When the actual alarm went off at 7, I was in no mood to get up, and went straight back to sleep, not emerging from the covers until 9. By the time I'd gone for my run and we'd had breakfast, and I'd turned every one of my bags inside and out looking for my watch (I am now extremely paranoid about losing anything and refused to go until I found it – it was in my handlebar bag, where I'd already looked about five times:|) it was 11am.The chances of putting in a big mileage day to make it to Barcelona on the 24th were looking pretty slim, but we decided to give it our best shot anyway.
Straight off the bat, I found it really hard to go a decent pace. The kind of effort that would normally yield 20kph on a flat only gave me 15kph and it didn't take long to realise that my stupid front brake was scraping again. I stopped and set it right without using up too much of our valuable time and we pressed on to Lleida.
The route I'd planned last night had us taking a road north east out of the city, so we kept heading north until we abruptly ran out of road. Luke wanted to turn back, but there was a park to our right, and I wanted to see if it would take us anywhere.
A river running through the park
Ignoring Luke's protests, I took us in a north-easterly direction, and after bumping over some country lanes for a while, we did manage to find the road we were looking for. In my opinion, it's almost never worth retracing one's steps in situations like that, where one knows roughly which direction to go in, and there are numerous towns scattered around the place, all of which do eventually link up to the major road networks.
The next fifteen km were pretty bland. The weather was exactly like yesterday – foggy and very cold (-1 centigrade I believe) and together with the urgent drive to get to Barcelona, I really wasn't too interested by the scenery (which was all just industrial sites anyway). Riding was starting to feel really tough again, and I wondered if it was because I was sick or if my brake was scraping again. It turned out to be both.
I've picked up a bit of a cough/sore throat since the night in the hostel at Serinena and am feeling quite rubbish as a consequence. I haven't been sick like this since last time I was in Europe, and it isn't much fun. It's probably because I've been pushing my body a little too hard before I had a chance to get used to the cold, but there's not much I can do about it now besides take my multi-vitamins and look forward to taking a break in Barcelona.
The brake took longer to fix the second time (another thing I'm going to take care of in Barcelona), so it was looking pretty clear that we weren't going to get very far today before sunset. By the time we'd had a quick lunch stop outside a supermarket, it was pushing 3:30 and we'd only gone 45km.
Luke noticed an interesting piece of graffiti while waiting outside with the bikes as I shopped - “Catalonia is not part of Spain”. I don't know a whole lot about the independence movement in Catalonia, but I assume it's similar to that in the Basque country. Different language (Catalan), different culture, different climate equals different country in people's minds. If you take the slogan at face value, it means we won't have been to Spain at all this trip. A bit of time in the Basque country, a bit of time in Catalonia, but none in Spain! We'll have to check it out another time:P
Our next destination involved changing roads from the C-13 to the C-26. Only problem was, we couldn't find it! After taking a series of back roads, we ended up in a small village that was basically in the right direction. A turn-off promised to bring us back to the right road, so we went along in full knowledge that the seven kms to the main road were going to be the last of the day. I was really struggling by that point, it was mostly uphill, foggy and getting dark. We got to the C-26 at right on 6pm. It was dark enough by then, that I decided to put my lights on for the short stretch to Cubbels.
Our spirits soared when we spotted a giant 'Bar-Restaurant-Hostal' sign on the first building in town. My prayers had been answered! The place appeared to be deserted, but I pressed the buzzer anyway. A man answered the intercom and dashed the relief I had felt in the milliseconds it took him to say 'Ferrado' (closed).
What were we going to do now:S? I asked at the grocery store next door while picking up some lentils and bread for dinner, and apparently our only options were to go to the next town, 10 kilometres away, or to stealth camp. Neither of us wanted to spend the night in a tent, but at the same time, I wasn't at all keen on riding another 10km at nighttime in fog.
We did it though, Luke taking the lead with his stronger front light. It was quite a surreal experience. I could see nothing but the fog, the white line of the road and Luke's small rear light in front of me. Quite often a car would pass in either direction, and it was mind-blowingly bright. The strength of the headlights seemed to bestow an almost godlike power to the vehicles. I felt like a mortal standing before Zeus, my soul being ripped apart simply by his overpowering presence.
Riding required such absolute concentration that I didn't dare even wipe my nose on my glove for fear of an embarrassing and injurious slide down the banked shoulder of the road. Nor could I check the odometer on my handlebars or the watch on my wrist, so it had a bit of a timeless feel to it. Perhaps I would be trapped there forever, riding on an endless circuit, presided over by a sun in permanent eclipse?
After some time, we reached an intersection, and I suggested we take an alternate route through two small towns along quieter roads. It was much more relaxing not having high beams travelling towards us at 70kph, but it also meant we had even greater difficulty staying on the road. I trusted Luke to get me 'home'. Our roles had reversed for a time, and in the fatigued state I was in, that was completely ok with me.
As we approached one of the small towns on the way, I was struck by the beauty of the buildings. The orange lights shining through the fog reminded me of Tolkeinesque cities of elves. No-one was around to ask if there was any accommodation available, so we kept going.
After another eon of unmeasured time, we came to Artesa de Segre and managed to find a hotel that was open. An epic eight hour stretch on the road in hostile conditions was finally over..
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