# Irun to Gerona in six days.



## dellzeqq (28 Sep 2014)

As some of you will know, Susie and I have just cycled across northern Spain. Here's my ride report. I'll do a day at a time, and flesh it out with pictures when I work out how my new camera works.

Day 0 – London to Irun.

An early start. As in the night before. We had tickets for the 7.22 from St. Pancras (now called London Saint Pancras International) and had, perforce, to drop our bikes off with the kind people at EuroDespatch the night before. Which we did. And so, we left home, bikeless, at five to six in the morning, stumbled in to the Eurostar ‘departure lounge’ (memo to self – kill person who dreamt that one up) and found, to our horror, that one of our fellow passengers, a man possessed of a face and waistline formed of suet and wearing (you guessed) faded red trousers, was reading (those of a delicate disposition look away now) the Spectator.

And relax………good coffee, those cool Eurostar colours (yellow, grey and navy, still fresh after twenty years), the smooth ride, the rush in to the tunnel, open fields in the Pas de Calais and friendly Eurostar people at the Gare de Nord all make for a civilized prelude to lunch. We loaded up the bikes (of which more later) and rolled down to the Seine, across the Isle de la Cite and in to the Rive Gauche. Like Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. But on bikes. In a different city.

Getting on the train south was a bit of a scrum, but, once on and away, France rolled by. Small villages. Chateaux on hills. Lakes with little wooden boats. The TGV thundered down to Bordeaux and then picked its way decorously by a sea more sapphire than azure, through Bayonne and St-Jean de Luz to the terminus at Hendaye. We walked out of the station, turned right, stopped at the border at the midway point of the footbridge over the Bidasoa, and made our way in to Irun and to the door of the Hotel Alcazar.

Once installed we walked in to town. The streets were cordoned off to allow children to play football, adults to jog and walkers to walk. We got cash, found a table in the Placa Mayor and ordered lamb’s tongues on toast, patatas bravas and bits of pork. A band played badly. It doesn’t get much better than this.


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## srw (28 Sep 2014)

User said:


> Kind of him, to give all those seperate clues for the less perceptive.


He might have been undercover.

The only times I ever read the Spectator are in the dentist and on Eurostar. It's very readable in a frustratingly teeth-clenchingly wishing-to-beat-its-smug-lights-out kind of a way.


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## dellzeqq (28 Sep 2014)

Day 1 – Irun to Lumbier – 132 kilometres.

We were away by 7, turning on to a deserted highway under a silver slipper moon, the river Bidasoa to our left, high hills to our right. Rule 104 turfed us off the new N-121 and on to a variety of re-numbered two lane roads running parallel. We’d turn a corner and see the highway leave one tunnel, cross a bridge and go in to another tunnel above us, while our, smaller, older roads hugged the river bank. My google-mapping skills took us in to and out of an industrial park in Bera, but, after some faffing around, we found the NA-8304.

A small note. Touring cyclists become keen students of tarmac. They recognize those ‘old’ roads now bypassed by new highways. Many of you will know the ‘old A9’. Some of you will know the B4100. These are well-constructed, durable roads with fading white lines down the centre, reduced in status, forgotten by the motorist but made for cycle touring. Such is the NA-8304 and, further down, the NA-1210. Which leads me neatly to our encounter with the Guardia Civil…………

The NA-8304 ran in to the new highway. We turned left and were pulled by the Guardia Civil. Those of you old enough to remember the Franco era will imagine the worst. We received the best. Two young men in neatly pressed uniforms that were a credit to their mothers patiently explained the procedure for turning left. I’ll draw you a diagram later. They then explained Rule 104, which is, basically, the rule that kicks cyclists off the main highway. They assured us that at every point at which Rule 104 prevails there would be an alternative, signposted route. They waived the 40 euro fine and wished us well. I’d like to think that my polite, elderly gent act had paid dividends, but those of you who know how this team works will have worked out precisely whose smile and whose thankyou best furthered Anglo-Spanish relations.

And so we joined the NA-1210. Which is, frankly, a delight. A wonder. A great joy. True it rises to 847 metres above sea level (bear in mind that Irun is on the coast) but the switchbacks afforded us terrific views in all directions. We left the main highway far below and waved to the local cycling clubs as they whizzed by. They whizzed and we pootled up through the morning mist, the air had turning soft and slightly damp, with an earthy, woodland smell.

And now we get to the luggage bit…..

We overdid it, but I’m not sure how. I carried a mini-footpump, eight spare tubes, a spare tyre, three multi-tools, a chain tool, a spoke key, a rain top, a warm long-sleeved top, a spare top purchased in the Basque country in 1985 (this for sentimental reasons), arm warmers, a buff, a helmet (see note later), lots of spare spokes, maps, routesheets, reservations, a (too) heavy lock, a pair of linen shorts with kecks, lots of socks, two front lights and two back lights……all in all the clobber weighed in at about eleven pounds. Had I my time again I’d have taken a lighter lock, left my old cycling top at home and taken fewer tubes, but that would be about it. So, already, we have a bit of a problem. If this little trip were ever going to be a club ride, we’d need support because, put simply, there are those of us who are not going to do that kind of climb with luggage. If it were a club ride we could split the spare tyre, lock and inner tube responsibilities, but, though our first morning was warm in the sweetest possible way, all that clothing would play a part in days to come.

I’ll return to the club ride thing later, but, for now the story continues at the high point for the day, some 30 kilometres north of Pamplona. The pass was, sad to say, unmarked, so we sort of rolled over it and worked out afterwards that our work was done. The descent was steady and well paved, but the friendly NA-1210 gave way to a two lane stretch of the N-121, which was, happily, slightly downhill and with a broad hard shoulder. So…we reached the edge of the city about midday, and, diverted east by Rule 104 took to a surprisingly civilized ring road, there to find a café with tapas, pastries and coffee, and a huge television screen showing Osasuna beating Mallorca 6-3. You get a point if you remember Michael Robinson.

We’d thirtynine kilometres to go. I knew that the NA-150 east was a quiet, dull road, but that the NA-2400 would thrill Susie. And so it did – when we turned on to the NA-2400 we were in to Espana Profunda. Wheat fields, red clay villages perched on bluffs, sheep and, most thrilling of all, eagles. The land shimmered in the heat. Cars were few and far between, and then none. We waved at a tractor driver and he waved back. Four French cyclists, heading in the opposite direction, stopped for a chat, one elderly man being particularly keen to show Susie his holiday snaps and to demonstrate the workings of his large umbrella that, which he would open at picnic stops to keep the sun’s rays at bay.

We moved on, through the heat and down a long slope in to Lumbier. The hotel was occupied by some kind of celebration, so we drank beer and waited outside. In time our hosts showed us the room which was vast, and, having showered and changed, we went out in to the town’s close streets to find dinner which we did in a sort of fried up drenched in oil sort of way. All in all, Lumbier’s a pretty place, but there’s not a whole lot going on. Then again, that’s the beauty of touring – you don’t have to stay.


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## Gordon P (29 Sep 2014)

This is thrilling. People must have waited for the next instalment of a Dickens novel or Marvel comic with the same anticipation


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## wanda2010 (29 Sep 2014)

User3094 said:


> You dark horse.
> 
> Pictures! We need pictures!




He's got to work out how to get them off his camera and into this thread .


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## Dogtrousers (29 Sep 2014)

I like reading touring travelogues, and imagining myself there. The plan is that when my brain rots completely that I will actually believe that I've done some of these things - a bit like Total Recall, but without going to Mars. The problem with many travelogues is that they involve camping, and as I don't do tents this is likely to be regarded as unbelievable even by my rotted brain. That's why I like this as DZ and AH seem to be staying in civilised places, and eating civilised meals not cooked on camping stoves. So, in a few years time I'll be saying to people "Did I ever tell you about the time I cycled from Irun to Gerona in six days ... I took too much luggage, you know".


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## frank9755 (29 Sep 2014)

How do you kill a chicken with cava and ice cream? I don't care to imagine...


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## StuartG (29 Sep 2014)

wanda2010 said:


> He's got to work out how to get them off his camera and into this thread .


Roll back the film, put in a secure light free container. Find envelope, write cheque or insert postal order, post it off to Dixons somewhere in outer Bedfordshire. Wait three weeks. Ring, receive traditional Dixon's customer care. Book new trip. Buy new film, Do it. Repeat process until the digital age arrives.

Then get a smartphone ...


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## srw (29 Sep 2014)

frank9755 said:


> How do you kill a chicken with cava and ice cream? I don't care to imagine...


Look up "gavage". I imagine the cava and ice cream would give a pleasingly vanilla top-note to the resulting pate.


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## Bollo (29 Sep 2014)

User said:


> I heard mention of chicken with plumbs.


Isn't that a cockerel?


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## dellzeqq (29 Sep 2014)

Gordon P said:


> This is thrilling. People must have waited for the next instalment of a Dickens novel or Marvel comic with the same anticipation


Very flattering. As it goes they did crowd the dockside in New York in anticipation of the latest instalment of the Old Curiosity Shop. As the boat steamed in the cry went up 'but what has happened to Little Nell?'


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## dellzeqq (29 Sep 2014)

Day 2 – Lumbier to Sabinanigo – 100 kilometres

…or, as it turned out, 103 kilometres.

This is what happened. We got up, had breakfast, set off southward and then turned east on to the road that would be our home for most of the day – the N-240. I confess we wimped out of the Foz de Lumbier, motivated by the prospect of an easier day and put off by the 300 foot sheer (and unfenced) drops, but the road in to Liedana was sweet and we put on a bit of speed through Yesa. And then…a man in uniform at a gate bearing a sign ‘carretera cortada’. We asked about the alternative. He assured us there was none. We took a side road. It had a gate with the same sign - ‘carretera cortada’. Well, that’s women for you.

The N240 is now a bit of a relic. It runs beside and a bit below the new A-21 autopista. When it runs, which, on this day, it didn't. So, our advances repulsed, we retired to Yesa and drank coffee in a bar, whose owner assured us that there was a back way. Although, as he said it, he looked at Susie, and intimated, by way of shrugs and upward motions of the eyebrows, that this was a back way entirely unsuited to ladies.

Thus encouraged we retreated westward, turned off the road at a multi-roundabout and struck northeast and very much upward for the Monasterio de Lleyre. Four kilometres of road and two hundred and fifty metres of height later we found the Monasterio sitting, fat and ugly beside a car park. And, behind the car park, a narrow tarmacked path down. We ignored the chain across the road and the sign saying (you guessed) ‘carretera cortada’. We clambered over two cattle grids. We circumvented two sets of gates bearing the sign ‘carretera cortada’, knowing all the while that this could be a vain enterprise and that we would have to repent our way back up the hillside to the fat and ugly monastery. And then……our little tarmac path crossed over the autopista and came to rest on the N-240. We ignored the signs, the barriers made of painted oil barriers and the lumps missing from the road and rode east again, following in the wheeltracks of a younger, blonder, skinnier DZ, admiring the vast Embalse de Yesa, and reveling in our isolation. Even when the A21 decided to take a national bankruptcy inspired break and we found ourselves mixing it with big, big, big trucks we knew as we rode on knowing that no-one, not one cyclist or motorist would have so outwitted the authorities that had so liberally spattered ‘carretera cortada’ signs in our way.

The N-240 is a bit like a Hollies song. Or a Beatles song. Or a Johnny Cash song. Or any song of that vintage that goes on about roads. All of which come in handy when you’re riding along thinking of a life gone by. Not just my life, but the life of a country which, in 1985, was emerging from the shadow of dictatorship. Back then old men wore black cotton trousers, black smocks and black berets, and old women wore long black dresses and black shawls. My brother and I stopped and asked a farmer for water and he had invited us in to his barn and cut us a slice of what we later found to be Manchego cheese. Those barns are now empty-eyed husks, and, these (better) days supersized tin sheds admit cattle at one end and extrude cheese at the other. The old men and women have died and their sons and daughters drive French cars and wonder about the national debt.

It started to rain. My six quid Decathlon rain top kept me snug. Susie’s one hundred and thirty quid Rapha rain top soaked up every drop that was then gratefully absorbed by her equally expensive Rapha cycling jersey. Feel free to moralise. And, while you’re moralising, make what you will of our stop at the most stylish MaccyDs on the planet just outside Jaca. All I can tell you is this – when you’re wet through there are worse places to use a hand dryer and there are few hand dryers that can reach as many places.

We had a mere seventeen kilometres to go, and that kind of flew past. Sabananigo is a fine town, but don’t even think about reserving a room at the Hotel Escartin. ‘Completo’. ‘Reservacion’. ‘Completo’. So we hunted rooms and found the most delightful berth at the Hotel Cuidad de Sabaninigo, took advantage of our host’s recommendation and walked down to the papelleria to buy newspaper for shoe-stuffing, ate some delightful tapas at the Bar La Fogaza (anchovy, pimiento, mayonnaise and fish sauce) and found ourselves in a pretty fancy bike shop buying brake blocks, lubricant, energy bars and a to-die-for Giordano top. Thus refreshed Susie and I made for our beds, she wondering about the next day and I knowing that, twenty four hours later life for both of us would never be quite the same again.


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## mmmmartin (29 Sep 2014)

This is quite gripping. I'm looking at maps...


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## StuAff (29 Sep 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> Day 2 – Lumbier to Sabananigo – 100 kilometres
> 
> …or, as it turned out, 103 kilometres.
> 
> ...


Should have got a Wiggle on...My DHB is excellent. I have got damp on the likes of Wetstable, but it takes sustained heavy rain to get through.


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## User10571 (29 Sep 2014)

Susie may've been wet, but in that state she's still better looking than you.
:P


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## wanda2010 (30 Sep 2014)

mmmmartin said:


> This is quite gripping. I'm looking at maps...



I'm going to look at my Rapha jacket


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## Flying Dodo (30 Sep 2014)

It's exciting stuff. Where's the next instalment????


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## dellzeqq (30 Sep 2014)

Day 3 – Sabinanigo to Castejon de Sos – 102 kilometres

I’d got a lot right when I dreamt up this ride. The plan was to put the hills in at the start of the day and leave the best bits till the end of the day. I’d have liked to save the best of all to the last day, but, in this one respect I’d had no option. The third day was always going to be the best day. The run in to Gerona would have considerable charm, but nothing would match the third day, the day of days.

Up, then, at six thirty and, having had breakfast at seven we were on the road at about half past. It was light, but not fully – a little like my brain which decided with perfect certainty that the road signposted Fiscal was not the one for us. Another industrial estate, some helpful directions later, and we found ourselves going southbound on el nacional (Rule 104 notwithstanding) toward a roundabout and a left turn on to the Eje Pirenaico – the N-260 – which would stay with us for the next two and a half days.

This part of the N-260 had been improved out of sight. The old road was a narrow two lane affair, more suited to goats than bicycles, but it had been supplanted by a straight, steadily graded three lane highway –two up and one down to allow trucks to be passed. The problem was…no traffic. Just us. Which is fine until you think about the construction companies and the bankers who sold Spain these wonderful highways backed by huge loans, now being repaid by the government with disastrous results. In the case of the N-260 between Sabinanigo and Fiscal the Spanish taxpayer coughed up one hundred million euros – and the tarmac is already cracking up. Whether that be a result of overweight trucks or poor specification I don’t know. What I do know is that infrastructure doesn’t pay. Unless you own a construction company,

So we wandered along in splendid isolation, admiring the view. It took some nineteen kilometres to rise from 780 metres to the Col de Foradada at 1020 metres, and I have to say that Susie really stuck to the task, pedaling steadily, and, mostly, on my shoulder. We took pictures at the top, put on our rain tops and helmets and pushed off, rounding the first bend to find….

The Tunel de Petralba! 2625 metres of supersmooth, well lit roadway enclosed in millions of tons of rock. Lights on we rolled and rolled, faster and faster, me thinking ‘this could go either way’, looking round to see her clenching the bars some twenty metres behind me, giving nothing away. The noise of a two cars coming the other way was immense. The orange lights flashing by were immense. The whole thing was immense.

We were out in four minutes, bursting in to the light and making for a slip road. I turned round expecting anything from tears to a smack in the mouth. She looked at me and yelled ‘Simon, you’re a farking nutter!’ and burst in to wild laughter. I laughed too, foolishly, then (word of the day) immensely. We laughed and laughed and laughed. We laughed until we wept. Then we had a wee. And got on the bikes for our first big descent.

Which was tough (although not as tough as those to come). We’d underdone the clothing, and by the time we reached Fiscal we were shivering so hard it was difficult to keep the bikes on an even keel. So we repaired to a bar and had coffee and hot chocolate before heading down the delightful green Ara valley to Ainsa for lunch.

It’s easy to take roads like this for granted, but if they happened in Scotland we’d be raving about them. The valley is steep sided, but not so steep that small hamlets (some, sadly, deserted) don’t cling to them. Cows munch on grass that glows with health. The river and its tributaries purl over smooth pebbles. The road eases round corners that demand just the right amount of attention – enjoyable without being threatening. So, by the time we came to Ainsa we were pretty darn charmed by life.

In 1985 Ainsa had been a one horse town. Actually, a one dog town. Now it had new apartment blocks, big tin sheds, super-duper traffic lights and..a restaurant. With over half the day’s distance done we decided on a bit of a blow-out. Here’s my tip – if you’re a vegetarian, bring your own sandwiches to Spain. First up – veal. Then paella with meat of an indeterminate variety. Then shoulder of mutton. Then more meat. Thus weighed down we headed east, across the valley, and up another three lane multi-million highway – tough going in the sun when your digestion is battling with more meat than we’d eat in a week at home. We kind of fought our way over the hill, dropped down and around snaking bends to Campo and headed for a bar to drink cokes, in the hope that the fizzy drink would dissolve or (in my case) explode the meat. Which it kind of did. Thank your lucky stars you were not there to witness it.

So………the Rio Esera. Steeper sided. Serious bends, hemmed in by rock. The river rushes, splashes and, occasionally, leaps down the slope. We changed down and mooched along in no particular hurry. Spain was getting spectacular. At Seira we stopped in the centre of the village, sat on a bench and admired the town hall, which doubled as the post office. Susie told me that it was all a bit overwhelming. I told her that she’d not seen anything yet. And, just north of Seira we went through another short tunnel and found ourselves in the Congosto de Ventamillo

Here’s a photograph







So….after five kilometres or so we emerged. In some kind of daze. And found ourselves in the Hotel Pirineos, which was nice and cheap and had a bar, which was just what was wanted. As you can well imagine.


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## User10571 (30 Sep 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> Day 3 – Sabinanigo to Castejon de Sos – 102 kilometres
> 
> <snip>
> 
> ...


Awesome! Looks just like my back yard.


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## Gordon P (30 Sep 2014)

When you have to wait until Episode 4 for the first illustration it is just as well that it is a picture completely worth waiting for. Awesome Immense.


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## StuAff (30 Sep 2014)

Gordon P said:


> When you have to wait until Episode 4 for the first illustration it is just as well that it is a picture completely worth waiting for. Awesome Immense.


+1!


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## mmmmartin (30 Sep 2014)

These reports are now the most interesting part of my day. I keep checking, checking, checking, for an update. Wowsa it's interesting. Even more interesting than rebuilding my rear Rohloff wheel and packing for the Spain trip.


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## redfalo (30 Sep 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> Day 3 – Sabinanigo to Castejon de Sos – 102 kilometres
> 
> I’d got a lot right when I dreamt up this ride. The plan was to put the hills in at the start of the day and leave the best bits till the end of the day. I’d have liked to save the best of all to the last day, but, in this one respect I’d had no option. The third day was always going to be the best day. The run in to Gerona would have considerable charm, but nothing would match the third day, the day of days.
> 
> ...



DZ, this is starting to feel like an immense violation of basic human rights. First you state this is unlikely to be a Fridays ride, and then you carry on posting stuff like this. That's just not fair! Let's the f*ck go there!


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## User10571 (30 Sep 2014)

As I understand it, research has shown that is rare to swear / blaspheme / use invective effectively in anything other than one's mother tongue.
Olaf appears to be the exception to that.


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## Agent Hilda (1 Oct 2014)

Agent Hilda Ride Report

This was for me.
The chance to have the trip of a lifetime.
And it was.
It was farking epic.
It was mind-blowingly huge, a juggernaut of surprise.
I will never experience anything like it again.

And I was good.
I was really good, I was a good girl
I didn’t make a fuss.
I didn’t lay down in the middle of the road spread-eagled begging to be forgiven for all my sins and I only asked one measly time for him to leave me to die in a ditch.

And there was absolutely no buying sexy green and black knee high boots on the last day. Oh no! Spain you can keep your boots, thank you!

But make no mistake, this was not a relaxing holiday. We didn’t chill out drinking wine picking over the day, we were up off and out by 730am. 
We didn’t lay our cheeks against the walls of ancient monasteries and feel the pain of a million lost souls, we pushed on, up, round another corner, down another hill, up another hill only stopping for water or a bite to eat.
We missed a dozen new friends
We missed a hundred beautiful photographs
We ate light (most of the time) and often very little in the evenings. We were often in bed fast asleep by 8pm and awake again at 4am.
Some days it hurt all the way to the top.
Some days I was absolutely exhausted after 30 miles of cycling. 
It was tough.

We started off in the shimmering heat, the rich hot desert colours of pink, orange and yellow, empty roads.
We moved into the misty coolness of slate grey and blue - clouds appearing lake-like beneath us
We ended up in the rich green of a landscape of a million bear hiding eagle nesting evergreen trees 
I stopped breathing once when I realised that what I was looking at wasn’t the clouds but the tops of mountains. 
We were in a landscape that was so overwhelming beautiful I actually wept real romantic wonderful tears.
It was the most tremendous visual feast.
People live there man, they sleep on the train whilst it hacks through the hills, they get in their four by fours and tear around the mountains, they sit in the squares and chatter about politics, they go into their kitchens and deep fry pigs trotters and serve them in jelly to ignorant foreigners.

Simon talks about the slice of the moon, he’s so erudite it makes me sick.
But it was there, that moon slice, on that freezing cold morning. That’s another story. Told better already. Bloody hell it was cold.

We often cycled in silence, no roar of cars, no aeroplanes, no boom boom of young people. Just the sound of the click in Simon’s wheel or my breathing, or some minute mechanical tick tick tick.
Then we would crash into a sound scape of a dozen howling dogs, the hum of huge lorry’s crawling up behind us, the whine of a group of motorbikes snatched away as we tore around a corner and the terrible endless ding dong of bells hanging around mist hidden white cows necks.

I love a bit of adventure but I swear to you I was anxious on the road to nowhere, the road that had been CUT.
I thought that we are going to cycle off the edge of a cliff like some aged version of Thelma and Louise (guess who is who).
I love a bit of a scare but I swear to you zipping downhill, seeing a sign *10% 2k* is just jaw locking shoulder gripping fist clenching scary.
Every time I thanked my lucky stars that there was no one behind me, I only had to keep an eye on him in front.
I love a bit of a challenge but I swear to you that as I looked and saw the hill ahead I often very nearly lost my nerve, I very nearly gave up I just counted over and over again, one and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight and hoped that he would stop and give me a break.
He’s a tough old buzzard.
But then he would turn around and smile, crack a joke, give me a little flap jack, pat me on the arse, kiss me and make me laugh and that made it alright again.

And I felt marvellous at the top and the bottom, coming out of that tunnel, going into the gorge, just marvellous, bubbling over with marvelousness, with the joy of it all.

I love riding my bike. I just want to do it without fixing or fiddling or poking about. If I end up old and alone on my own with no one to help me, I will simply stop cycling and do something else, like knit scarves for tramps or become a public speaker, or write horror stories or something. But I will always remember this as the icing on the cake of my summer.

It was the trip of a life time, I am flying high, I am so happy, I had such a good time, I had such a good time.
Nothing will ever be the same again

Love and Peace dearest Friends
Love and Peace
Agent H


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## fimm (1 Oct 2014)

I must have been through Castejon de Sos on a bus going to Benasque to walk in the mountains. There's more gorge like that between Castejon and Benasque. I think. IIRC, anyway.
It sounds like a fabulous trip, thank you for sharing.


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## clivedb (1 Oct 2014)

What a great write up, Susie! You make your adventure simultaneously enticing, daunting and scary! Unmissable!

And like everyone else, I'm waiting impatiently for Simon's next instalment.


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## mmmmartin (1 Oct 2014)

Ulp. Am hoping @ianmac62 it's not expecting anything like that when we go to Spain on Tuesday. 

Also hoping no one is expecting a write up of anything like the quality we are reading here.....


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## dellzeqq (1 Oct 2014)

Day 4 – Castejon de Sos to Sort - 103km

Collada de Fadas 1470. A small annotation on a map. One heck of a climb.

We had breakfast at 6.30 with a bunch of locals who clearly made a habit of dropping by the hotel for coffee. We were on the road by 7.30. It was dark, very dark, and cold, but the pretty constant uphill soon had us peeling off layers. The deep green woodland and pasture dried out, bit by bit, the dawn came bit by bit and we climbed through patches of mist, bit by bit. When we cleared the mist the zigzags started in earnest, and then, when the road turned west and north we saw, for the first time, the high Pyrenees.

Let’s just call them…immense. Near sheer walls of limestone going way above the mist, way above the treeline, way above the high cloud, catching the morning sun but so scarred by rockfalls that they reflected nothing back. We’d turn back toward them, curve round to the right, note some feature (a lone tree, a crane, erected for who knows what purpose) above us, turn back and forth, and then, twenty minutes and barely two kilometres further on, see that very same feature at the side of the road.

We were pretty much on our own, and not in any great rush. Susie was pushing her 34/25 which meant I had to do a bit of weaving to keep pace, but the road was never steep enough to cause great pain. Ten kilometres gave us 500 metres in height, with the slope fading toward the top of the pass, so we eased our way to the sign. Which took a bit of pondering, because 1470 metres is, by my reckoning, a little under 4900 feet. As in higher than Ben Nevis, and a whole lot higher than Susie had ever cycled before. Then again, she’d not really reckoned, at any time in the past, whether it be five years ago or even two weeks ago, that she’d be looking at such a view from such a height, amid such vast, rocky surroundings under such blue skies, and over, yes over the clouds.

It was, as ever, cold at the top. We’d learnt from yesterday’s mistake and put on everything that would fit – I had four layers on top and she had five, with leggings over her shorts. We started downhill…..

I’ve not mentioned my front wheel. It developed a tiny once-a-revolution tick that got sorted by those excellent folk at On Your Bike. They’d trued my wheels, which had taken a bit of a pounding. Now the front wheel tick was back and there was just the hint of a wibble in the rim which really was too worn for this kind of trip (mea culpa). In consequence the brake was grabbing. I decided to descend on the back brake, shoving my backside off the back of the saddle and hoping for salvation when I hit gravel on a bend. Which, perversely, made for a much less gung-ho descent, with a bit more time to ponder than I would have had otherwise. Her Nibs stuck within sight, doing her usual sensible thing (we’ll overlook the ‘wheeeeeee’ on Reigate Hill). She too was pondering. And, when we reached the bottom of the hill, in the pretty town of El Pont de Suert at 800 metres, we’d reached the same conclusion – that this route, the Eje Pirenaico, was not really suited to a Fridays group ride. For these reasons.

a) We’re too a mixed bunch. Some of us would have taken three hours to do that twenty kilometre ascent, and some would have done it in an hour and a half. That’s an hour and a half wait in the cold. So what do we do? Hold trials and exclude those who don’t come up to scratch?

b) We’re not, as a club, disciplined enough to descend together safely. Actually we’re not really disciplined enough to descend singly in a safe manner, but, that said, leading Susie down a 700 metre, forty hairpin descent was, for me at least, a worry, and the thought of leading a bunch of you down such a road was…….unimaginable

I’ll return to this later in the day, but, for now we were pleased to be over the toughest climb of the day. Not the last climb, because we had to go up again to well over 1300 metres to get to La Pobla de Segur, but this, second, ascent was pretty straightforward (and not blessed with such fine views) so we felt able to complete it before lunch. Which was a mistake because the café serving people seated in the main square that looked halfway attractive was rubbish. For once the need for calories came up short against our culinary cut-off point, and, doing what no Audaxer has ever done, that is to say leave food on the table, we pushed off for Sort, some twenty eight kilometres away.

This afternoon’s congosto was not a patch on the previous days, although the cycle paths offered in place of Rule 104 tunnels (in fact the old road, greatly neglected) were a break from the traffic which was thicker on the ground than at any time in the last two days. The river to our right had dug its way under the rock on the far side, and, looking up, we knew that at some time in the future, possibly many human lifetimes but not so very long in geological time, the vertical wall of rock would come down with one almighty bang. We marveled at the pink rock above us lately exposed by landslides – and hurried onward. We did stop to take a photograph of a 300 foot high rock representation of a penis (let’s not use the m-word), but, that aside, we pootled along counting off the kilometres which expired in Sort, a town that bears a remarkable resemblance to the streaming wet, hemmed in by green town that hosted Twilight, but without the vampires to cheer it up. And, while we’re in grand guignol reference mode, the (expensive) Hotel Pessetts was a lot too close to the Shining than it ought to have been.

There wasn’t a lot going on in town. We managed to buy some ham, some bread, some cheese and some water, and ate a rather forlorn meal in our room. And again, we thought of the Fridays and how they liked to rock up to a place, get loaded, talk nonsense and fall asleep from excitement, and wondered whether a town like Sort, or even Castejon de Sos, would ever make for the kind of Funster Fridays trip we'd had on our way to John O'Groats.

So we looked out of the window toward, well, darkness, knowing that, in that darkness, tomorrow’s road rose from a relatively lowly 700 metres to a (can’t help myself) massive 1725 metres, the highest point of our ride.


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## Gordon P (2 Oct 2014)

You couldn't make this up....


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## srw (2 Oct 2014)

Gordon P said:


> You couldn't make this up....


Maybe they have, and have spent the last week in St. Reathem.


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## redfalo (2 Oct 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> we’d reached the same conclusion – that this route, the Eje Pirenaico, was not really suited to a Fridays group ride. For these reasons.
> 
> a) We’re too a mixed bunch. Some of us would have taken three hours to do that twenty kilometre ascent, and some would have done it in an hour and a half. That’s an hour and a half wait in the cold. So what do we do? Hold trials and exclude those who don’t come up to scratch?
> 
> b) We’re not, as a club, disciplined enough to descend together safely. Actually we’re not really disciplined enough to descend singly in a safe manner, but, that said, leading Susie down a 700 metre, forty hairpin descent was, for me at least, a worry, and the thought of leading a bunch of you down such a road was…….unimaginable



Two thoughts.

1) Doesn't issue a) mitigate issue b)? The more stretched out the ride is, the less relevant is the first issue. The fast guys would not have to wait but could just carry on, like we did on the last LonJOG day. I assume the route should be rather straightforward, so there may be no need for waymarking.

2) I'd expect a certain selection bias with regard to who signs up on such a trip, especially if it was unsupported.


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## redfalo (2 Oct 2014)

User13710 said:


> Why not download the route from DZ and do it with a group of friends?


Yes, that thought has crossed my mind already. However, there might be room for more than just one Friday's tour, if @mmmmartin run one in France.


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## dellzeqq (2 Oct 2014)

Day 5 – Sort to La Seu d’Urgell – 53km

This was the day that was never meant to be. We had booked a hotel in Ribes de Freser, 128km from Sort. That would, on paper, have taken us over the Collado de Canto at 1725 metres and then the ridiculous Col de Molina at over 1800 metres. Except I had no interest in hauling myself and Susie up through the ugly-as-sin ski resort at La Molina, and had decided that we would ride 92 kilometres to Alp, there to take the wonderful Linea 3 train that runs downhill from the French border at La Tor de Querol all the way to Barcelona, connecting, as only a railway line can, the old, the new, the quiet and the busy, the slow with the quick all with perfect comfort. But my plan was flawed – or, as it turned out – utterly perfect but obscured under layers of misinformation such that I abandoned it. I’ll explain.

I’d been looking forward to the Collado de Canto. Eighteen kilometres at 5.5%, up where the air is fresh and clean, sounded like a fitting end to our pass-busting adventures. And so it was – once more we were away in the darkness and climbing steadily through the morning mist. Once again we passed out of the woodland, but, this time, to close-cropped pasture beside a well-graded road. Once out of the woodland the clear air gave us swooshing views to the high Pyrenees, presented whenever the road took us north or northwest.

Susie’s metronomic pedaling, varying only when we took the inside or the outside of a hairpin, was a thing of wonder. Consider this – her biggest climb, twice over, at a considerable altitude, without a hint of complaint or the merest smidge of despair. We rode like accomplished tourists, using precisely the amount of energy that we could sustain, stopping only for a swig of water or an energy bar, taking in and enjoying our surroundings, counting off the kilometres one by one. With three down and fifteen to go there was the thought that we’d done one sixth of the way. With nine down we were halfway up, and so on and so forth until we rolled to the sign, placed, disappointingly, a little below the top, and took ourselves on to a picnic area to knock back a muffin that had slipped in to a bag back in Lumbier. Two elderly gentleman wished us a good appetite, and raised their glasses – I think, judging by the ‘pop’, they were drinking home-brewed cava.

Once again we put on layer after layer – by the time we pushed off I’d a base layer, a thin short sleeved cycling top, armwarmers, my new Decathlon night ride top and a rainproof top. We rolled down for about a kilometre and stopped in a layby, rewarded by the most spectacular aerial view of the Pallerols valley, interrupted, now and again, by clouds far, far below us. From this height the valley floor was wildly green, villages spread out as in on some large scale map and cars and trucks marked only by the occasional flash of reflected light off their windscreens. This, we agreed, was what heaven should be like, and, if heaven wasn't this good, living lives of undiluted virtue would have been all for nought.

We rolled off again, and, at this point I think my plan started to fall apart. I’d simply underestimated how tiring the descent would be. It wasn’t so very steep – 1100 metres in 26km - but it had some very twisty sections on it, and negotiating those took a considerable time. Susie found the going down tougher than the going up, and, when we got to the bottom and turned left at Ardall, we joined a busy and not so wide highway that was itself strength sapping. By the time we got to the greatly enlarged town of La Seu d’Urgell she’d had enough, and knowing that the road to Alp, however flat, was more of the same I thought we might call time on our cycling for the day. That call was re-inforced by the confident assertion by the Tourist Office that the ‘train’ was a bus from La Tor de Querol and would not take bikes. So we did what all sensible cycle tourists do in this situation and started drinking. And opened negotiations with a taxi driver, who, conveniently, had not obtained a new copy of his fixed price fares since 2006.

A bottle of rose and delicious plates of chicken with plums to the good we dismantled the bikes and enjoyed the ride. We’d have enjoyed the ride even more if it hadn’t been for La Molina, but, once in the valley leading down to Ribes de Freser, there was a lot to admire. Not least the train, which, despite the nixing by the Tourist Office, was very much a train, a train that could indeed have picked us up in Alp, and one that passed through tunnels, over small bridges and from station to station built in the romantic Catalan Gothic style (thankyou Eugene Viollet-le-Duc) like the biggest train set in the world.

So we checked in to our hyper-modern hotel in Ribes de Freser, a town that is unquestionably amongst the prettiest and most invigorating in all of Europe, and mooched around, visiting the deli and watching the rivers Rigard and Freser meet up like old chums on the piss, before taking to our bed and wondering just what it would feel like to end this great adventure tomorrow.


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## dellzeqq (2 Oct 2014)

User13710 said:


> Why not download the route from DZ and do it with a group of friends? That leaves the Fridays Tour option open to being a bit more inclusive.


have you learnt nothing in the past six years? What on earth makes you think that I could muster sufficient technonerdery to upload a route?

All Fridays rides should be as inclusive as we can possibly make them. At the moment I lack a kind of transforming analysis that might make this work as a Fridays ride. But.............I'll return to this tomorrow,


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## StuAff (2 Oct 2014)

User said:


> You need a young person to help you.


"A child of five could understand this. Fetch me a child of five."


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## mmmmartin (2 Oct 2014)

Er, I'm not really up on this sort of thing, what with me being old enough to have been *Thrown On The Scrapheap In The Prime Of Life* _(by the Brutal Capitalist System_) but to download something do you not need an implement to which you can _download? Such as a GPS thingy? 

Does DZ have such a thing?_


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## dellzeqq (2 Oct 2014)

mmmmartin said:


> Er, I'm not really up on this sort of thing, what with me being old enough to have been *Thrown On The Scrapheap In The Prime Of Life* _(by the Brutal Capitalist System_) but to download something so you not need an implement to which you can _download? Such as a GPS thingy?
> 
> Does DZ have such a thing?_


I do not. And, what's more, I do not have any maps. Because they were (as you rightly pointed out ahead of time) pants.


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## dellzeqq (3 Oct 2014)




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## dellzeqq (3 Oct 2014)

here's a video of a car going through the Tunel de Petralba at 60km/hr


View: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRuOJBlBvjg


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## srw (3 Oct 2014)

mmmmartin said:


> Er, I'm not really up on this sort of thing, what with me being old enough to have been *Thrown On The Scrapheap In The Prime Of Life* _(by the Brutal Capitalist System_) but to download something do you not need an implement to which you can _download? Such as a GPS thingy?
> 
> Does DZ have such a thing?_


Point of pedantry: an implement _from_ which you can download.


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## srw (3 Oct 2014)

Up or down. But from, not to.


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## StuartG (3 Oct 2014)

srw said:


> Up or down. But from, not to.


Let's have fewer of that ...


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## frank9755 (3 Oct 2014)

[QUOTE="dellzeqq, post: 3309223, member: 3567"
All Fridays rides should be as inclusive as we can possibly make them. At the moment I lack a kind of transforming analysis that might make this work as a Fridays ride. But.............I'll return to this tomorrow,[/QUOTE]

Obviously, it's your call on how you would wish to run such a tour, and there are advantages and drawbacks from different approaches. However, in my experience, CTC (and similar) tours cope with mixed groups and hills by not trying to keep everyone together. Everyone knows where they are supposed to be going, rides at their chosen pace, some meet up for lunch and others don't, and some people get to the end a few hours sooner than others, and usually they then drink beer.


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## Flying Dodo (3 Oct 2014)

A radical change may well be a good thing, as it could encourage a larger number of people to come along. A more up and down route would clearly not enable people to travel together, meaning those who aren't skinny racing snakes won't want to come along at all.

However if a group could be split in two, with a nominated leader for each groups (possibly even equipped with a GPS!), then that would get round that issue, as those who like taking their time climbing hills, admiring the view etc, can then climb at their own pace.


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## Flying Dodo (3 Oct 2014)

Surely the only objective is to get people out on bikes? And by offering options, you're more likely to get a wider, more inclusive range of cyclists.

Realistically, bearing in mind how far away Spain is, that's likely to be the main deciding factor to limit numbers.


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## Flying Dodo (3 Oct 2014)

User13710 said:


> Well, not really. If an 'inclusive' club starts offering mainly mountainous routes that have daily time pressure the inclusiveness goes out of the window.



I must have missed the memo saying the Fridays were now only offering mainly mountainous routes!

Even CTC tours include some mountains.

If a tour includes some hilly bits, surely by managing expectations and doing what you can to encourage people not to be put off by headline figures, and providing a mechanism such as splitting a group into different sections, then those who may not have the same speed as you, or climbing/descending skills, can be happy together, then overall the ride is being more inclusive. You shouldn't automatically write people off, and say it's not suitable for them.


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## dellzeqq (3 Oct 2014)

just bear with me on this, please. But please take in to account that I would never have people riding on their own in the mountains. The weather can turn, you couild get a mechanical and be missing the golden part..........I don't mind how other people organise rides, the way I'd do it is the way I'd do it. It may be that this description inspires people to go the same way, and that's fine, but if it's a Fridays ride...........

And, for those of you in need of further inspiration........


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## redfalo (3 Oct 2014)

User13710 said:


> CTC tours also grade their routes in their publicity as easy, easy/moderate, moderate, or enthusiast, allowing people to choose which ones would suit them when they book, which would be a radical departure for the Fridays.





User13710 said:


> Well, not really. If an 'inclusive' club starts offering mainly mountainous routes that have daily time pressure the inclusiveness goes out of the window.



I respectfully disagree.

Think LonJOG. 680 miles in a week. Starting with a 123 miles night ride, and then the ordinary 75 miles day, plus 90 miles on the last one. The Hell of the North and all that. It was the toughest tour by far that I've done in 35 odd years on a bike.

LonJOG was mountainous. And boy it was inclusive. It was the Fridays' finest hour.


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## Dogtrousers (3 Oct 2014)

There are a few lovely photos dropped in here. Is there a trove of these pictures uploaded somewhere else?

Although I did note that Agent Hilda said _"We missed a hundred beautiful photographs"_

It's exceedingly unlikely that I'll be inspired enough to actually go there, but I may do a bit of virtual touring, with maps and the like in bed. And who knows, one or two of my virtual trips have made it to reality. But this does sound rather steep for me.


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## StuartG (3 Oct 2014)

redfalo said:


> I respectfully disagree.
> Think LonJOG. 680 miles in a week. Starting with a 123 miles night ride, and then the ordinary 75 miles day, plus 90 miles on the last one. The Hell of the North and all that. It was the toughest tour by far that I've done in 35 odd years on a bike.
> LonJOG was mountainous. And boy it was inclusive. It was the Fridays' finest hour.


It was certainly pushing the envelope but it didn't go off it. That first night/day was exactly the same length as the Southwold ride but DZ spread out the time much longer. If it hadn't been for that appalling weather after lunch it would have been comparatively comfortably testing (says someone far from the strong end of the group). Hell of the North was just beautiful riding. The A9 was a bit scary. The last day was the hardest (for me) by far. The logistics didn't give DZ any choice but we went for it and maybe if JoG had not been our final end point some of us might have failed.

I very nearly did.

LonJoG was the ultimate in pushing an inclusive tour to its limit. The proof is EVERYBODY got there under their own steam. Just.

This is different. I've only motored there but it makes the Scottish Highlands look quite cuddly. The long, long stretches away from any habitation - the openness of the terrain. The speed at which weather can just appear do its worst and disappear (height and heat are a deadly combination). The length of those climbs and, for me, the demotivation of seeing it snake away for miles and miles without end rather than little (minute?) Ditchling hiding itself round turns.

When DZ first mentioned it - I thought it may be the first Friday ride I'm going to chicken out of. He tried to persuade us it wasn't that bad. Second thoughts have obviously come into play. There may be a magic way of enjoying the hills without nasty descents. And we know how many group rides have foundered at the bottom of a sharp hill.

If nothing else the leader should enjoy the ride too and the pressure here might ruin that. Testing bits are OK but connected by long periods of just comfortable riding is what some of us do enjoy.

I am still out to be convinced this is a good idea. As I understand it DZ is unsure about being convincing. I will leave it to him. I don't think it right to push him because the hardies can do it.


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## dellzeqq (3 Oct 2014)

Day 6 – Ripoll to Gerona – 85km

We got up about seven and headed for the Ribes de Freser railway station. I’d wanted to take the train the day before – and the thick mist in the steepsided valley did nothing to dissuade me. Hopping aboard the Linea 3 to Ripoll would take us to the point that the N-260 became, heaven knows why, the N260A and climbed out of the Freser valley, and, we hoped, out of the mist.







The station was built of brick and stone with low overhanging eaves held by struts taken off the wall. A shelter crafted from materials used and, indeed, celebrated, in a truthful way, truthful that is to the forces exerted in nature, and truthful to the wonder of the railway age. Not that M. Eugene Viollet-le-Duc, the theorist behind this break with classical formality was averse to extravagance – particularly in the lapel department…






Anyroad (or rail) up, the 8.12 came in pretty much on time, which is to say four minutes before the timetable lifted off the internet the night before, and we got on. The train rolled gently down the valley, crossing and re-crossing the road and the river below, its smoothness testament to the virtues of the Iberian gauge.

We pulled in to Ripoll, made our way out of the generous station and took coffee and pastries in the café opposite, not in any rush to get the day over with. And then, a little after nine, we set off for Olot, going up, (as was our morning habit) through thick green woodland, sliced through by sunlight, thinking that this hill was nowhere near as tough as those on previous days, but, still and all, if it had happened in England or Wales, which it wouldn’t because it went to 1120 metres, would cause young men in lycra to dash themselves against its tarmac, recording their endeavours in the demented annals of ‘Strava’.

We heard wolves howling. Honestly. It was quite something. Wolves. Or dogs that sounded like wolves. Either way, we were unworried, knowing that wolves had better things to do on such a nice day than to bother tourists of a certain age. We simply turned the pedals, watched the road unwind in front of us and knew that, for all its gentility, this day’s ride was a ride to remember.

We departed the N-260 for good and all and dropped in to Olot. Which had sappy bike paths to nowhere, so we ignored them and ended up on the elegant main drag before getting just a little bit lost beside El Fluvia. Susie’s I-phone told us where we were, and we toddled along the side of the river to the C-152 and turned south to St. Esteve-en-Bas, which, for all its proximity to a the main roads appeared little touched in the last two hundred years. Which was not entirely to the good, as, by this time, we wanted a bite to eat……so we went southeast on the C-63, through our last tunnel and gently downhill to Les Planes, there to find sandwiches and lemonade.

And then we turned left, on to our last road, the GI-531, with kilometre signs that told us when we would reach our destination. Another few kilometres of uphill, and then a descent to the valley of the Riera de Llemana and then, without warning we were on the flat heading southeast knowing that in an hour it would be all over. As we went south, little knots of super-super fast cyclists (and even some super-super-super fast items) were whizzing north. We waved to them, and, almost without exception, they waved to us - as if to say 'sombrero!'

I wasn’t sad about the ride coming to an end – there was a fit-ness to it. I marvelled that we’d done it – close on 600km across some formidable country, pretty much all of which came as a surprise to Susie. Because – here’s the thing. Any muppet can do what he knows he can do, but for someone to take on something that they do not know they can do, and to come through it having achieved much, much more than she thought possible, having seen much more than she thought possible is quite something. We are, after all, talking about a woman of 54 (whoops, now I’m going to have to kill you all) who bought her first road bike five years ago.

Gerona (or Girona) is a nice town. Not big – perhaps the same size as Derby – but very, very pretty. We rode over the same bridge we’d crossed three years ago, and pushed the bikes up to the Pensio Bellmirall. The owner welcomed us and told us that our bike bags had arrived….

This is clever, so make notes. We bought eight metres of ripstop nylon (140 cm wide), took it up to the dry cleaners with a drawing, and had bike bags made to the size accepted by SNCF with two pockets on the inside for our wheels and ties to close the top. Total cost forty quid, plus six pounds for postage to Spain. I bet you’re impressed!

So………..we went shoe shopping. I bought a fine pair of Pikolinos shoes in dark tan and there is no truth in the rumour that Susie bought a pair of green suede boots. Then we went to the lovely Placa de la Independencia, had a couple of beers and some tapas and when back to the Bellmirall to listen to the cathedral bells all night.

And thought of home.


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## dellzeqq (3 Oct 2014)




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## hatler (3 Oct 2014)

User said:


> If ever a trip justified the purchase of any bike one of the participants felt she wanted, even if completely gratuitous, this would qualify.


And with a new bike, well, you'd want to ride it somewhere special, perhaps somewhere scenic and hilly ?


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## Flying Dodo (3 Oct 2014)

Chapeau! (Or sombrero, as you rightly mentioned above). A trip of a lifetime.


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## Gordon P (3 Oct 2014)

Oh yes indeed - sombreros to you both


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## lilolee (4 Oct 2014)

I've loved reading all of this travelogue. It sounds amazing, and I am sure it will inspire others to want to achieve this if/when DZ offers this up.

And isn't this exactly the problem being discussed above. I am sure that there will be those who quake at the thought of Ditchling Beacon, who will now be captured by the romance of climbing mountains in Spain. 

The Fridays is an incredibly altruistic group, well led by DZ, and well run by all who participate. But I can hear doubt and I'm not surprised. On a climb of Alpe D'Huez, I did with friends, there was a time spread of 1 1/2 to 3 hrs. Fortunately there are cafe's at the top. If we were to carry on down the wait around could easily be 2-3hrs. This doesn't sound ideal to me.


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## dellzeqq (4 Oct 2014)

Girona to London - the train home

Breakfast at the Pensio Bellmirall is a convivial affair – the guests sit at one round table. I talked to the patrocinadora about my brother. I’d seen him the previous week at the funeral of one of our oldest friends, and we’d got to talking. It turned out that we’d been staying at the same small hotel in Girona, and were booked in within two weeks of each other. She promised to pass on my regards.

We dismantled the bikes, put them in the bike bags, descended the steps to the river, crossed the bridge and headed for the AVE/TGV station, which turned out to be in subterranean, sub-Foster concrete bunker sixty feet below the old station. The Barcelona to Paris train, one of the new Llyria jobs with double decker carriages but no bike spaces turned up on time, I managed to find a spot for the bike bags and we sat down to watch the world go by.

Here’s a precis of those ponderings

1. We chose the right time of year and the right time of the day. I’d thought that June might be a better bet because of the longer days, but getting up and away in the dark had added another layer of adventure, and, besides, had got us to the top of the hills before the afternoon heat kicked in. We chose the right day of the week – the busiest stretch of road was despatched before lunch on Sunday.

2. We were overladen. Riding up and down big hills is a lot less fun with luggage.It’s not simply a question of the weight, but also of the handling of the bike – it loses that skippididoodah quality that makes standing on the pedals easier and turning on descents something of a thrill.

3. We’d been lucky with the weather. As Stuart G says, rain and wind can come in on the instant. I remember descending the Col d’Aubisque in July, soaked through, teeth chattering, hoping desperately for an uphill to warm me up. The Eje Pirenaico is not quite the same thing as the big Pyrenean passes, but, still and all, you wouldn’t want to come off the Canto in the rain – it would be miserably cold and those hairpins would be a real test of your brakeblocks, handling skills and patience. Descending in the rain in company would be fraught – people would have to listen and do as they were told.

4. The food in Spain, at least the food in cafes and bars, is not great. There were high points like the sublime lambs' tongue on toast, but, by and large it was bread, cheese and ham. By the end of the week I was gripped by broccoli fantasies.

5. We might not have seen some of the towns we stayed in at their best, but Sort and Castejon de Sos were pretty darn dull. Spanish towns sleep between two and five in the afternoon, but Sort goes in to hibernation until eight in the evening.

6. We almost came horribly unstuck on the second day. Would anybody have the nerve to lead fifteen cyclists over those cattle grids and past those locked gates? What if we had ended up cycling on the hard shoulder of the Autopista?

So, how might a group tour work?

Well, the easiest way would be to restrict entry to those people capable of going up the Beacon on a 34/25 or better – but that would make it something other than a Fridays ride. It might be, of course, that somebody reading this account would take inspiration and set off with some mates, perhaps embellishing it with an essay or two in to France (in 1985 my brother and I did Bilbao to Barcelona in six days taking in every Pyrenean pass of note, including the dreadful d’Envalira). Some other people might do the same trip and take two weeks over it. I’d take that as a compliment.

The next best thing would be to have support. We could strip the bikes down to the bare essentials (using force if need be) and stick the rucksacks, racks and panniers in a car. As it goes we know somebody from Irun who might be able to help us arrange that.

Even that wouldn’t work entirely. I reckon that the fastest amongst us could climb the eighteen kilometres to the Coll de Canto in an hour and a quarter. Others, riding lightweight bikes, might take two and a half hours. What do the fast people do at the top? We’d have to share out the TEC duties equitably and rely on the support car to act as a broom wagon. But, still and all, the faster riders would have to get used to hanging around. We might, however, send the speedy boys and girls on a bit of a diversion to tire them out.

Then again, if you’re looking for the ride of a lifetime, what’s the alternative? That’s not as silly a question as it sounds. This ride is disappearing bit by bit as the roads get ‘improved’ and (some of them) get busier, and as the old, traditional villages close down and the small towns on the main road sprout tin sheds, but, for all the shortfalls mentioned above, the combination of physical grandeur, persisting culture, quietness and proximity to Blighty is still way, way ahead of anything else. Don’t give me the Harz mountains or Austria – when it comes to romance the most misshapen Aragonese sausage beats chocolate cake hands down.

For Susie this trip was an adventure the like of which she never expected to undertake. For me this was a goodbye. I wanted to take what might well be a last look at the best ride I'll ever do. For me it’s over. If I never go back I’ll have abiding memories spanning thirty years.

That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t find organizing a group ride from Irun to Girona worthwhile – far from it. In case any of you are in any doubt I count LonJog as one of my finest hours, and I wouldn't call that week a bunch of laughs. This would, however, be tougher. On LonJog you bellyached about getting up early and complained about the hills (like Soutra was my fault), but you did it anyway because you were cozened, charmed and bullied. On Irun to Gerona there’s be no more Mr. Nice Guy Simon. You’d have to start in the dark, stop for refreshments in an organized way and get lots of sleep. Anybody found in possession of mudguards or not carrying armwarmers would be put over my knee and spanked. As you can see I've not got proper answers to some of the questions, and I'd welcome your thoughts - feel free to e-mail me if you don't want them picked apart on the forum.

So…………….we arrived in Paris. What a shambles that town is! As Susie said ‘I don't give a damn if I never come back to Paris again – I’d rather shop in Venice’. Exactly. But the people at the Gare du Nord were helpful, the train home superfast and the taxi driver who conveyed us to Streatham had read ‘Tomorrow We Ride’ by Jean Bobet, and so we found ourselves checking on the fish, sorting out the bills and putting lots of lycra in the washing machine at a reasonable hour. It’s great to be home.

P.s. I've still not sorted out my camera. Credits to Susie and her I-phone for the photos.


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## redfalo (4 Oct 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> Anybody found in possession of mudguards or not carrying armwarmers would be put over my knee and spanked.


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## dellzeqq (5 Oct 2014)

on the border between France and Spain.....


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## StuAff (5 Oct 2014)

dellzeqq said:


>


Carradice and a bar bag on the C50? This picture should carry a warning!


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## dellzeqq (5 Oct 2014)

now - the camera was a bit of a dead loss - or, rather, the whole click and point thing proved a mite too 'techno' for yours truly. So, apart from the photograph of Susie there's really only two that make any sense....

The first is a picture of the bike accommodation down to Hendaye. I think that there are 12 spaces on each train, and four trains a day, three of which can be tacked on to the end of a morning Eurostar crossing. Alternatively one could book the bike on to the night train to Hendaye.




The second had us puzzled. Then we remembered that I'd taken it on the second day. As in the 'flat' day, Ah, yes, that flat......


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## tiermat (10 Oct 2014)

Fantastic report, I really enjoyed it and am looking, even more now, to returning to that area in April next year.

On a route note, I think you missed out on a fabulous end to the ride by not taking the Vies Verde from Olot to Girona. Although it is an old railway track re-purposed as a bike (and walking) route, it's surface is well graded, there are plenty of refreshment stops (apart from, note, on a Sunday) and has ZERO traffic.

As for organising a large group ride over there, it will, probably, be harder than you think. The first time I went I was solo, the second time with one other and next year there is going to be three of us (unless I can persuade any others to join in*). Small groups is the way to go, especially if you are of a similar ability. Any other advice would be superfluous as you know all about group rides (organising cafe stops, sleeping arrangements etc).

*At the risk of breaking the rules, there is a thread for the trip next year, entitled "El Segedors"**, over on the other forum that starts with Y, if you are capable of covering ~300miles in 5 days, and are not afraid of UP, then it could be for you! .
**Ask a friendly (in my experience, other than the odd taxi driver, they all are) Catalan.


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## Dogtrousers (10 Oct 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> now - the camera was a bit of a dead loss - or, rather, *the whole click and point thing *proved a mite too 'techno' for yours truly.


This may be where you were going wrong. I think you are supposed to point first _*and then *_click.


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## Sketchley (10 Oct 2014)

dellzeqq said:


> ......
> 
> Even that wouldn’t work entirely. I reckon that the fastest amongst us could climb the eighteen kilometres to the Coll de Canto in an hour and a quarter. Others, riding lightweight bikes, might take two and a half hours. *What do the fast people do at the top?*.....



I maybe stating the obvious here but surely the option is to make them wait at the bottom and set the slower people off first in groups headed by people that will and can stick to a steady pace. That way the bunch arrives together at the top, in theory anyway. Now I know this won't be perfect but throw in a no overtaking rule and everyone should arrive together at the top even if a quicker group catches up a slower one. A quick calculation over 15km climb set the first group off to achieve a 7.5kphm average then wait 30 mins and set off group 2 at 10 kmh average then finally group 3 at 15kmph 30 mins after that, result all three groups arrive at the top together. Personally and I would have thought the extra hour at the bottom then "chasing" everyone else up the hill has got to be better than standing at the top waiting for a slower group.


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## frank9755 (11 Oct 2014)

Good plan: let the fast ones stay in bed for an extra hour and the slow ones wait at the top and get cold!

What can work well in practice is for the faster climbers to ride to the top then turn round and come back down until they meet the last rider coming up. They can then either ride up at a more leisurely pace at the back, admire the views and take the photos, or repeat, according to their preference.


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