The alarm went off rather early this morning. I wanted to catch up to the planned route, which was about 180km ahead of me at that stage. Pretty crazy idea, but if I didn't catch up, I'd be flying blind in terms of finding campsites that were open. Stealth camping had gone pretty well so far for me – I slept very well in spite of the rocky ground – but I'd still prefer to stay in proper campsites for the added security. Speaking of which, I actually woke a little before six (when my alarm went off) to the sound of someone driving down towards the beach. He didn't come all the way, but it was still a little disconcerting to find someone parked at the top of the hill I was running laps of (I cut the course short after that:P). Given it was in the morning though, I wasn't too worried.
As I rode back into the city, my legs groaned at all of the steep hills they had to climb. It was faintly ridiculous how much more I had to work than last night. Thanks to all the one way streets, I had to go all the way up to the highest point in the whole city and then come back down again. Back at street level, I found myself a cafe serving churros for a second breakfast. They were better than the ones the previous night, but overpriced and took ages to come. So in my mind at least, Barcelona is still the only place to go for churros!
Benidorm on the other hand is the place to go for disgusting amounts of British tourists. It starts to grate on you when most of the signs are in English, and the 'Authentic Fish and Chips with imported British Ale' restaurants outnumber the Spanish ones. Surely you go on holiday in another country to experience another culture, try out new food, struggle with another language, etc.? If you're just after a bit of warm weather, save yourself the money and stay at home with the heating on and the lights turned up bright. At least places like Barcelona and Valencia, while overloaded with tourists, don't stoop to these obsequious depths and retain some sense of still being in Spain.
Anyway, back to the story. As I mentioned, I wanted to get a fair bit of mileage in today, so I didn't bother with the minor roads and just got on the N332, which went all the way to Cartagena. The national carreteras (minor highways) are generally in fairly good condition, so I was hoping to be able to maintain a decent speed. It didn't turn out that way though because the road went inland and in the process crossed over quite a few hills.
With my legs in a pitiful condition after the drubbing they got given the day before, I wasn't making a great deal of progress. Still, it was motivating to see the km markers counting down from 150. When it got to zero, I'd be in Cartagena, and I knew if I wanted it enough, I could get there that day. So I plugged away, mentally calculating how late into the night I'd have to ride to get there. By five pm, I'd done about 100km, leaving me with fifty to go. At the rate I was going, that would mean an eight o'clock finish.
I was prepared to do it, I was psyched up, strong, ready for it. It was going to hurt, but I knew I could do it.. and then I saw a camping ground. “Fuck it, I'm stopping” It was a holiday after all, not an exercise in self flagellation.
“Tomorrow I'll have a big day..” In the mean time, it was nice to finish early and put up the tent and go for a run while it was still light.
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