Note from the author: I'm currently several days behind due to a combination of fatigue and lack of electricity. Everything's going well. Having great weather and great cycling. Will hopefully catch up soon.
I rose before light and was packed and ready to go by eight am. The puncture still had to be repaired of course, but that only took fifteen minutes, and then I was on the road. The day before, I hadn't been able to find a decent road out of Gainda, but the early start must've sharpened my senses because I saw it straight off. Away I went, making good time into the wind and rain.
Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until fifteen km in, I heard a strange noise coming from the front tyre. It sounded like something was rubbing, so I stopped, turned the tyre round and heard the unmistakable psssh of my fourth flat in three days. The location of the puncture – right under a big gash in the tyre itself – confirmed the suspicions I'd been having: the tyres were kaputt. I'd only done 2000km with them, but they were visibly worn down in places. Not quite to the point where you could see the thread (which is when I usually swap them over:P), but they were pretty bad. In any case, I was keen to swap them over because being mountain bike tyres, they're quite inefficient on the road. I'd brought them because I thought I'd be doing some riding through snow and since that hopefully won't be an issue anymore, there was no real point keeping them.
The air lasted until I was tantalisingly close to a service station. Next door I could see what looked like a motorbike garage, so after making use of the air compressor, I went over to see if they could help. Turned out they did all kinds of things besides motorbikes, so the guy was happy to put a new set of slicks (thin road tyres) on and slip a new tube in for me. He messed up the rear brake a little bit in the process, but I think my discs are fairly buggered now, so it was probably going to happen as soon as the wheel was next untightened. They only wanted 23 euros for the lot, which seemed like a really good deal to me. I'd paid the equivalent of 40 euros for a set of slicks back home, so it was a bargain basically! I didn't have the cash to pay, and that resulted in an amusing exchange when I suggested I go to a bank. Despite the fact that I was obviously going to leave my bike and bags in the garage, I think they thought I was going to do a runner:P Luckily a French speaking guy came to my rescue and offered to drive me to the bank, which was nice of him. Along the way, I told him my story and he recounted it in Spanish when we got back. They were very gruff men, but it seemed to impress them especially when they heard I was (almost completely) paying for it myself. I'm not 100% sure about this, but I haven't seen many people my age working (strict labour laws that restrict part time/casual places like in France?), so there might very well be a culture of living off your parents completely until you move out.
Two hours had been lost, but at least the flat tyre saga had been sorted. (I hoped anyway) Rolling off again, I was a bit disappointed to not notice much difference with the new tyres. When I'd last made the swap over, it increased my speed by 5kph easily, and I was hoping the same thing would happen here. It was a bit of a puzzle, but I mentally shrugged and started trying to find the road I wanted to take.
I was riding casually up towards a street market when I had my first encounter with a rather odd phenomenon: bike touring groupies. Something about the nonchalant way I held the handlebars must have impressed her. Maybe it was the way my leg warmers accentuated the sculptured curves of my calves. Or perhaps she admired the way I had skillfully packed my tent and sleeping bag away – so snug in their yellow bag. Whatever it was, I suddenly had a middle aged woman all over me.
“Yoohoo! Where are you going?”
“Dienda”
“Oh wow! On that bike!? That's incredible!”
And before I could protest, she bounced over, grabbed me by the arm and asked me where I was from and what my name was (her name was Sylvia). On the verge of breaking into a fit of laughter (and her friend standing behind her looked like she was in the same condition:P), I managed to get away having had my quads and biceps squeezed and my cheek kissed. It could've been much worse..
I didn't end up finding the road to Dienda (or whatever it was called), deciding instead to take the road to Benidorm. It went inland quite a bit and chopped a significant distance off compared to a more coastal route, so I didn't even stop to think about what all that green stuff meant on the map. Five kilometres of climbing later, I stopped to have lunch, and while I was in the middle of taking a nature break (what great timing!), who should drive up behind me beeping her horn but Sylvia again? She hadn't followed me or anything, it was just coincidence (unless she surreptitiously stuck a tracking device on me), but she was aghast to hear I was going to Benidorm.
“But it's like this the whole way!” (here she made an angle with her arm)
“I've fallen in love with a madman!” (some poetic licence may have been used in this translation)
I was tempted to flex my bicep to show that I was strong enough to take on any mountain range, but I abstained from fear it might provoke her. Anyway, how bad could it be? There were 47km to Benidorm and they couldn't all be uphill, right?
Turns out I probably should've listened to her. Up and up and up and up I went, stopping only occasionally for a 'photo break' (it wasn't that I was tired or anything, the view was just too spectacular to not make a record of). After an hour or so, I became aware of just how slowly I was going, and anxious to not be caught on a mountain road after dark, I got up on the pedals and really pushed. All the drivers going past gave me enthusiastic encouragement (I was worried one guy was going to crash into me – stop clapping and put your hands on the wheel!) and I have to admit, I was pretty impressed with myself too. I've definitely become a lot fitter than I was at the start of the tour.
After twenty five km of straight climbing, I finally got a brief respite. It was basically nothing though, and soon I was climbing again and starting to really get sick of it. “When will it end?? Why oh why didn't I listen to her??” I moaned. And then, rather abruptly, it did end. Thirty km of endless mountain had been conquered! Now it was time to reap the sweet reward of a downhill finish.
Wahoo! It was dark, but I didn't want to stop until I reached Benidorm, so it was on with the lights and onwards! If it hadn't been for the billions of roundabouts, I probably would've averaged 50kph for the fifteen km into Benidorm. Fun:)
Infused with a rush of adrenaline, I went into a cafe and bought some churros (rubbish compared to the ones in Barcelona) as a pretext. What I really wanted was information about the nearest camping ground. The guy I asked didn't sound too positive, claiming that it wouldn't be open this time of year. I wanted to look anyway because I really felt like camping tonight. The place he pointed out was well out from the city centre, so I put all my lights back on and rode out, my choice confirmed when I asked for the price at a Pension and was told 50 euros for a night!
It was a bit of a tough ride getting to the place he indicated. Lots of steep hills that reminded my legs of their efforts earlier in the day. I ended up giving up and decided to just stealth camp down at a little beach I discovered. There weren't really any good spots, but it looked pretty deserted and I was pretty tired, so I set up the tent behind a row of deck chairs. Despite how rocky the ground looked, it was actually fairly comfortable in the tent. I even got my evening run in, which is something I didn't think would be possible while stealth camping alone (no-one to guard the stuff). It was pretty boring, but fifteen laps of the hill up to the main road got me my four km (and trashed my legs completely).
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