I woke up feeling quite soggy thanks to a run in the rain the night before. The cure for this unpleasant sensation was another run, which served to dry out my clothes by the pure application of my body heat. I got ready in record time, hastened by a strong need to find a service station and ahem 'use the facilities'. Probably the biggest downside to stealth camping for me is the lack of available toilets. When you eat a diet as high in fibre and in volume as mine, you become pretty regular in the mornings I can tell you!
(I've probably turned a few people off their breakfast, good riddance to you weak people!) So I was all ready to go, when I discovered that of course, I had a flat tyre. It wasn't my imagination then, those soft footfalls I'd heard when I awakened from a vivid dream (or nightmare? I was back in the examination hall for my year twelve German exam and realised that with thirty seconds to go, I hadn't actually written anything!) were in fact those of the rare Tyrus gremlinus (common name: Tyre Gremlin), an endemic Spanish species possessed of a cunning and malicious brain. Living in habitats often frequented by touring cyclists in search of hidden camping sites, the Tyrus g. delights in surreptitiously letting down the tyres of such noble travellers, deriving its nutrition from the alpha waves of annoyance emitted by a cyclist who discovers that their locomotory conveyance has suddenly become lame overnight. Possessed of delicate claws that are capable of inflicting microscopic puncture holes on vulnerable inner tubes, the most wizened specimens of Tyrus g. have such exquisitely delicate control of their digits that they can unscrew a valve cap, let down the tyre and then expertly score the rubber in a fashion that leaves their victims in a state approaching pure rage, as they pump up the tyre again, unable to find a leak, only to discover that five kilometres down the road, their tyre has become a floppy piece of vulcanised rubber.
I was wise to their tricks though, and swapped out the tube, pumped the tyre up to the best of my ability (which meant it was running about half the pressure I like to have) and rode off to Chipiona. It was not a pleasant ride. I had a shocking headwind blowing straight at me; my gears were now behaving like petulant school children – the chain slipped constantly and going up hills was a nightmare; and sitting on the bike seat was not making my search for an establishment with public toilets very comfortable at all. The ten kilometres to the town took me over an hour, which is bloody slow even for a touring bicycle.
The first thing I saw when I entered the main street of Chipiona was a combination bike/motorbike store. Really hating the way my bike was handling, I went there first. To say he was a bicycle mechanic was a bit of a stretch. He didn't even have a workstand and got me to lift the bike up while he moved the pedals by hand. Spraying the chain with a bit of lubricant, he looked expectantly at me and told me to take the bike for a test ride. Of course it wasn't any better than before. If it was that easy to fix it, I would've done so myself. Having one more go, he went at the derailleur with a spanner and bent it around, possibly doing some damage in the process. When it still didn't sound any better, he shrugged his shoulders and said that was all he could do. I politely asked if there might be another bike shop that could help me and he pointed me down the road.
The second place I tried was busy and couldn't help that day, but after going back to the first man, I found out there were apparently four other bike mechanics (in one small town, wow) if I only looked hard enough. The third place was a much more professional bike shop and they were great. Not only did I have a really skilled mechanic to help me but there was a customer in there who spoke fantastic English and was really interested in my travels, having done a bit of touring himself, who was happy to translate for me.
The mechanic confirmed that my chain was so worn that it was a liability having it still on the bike and that it had already caused the cogs on my groupset to wear prematurely. Working incredibly quickly and with great precision, he removed my chain and put a new one in while I chatted to the English speaking guy. I took it for a test ride and it was a lot better, but still not perfect. The mechanic explained that unless I wanted to replace the entire groupset, that was as good as it was going to get. With three days of the tour left, it didn't really seem worth going to that expense, so I thanked him for his help, paid sixteen euros for the chain and the labour involved and set off again. Straight away, I realised that having the load from the panniers was playing a role in the problem because the chain was back to its old tricks. Really I should have gone back into the shop to see if they could make it just a little better, but it seemed like there weren't any problems from gears five to nine on the back, so I figured I'd be ok even with the others out of commission (brainplosion really, what about hills!?).
During the discussion with the guy in the bike shop, I'd asked him about riding into Donana national park, which was just a short distance away. The Italian guy I'd met about a week ago had raved about it, pronouncing it an example of unspoilt wilderness, which was basically an example of what this whole region had been like before humans had come along and messed things up. It sounded great, but I wasn't sure how to get into the park because on my map, there was a big river separating the park from where I was. I was told there was a ferry I could take, so (after visiting a service station) I headed to Sanlucar in a fine mood with the sun shining down on me.
A bit of tricky navigation later and I found the dock from where the ferry departed. There was no sign of it, but a friendly German pair told me it left quite regularly and chatted with me (mainly in English) until it showed up. Pushing my bike down through the bike, I joined a load of motorcyclists and forked out twelve euros (daylight robbery really – it was two hundred metres across the river – but he had a captive market) for the crossing.
Ten minutes later I was on the other side of the river on an idyllic stretch of beach. The motorcyclists had roared off into the distance, apparently having made the crossing many times before. I gave riding on the sand a try and it worked to some extent but it was pretty tough with my low gears unavailable. I could see tracks from a car leading up towards some kind of building, so I went up there, hoping there would be a road I could take. I'd barely gone through the gate (ignoring the sign saying 'pasado prohibido') when a man came out and told me I wasn't allowed to go that way (he didn't say, but I think hunters operate in the area, so it's probably for safety reasons). 'Oh..where do I go then?'
'Up the beach of course'
'Uhh ok...How far til a road?'
'Only thirty six km'
Oh great, what had I gotten myself into.. I ate lunch to fortify myself and then started riding again. Something I hadn't really noticed during the first attempt was the massive headwind blowing at me. I'd thought the wind in the morning was bad, but this was actually gale force! I'd make a guess (based on some experience) that it was probably at least fifty km per hour. Gritting my teeth, I pushed, my knees protesting vehemently as I rode in a gear that was far too high for the conditions.
It was the toughest and most unpleasant riding I'd ever done. The loose sand on the beach was being blown along so strongly that it looked like smoke clouds were rushing at me. I was working so hard but barely going walking pace and it was just killing my legs. After four km, I couldn't ride seated anymore, my quads just didn't have the power to push fifth gear anymore. I got up en danser breathing like a racehorse, but only going nine kph. It was so demoralising, and as much as I tried to assure myself that it was just a test of mental strength, I wasn't sure I could handle thirty six km of this.
To add to my misery, four wheel drives would occasionally roar past, cruising along with no problems whatsoever. For the first time in my cycling career, I wished that I could swap my two flimsy wheels for something with a motor. I couldn't imagine a worse situation to ride a bike..oh wait I could.. The beach was studded with shells, which would snap as I rode over them, and I remember thinking detachedly that it could only be a matter of time before I got a puncture. Sure enough, after having made it ten km down the beach, I discovered that my front tyre was a useless flap of rubber.
Cursing the bike, the wind, the whole damn thing at the top of my lungs, I pushed the bike for a bit before getting my last spare tube out. I'd almost got the tyre back on the wheel, when I made the same stupid mistake I'd made two days before and pinched the tube against the rim with the metal tyre lever, tearing a hole in it.
$%^&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Deciding that I'd better cut my losses before the day got any worse, I dragged my things over to the dunes and set up the tent. The wind was just as bad there even though it was somewhat sheltered and even with my bags pressed against the sides, the tent fabric constantly flapped and billowed violently, making me feel slightly seasick as I tried to get to sleep.
It was without a doubt the worst day I've had the whole bike tour (and possibly ever).
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