New location!

Hey everybody!

 Just a quick note to let you know that the blog has moved. It's now located at:

 

http://spanish-cyclepaths.blogspot.com 

Bad Blogger! No doughnut!
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Ruminations

Bad blogger! Bad Blogger! Ya go hitting on your wrench, and you never know what depths you'll stoop to next!

No, seriously...truth is, I've just moved (trying to find an apartment in this city where they don't freak out about bikes is a real headache), have just finished up working, so there'll be more biking this summer and more postings. This coming Saturday (the 14th) Moncho and I will be attempting to bike the entire Anillo Verde Ciclista which rings Madrid - and which may not be entirely done, in spite of tons of publicity from the Ayuntamiento. And then on the 16th, it's off again to the Camino de Santiago, and hopefully the Costa da Morte, if the weather holds...

 More coming! And be sure to send us a message at info - at - spanishcyclepaths dot com to let us know what you think of the new webpage!

 

Go Deezy! Go Deezy!
Mood:  not sure

After the last couple of years, admitting you're looking forward to The Tour de France is kind of like admitting you like the films of Fassbinder - only a select few know what the hell you're talking about, and even then, those who do know what you're talking about could very well consider you to be some kind of weird obsessive...and obsessive about something that could be worthy of scorn. Lots of drugs, f'instance. And lots of perceived lying about drugs

But I keep hoping. I wasn't a Lance fan, so I can't say that I was angered one way or another when the French tried to stick EPO doping charges on him. Roberto Heras broke my heart when he got busted after the 2005 Vuelta; until recently, I had a picture of Heras riding in Vuelta 05, blood pouring from a knee-area gash and the doctor of the Liberty Seguros team trying to affix gauze and cotton to Heras's knees, even though they're both travelling at 40 km/h. Heras's face is the color of cookie dough in that shot, but he still went on to try his best. And for what?

Then Floyd. Being Canadian, I have a weakness for underdogs, especially those with a comically chippy sense of humour and an undercurrent of rage that gets things done. I want so much to believe that Floyd didn't do it. But I like Pereiro, too: I don't know who will technically end up winning Tour 06, but I do find it depressing that it's the day before the Tour 07 and the matter has still not been settled.

So that leaves David Zabriskie. I know that the easy way out is to give into dimestore cynicism, that I should just say screw it and ignore the whole damn Tour. But I can't. There's just something in me that wants to believe in the entire, beautiful Tour, every gutbusting minute of it. So this year it's Dave Zabriskie: great legs, brilliant time trial results, sense of humour like a producer from The Simpsons. Gotta cheer for someone. And boy, would I like to see DZ win it, clean and simple, and deny the French another winner.

Is it unethical to hit on your wrench?
Mood:  cheeky
Normally I don't like stopping by the shop on Saturday. It's not that I don't want to run into the owner - though that certainly is part of the equation - but because I know that HeyZeus is generally pretty busy with non-bike people on Saturdays - moms, people from the Chinese embassy, weekend warriors who haven't been on their Treks since Greg LeMond was riding the Tour.

"He's cute," says Candy, after I give HeyZeus his bottle of wine, a token of thanks for spending an hour on the bike, fixing it before setting out in La Rioja. "Is he single?"

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Eight - Ups and Downs
Mood:  sharp
Topic: Travelogue
Under the watchful eyes of a an elderly couple, we managed to get the stuff off the train in record time (having received a finger-wagging from the conductor NOT to hold the train up; this, in spite of the train leaving fifteen minutes late from Ronda station.) We got the bikes assembled, went to the bathroom, wheeled the bikes out of the Cortes de la Frontera station and took a long, long look up into the hills - stunted mountains, really, great slabs of limestone poking out of the hills at odd angles, and dotted yellow with lichen and broom, which was in bloom.

The secondary highway leading up into town was narrow, but it seemed like drivers were used to packed bikes slowly making their way up the hill: no one blasted by at stupid speeds. A short toot of the horn, a smile, sometimes a befuddled look - and from one woman driving a Range Rover with British plates, a round of applause.

Riding with cyclists who are better than I am makes me realize that I AM getting better, slowly but surely. Our ride takes us sixty-five kilometres across the southern end of the Parque Natural de los Alcorconales, and I only had to get off and push twice - not bad, considering that the entire day consisted of nearly 600 metres of accumulated climbing.

This is bike touring as it should be: good, resurfaced roads with lots of green hills on either side, lots of (not THAT high) mountain passes with scenic lookouts (perfect for picnics) and the occasional group of guys who have escaped from their wives to reclaim their youth, complete with litre bottles of beer and a couple of chunks of chorizo -- and a tent they readily admit they've never put up before.

We're heading towards the town of Alcalá de los Gazules, but there's a hitch: Claire didn't realize how cold it was going to be down here, and doesn't want to camp. I'm pretty sure that we're going to be S.O.L. trying to find anything that's not a campsite - and, sure enough, anything on the west side of the Iberian mountain system, where the weather is better, is booked solid.

At about 6pm we roll into Alcalá and hit the campsite, which, to be fair, looks about as appealing as a down-at-heels Florida trailer park where people have lived for so long that they can't be bothered to take care of the lots. Turns out that impression is not that far off the mark: the vast majority of people staying there have GBZ - Gibraltar plates. Gibraltar is only thirty miles down the road, and this is the weekend getaway for a lot of British troops stationed on the Rock, as well as for gibralteños with kids who want to get away on a regular basis.

We go to sleep with the lilting Andalusian Spanish which is interwoven with phrases I don't understand...and punctuated with the occasional statement right out of EastEnders or Beverley Hills 90210: Crikey!Whoamgod! Duuuude!

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Seven - Time to be Tourists!
Mood:  chatty
Topic: Travelogue
How did the idea of being a tourist get such a bad rap? Sometimes the only thing you can do is be a tourist, stop hiding your camera and just ogle in the experience of not being stuck in front of your computer. Claire makes it down to Ronda in a record six hours, and the afternoon is spent having a long, leisurely lunch in the Ronda Parador, before wandering around Ronda with the cameras and seeing how many megapixels we can cram onto the cameras.

The only disadvantage to travelling like this, shamelessly being tourists, is that we stick out like a pair of sore thumbs, especially when we went to a Semana Santa procession. One young cofrade looked at Claire and with his best Andalusian accent, made even more difficult to undertand thanks to having lost most of his baby teeth, asked her where she was from. "Inglaterra," she said. "¿Y tú?" The preschooler looked at Claire, then looked at his mother and lisped, "I don't understand what she said!" There are times when all you can do is embrace your foreign-ness and be thankful you're on the OTHER side of the camera!

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Six - Up and Away, Horizontally
Mood:  hug me
There's something wonderfully sinful about waking up in a suite for six - by yourself - and realizing that you don't have anything going on except a day of biking. Andrés had a pretty crazy day, trying to organize lunch for four hundred hungry bikers who were taking part in the Encuentros Cicloturísticas organized by a biking group in Málaga. Not wanting to get in his hair, I made myself scarce somewhat early. Or tried to. Andrés was off doing his stuff while I met up with, and coffee with, the newly renovated Juan Ramón Toro, the manager and owner of the Coripe Station Restaurant/Bed and Breakfast, who has been extremely successful at remaking his life: in addition to running the station, he has successfully lost at least eighty kilos - sixty in the form of an ex-wife. Success suits him; in spite of working twenty-eight hours a day (his estimate), he looks happier and healthier than when I first met him three years ago. After a couple of cups of coffee (and some flirtation that really didn't take), I headed off.

When the weather is nice, the ride over the sierra into Algámitas must be lovely. When I hit the pass, after 400 metres of climbing, it still wasn't bad, opening up to give a view of the snowy peaks of Grazalema before the rain came in...horizontally. Lunch in Algámitas was a given, as a way of avoiding the rain; but the weather was unpredictable enough that there wasn't much choice but to take the bus into Ronda.

Andalusian cities tend to get overrun during Semana Santa, but Ronda was a lovely exception probably given that the weather had crapped out so badly. I settled into the Hotel Morales, run by Juan Domingo, a friendly hiking enthusiast who has a soft spot for cycling tourists (the hotel boasts a warm, dry room for the bikes to sleep.) And then after a warm shower and to explore the city during Semana Santa. The celebrations, after all, do not rely on the tourists, which makes it better for those of us who make the effort!

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Five - STUCK!!!
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Travelogue
They knew. The two Guardia Civil agents who were parked behind the hermitage, high above the small town of Pruna, probably knew that I'd camped wild, just by looking at my Gore-Tex pants.

I thought I would have been able to escape my camping/hiding space on the side of Mount Terril and make a clean (and I do mean clean in the original sense of the word) getaway. But shortly before six AM the staccato pip-pip-piriririp of drizzle began hitting the tent. It let up shortly before eight, giving me ten minutes to strike the tent and get the hell out. And that was the first time I hit mud.

Never camp in an olive grove if it's raining. Not just because olive trees offer precious little in the way of protection against rain, but because most of them tend to be planted in clay-y soils -- something I didn't know until I got stuck.

I did get out. I managed to scrape the four inches of mud off the wheels, out of the brakes and chainstay (hint: don't pack your bike in the rain -- push it to the nearest road-like surface and put on everything there.)

So when the Guardia Civil officer took one look at me, one look at the bike and one look at the mud drying on my trousers from the knees-down...hell, they knew. I got a knowing little smile, I didn't get a lecture, and half an hour later, I got stuck. AGAIN.

To get to the Vía Verde de la Sierra, near Olvera, I thought, shit - shortcut. The main road going into the town of Olvera, where the turnoff to get back down to the Vía Verde itself, involved five hundred feet of climbing and a rodeo of an extra mile and a half. So when I saw the shortcut, I thought, hell, the station is only five hundred metres from the highway if I don't go up to town...

I have to say that, once I managed to pull the bike out of the mud, the workers rebuilding the gardens of the Olvera Station-Restaurant, were quite helpful... once they stopped laughing and staring. They lent me their hose, they provided horse-hair brushes, and the everlasting questions, once they got going, were acutally quite welcome. And I learned something new about burying your bike in clay: Nothing, absolutely nothing, beats water, a nail brush with firm bristles, and a good sense of humour!

The second highlight of the day was getting to see the wonderful Andrés Ordóñez, leader of the Patrulla Verde (a group of local young people dedicated to the preservation and development of the Vía Verde). I'd first met Andrés four years ago, when I was writing an article about the Vía Verde, and things have gone swimmingly for him since then -- to the point where they've even opened their own rural apartment for rent in the town of Coripe, a six-bedroom loft facility with full kitchen and (hurrah!!) satellite TV. (A hundred chanels with nothing on is a lot more appealing when you haven't had TV for a couple of days.)

And it's worth pointing out that noting that Coripe doesn't just have the nicest people in that part of Andalusia; they have one of the wildest and non-traditional Easter Sunday celebrations in Andalusia. Residents basically select Jerk of the Year (past candidates have included former Prime Minister José María Aznar - for getting Spain into Iraq - and Telefónica President César Alierta - in 2002, when the town lost phone service for six weeks.) Rather than burn the Jerk in effigy, the effigy is placed at the front of the church and anyone with a firearm is welcome to have a go at the effigy.

My jaw must have dropped a lot more than I thought it did: "Doesn't the priest get, um, a bit peeved at the gunshot damage on the façade of the church?" I asked.

"Why?" asked Andrés, smiling. "Every year he gets the church repainted for free!"

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Four: When two kilometres is NOT two kilometres
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Travelogue
My vote for the best breakfast in Andalusia: English Country Foods, in the town of Sierra de Yeguas, north-west of Antequera. Run by a British couple who moved back after retirement (her parents originally came from this area), six Euros will get you a belly-filling English breakfast that will keep you going for miles.

Which is just as well, because my plans for the night are to stay in a campsite which I know lies outside of the town of Algámitas. Algámitas sits some 50 kilometres away, on the side of the Zamorano mountain pass. I've biked this way before, heading from Fuente de Piedra to El Saucejo with the gang before, but we didn't make Algámitas to go camping.

And it's just as well: the campsite, which is listed in all the campsite guides as being two kilometres west of town, DOES lie west of town...three kilometres away, and uphill. But that's not the worst of it. The entrance to the campsite is three klicks west of town. Then it's another two kilometres up to the reception area of the camping area, up 10% to 18% grades which are so steep that you have no choice but to keep pushing and keep pushing. I feel like some fourth-rate diva, dodging the cars as they come down from the campsite, muttering to myself, "This is NOT getting any good publicity on MY website!" Some 1500 metres later, I think, FORGET IT. It's 7:35 PM and if I end up pushing the bike all the way up that hill, only to find out that there's nowhere for me to stay, I will have the Mother of All Diva Meltdowns. So I do what all biking divas do: I jump on the bike, mutter several prize obscenities in the direction of the building that I think is the reception area, and head down to a copse of holm oaks that lay between the highway (well, county road, more like)and the entrance to the campsite.

Now, technically, this is illegal. Not only is the tent being placed on private property, I'm not entirely sure that I'm outside of the one kilometre limit established by law. (You can't camp wild within 1000 m of a legal campsite, but I don't know if that means one kilometre by road, in which case I'm fine, or one kilometre as the crow flies, in which case I'm breaking the law.) But I don't care. I'm angry, I'm tired and all I want to do is sleep. I scout out an area where I won't be seen on either side. I cover the bike with the poncho (still dirty from last year's pernoctation in an olive grove). I put up the tent. (Thank you, Coleman, for your love of green nylon.) And then I sit there and try not to obsess about the sounds of barking dogs, infinitely amplified by the limestone peaks immediately behind me.

I call Candy.

"You all right?" she says.

"I'm a little flipped out by the dogs barking, but I don't think anyone can see me. I'm pretty far away from any road, and the tent is behind a pile of stones. You'd have to be looking for me to really be able to see me."

"All right. But call us if anything happens, okay?"

"Will do." The worst thing that could happen, really, is that I get busted by the Guardia Civil for camping illegally. That would mean spending the night in a jail cell. Right now that doesn't sound all that bad.

And then the wind picks up, making the temperature drop by a good five or six degrees.

And then the moon disappears, bringing in the rain I'd tried so hard to avoid earlier on in the afternoon.

Damn.

Where are the cops when you need them?

TRANS-ANDALUZ, Day Three: Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Ruminations
And when it comes, it comes down HARD. Big gobby raindrops, the kind that normally precede tornadoes, bouncing five or six centimetres off the surface of the road. Thank God it's Saturday and there's not much traffic on the roads. Thank God I put on every slightly waterproof garment that I own and am more or less dry in the parts that count, and that there's no wind, so there's no risk of hypothermia. This wasn't supposed to happen. The drought risk for Andalusia was supposed to last straight through to 2008...

Anyway.

Eight-six kilometres in the pouring rain - luckily, most of it on recently repaved and remade roads, and with very little traffic, thanks to the constrant downpour. And what do you know? Renting a cabin at the campsite in Fuente de Piedra is only twenty-two Euros a night (complete with VERY hot water in the shower and very effective central heating over the bed.)

It's not a question of how wet you get the way - what matters is how hot the air is after, so you can get nice and toasty dry!