow beach lined with hotels. Surfers play in the shallow waves, but photos on hotel lobby walls show the potential drama large storms can bring. A wide promenade above the beach hosts many bars. We checked in and went in search of a snack, knowing nothing would open for dinner for another 5 or 6 hours.

It was here, in my naïvite, that I learned that I have been drinking coffee wrong for my whole life. I am willing to correct my ways, however, and henceforth my morning coffee will be served in a tall goblet with 2 shots of whiskey and a large scoop of vanilla ice cream. 

I believe this approach will improve my morning ritual and encourage me to get out of bed earlier. It may also improve my outlook on life. From now on, I’m emphasizing the “bar” in “barista”. Venti, please. Doppio.

Despite the general lack of sunburned tourists, small crowds still filled the open restaurants. Surfers played in the waves and the last few sunbathers grasped at the fleeting rays of sunlight. We ate at a sideria, and noted the poor pour technique. Clearly, the lesson had worked, at least for us, if not this wait staff.

Sidebar: How do you carry your stuff?

The Tailfin Aeropacks and panniers are absolutely amazing. While I’ve had mine since the KickStarter campaign, this is only the third major tour I’ve used it on. It seems that this trip is requiring more on-and-off the bike with these packs than previous ones, and the simplicity and speed that this can happen is amazing. Installing or removing it takes a few seconds at most, and if you have the moves down (seatpost first, then axles), it’s a breeze.

While the products are eye-wateringly expensive and carve a significant hole in your account, once on the road you realize that they may actually be undervalued for their performance. Prior to the next trip, I’ll be applying for a HELOC and ordering a few more bags. One item not in their lineup is a stretchy net, such as the Delta version, available pretty much anywhere bike stuff is sold. This net wrapped outside the Tailfin makes it easy to tuck things in, and also quickly capture the Tailfin legs for easy carry.

Both bikes have forks with triple mounts. She is using Widefoot cages, a high-quality aluminum cage with replaceable base made in Fort Collins, CO.

Perched on these are (2) 5-liter drybags of unknown provenance, purchased from Amazon but widely available on Alibaba. They came with questionable plastic cages, but the full set was about $25 and the bags have performed well. Simple Voilé straps hold them in place. Her fork is a Columbus Futura Disc Carbon Adventure fork, with flip-chips to change the rake. It has external brake hose routing and internal dynamo routing (not used), and one of the most annoying thru-axles I’ve ever used. Once we get home I’ll be changing that out.

My fork is a Seido, which also has dynamo routing (not used) and internal brake hose. I have a Tailfin Cargo Cage and Cage Pack (1.7 liter) on mine, and while very good, now I wish I had 5 liter mini-panniers and the mount kit. I’m running a 10-liter pannier on the back and my system is weighted too far aft; I can definitely feel it change the handling of the bike. The diminutive Cage Pack works well for quick-grab clothing (shell, gloves, vest, etc.) but it would also be fine under the downtube in front of the bottom bracket. 

Comparing the forks, I think the Seido MGV is better designed and higher quality. I had to chase all the threads on the Columbus, most were clogged with paint and other gunk. While the flip-chips were theoretically nice to have, in reality once they’re set, they’ll never get changed. Plus, they’re a colossal pain in the ass to change, so in the interest of enjoying the rest of my life, I will forego swapping them again.

Bike choice also has an impact- a slacker gravel geometry with more trail quiets the bike down under load (note- flip chips can help here by lengthening trail, simply set them for a shorter rake/offset value), longer wheelbase, and lower bottom bracket. Basically, if the bike is designed to track well on loose gravel turns, it’ll be fine under load. To people with actual touring frames, this is old news.

Stage 3: Ribasedella to San Vicente de la Barquera

Today’s sky dawned bright blue and stayed that way all day. More easy rolling roads punctuated by tiny towns led us eastward. We saw more pilgrims on El Camino, both on the road shoulder and trails that cross the roads.

These people will walk untold miles and thousands of vertical feet, and while some may complain, so far none have to me. Each smiles and waves as we pass, even if we know they’ve been hiking for miles on pavement. I had always envisioned the Camino to be on a soft surface trail, not a broken sidewalk through a light industrial park.

We rolled along the coast, at times adjacent to the ocean, and at others climbing over headlands. None of the climbs were especially taxing, with few segments over 6%. The final climb was possibly the biggest of the day, but was still quite easy. Dropping into San Vicente down a steep, fast pitch was great, and as we entered town the few open restaurants reminded us that autumn was in full swing and the summer madness was over.

Stage 4: San Vicente de Barquera to Santander

A medium-sized stage across northern Cantabria, again on smaller back roads. We noticed the road surface quality had decreased somewhat since leaving Asturias, but more importantly, the drivers have become more aggressive. Whereas previously they would give plenty of space when passing, we got buzzed a few times by BMWs and Audis. Naturally the most egregious was in a Cadillac. ‘Merica.

Today, however, had an urgency to our ride, as we had to deal with an issue in San Sebastián- we had shipped the bike cases to the hotel, but now the hotel was throwing a fit (after saying they would take the cases, no problem). We wanted to get to Santander in time to rent a car, because at this point we had cancelled the booking and found another hotel nearby who said they would hold the cases. I had offered both places some cash to move them the 150m from the old hotel to the new one, but no one was willing to help.

Hence we found ourselves at Enterprise Rent-a-Car, where we grabbed a VW quasi-van thingy. We plugged the destination in and hopped on the freeway, breaking a rule I prefer to maintain: Don’t Fucking Drive in Yerp. I drive a lot at home, like 20-25,000 miles a year. I don’t need more time behind the wheel, particularly where I don’t know the rules or understand the road signs. This is why I like bike travel. 

A mere 200km later, we pulled into San Sebastián and found a parking garage. We walked a block to the old hotel. The doors to the building and lobby opened as they had described, and here were the cases, taking up basically no space. They were tucked against a table, in a room that could have held a reasonably-sized trade show. They were neither blocking anything or inhibiting the space. Based on the texts we had been receiving, we imagined that the cases were stacked randomly in a corridor, creating an obstacle course worth of Takeshi’s Castle. We collected them and skedaddled.

A short walk later, and we were at the desk of the next hotel, which said they would take them and hold them. It turned out no one had told the person at the desk, and she was less than pleased. At this point, however, I was completely out of fucks to give, and so I told Mrs. Mamil to gently remind her in Spanish (of which I know 2 words: “mas” and “cervesa”) that we had a deal and our room was still cancelable. A few moments later we were led to a closet that held some mattresses and other incidental stuff, which could comfortably hold another 50 or 60 bike cases.

We headed back towards the garage, grabbed some well-earned dinner, and made the drive back. Instead of freedom to explore Santander, we drove 400+ km for a 10-minute effort. We got back late, tired, and hungry, and hit the bed, knowing the next day was another early start.

Stage 5: Santander to Laredo

By now, we had started getting a handle on how to fuel Mrs. Mamil. She has some significant food intolerances, making feeding her a distinct challenge. It’s easier to list what she can eat vs what she can’t, if nothing for the spirit of brevity. In essence, she can safely consume air and certain (but not all) types of water. 

However, we had found several grocery stores that had gluten-free bread, specifically without soy in the flour. This is harder than seems at first, and in the US, soy is in everything from the oils used at restaurants to releases in molds for popsicles and Skittles. In Yerp, it’s prevalent in the flours used in the big-brand gluten-free breads (I’m looking at you, Schar). With some good dried dates, breadsticks, and jellies in hand, we had some ride fuels that would work. This resulted in a much better ride to Laredo.

We rolled over beautiful countryside,  even stopping at the remnants of a church that had been converted into a cemetery. Elements of the church walls still stood, along with a couple of arches, but the relatively (1890s) new marble statue of an angel with a sword lent a serious Dungeons and Dragons vibe to the place. We explored a bit before marking ourselves safe from bugbears and orcs.

Laredo has a giant C-shaped beach that runs for over 5km. A large, shallow, protected cove provides amazing swimming, and the town has smaller buildings and a much more intimate feel. While the beach is undoubtably a madhouse at peak season, today it was empty except for a few people and their dogs, and the requisite guy-with-a-metal-detector.

We walked along the beach and out onto the breakwater surrounding the harbor before finding a fantastic place for dinner: Bar El Túnel. When they offered bread, Mrs Mamil said no, that she was celiac, and moments later, a warm mini-baguette was delivered to the table. Amazingly, it was soy-free as well. Their salads were large and filling, and naturally we ordered anchovies. The Bay of Biscay (Cantabrian Sea) supplies delicious anchovies in vast quantities.

To the American taste, anchovies are a curse and usually associated with pizza, but in Spain, they are delicious. Ours are excessively salted and crammed in a can, while in Spain, the flavor is more delicate and you can often choose between pickled and salted. The fillets are large, often 4 to 6” long, served laid out on a plate with good olive oil, and you can drape them over a piece of bread. They are delicate, not heart-grippingly salty, and delicious.

We had an excellent meal and walked back to our hotel, knowing we had another long stage to Bilbao the next day.

Stage 6: Laredo to Bilbao

We started under clear skies and warm temperatures, and the day’s weather stayed perfect all the way. By mid-day we passed out of Cantabria and into the Basque Country, and almost immediately we could sense a change in the drivers passing us. After crossing a low col and refilling bottles at a gas station, we descended past a massive refinery and got onto a bike path.

“Bike Path” doesn’t do it justice or describe it. “Bike highway” is more accurate, but still falls short. The route is wider than a Belgian freeway, has rest areas with grass and picnic tables, and even painted & signed crosswalks where the walking lane switches sides. The surface quality is as good as brand-new pavement, and there is a huge network in the region. We rode over 20 miles on the path network into Bilbao, and the city has multiple bike paths as well as many streets with sharrows.

I had booked us a hotel in the center of town, but I didn’t realize 2 things: 1) It was dead.fucking.center, right in the core and surrounded by untold number of restaurants and bars, and 2) not a hotel. Check-in was a hard 8PM, and if you wanted to drop bags earlier, it was 5 bucks. Cash only. I looked at my watch: 3:30 PM.

There is a bike shop adjacent to the entry, and Mrs. Mamil stuck her head inside. She came back out a few moments later, laughing. “Oh, they know this place. We can keep our bikes in the shop tonight, it’d be better.” Ah, OK. No problem, there are plenty of places that don’t like bikes. And so very kind of the shop to offer to hold our bikes.

We left our bikes at the shop, changed clothes, chased down an 8-pack of beer to give them (as is proper), and got some delicious oysters before returning at the appointed time.

It turned out the host didn’t have an anti-bike approach; it was more anti-human, or at least, anti-paying-customer. Bikes hidden, bags in hand, we pressed the button on the doorbell and were granted entrance. While the ad said that there was a kitchen, laundry, bathroom en suite, and more, we were shown a spartan bedroom, bathroom down the hall, and list of upcharges (laundry 15 bucks, remote for AC unit 5 bucks, remote for TV 5, etc). I went down the hall to the bathroom, realized I had left my toothpaste behind, and turned to the hall to go get it. Within a nanosecond I was chastised by the host, who apparated out of thin air, for leaving the lights on. She angrily tapped the switch, saying “Lights off”. I tapped it back on, saying, “I’ll be right back.” We were off to a flying start.

I washed my kit in the sink, then went back to the room to hang it up. Mrs. Mamil pointed to the posted rule: no laundry in the sink. OK, I promise not to give a rat’s ass. We showered and headed out for dinner, locking the room door behind us.

While at dinner, I got a text showing a bit of light escaping under the bedroom door. The hostess with the mostess was clearly unhappy that we had managed to leave a light on, and I get that Spanish electricity is expensive, but a quick check of the hourly kWh rate and the (4) 10W LED downlights on for 2 hours cost €0.00258. For what she charges for a room with rules, she can afford it.

We got back, and by listening closely, it was clear that the owners lived in adjacent rooms and had done a remodel with no sound attenuation material in the walls. The host was laying in wait, lunging out of her lair to chastise us for leaving a light on. I said, “you’ll get over it,” hoping in fact that she wouldn’t. It was late, so I made every effort to not be quiet, with the intent to disturb her. The other available room filled at some point well past midnight, and that person was gone before 8:30, clearly as happy with the host’s service as we were. Mrs. Mamil was packed in record time, and we were out the door earlier than any other day for the entire trip. Both our unseen flat mate and we had determined that escaping as quickly as possible was preferred.

After a quick breakfast, we went to the bike shop to collect our bikes. We thanked them profusely and filled them in with more details about their crazy neighbor. They ate the gossip up, laughing uproariously and shaking their heads. As we were ready to leave, we saw the host heading out with her dog for a morning walk. It was no surprise the hound was a scrawny terrier with frizzy hair, being pushed in a stroller. She’ll never know how hard we all laughed as she walked past the window of the bike shop. The staff were wonderfully kind and warm, like many of the people we met, and it was a pleasure laughing with them.

Stage 7: Bilbao to Lekitio

Under clear blue skies, we rolled eastward out of Bilbao, climbing up a ridgeline east of the city. The route had spoiled us with bike paths the previous day, but we found ourselves on a busy 4-lane divided highway. I was pretty convinced the routing algorithm had put us on the freeway, then I was passed by a guy on a TT bike. I realized every single car had swung over a full lane to pass us, and that we were on a local feeder road, albeit a large one. Counting cyclists we saw on the other side of the road and those who passed us, within less than 10 miles I noted over 150 people on bikes. Over the route we followed, I lost count after about 200 cyclists.

We had 2 large climbs, at least by the scale of this route, and after we topped the first, I could see the clouds were dropping and rain was moving in. We stopped at a small cafe and ducked under the awnings to grab rain gear, and as we were finishing up people were moving quickly towards the cafe. The awnings suddenly began to retract against the building, so we decided that was the sign to get moving. 

A long descent took us to the valley floor, and we passed the outskirts of Guernika. A bike path teased us by running along our route, but as I was making plans to hop onto it, it suddenly turned away. We would stay on the road. 

The second climb, which started as the rain had essentially disappated from mist to nothing, loomed ahead. The bottom ramps were steep, and the chill from the earlier weather had settled into our legs, making the pitches seem steeper. It wasn’t long, 3 miles, with the steep stuff at the lower half, and we took a quick break at the top to tighten up gear for the descent. The rain had held off for the climb, but not long after cresting, it moved back in, and this time, it meant business.

By the time we had made it down the final 5 miles, which under dry circumstances would have been a fantastic ride on perfect road surfaces, I could feel water sloshing in my shoes. My socks weren’t just wet, they were struggling in the currents of an incoming tide. The rain was past the mist stage into full downpour, and the wind blew it in sheets against us.

The hotel had said that check-in was closed from 3-6pm, so we had decided that since we missed the 3PM cutoff we would just find a cafe somewhere to dry out. Fortunately, the bar under the hotel (same name and proprietors) was open, and they took pity on our sodden carcasses, sending us up to a room quickly. The people were kind, jovial, generous, and bike-friendly; all the things you want in a hotel after a soggy ride.

After a shower, I returned to the bar to sample some pintxos and cervesas. Sitting on a bar stool at a tall table, I happened to look down to see a pigeon walking around underneath me. Perhaps avoiding the rain, it too had decided to walk into a neighborhood tavern for a snack. Like a well-known neighborhood dog, it wandered around for a while before being shooed out the door.

A bit later, the stereo was cranked up to 11, and I couldn’t hear Mrs. Mamil yelling in my ear. It was easily as loud as the last concert I had attended, and with the speaker behind and to my left, I thought my eardrum might be pushed through my skull, doubling the one in my right ear. I work part-time at an airport, and this decibel level was right up there with jet engines. The fact that it was distortion-free meant that they took this seriously.

The bar filled up with what was clearly the core customer base, and the one TV was turned to a soccer, uh, footy game. A rousing team song played on the stereo, and a few sang along, then mercifully the volume was turned down and everyone was glued to the game. Basically, it was perfect, and more than I could have asked for.

Stage 8: Lekeitio to Donostia- San Sebastián

After the previous day’s ride in the rain, we were not excited about another day in the saddle, particularly since we were still kind of damp. We looked at taxis (no, it’s Sunday), train (no one knows if bikes are OK), and buses (well, maybe bikes are OK, but no one has ever tried it). We gritted our teeth, put on our toxic Gore Shake Dry jackets, and set out.

The Apple Weather app, questionable at best, suggested the rain would stop any minute, and the chance of precip would decrease as the day progressed. With this info in hand, we started pedaling, knowing that things could only improve.

5 minutes later, we huddled under an awning as the heavy mist became steady rain. We peered off into the distance, and after delivering the requisite heavy sighs, Cowboyed Up and got in the saddle. After a short while, the rain did indeed ease up and we climbed up  and away from Lekeitio, a lovely little town that deserves a better visit.

I was impressed at how strong Mrs. Mamil was riding, and wondered if I was under-fed or just feeling the last seven days of being on the bike. None of the days had what I consider significantly difficult rides or risk climbing; they were comfortable distances that could be covered without worry. For about 8 miles I toiled behind her, admiring how she had become much stronger and more comfortable on the bike. We topped out on the first climb and put a foot down to adjust clothing, and on a whim, I lifted the back of my bike and spun the wheel.

It went barely a 1/4 turn.

I tried again.

Same.

Hmm. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve suffered on a climb before stopping to spin my wheel, convinced a brake was rubbing, only to verify the wheel spun perfectly freely. This time, however, it was difficult to rotate a full revolution by hand.

I knew were were descending a little bit into a town, so I told her to look for a bike rack where I could park and hold the bike. As we entered the town, there were plenty of bikes locked to railings, but no actual racks to be seen. We pulled over into a park, and I removed my Tailfin and rear wheel. I hung the bike by the nose of the saddle on a kid’s play set and looked at the rear brake. The outboard pistons were extended pretty far, and the inboard about 1/2 way. Stealing some napkins off a nearby bar table, I set about wiping the piston sides to clean the road grime off of them. The previous day’s abhorrent conditions had put enough dirt on the pistons that they weren’t retracting well, if at all.

Wiping my glasses so I could see better, I realized the pad material was very worn and they would need immediate replacement. Not to worry, I had 2 sets in my little tool kit. I grabbed a new pair of pads and removed the old ones. If there was any question about my travel tool kit, all 2.2lbs of it, it was answered here. I can do effectively any repair along the road.

It’s hard to say when the wear really accelerated, but what was a new pair only 250 miles previously was worn down to the slimmest possible margin before the metal backing was grinding against the rotor. Even the springs were wearing. I cleaned the calipers as much as possible with damp bar napkins, pressed the pistons back, and installed the new pads. All in: 10 minutes and I was back in service. A quick cafe con leche at a nearby cafe (purely so we could use the bathroom) and we were back on the road. 

The rain had stopped, and we enjoyed the gentle climb up to the headlands and over a small pass. The miles rolled by, and after the next town we encountered a roundabout with a police car, lights on, blocking the way. Confused, we stopped and asked if we could go, receiving only a curt reply and a gesture to go to the side of the road.

Moments later, a Caja Rural (local continental level team) rider rolled up, and Mrs. Mamil asked what was going on. “Race” was all we got out of him. He studiously ignored the two clods on bikes laden with bags as we all waited, but out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking at our bikes closely. I might be old, slow, and fat, but I build nice bikes, and people who know their machines catch on to this before too long. Look and learn, junior. Look and learn.

For about 15 minutes we watched a continuing shuffle of motos roll into the roundabout before the race leader eventually shot through. She was followed several seconds later by a small chase group, then the main peloton.

Stragglers trickled by, until finally, the Broom Wagon and last moto passed us, and we started riding again. Without knowing it was a possibility, we watched a bit of the GP Eibar Women’s Pro race on our journey through the Basque Country, cementing the cultural position that cycling holds in the region. I’ve never ridden in an area with such great infrastructure and road quality, let alone driver courtesy. It definitely deserves a return visit.

For many miles, the road hugged the rough coast, and we watched some people bungee jump off a bridge (leaping from one side and swinging under, the gutteral roar of horror from a young teenage girl echoed under the bridge).

A few miles farther along we could hear the surf crash against the rocks before a huge plume of water shot about 15 feet in the air above the edge of the road. We expected to be drenched, but the breakwater wall is concave and directed the spray back towards the sea.

Eventually we reconnected with another marvelous bike path system, which led us into Donostia – San Sebastián itself. We rolled up to the strand and took a few photos of ourselves with the bay in the background, tired and hungry, but after our first completely self-supported, self-guided bike tour in another country, happy and pleased with our accomplishment. 

We’d proven it was possible to plan meticulously, have those plans wither in the face of reality and re-grow, solved several challenges, learned lessons, faced a wide range of weather, road surfaces, traffic conditions, bike tech issues, and language challenges, settled into a rhythm of waking, packing quickly, and getting on the bike, and in the end still succeeded and even stayed married. Clearly, this bodes well for the future.

I have several more routes of similar ilk in mind, with a Big One starting in Tarifa and heading to Donostia – San Sebastián. After this ride, though, I will make some changes in the route to avoid vast stretches of olive groves and possibly finish in Bilbao. That one will take at least a month, which should be productive in my quest to eat all the calamari and anchovies.

”If I wanted an easy trip, I’d take a fucking cruise.” -Lao Tzu, same early draft