Irun to Gerona in six days.
- Thread starter dellzeqq
- Start date
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Flying Dodo
It'll soon be summer
It's exciting stuff. Where's the next instalment????
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.
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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U
User10571
Guest
Awesome! Looks just like my back yard.Day 3 – Sabinanigo to Castejon de Sos – 102 kilometres
<snip>
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.
StuAff
Silencing his legs regularly
- Location
- Portsmouth
+1!
redfalo
known as Olaf in real life
- Location
- Brexit Boomtown
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 ****ing 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.
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!
U
User10571
Guest
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.
Olaf appears to be the exception to that.
Last edited by a moderator:
Agent Hilda
The Babe
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
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
clivedb
Guru
- Location
- Milton Keynes
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.
And like everyone else, I'm waiting impatiently for Simon's next instalment.
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.
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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