3-7/2: WWOOFing, coughing and riding through a blizzard

3/2:
Slept poorly, coughing wretchedly and clutching at my throat to try and alleviate the pain. Eating breakfast hurt. Tea is my new addiction.

Sigrid looked at me with a bit of concern when I said I'd go out and work with Luke. I knew my throat was going to hurt no matter where I was, and being outside in the clean air was probably better for my cough, so I sucked it up and rugged up against the cold. It actually wasn't bad at all. I don't understand how -2 degrees can feel so comfortable to me when I've been accustomed to at least 10 degrees.

The WWOOFing task for today was to dig up all the grass and dirt from a patch out behind the stable where Martin wanted to construct a path for the horses to walk up and down. I was comically inept when it came to using the spade. On more than one occasion, I jumped up onto the hilt, intending to drive it into the earth, only to slip or stumble and almost go flying! It was quite fun though and very satisfying seeing the hole gradually widen and the truck gradually fill up with wheelbarrow loads of dirt.

There was a very tough patch near the chicken coop, which received very little sunlight and was frozen as a result. We got the pickaxes out and swung with all our might, trying to ignore the icey shrapnel that flew back into our faces. Before long I was down to just my thermal top.

I was getting pretty tired towards the end and was glad when we ran out of room in the back of the truck at about 5:20. Time to call it a day, we both decided. We'd done most of the hard work, and I thought I'd be able to almost finish it off by myself the next day (Luke was leaving for Munich).

Dinner tonight was shephard's pie with lentils. It was very well received, though Sigrid just scooped off the mashed potatoes, leaving the lentils sitting in the dish much to the disdain of everyone else present ('Das ist unfair!').

4/2:
My throat was feeling a lot better but to compensate for that, my cough had become quite a bit worse. I ate breakfast slowly and went outside at 9am to fill up the water containers for the horses. Luke's train was leaving at 9:30 and he cut it right to the line, getting a lift to the station with Sigrid at 9:20. He's going on a big exploratory trip of Germany, visiting Munich, Berlin, various relatives and wherever strikes his fancy basically. It's definitely the best way to do it this time of year I think! He'll have seen more of the country than I have, which is a bit sad considering I've already spent about four months longer than him here:P

The digging progressed a lot more quickly today. The soil wasn't frozen at all and thanks to the work we'd done yesterday, all I had to do was cut out blocks of earth with the spade and chuck them into the wheelbarrow.

Some time after lunch, a neighbour came out into her garden to take advantage of the bright sun, and started chatting with me. Amusingly, I spent about 5 minutes explaining where it was I come from. She claimed that I was saying Australia incorrectly (I need to stress the 'Ow' a bit more apparently) but Martin thought she was just a little deaf. I have to agree with him, Slovenia sounds nothing like Australia!

After six hours of tough work, I'd almost gotten to the door of the stable, but not quite. I was happy to call it a day when the sun went down though. There's another WWOOFer coming tomorrow, maybe she'll finish it off.

5/2:
Woke up very early for me - 7am - and couldn't get back to sleep, so I went down and had an early breakfast. The cough was as bad as ever, but the sore throat had vanished completely. The plan for today was to ride to Klostereichenbach, where I've booked a holiday apartment for the next two weeks. Getting over the inertia to leave was quite difficult. I sprawled on the couch, surfing the net for a few hours, only getting my act together when Martin told me there was snow forecast for 1pm.

I thanked him for letting me stay the past two days and rode off, following a map he'd printed out for me. It was very nice riding on the well maintained German roads with pretty little villages at regular intervals and the Black Forest never far away. To get to Klostereichenbach, which was about 45km away, I first had to do a little bit of climbing before finishing off with what Martin promised me would be a very nice descent.

As I got up above 700m, Winter showed its face and I was treated to a gorgeous snow covered landscape. It was incredibly beautiful and I felt privileged to witness what is becoming a very rare sight in Germany these days. The wind swirled around a fair bit, making riding quite difficult especially as I was feeling quite wretched, coughing violently and feeling quite weak and hungry after a very inadequate breakfast. A road cyclist soared past me up a hill and called out 'Has the touring season started already then!?'

One o'clock came and went, but luckily I'd escaped the dark clouds despite my slow progress. Desperately hungry, I stopped at a service station and picked up some nice rolls (how I love German bread). Luckily I'd done the tough part of the ride by then and only had to go about five hundred metres before reaching the start of the promised downhill. Whoopee, down I went, wind whipping into my face and sending the huge wind turbines spinning quickly. The last five km were flat and still buzzed from the downhill, I pushed into the wind and flew along.

After consulting with the very cheery woman at the tourist office, I found the apartment, was given a quick tour and left to my own devices. It's nothing special: a little kitchen, a little bathroom, a little TV and a bed that folds out from the wall (the first one I've ever seen!). But it's all I need:)

I surfed the net for quite a while, ignoring the fact that I had nothing at all to eat until it was already dark and all the shops in the town were closed. There were always restaurants right..? After ascertaining that the restaurants were both expensive and lacking in suitable dishes for vegans, I bit the bullet and walked the three km to Baiersbronn. It was rather hairy walking next to the road with no shoulder whatsoever. On the way back, laden with groceries, I found a path next to the river. It was rather spooky and I was a tad worried it'd lead me deep into the forest, where I'd meet a Grimm ending.

6/2:
My cough was truly awful today. It wracked my whole body and I just didn't want to do anything. Normally I just train through colds (heavy exercise has been shown to not slow your recovery rate at all), but when it's below the neck I exercise a little more caution. The last thing I want is to end up with bronchitis. So basically I just spent the whole day on the internet, only making a single expedition out to Baiersbronn for more groceries.

7/2:
Woke up feeling quite a bit better. The cough was nowhere near as frequent or violent, which I was very glad of. I decided to get out and do a bit of exercise on the bike. The reason why I chose Klostereichenbach is because it's quite close to the cross country trails. Unfortunately the trails down at this elevation (650m) are not currently skiable (haven't been for a number of years I think), so to get some practice in, I'd have to head up a bit higher. So that's where I headed. Not really very well prepared for any bad weather, I rode off towards the town of Kniebis, which is twenty km away and 300m higher in elevation.

It started raining as soon as I got out the door, and I started to wonder whether this was really a good idea. Telling myself I could always take the train back if it got really bad, I pressed on, soon reaching Freudenstadt. By then, the rain had turned to snow, which spattered into my face and blocked my vision whenever I got up to any decent speed. I was still warm though, and quite enjoying the ride, my unloaded bike responding crisply to my pedal strokes.

Going off memory, I took a wrong turn and cruised downhill for three km before turning back on the advice of a woman walking her dog. Oh well, more hill training can't hurt! I was a bit scared of the road up to Kniebis. From what I could remember of the many bus trips I took up there last year, it was quite steep. So having found the correct road, I took a deep breath, imagining 8% grades all the way up, and set off..downhill..

My memory must be really rubbish, because it was not difficult at all. There was a bit of climbing, but it was very gradual, barely noticeable most of the time. I actually relished the climb because by that stage, my gloves were very wet and my hands were getting quite cold. I discovered that if I pushed hard up the hill, while simultaneously wiggling my fingers around, my hands actually remained quite warm:)

Before long I had reached Kniebis. The snow was coming down heavily, hanging in the air in great flurries. I was covered in the stuff, but didn't mind at all. The ski stadium was just a bit further up the hill and I spun up easily before dragging my bike across the snow to the Hütte. I wasn't planning on doing any skiing today but I was hoping to hire some skis for the next two weeks. It was within the opening hours they'd published on the website, but the lady at the counter told me there was no-one there who could help me and that I should come back the next day. Oh well, at least I'd got a workout in.

I really wasn't looking forward to the downhill. It was going to be cooold. I pulled on another jumper, my balaclava, my sunglasses (so the snow wouldn't fly into my eyes) and a woolen glove (not sure what happened to the second one). Just as I expected, it was cold. My hands and feet soon felt like blocks of ice and I had the unusual wish for a nice, long uphill. The only good thing about the downhill was that I could go fast (or fastish, I was being cautious on the wet road) and get it over with.

Basically the whole way back to Klostereichenbach was downhill. By the time I got back, I was a wreck. My hands were soo cold! I couldn't get my helmet off, and spent about five minutes trying to get the door to my apartment open, almost crying in frustration. I was wet and cold and just wanted to get inside and curl up in a blanket.

1/2-2/2: The master of the European train network

It felt strange packing away my life into the pannier bags again. Not really concerned about evenly distributing the weight so that my bike would be balanced properly, I just threw everything in and did up the straps. Wobbling slightly, I rode to the station and asked about the next regional train to Barcelona. It didn't leave until 12.18 pm, so I had two hours to kill. With the sun peaking out between the clouds, it seemed to me like the best way for those arbitrary units of time to meet their demise would be through a farewell bike ride along the banks of the Ebro.

Barely had I gone one km when I spotted a big Sunday market. Thinking that there might be some churros to be found, I launched myself into the mass of people thronging around. Sadly there were no such artery thickening treats available, but there were lots of cheap and nasty wares to browse through! I bought myself some new underwear, a very daggy pair of tracky dacks, some gloves, a pair of pliers and some nail clippers before the fatigue of pushing my bike through the crowds wore through my resolve to visit every stall there was. By then it was nearing 12, so I headed back to the station, got through the security screening (the nail clippers didn't pose a threat apparently) and hopped on the train.

The scenery passed quickly before my eyes, and I found myself unconsciously appraising the terrain for suitable stealth camping sites. There was no shortage of well hidden spots on the strip of land adjacent to the rails, but I suspect that the proximity to the train line might not be very conducive to a good night's sleep. Still, the desolate and undeveloped landscape appealed to me. Reminiscing, I decided that this part of central Spain had something special about it to attract cycle tourists. Following the coast had been nice climate wise, but it all felt a little commercial and overbuilt. Here, far off the beaten tourist track, I felt like the spirit of adventure still existed in some way. The harsh cliff faces and the many crumbling peasant huts hearkened back to an earlier age where things were simultaneously simpler and more difficult.

I had no idea how long the train would take, not having bothered to ask before I got on board. It's only 300km east to Barcelona as the crow flies, so I was expecting to be there in not much than three hours. I was therefore a little surprised when I looked up from my laptop and discovered that we were in Tarragona, which is a long way south of Barcelona. “What kind of a route is that?” I wondered and mentally added a few hours to the ETA. Once in Barcelona, I wanted to take a night train to Zurich that would bring me within spitting distance of Germany. If all went well, I'd be in Deutschland the next day. It left at 7.55pm, so I'd still have plenty of time to make the connection despite the very indirect route the regional train was taking.

We ended up arriving in Barcelona around 5:30 PM. I didn't know what station to get off at (there were three apparently), so I just chose the first one, and madly rushed around trying to get all my belongings off the train before it went on. Upstairs, there was more rushing as the men manning the information booth urged me to take the lift back down and get on yet another regional train that was about to leave. Trusting that they knew what they were talking about, I went back down, lay my bike on the floor of the train where it would cause maximum inconvenience to people entering and exiting and made myself comfortable.

Pretty soon it became obvious to me that we were leaving Barcelona. Doubt assailed me, and I looked around for a conductor to ask, but there was no-one. 'Just relax', I told myself and turned on my MP3 player to try and dispel the evil thoughts lurking in my head, telling me that I'd gotten on the wrong train and was heading back down the coast towards Gibraltar.

Luckily I hadn't, because after a time, we reached Girona, which was one of the stopping points for the train to Zurich. I could've gotten off, but decided to stick it out until Cerberes like I'd been advised. A conductor finally showed up, and confirmed that I should stay on til Cerberes, but started me off on a whole new round of worrying when he told me that we were still two hours away. The train to Zurich would have left Barcelona by then! It was a race between the RENFE high velocity express train and the slow as hell Regional train. Hopefully the headstart I had would be enough!

Shortly before eight we pulled into Cerberes. I hadn't even realised it, but in the process I'd crossed into France. The pronunciation of the name should have given it away, but I didn't twig until I heard the distinctive (and very annoying) tone that marks the start of an announcement at French railway stations. Woohoo, making progress here! I bumped my way down the stairs (no concessions were made for the disabled or for heavily loaded touring cyclists) and inquired in very bad French (which involved the use of several Spanish words before it disintegrated completely into English) about the train to Zurich. There wasn't one, she said, but there was a night train to Strasbourg I could take. That would do just as well, and it was only going to cost me one euro fifty too (for a seat not a sleeper), roughly forty times cheaper than the 'hotel train' to Zurich.

I had twelve minutes til the train left, and of course, as it always is with me and French trains, it turned into a very close affair. After dragging my things up the stairs with the help of a nice French girl, I got the assistance of a young conductor who listened to my poorly worded request for a place for my velo before replying in perfect English. He walked me all the way up the other end of the train and helped me lug everything on board. About thirty seconds after I'd sat down in the closest seat (ignoring my reservation completely), we were off. Phew!

It was a fairly uncomfortable journey. I can see now why people are prepared to fork out extra for a sleeper. It's just impossible to sleep properly in the 'Super reclining' seats. I nodded off a few times, but always woke up as soon as we pulled into the next station and a rush of cold air blew into the cabin. It didn't help that I was starting to show symptoms of a fairly serious cold, coughing and rapidly eating (metaphorically) through my box of tissues.

As daybreak arrived, my eyes were treated to the lovely sight of a snow covered landscape. The rain that had been falling in Cerberes had become snowflakes in the colder conditions up North and I was glad. This was the Europe I had come to love. Not so good for bike touring, but for skiing and general aesthetic purposes, it is marvelous.

At nine am, slightly delayed by the adverse weather conditions, I arrived in Strasbourg. Somewhat naievely, I tried immediately to get on an express train to Stuttgart, but was told in no uncertain terms (in three languages) by the conductor that I was not getting my bike on the train without a reservation. Retreating to the ticket office, I first forked over 15 euros for a reservation before discovering that there was a regional train to Offenberg, Germany that would cost me nothing. “Can I have a refund please?”

Three train rides, two pretzels and one warning to get a ticket for my bike later, I was in Bad Teinach, where I planned to ride unannounced (I'd tried calling, but couldn't reach anyone) to the home of the Dietrich Family. I've formed a close connection with them after WWOOFing (volunteering one's labour in exchange for food and board – Willing Workers on Organic Farms) on their farm for two weeks the year before and having no accommodation organised, I thought I'd see if they'd mind me staying a night or two.

Taking most of my warm clothes off in anticipation of the steep climb ahead of me, I rode three km uphill to Zavelstein. It was a lovely ride through the Black Forest, and I barely felt the cold with the afternoon sun shining down on me. That said, I probably would not have ridden up there, had I known that Alt Bulach, the town where I wanted to go, was in the other direction. After receiving that news from two decorators ('Total falsch'), I streaked back down the hill at 50kph and turned left at the bottom, ready to start all over again on the even steeper ascent to Alt Bulach. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to spin in first gear, but my drive chain wasn't behaving, so I had to shift up a bit and climb out of the saddle. Thankfully it was only two km and soon I was in familiar territory, going past a spot in the forest where I'd gathered wood a year ago while WWOOFing.

Coming into the town, I saw three figures on horses and of course it was Sigrid Dietrich and two young girls who she was giving riding lessons. Beaming broadly, I called out to her, and without a trace of surprise in her voice, she replied with 'Why that looks like Jeremy. Martin and Luke are back at the house, why don't you head on over?' Ah so Luke was still here, fantastic:) I wasn't sure when he was leaving on his tour (by train) around Germany, so it was great to learn that I'd get a chance to catch up with him beforehand.

Arriving at the house, I spotted 'Opa' (Grandad) Dietrich out the front. He's always great fun, and after we had a chat, he asked me if I wanted to play a practical joke on Luke. Unable to resist, I watched on as he went inside, told Luke that there was a strange man waiting outside who he didn't recognise and asked him to go out and take a look. I'm not sure what was going through Luke's mind as he poked his head out the door, it was probably one of the strangest WWOOFing tasks he'd had yet:P

After he'd gotten over the shock and given me an über-hetero man hug, I boasted unashamedly about my skill in navigating the European train system. It had taken him three and a half days and something like seventy euros to get back to Alt Bulach, but I'd managed it in just over a day (27 hours to be precise), having spent the princely sum of one euro fifty!

That night (having been graciously invited to stay by the Dietriches), Luke and I swapped stories of what we'd experienced over the last three weeks while having another shot at cooking vegetable Paella. It turned out quite well in spite of the paucity of suitable ingredients, but I found it quite tricky to eat, all the coughing having worn my throat raw, making it torture to swallow.
It really sucks getting sick again literally one day after I'd recovered from the food poisoning incident, but I guess it isn't very surprising. My immune system would've already been pretty battered from the cycling, so the stress of the stomach bug probably obliterated it completely. It's not fun at all, this is definitely the worst cold I've ever had.

27-28th Jan: Soup days

27th:
Did so little that I cannot even dredge up the memories. Feeling very tired, what little food I feel like eating seems to pass straight through without being digested.

Went to the supermarket at one point and bought some packet soup. With double the recommended amount of water and some fried bread (so good - I was craving toast) it was a nice sick person's meal.

Finally managed to track down the Americans I'd met in Valencia and went to an 'Irish' (it was blatantly not Irish) bar where they were drinking one euro Budweisers. It was great to catch up, but I was feeling very tired and left at nine pm.

28th:
Woke up at 6am with leg cramps - danger sign showing insufficient levels of electrolytes in the blood. Spend a lot of time on the loo and wish it would be over already. I hate being sick! At least I'm avoiding the post tour bulge that apparently inflicts most tourists whose appetites are still set on 100km per day.

Went out for a run and it felt great. My legs had some pop in them for the first time in weeks. The sun was shining and it was such a great day for it that I went for a little bike ride next to the river. Strangely, the bike was riding perfectly with no shifting difficulties at all. Perhaps it just needed a break too.

Walked down to the Plaza de Aragon to meet the Americans at two. I had a longing for churros and stopped at a cafe for a coffee. That's what I asked for anyway, and after repeating my order in English, the waiter brought me a (non vegan) hot chocolate and churros. Horribly overpriced (4.50!) and the worst churros I've ever had (I should have walked out the instant I saw them sweating in a bain marie, obviously having been cooked hours before). The falafel kebab I ate afterwards with Uly(sses) and two of his friends was much better, I should have just waited. They all had places to go (tennis lessons, hookah left behind at school haha), so I just walked around for a while, stopping to pull out the laptop and read for a while on a park bench.

Had soup again for dinner and then against my better judgement, went out to the same bar again at eight pm. All the American kids were there celebrating the start of their eleven day holiday (it's ridiculous how much time off they get!) and I was plunged into a violently churning sea of drunk teenagers, struggling to stay afloat amidst the fifty empty bottles of beer that lay on the table before making it breathlessly to the pier, where I sat watching the spectacle disinterestedly (how boring drunken conversations are when you're not in the same state) peeling the labels off the bottles and then slinking off almost almost without saying goodbye.

I should've just stayed home and read.

24-26th jan

24th:
Slept poorly but at least managed to get through the night without having to make a mad rush for the toilet. The run was predictably awful and breakfast not much better. I felt completely drained and gave up any plans of going for a ride around the city and just worked on catching up on the blog.

Around three thirty, I was feeling a little better and went looking for an internet cafe so I could actually upload the blogs (stupid hostel internet connection was not working at all). Couldn't find an open Locutorio, but after scoffing down 2000 calories of pastries (I had a strange craving for something sweet and indulgent), I was, well not 'infused' with energy, but in better shape than before so I decided to walk to the train station.

Maybe I was slightly feverish, but I felt deliriously happy, grinning widely for no real reason as I walked through the city. Spotting a Jardin, I strolled in and my grin spread even wider. It was so lovely, so calm and peaceful. There were beautiful ponds and lush green vegetation that had obviously benefited from the recent rain. I almost laughed out loud when I saw people riding these fantastic four person tandem cycle-coaches (picture to come).

The Plaza de Espagna (almost certainly spelt incorrectly) was on the other side of the gardens, and I marvelled at the palatial splendour of it. An enormous structure, impeccably preserved, with terrific ceramic detailing, it was spoilt only by some stupid, decorum lacking (I sound like an old man) British teenagers attempting to film a skating video on the steps of the plaza.

There was no hurry at all, and I detoured through a few more public gardens before getting to the station. It was really nice doing a touristy walking tour. It's the kind of thing I was hoping to be able to do while on tour, but which didn't end up happening. There's just not enough time in the day, and to be honest, it's hardly worth it considering how difficult it is to get into cities.

At the train station, I didn't bother lining up at the ticket counter and just asked the guy at the info booth straight up if I could take my bike to Zaragoza. Nope. Apparently there's no regional link between Madrid and Zaragoza, so it just wasn't going to happen. Damn..
"What can I do then?"
"Try the bus station."
He thought it was too far to walk, but I didn't care and followed the directions of a few helpful Sevillians, still blissfully cheerful.

I bought a ticket to Madrid (26 euros with the bike) and ran back to the hostel, one hand dedicated to the job of holding my jeans up (I need a belt!).

Had a great chat with Jose in the room that night. It was the perfect scenario, where both of us were experts in the language the other one wanted to learn. I learnt a lot about Chile and picked up a ton of Spanish (including my current fave: asqueroso - rancid, disgusting).

25th:
My clothes had finally dried enough for me to pack up and I managed to get everything organised much better than it had been the whole trip. Tried to go for a run, but gave up after two minutes because I was just feeling too sick. Breakfast didn't help in that regard.

Rode the three km to the bus station, where two friendly policemen took great interest in my bike. Had a bit of an altercation with the bus driver while stowing my bike, but he gave up when I showed little sign of understanding what he was saying (I think he was saying my bike would get damaged and that I should have put it in a box - bah).

It was the perfect day to do a lot of bus travel. I was feeling really awful and it rained constantly. Going 110kph on the autovia felt very strange after having been on a bike for so long. One doesn't feel the distance when each km only takes 34 seconds (I timed it).

The sun was shining when we got to Madrid and I rode very slowly (legs very sore) to another bus station, stopping to buy corn chips and churros. The bus to Zaragoza left in 90 minutes (a relief actually because I hadn't been able to research the timetable on the internet or in person). I sat collapsed next to the bike and read one of Luke's books.

Nearly had a nasty accident going up an escalator with the bike, my weakened body unable to hold it in place, and we both fell down a few steps before I thought to hold the rear brake. Nothing serious though, and soon I was on the second bus for the day, the bus driver having helped me to cover the wheels with garbage bags (other drivers would not have let me on he said).

It was very crowded, and a fat, black man seemed put out at having to squeeze his bulk past me. I'd finished all my books and after re-reading the grammar section of my phrase book, put on the discman to block out the crappy Spanish pop someone was inconsiderately playing from their mobile phone and tried to go to sleep.

Didn't have much success in that regard, so I was very tired when we reached Estacion Delicias in Zaragoza at 11.15 PM after 8 hrs and 950km of bus travel. Getting out my laptop I tried to find directions to the youth hostel where I was planning to stay for the next five nights. Riding north west like Google maps suggested, I crossed over a bridge, which was not meant to happen. Oops. Backtrack. Try West then North. Autovia. Very tired. See sign telling me that I'm leaving Zaragoza. Give up and drag my bike over the safety barrier and just stealth camp next to the service road.

26/1:
Slept surprisingly well in spite of the proximity of the highway and after a desperate rush for a ditch to deal with the symptoms of the stomach bug (gorey details excluded), packed up and feeling awful, rode into the city. Managed to find the hostel after a while, booked in for four nights, shot off some emails, and then decided to go do some touristy stuff.

There was a Muslim/Moorish castle not far from where I was, so I walked over there, paid my 1 euro and strolled around the fortress. It's pretty cool, in great condition thanks to decades of restoration work. Walking in to the keep, I first had to submit to a security screening. The fairly incompetent guard had let me go through before he called me back urgently yelling 'Knife!!', apparently not having looked at the x-ray image properly before he let me through. I didn't have a knife, but I had to take all my stuff out from my backpack before he was satisfied. It seemed like a completely unnecessary and uneconomic precaution to me (were they that worried about tourists carving their names into the castle walls??) before I discovered that the castle was also the seat of the Zaragozan parliament. Now that's cool!

The museum was fairly interesting, but I was feeling like collapsing and didn't mind at all when three security guards began gently shepherding me and the other three visitors out to the exit.

Spent the rest of the day hunched over the laptop, doing some reading. Made some pasta with lentil sauce (how great it is to have a kitchen!), which was exactly what I was craving, but could only eat about half of the smallish amount I made and threw the rest out.

First day in Seville 23/1

It was great sleeping in a bed with a roof over my head after having camped for the last two and a bit weeks. I was famished after my run and scoffed down seven bread rolls at breakfast, getting my money's worth.

A shower was my next priority, but searching through my panniers, I discovered that everything was either dirty or damp and smelly. Picking out the least pongy options, I had my first shower in more than a week and then embarked on a slightly OCD cleaning frenzy. Everything went into the shower and got a good rinse before being handwashed. Not just the clothes either, I squirted down my panniers, which had built up a thick layer of grime over the last five weeks. It was really quite hard work, I can see now how the term 'washboard abs' originated.

When I was just about finished, a Japanese guy came in, and I chatted to him for a bit before he went sight seeing, thankful for the rest from the hard labour! I had draped stuff all over the shower to dry, which was a bit presumptuous of me (I've gotten used to living by myself I think), but he told me he didn't mind as long as I took it down by tomorrow morning so he could have a shower.

I finished off the rest of the washing and then feeling pretty drained, collapsed onto the bed and played on the computer for a bit. After forking out three euros for internet credits, I discovered that the connection was pretty rubbish, but I still managed to answer a few emails and relieve any fears anyone might have been having about my wellbeing.

The to do list was staring me in the face, so I got my act together and patched up all my tubes so that I could go for a bit of a ride around and hopefully find the train station and a bike shop. It was really nice riding around without panniers for a change and I was in a very good mood. Sevilla has an excellent network of bike paths and a bike hire system similar to what they have in Paris (you pay an annual subscription and can then hop on a bike at one of the many stations for a nominal hourly fee). There didn't seem to be any bike shops though. I ended up at a motorbike repair joint, where the guy professed to know nothing about bicycles, but still managed to do an excellent job of repairing my pannier rack (it's now in better shape than it's ever been in).

The station wasn't much further and after lining up in the wrong queue for ages, I managed to enquire about going to Madrid. It was going to be sixty seven euros or something like that, and I wasn't feeling in a fit state to make that kind of decision, so I decided to stay another night at the hostel and go back the next day. Lining up in the queue, I'd suddenly felt a wall of fatigue hit me, and on the way back I felt quite queasy. Unfortunately it looks like I've given myself a case of food poisoning again. I ate a jar of chickpeas for lunch, on which I spooned some pasta sauce that I'd opened two days earlier. It was pretty stupid considering that I've done a food safety course and know very well that tomato saucey kind of things are one of the 'danger foods'. Hopefully it won't be as bad as the episode I had in Valencia.

Coming back into the hostel after a shaky run, I asked the receptionist for the key and was a bit confused when he wordlessly picked it up and walked me up to the room. Opening the door, he gestured to the clothes I had hung up everywhere, the bags lying in the shower and the way I had completely monopolised the storage facilities, smiled a little grimly and told me that the Japanese guy had asked to move to another room because of my expansiveness. I apologised, but didn't feel guilty about it because after all I had asked my room-mate if he minded if it stayed like this until morning. If he'd had a problem, I would have moved it straight away.

Sneakily, I decided to leave everything the way it was until morning at least. A Chilean guy called Jose came in at 12:30, very tired, and agreed with my plan.

22/1: A wet and miserable end to the tour

It was raining when I woke up, and I slept in, not caring that I was in the middle of an urban environment where someone might very well frequent on their morning constitutional. Another achingly slow run later, and I ate breakfast while checking the map. Adding up the little numbers next to the lines on the map, I calculated that Sevilla was only sixty km away. I could do that! I could do that and then this torturous exercise (for that is what it had become) would finally be over!

Already feeling the relief that would mark the end, I was in quite good spirits as I changed the tube over in the rain. “Only sixty km to go. I can do it!” I repeated to myself, hoping that this last day would break the trend and let me finish the tour on a high note.

It was raining pretty heavily when I set out, but it wasn't cold, and I stayed dry with my three raincoats zipped up to the hilt. After heading off in the completely wrong direction, I got directions and got onto the route to Sevilla. With the destination stuck so firmly in my mind, I was definitely in the mood for counting down the km, but sadly, like everything seemed to be doing, my speedo gave up the ghost, so I was flying blind.

An hour down the road, I saw my first sign for Sevilla. It was apparently eighty km away, not sixty. “Oh well, that's still doable”. It was actually quite pleasant riding along the nicely maintained road, cutting through the National Park. I could now see what the Italian guy had been talking about. The trees lining the road were really gorgeous and they helped block out the rain a little bit.

My legs were incredibly tight, unused to the kind of punishment they'd been dealt over the last two days, so I was constantly shifting position, trying to find a comfortable spot on the saddle. I didn't even bother pedaling on the downhills, instead just standing up on the pedals to relieve the pressure for a short while. Thankfully, the situation with the gears wasn't as bad as I thought it might be and I didn't have to push my bike up any uphills, able to access some of the lower gears now.

I made up my mind to stop for lunch after sixty km, a milestone I would easily reach by three o'clock. I was two km away when the tyre gods struck a final devastating blow. Within the space of five hundred metres both of my tyres suddenly deflated.

It was too cruel. I had no spare tubes left and it was pelting down with rain, which rapidly made me miserable as soon as I got off the bike. I decided to eat lunch before trying to conduct the patching operation that would have to be done. Hunching under the pitiful shelter that I could find, I ate my chickpeas and bread, trying to keep my spirits up. Just as I'd finished eating, I saw an odd sight. Two helmets (the rest of the scene was obscured by a sign) were going round the roundabout, very slowly. “Who would be out riding in weather like this?”, I wondered. I stood up, and discovered to my astonishment that not only were they cyclists, but they were touring cyclists! Jumping up, I sprinted over, eager just to chat to them.

They were two old codgers from England, riding in the opposite way to me towards Portugal. I didn't get much more out of them because a cafe owner was even more keen to find out where we were all going on our bikes. It's quite funny that the only time I met other cycle tourists mid-ride (I did see two people cycling with touring gear way back when I was with Luke but didn't get a chance to talk to them before they went past) was on the last day of my tour. They were keen to head off, and to be honest I didn't really want to talk to them much anyway (one of them was an arrogant bastard who behaved extremely disdainfully towards the cafe owner), but it did make me feel a bit better.
Ready now to attempt to fix my tyres up, I grabbed two promising looking tubes and a repair kit and went back to the cafe and tried to patch them. It was never going to work in the rain, and I used up six patches just to get one looking ok (and it turned out that the patch didn't hold anyway). Arrghh, this was a mess. Looking over towards my bike, I noticed that a Michelin car tyre shop was open. Perfect!

An hour later, I had two new, fully inflated tubes on my rims, for which I had paid ten euros (an incredible rip off, they're only worth three euros each maximum, but I was hardly going to argue at that point). I headed off, going as fast as I could to try and warm up and also in order to try and outrun the Tyre gremlins, which were surely baying at my heels.

There were twenty seven km until Sevilla according to the signs, and I made it in just over an hour, just wanting to get it over with. That makes it sound like it ended there though and I wouldn't want to give that impression. I was close to Sevilla, that was true, but I wasn't truly 'there'. The signs didn't give me any clues on how to get into the city centre, and the people I asked just confused me.

By the time night fell, I'd moved a little closer, but was still stuck in the outskirts of the city. My compass let me down, leading me towards a false North that constantly changed orientation. Sick of riding, I started just asking people if there was a youth hostel nearby. Surprisingly, people seemed to think there was, and an old man led me to a doorway, which turned out to be a homeless shelter. Yeah..not quite the kind of youth hostel I wanted, thank you very much.

Trying again to make it to Sevilla, I rode in another direction and was almost there when I struck an autovia. I wasn't keen on riding on it at night time, so I tried to find a back road and wound up in yet another town on the outskirts. Bah! I turned on all my lights, hopped on the autovia, and hurrah made it there!

Now to find a youth hostel...I hadn't had a chance to research whether there actually was one, but there'd have to be right? In the past, I've always just taken my laptop out and tried to find a wireless network to hijack, but I didn't really feel like doing that and just asked people instead.
Surprisingly, everyone I asked seemed to know where one was. The problem was, their definition of a youth hostel didn't match mine. Twice I was directed to dormitories for students, where I was rebuffed.

Tempted by these mirages, I bounced around the city like a pinball. At about eleven o'clock, I was starting to get really tired and it was then that the tyre gremlins struck, pipping me one last time on the front tyre. Little bastards! I pushed my bike back towards a soccer stadium, where a young couple had just told me there was one. That was the third time I'd been told to go there, but each time I'd looked, people nearby hadn't been any help and I'd veered off elsewhere. After being directed back to one of the university residences, I finally found my saviour in the form of a slightly inebriated English speaking Spaniard who walked me most of the way to the hostel.

It was an epic journey, but I'd finally made it. The tour was over!

21/1: Another awful day

I slept in late, trying to gather the strength to tackle what I knew would be another very tough day. The wind had died down a bit, and I was actually in quite a good mood as I went for my run. A couple of 4WD buses whipped past, the tourists inside pressed against the windows, gawking at this misfit running on a beach in the middle of nowhere. To be honest, I'd started to harbour some angry thoughts towards those 4WD drivers. The whole time I'd been on the beach it would have been obvious to anyone with eyes that I was having the struggle of my life, but no-one had so much as stopped. It was almost reckless ignoring me when I was a good twenty km away from civilisation. If I'd been in Australia, I have no doubt that at least one person would have stopped, wound down the window and asked 'You allright mate?'.

Gathering all my willpower about me, I ate a huge breakfast before tackling the issue of the punctured tyre. I basically had no food left besides muesli, so I had to make it the whole distance to the town before nightfall or else I'd be going hungry. Before setting up the tent the night before, I'd patched two tubes, so praying one would hold, I started to remove the tyre. 'Hang on a minute, this one feels like it's still good', I thought, testing the tyre with my hand. It wouldn't really pump up properly, but I just pretended it was all good, turned the bike upside down and started to put the wheel back on. In the process, I managed to dislodge the screw connecting the rear pannier rack to the frame. The thread on the screw appeared to be stuffed because it just wouldn't stay screwed in. I performed an ad hoc repair, using some wire to roughly bind the rack to the frame and thanked my lucky stars that I'd met Berner and picked up some bush mechanic tips.

Pushing my bike down to the shore, I tried to ride. Straight away I realised that it wasn't going to be much better than the day before. The wind wasn't as strong - perhaps only thirty kph – but the sand was really darn soft. I just couldn't ride my bike because the wheels sunk into the sand the minute I pushed down on the pedals. Sighing, I started to push the bike.

It's not easy pushing a bike through sand, especially when there are twenty five kilograms of baggage strapped onto it. After ten minutes my arms were already aching but I had no choice but to keep going. After an hour, I heard one of the 4WD buses returning from where ever they'd gone to. It was empty, so I stuck out my thumb, hoping he might be a sport and give me a lift.

No such luck. He stopped, but after hearing my request, claimed he couldn't help me. I have no clue what the reason for his refusal was, perhaps he was just a mean bastard. He did tell me that I only had two hours or twelve kms until the town (both figures were way off), which sounded tough but doable. Putting on my power mix (Digitalism), I went back to pushing, my head bowed, trying to shut everything out and ignore the growing numbness in my arms.

Time passed slowly, very slowly. It's difficult to describe how bad it was. I just wanted to be 'home', to be a child again and have some omnipotent figure swoop down, wipe my nose, sooth my tear stained face (just a metaphor, I didn't actually cry, I swear!) and make it allright. No-one came though and I soldiered on.

After four hours, despairing at how little progress I was making, I tried riding again and was amazed to discover I could and probably could have the whole time. The trick was to get a running start by pointing the bike downhill to gather speed before pedaling in a straight line. The trouble was by that point, my legs were just heavy blocks of wood that couldn't the mandatory high gear (which thanks to a deteriorating situation with the groupset was now the sixth). Fueled by anger, desperation and hate, I got up out of the saddle and thrashed it out, ignoring the way my rear rack swayed ominously.

Two kilometres later, I reached into my jacket pocket to discover that one of my gloves had fallen out. I was so angry and disappointed that I dumped my bike and sprinted back the way I'd come, still wearing my heavy backpack and my bike helmet. Another convoy of 4WD buses came past and I felt like giving the tourists the finger as they looked on in astonishment at my antics. I'd gone about five hundred metres before I calmed down a bit and realised I was being stupid, that the glove was probably gone and there was nothing I could do about it. The best course of action was to leave the panniers on the sand and ride back for two kilometres just to make sure of it. I'd almost made it back to my bike, when in a rare sign of kindness, a 4WD drove up and the driver handed me the slightly wet glove.

I could see the town in the distance, getting closer slowly, so slowly. Every time a 4WD drove past, I tried to track its progress with my short sighted eyes, trying to see if they went all the way to the town or whether there was a road prior to it that they turned down. I inevitably lost sight of the vehicles long before they got there.

By four o'clock, I started to get hungry, but having nothing I could really eat, I drank the water I had left to try and trick my body into thinking it was still full. I'd poured a bit of juice into one of the water bottles two days ago to try to disgust the unpleasant taste of the desalinated water, and when I took a sip, I discovered to my surprise that the liquid was fizzy and bitter tasting. Obviously the bacteria in the bottle had started to break down the sugar, fermenting the liquid in the process. It was probably still fine to drink (that's how beer is made after all!), but I wasn't quite that desperate and tipped the rest out.

The small amount I did drink must have had some stimulating properties though because I suddenly found I was experiencing a 'second wind'. No longer was I stumbling, head bent like a POW on a death march, but I was striding, purposefully, strongly towards the town. It was close now, very close. I started to try and guess how far it was, able to see where the road started now. I put it at two km, but it turned out to be about three (I'm not sure whether that shows I'm hopeless at estimating distance or whether the regularity of the beach made the task especially difficult)

Finally, after six and a half hours the ordeal was over.. well almost. I still had to drag my bike up to the road through the soft sand, which was about five times as hard as pushing it down close to the water. I was really struggling, and was very pleased when a Spanish guy and his wife came up and lent me a hand.

For someone who fiercely prides himself on being an environmental activist, it was amazing how happy I was to see asphalt covering the pristine (thinking objectively, unclouded by the horrid experience I'd had, I have to say it was a very beautiful beach) dunes. It was almost seven o'clock and I was dog tired, barely holding it together. Like a teacher condescendingly instructing a very dim-witted student, some fragment of higher thought informed me that I should go to a supermarket and get some food for dinner. Almost sleepwalking, I browsed the shelves, and bought a few things. It was dark by then, but I didn't care and just stood outside, munching on a loaf of bread until I had gathered enough dendrites together to think about where I was going to sleep that night.

After ruling out a somewhat concealed nook that looked like it was some kind of hangout for juvenile delinquents, I found a spot up on a hill, invisible from the street, not caring that I was basically camping behind someone's back fence.

A glutton for punishment, I still went for a run that night (dragging my bike through the sand for fifteen km only counted as cross training). It was very slow, so slow that to an observer, I may as well have been walking while flopping my limbs around strangely, but it was all I had.

20/1: The worst day

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).

19/1: Mud, glorious mud

It rained all night and was still coming down pretty heavily when I went for my run at 5am. By the time I'd packed up though, it had stopped and I left in good spirits, having slept well. The first stop was a bank, where I had no problems withdrawing money. I guess in the future I'll just have to remember to take out some cash before I actually reach the point where I don't have enough to pay for a night's accommodation.

It was still very early, so I decided to go visit a bike shop to see if they could do something about my troublesome gears and also to stock up on patches. There wasn't a shop as such, but after asking a few people, I managed to track down a motorcycle repair shop. Those kind of places are a lot more common than bike shops I've found (for the reason that motorbikes are a lot more popular than the pedal driven variety in Spain) and most of the mechanics can do a decent job of repairing my kind of bike. I have to admit, I was a little skeptical about this place though. The bike stand was so covered in paraphernalia that it was obvious it hadn't been used in quite a while, and when the mechanic lifted my bike onto it, the arm holding the bike in the air collapsed, dropping my bike onto the ground. After cursing a bit and fiddling around with a spanner, he managed to get the stand in a secure-ish state (but I kept a hold of the frame just in case) and started to inspect my gears. Tsking and tutting, he frowned as the chain made horrible grinding noises when he turned the pedals. He didn't really seem to know what to do, and fiddled around with a few things, tuning the gears, tightening and loosening the limiter screws and spraying the chain with a bit of lube before telling me to go take it for a test ride.

The shifting was a tiny bit better, but far from perfect. I decided not to bother with it anymore, it was obvious that was the best he could do. I hadn't really expected him to be able to fix it anyway. There was a lingering suspicion in my mind that the problem probably lay with a very worn out chain that needed to be replaced. After buying three tube repair kits (which was only eighteen patches, not one hundred, but hopefully that would be plenty for the five or so days of riding I had left) and chatting to him about the trip, I headed off down the Carretera Nacional.

The saddle soreness of the day before hadn't abated at all and I spent quite a lot of time riding en danser to give my poor seat muscles a rest. About ten km down the road, I noticed my rear tyre had started to deflate a little bit. Now that I thought about it, it had gone down a little bit overnight as well, but by such a small margin that I hadn't bothered changing the tube. Hoping irrationally that for some reason the tyre had just lost a bit of air when I'd laid it on the ground at some point, I pumped it up again at a car tyre repair shop and rode on into the rain. There was no possible explanation for the loss of air apart from a puncture, but it was deflating so slowly (and even the smallest puncture will quickly lead to a completely flat tyre in a matter of minutes with the amount of weight I carry) and the thought of having to change the tube in the rain was so unpleasant that I decided to keep on riding.

Ten kilometres later, the crunch of my wheel rims on the road convinced me that I should really do something about the situation, so I stopped at a service station and put a new tube in. Fittingly, I couldn't find a puncture in the old tube, even after inflating it to about 80 psi, so it must really have been a minuscule hole. It was good to stop anyway and stretch my legs a bit, so the interruption didn't bother me too much.

Checking the map, I discovered that once again, I was going to have to get up close and personal with the autovia. Like yesterday though, it was absolutely fine with a wide shoulder and considerate drivers. I made a bit of a foolish mistake when I first turned onto the highway, following a sign for a 'cambio de servicio', which I translated as a service road, but which would be better defined by the term 'service track'. It would've been fine in summer, but after the rain of the previous night, the dirt road soon became a muddy disaster. My mudguards were clogged within a minute and my wheels sank into the ground so I couldn't even ride and had to push the bike. Then to add insult to injury, the path gave out when it reached a river, so I had to backtrack through all the mud again. Grumbling a bit, I spent five minutes cleaning out my cleats and mudguards with a stick and got back on the autovia.

That's where I stayed for the next forty km, going from city to city, often fighting a strong head/cross wind that was blowing from the Atlantic ocean. My destination for the night was Rota, a town on the coast that my map told me was serviced by a campground. There was a road leading there from Puerto de la Santa Margarita, so I hopped off the autovia and kept an eye out for a sign pointing that way. I couldn't for the life of me see any signage relating to Rota at all, so I went by my compass and headed North West. At one point I asked an old man for directions, and pointing down a dirt track he said he thought it was roughly that way.

I probably should've known better after my experience with the mud a few hours before, but I went down it anyway and wound up in exactly the same kind of difficulty as the previous occasion. Grumbling again as I picked out the mud, I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't sustained a puncture from all the broken glass that had lined the track (people seemed to have treated it as a bit of an illicit dumping ground cum ATV obstacle course). I still couldn't see the road for Rota and there was no-one to ask, so I just went by my compass. Entering a maze of residential streets, I soon reached a dead end, so back I went, guided by directions from two helpful young gentlemen.

I hadn't really understood what they'd said, but following the way they'd pointed, I saw a road with a fair bit of traffic going down it. It was pointing North west, so I decided to give it a shot, and was finally rewarded for my persistence: it was the right way! It wasn't an easy way though with a headwind blowing the rain right into my face and slowing me down significantly. To top things off, I was very hungry and just wanted to stop for the night and eat dinner. Sheer willpower pulled me along those last few kms and with the sun dipping below the horizon, I made a bee line for a supermarket and stocked up on provisions for the next two days.

Well burdened with jars of beans and packets of muesli, I rode further into town with my lights flashing, looking for the promised camping ground. There were plenty of signs to guide me and having eaten a whole baguette I was happy to follow them, enjoying riding now that my hunger had been sated. There was a limit to how far I was prepared to go though. After having followed the signs for a good five km and having left the outskirts of the town, I started to wonder where on earth this campground was. There was no trace of it at all, and the signs had ceased to be any use at all, so I gave up and decided to stealth camp for the second night in a row.

Out here away from the lights of the town, there were plenty of excellent spots to choose from, and I crept stealthily behind the veil of trees lining the road and set up my tent on a bed of pine needles, gloriously dry thanks to the umbrella of branches over my head.

18/1: No patches and no money

It being a Sunday and all, I felt justified in sleeping in this morning. I felt just as justified in eating a whole box (2500kcal worth!) of the delicious muesli I'd bought, after all I was going to be riding far today. Or was I? After packing up, I performed my usual pre-ride check and discovered a flat tyre. “Phew! Lucky I patched that one last night!”, I thought as I got out my one and only spare tube. A Spanish guy came over and had a chat in his broken English and my shattered (I don't think it counts as broken yet) Spanish. Perhaps distracted by this, or perhaps just due to my ineptness, I dug in a little too hard with the tyre lever after putting in the spare tube. Psssssshh.

$&*#!

No tubes left and I'd used the last patch in my repair kit last night, so I was basically up the proverbial creek without a paddle. There weren't going to be any shops of any description open that could sell me a repair kit either. As the guy at the campground reception said, “In Tarifa, no-one wants to work on a Sunday”. At his suggestion, I walked the road to the service station, but as I expected, they couldn't help. Walking back, I noticed a whole lot of cyclists going past, and had an idea. Just as I was getting to the campground, I noticed two guys on mountain bikes pulling out. Sprinting after them, I waved desperately and shouted 'Una Momenta! Por Favor!' at the top of my lungs. One of them didn't want to stop, but the other did, and apparently already cognizant of my plight ('you're the one camped outside the toilets right?'), rode up to his comrade and got a repair kit off him.

Thanking my saviours, I walked back to my site and got to work patching a few tubes. I did three (I actually would have patched all five of them, but I didn't want to use all of his patches), just in case one of them didn't hold. Two did, so I chose the best looking one and put it on, being careful to use the plastic tyre lever this time. No pinching occurred this time around, and I end up with another spare tube because a Germany woman came up to me and presented me with a meticulously wound (how very German) tube.

Resolving to buy about one hundred patches when I next found a shop selling them, I set off quite slowly. I was feeling pretty saddle sore and the combination of a half inflated front tyre (my pump isn't that fantastic) and the problem with the chain skipping off the gears wasn't conducive to fast riding either. Still I just concentrated on spinning the pedals round and gradually started to enjoy the nice day. I was entering wind farm territory (it's very windy down here near the Atlantic ocean) and it made me feel very virtuous riding my green vehicle past these generators of green power. Some people don't like wind turbines, but personally I find them very aesthetically pleasing and have never noticed any unpleasant noises originating from them.

I ended up riding for forty five km without stopping for more than the time it takes to snap a photo, which was a minor miracle considering how saddle sore I was. The streak ended there because it was of course lunch time! Avocado and bread are definitely the perfect ingredients for a touring lunch, nothing else can sate me.

Unfortunately, five km after I started again the nice Carretera Nacional stopped abruptly, dumping me on the autovia. There was a road going down to the coast, so I decided to take that instead in the hope that there would be a campground somewhere down there. Sure enough, about three km later I saw a sign for one. Strangely though, I didn't really want to spend the night there. I had a strong urge to just stealth camp. There had been lots of good spots that had caught my eye and I was getting a bit sick of paying so much money for so little. Most of them don't even provide toilet paper in the toilets and that aggravated me incredibly, more than anything else.

Riding past the turnoff for the campground, I realised I didn't even have any cash left to pay for a night. I wanted to reach the 70k mark anyway, so I was happy to keep going to Conil, the next town (there was no bank where the campground was) and maybe (maybe!), I'd go back to the campground after getting some money out. There were far fewer stealthy spots on the way to Conil, so I started to reluctantly think I'd better go to the campground. Reaching the town, I found a multitude of banks, and tried my card at the first one. 'We cannot process your request for technical reasons' That's weird... I tried at the next one – same issue, but it was run by the same carrier, so that didn't necessarily mean anything. Then after trying at a telebanco and being told a similar story, I came to the conclusion that I wasn't going to be able to get money out that night. It wasn't as if I didn't have any money to draw out, I've still got heaps left! The whole visa network must have been down or something.

So basically I had no other option but to stealth camp now. I guess I could have gone to the campground and paid the next morning, but like I said, I wanted to stealth it anyway, so it was the perfect excuse. The time was getting close to six, so I needed to get a move on and find a suitable spot before it got dark. As I rode up from the beach (where camping was strictly forbidden), I noticed a thick copse of uncleared trees high up above the street. “That would be rather perfect”, I thought to myself, trying to see if I could find a way up there.

There was a path further up, so waiting until there was no-one to see me, I snuck in and took a look around. It was perfect, completely invisible from the street. Someone had dragged some branches across the path in an attempt to block it off, but I just dragged my stuff over the barrier, hoping that it didn't mean someone would care if I went up. No-one had shown up after half an hour while I sat reading a magazine, so I decided it would be fine and put up the tent on a flat bit of ground.

Taking a bit of a risk, I went for a run, carrying my wallet and passport and hoping that no-one would come along and rob me of my other stuff. If something like that did happen, it would be very frustrating and distressing, but I'd still be able to get home, so it wouldn't be the end of the world. I hadn't missed a run in quite a while at that point and didn't want to set a precedent, so it was worth the risk to me.

Nothing happened (apart from a very slow run) and I went to bed content, without having spent a cent all day.

17/1: Hitting rock bottom

I didn't sleep that well, waking up quite a few times because I'd rolled down the side of the tent. I don't know why I didn't think about it considering I had plenty of daylight when I pitched the tent, but I'd chosen a patch that sloped downwards! At least it meant I was ready to get up when the alarm went off at five, prompting my morning run. I decided to leave the property and run on the road this time to avoid the risk of twisting my ankle in the paddocks, and went down the way the people at the golf resort had told me to the day before. What would you know, but there was a proper camping ground after all! If I had just gone 500m further, I would've seen it on the other side of the autovia.

I felt quite bad about stealth camping after that discovery. It's pretty bad form to do it when there's a proper campsite close by. On the other hand, it was an honest mistake, and I finished the day not having spent a cent, so maybe it wasn't such a bad choice.

Packing up the tent in the dark was quite difficult and I had to have a few goes at it before I got the buckles set up properly, but eventually I was off. Sneaking out the gate, I breathed a sigh of relief before getting on the bike and discovering a deflated back tyre. I guess that was my punishment for having broken the cardinal rule of stealth camping. It felt a bit risky repairing the puncture that close to the scene of the crime, so I rode on a bit further before getting out my puncture kit. I thought I'd become quite efficient at fixing flats, but it took forty minutes before I was satisfied. The first time I took the tube off, I couldn't find a puncture, and had almost put the wheel back on when I heard the telltale hisss.

A little further on the autovia and I saw the awe inspiring rock of Gibraltar on the horizon. It really was an amazing sight – this massive clump of rock jutting out from the coast lit up beautifully by the morning sun. I must have stood at the lookout for about fifteen minutes, just taking in the view.

I hadn't really planned on going all the way down to the rock itself, but I was so enraptured by this geological marvel, that I changed my mind and rode down. Riding along next to the sea, I saw a man feeding bread to what looked like porpoises. I stopped and watched, again transfixed by one of mother nature's gifts.

A couple of years back, I remember seeing something on the news about the Spanish government trying to claim Gibraltar as part of their territory (or maybe the British government trying to give it to them?). The people all voted against it in a referendum – 'We're British not Spanish!' I was rather keen to see what the situation was like there now. Not knowing what to expect, I followed the signs to the town of Gibraltar and was amused to discover a customs checkpoint. It's quite ridiculous really. Nowhere else in the EU does a border actually exist between countries, but here, in this tiny bit of British territory, there's a fully staffed border guard. They weren't really checking people's passports, it was all a bit of a farce really, but still, after being waved through, I was technically in the UK! I wondered whether I'd suddenly have to start riding on the other side of the road, but no, they weren't that lacking in common sense.

To be honest, I think the inhabitants would have been better off if they had joined Spain. The difference in infrastructure was very marked. The roads suddenly went from being quite decent to being in absolutely shocking condition. I might have been imagining things, but the clouds overhead seemed to be bunching around the rock, creating an overcast London day to add to the 'authentic British' atmosphere.

It was a bit of fun seeing English signs for a change, but I probably would have just hopped right back over the border if my chain hadn't suddenly started grating and making horrid noises. I say suddenly, but it was doing it most of the day, ever since I'd changed the tube on my back tyre. My only solution to such problems is to add more lube to the chain, but after having a look at all the grime accumulated there, I decided I should probably give it a clean first. So situated on the east side of the rock, away from the kitsch pubs and B&Bs, I got out my equipment and gave it a good scrub. The sun was shining on my back, so it was quite nice really and I didn't mind the interruption at all.

Still, by the time I crossed back over the border, it was already 12ish and I basically hadn't made any progress. If anything, the clean and relubing had made the chain behave even worse, but I just tried to ignore the clicking, clacking and smacking and rode back the way I'd come, looking for a road down the coast. Somehow, I ended up going through an ugly industrial estate. Instead of nice beaches, the coastline was monopolised by oil refineries belching black smoke. It wasn't very nice to ride next to and I was quite relieved when I emerged on the other side.

A little further up the road was a big solar array. Can you imagine the dichotomy this image would present to an observer from the sky? In a sense it represented a time machine. Walk fifty metres across the road and you leap forward 80 years, dancing between the messy, exploitative past and the clean, green future.

I've been trying to decide whether Spain is more or less environmentally conscious than Australia as a country. I haven't looked at any statistics, but I'd say we're probably about on par. They have a lot of water scarcity issues too, and having adopted the approach Melbourne is going down, the government has built desalination plants all the way down the coast (As an aside, I think Melbourne may lose its reputation of having the best tasting drinking water in Australia – desal water tastes awful to me!). The many solar panels and wind turbines one sees do make up for that a little bit, but it's still a colossal amount of energy that goes into powering these necessary evils. Motorised transport is definitely the dominant paradigm around here. As I mentioned in a previous post, one barely sees any bicycle commuters and there doesn't seem to be a very adequate public transport network either. I guess I have been going through rural areas though, so the situation is probably no better in Australia.

After attempting to find a quiet way down the coast and failing, I turned once again to the autovia. I've become very blasé about riding on them now. It's kind of against the law, but there's no other way really and I've never had any problem whatsoever with motorists taking offense at me being on 'their territory'. Quite often it's actually quite nice riding on them because they're almost always in perfect condition, so I can ride fast and there's usually a wide shoulder, so I don't feel too caged in.

Coming in to the city of Algeciras, I saw a sign for a bike path. Usually I just ignore them because they always peeter out after a short time, but I think one is legally obliged to follow them when they jut off from a highway like that. It was basically a lie, and resulted in me taking a two km long cut before being thrust back on the autovia. Congratulating the highway designers on their idiocy, I stuck to the shoulder from then on and resolved to ignore such false promises in the future.

According to my map, there was a red road (ie. Non autovia-ish) I could take down to Tarifa, where I wanted to spend the night. The Italian guy I spoke with in the campground near Marbella had told me about how one can see the tip of Africa from the town (southernmost point of Europe) and I really wanted to visit to really cement the day's place as the most scenic route of the trip so far. I'd just gotten to a sign pointing me down to the road when I felt my back tire give way. “Not again!” I groaned.

I ate lunch first to give me the strength to deal with this annoyance, stuck in a new tube, which I only managed to get partly inflated, and rode on, very slowly, bobbing up and down a little and really hoping there'd be a service station where I could top the air up. Ten kilometres later, after having struggled up a steepish gradient the whole time, I stopped, gave up hope of finding a service station any time soon and managed to pump the tyre up a little more. It wasn't great, but it would do.

There sure was a lot of climbing to be done! I only had thirty km to Tarifa, but I wasn't going to make it there with much time before sunset at this rate. At first I couldn't work out why the highway designers (perhaps the same people who had created the 'bike path' on the autovia) had made it go so high when it was basically a coastal road, but then the trees fell away a little bit and I realised that there really was no other way. It must have been a very tectonically active region at some point because the whole area was composed of hill after hill after hill.

I had to admit that even if it was hard work, I was getting some very nice views. Straining my eyes, I thought I could make out a landmass that might or might not have been Africa. Apparently it's only fifty km across the sea from Tarifa, and there were no peninsulas between me and the town, so it must have been! What an amazing concept, being able to see another continent! There was a lookout not too much further up the road, and I stopped and had a good old gawk and took a few photos. It was definitely worth climbing up there to see the land of possibility shrouded in mist, looking so close, but in reality a world away. I could imagine people over there thinking the same thing. It's no wonder so many people attempt the crossing by boat (we're talking literally dinghys in some cases – hundreds die every year) in search of a better life.

Thankfully, the volcanoes must have backed off a little bit, because I had a downhill ride into Tarifa, which meant I even had enough time to get some supplies from the supermarket. It's always an issue I have to consider on Saturdays because there is nothing open on Sundays in areas like this away from the big cities.

The campground was about 4km away, and I made it there just shy of 7 o'clock. It's great having the sunset this late in the day. It means even with a lot of stopping, I can still rack up a decent distance on the odometer.

16/1: Stealth camping in San Roque

The last few days of riding have obviously not taxed my legs much at all, because I had another great run this morning, charging up the hills with a power I thought beyond me. I left the campground fairly early, pausing only to have an enjoyable conversation with an Italian guy who'd done some touring himself. Then it was onto the autovia, braving the early morning traffic to try to get the hell out of this neck of the woods and onto roads that are more hospitable to cyclists.

The bike didn't feel that well balanced for some reason. Maybe I hadn't packed the panniers very well or something like that because I was wobbling all over the place. I wasn't feeling very safe riding on the autovia, where you really have to hold your line perfectly to avoid being smacked into, so I got onto the footpath next to it, which was probably just as unsafe because I came very near to hitting a light pole on quite a few occasions. After giving my tyres a shot of air at the service station, I felt a bit more sturdy and got back on the highway for the five km until the city of Marbella.

Seeing the coast open up a little bit, I sidled down to the beach and rode along the paths there. It was a lot nicer than riding on the autovia, I can tell you that. I did feel a bit out of place though on the 'Golden mile'. From what I can gather, Marbella is a bit of a haven for rich ex-pats. There were certainly a lot of palatial villas on the beachfront. The path lasted about five km before it became completely choked with sand. I whispered a sad goodbye and crept back onto the highway.

There were only fifty km until the camping ground I wanted to stop. It wouldn't be very pleasant, but if I pushed, I could get there while it was still early afternoon and maybe have a chance to visit the rock of Gibraltar if I was lucky. Excited by that prospect, I put in a bit of effort, surprised at how much power I still had in my legs after yesterday's efforts.

Twenty km later, I hit the city of Guardario, where some confusing signage convinced me to get off the autovia, when I actually should've stayed on it. After using side roads for a while, I found a way back on, and was about ready to pull into a lane, when I spotted two policemen on the side of the road. The prospect of being pulled over by two Spanish cops, convinced I had shown a flagrant disregard for their authority, didn't really appeal to me, so I pretended to ask for directions, knowing full well that the autovia was the road I had to take. They basically just said 'Right here buddy', pointing at the highway, and waved me off.

From then on, (well actually the whole time I was on the autovia), it was just about counting down the kms. My pannier, on which I painted “The journey is the destination” in fluro green, would not be impressed with such an approach to touring, but right at that point, the journey was a lot less interesting than the destination. My ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) turned out to be a bit optimistic due to a few tough climbs, but in spite of that, it was only about 3.15 pm when I spotted a sign for the campground. Whoopee, no more autovia! I turned off, followed the first sign to the campsite, and then got a bit confused. Where was this place?

There was a 'golf resort' to the left, but somehow I had a feeling that the clientèle there would not acquiesce to living within spitting distance of a campground, so it probably wasn't down that way. When I went the other way though, I couldn't see any other option. I didn't go all the way down the service road, but it looked very much like the road joined up to the autovia again after a short downhill, and I really didn't feel like climbing up again, so I wrote it off and rode back down to the golf resort. After asking first at a cafe (where they were rather snooty towards me) and then at the barred gateway to the gated community (where the security guard was in fact very nice), I received the advice that it was indeed up the other way.

“The first turnoff”, the guard had said, so I climbed back up the steep hill, and turned into the first turnoff. It looked quite like a farm, but there was a faded emblem on the wall of the building that might have said 'Camping' at some distant point in the past, and the gate opened when I tried it, so I went in. The building that might once have been the reception for a campground was in a rather advanced state of repair. It was clear no-one had been there in some time. There were some cows in the field across from the building, but apart from that, the place looked completely deserted.

I had a good look around, and had to admit, that while it didn't look like a campsite, there were quite a few places, which would be very suitable for stealth camping. 'I'll just go down that road there and see if there's anyone I can ask'. There didn't appear to be, so I decided, what the hell, I'll just camp here. I really didn't want to ride any further, and it looked like it was about to rain, so it was quite ideal.

Being careful to avoid stepping on the many cow pats that covered the place, I followed a little path up next to some kind of automatic telephone exchange facility, and discovered an alcove, completely shielded from view from all sides. It looked like it would do very nicely, so I dragged all my things up and set up the tent just in time to avoid the drizzle that was beginning.

By then it was about 4.30, definitely one of the earliest finishes I've had throughout the tour. Getting to Gibraltar was probably out of the question given that I was stealthing, but at least I'd have plenty of time to catch up with the journal. I went for a run first, staying within the grounds of the property, and in the process discovering that there was actually a house a bit further down the road that led from the gate. I'd already invested too much to risk asking for permission, so I ran back up, hoping no-one had seen me, and restricted the rest of the run to the upper part of the property.

I went to sleep very early, suppressing fears of shotgun wielding farmers ripping open the tent fly and roaring at me to get the hell out of there.

15/1: Today's blog is brought to you by the letter F

words starting with F (in chronological order): flat(s), fuel, fast, follow, flow, fun, frenzy, fear, finale

Despite waking up feeling very hungry, my run went quite well this morning. Strange how sometimes you can run on empty and be fine, but other times it's a very harrowing experience to say the least. There wasn't much to have for breakfast when I got back, but I ate what I had (lentils) and vowed to stop at the next supermarket to stock up.

I found a store after eight k and bought some overpriced German bread for the novelty of it, only to discover that it was crumbly, almost inedible stuff. Still it was all fuel and I ate a whole loaf. Back on the bike, and then about two km into the ride, I sustained a flat in my front tyre. It didn't faze me at all, but I suddenly felt very tired and five km later I hit the wall with a splat. The road went downhill, so I kept moving, but I barely had the energy to turn the pedals over anymore. I needed something.....I wasn't sure what, but something with a lot of sugar and fat appealed to me. Just then, I noticed a sign out of the corner of my eye: 'Cafe y churros' (coffee and churros). Instantly the idea crystalised in my brain, and I just had to have some of that. As if to conspire against me, all of the cafes seemed to be closed. I'd almost given up hope, when just as I was about to leave the town, I saw a cafe, and yes it was open!

A minute later, I had a large cup of coffee and a plate of churros before me. There remained a problem though. The waitress had only given me one sachet of sugar. Did she mean to insult me?! Couldn't she see that a cyclist like me will not be satisfied by one measly sachet!? I demanded (politely) more and she gave me another two. Much better..

It would have to be one of the best moments of touring so far. The combination of perfectly made coffee and churros (not the most aesthetically pleasing I've had, but they tasted pretty good) was like something sent down from heaven. I experimented with dunking the churros in the coffee and was very pleased with the amount of sugar I was able to load on as a result of the sogginess. For once, I didn't stuff the food down, but sat there for ten minutes slowly enjoying it, and feeling the energy flow back into my body.

Setting off again, I felt much better, and was already going a decent pace when an old guy went past on a road bike. Well, well, well, I wasn't going to take that lying down. It must've looked hilarious to any bystanders as I shamelessly drafted off this tiny slip of a man. I could hardly believe I was actually getting any benefit from it, but he was breaking the wind pretty well for me. For about ten kilometres, we rode together until he had to stop for a rendevouz at a cafe. I was charged up now though, and kept going at that same pace, thoroughly enjoying it.

A second puncture (in the back tyre this time) stopped me in my tracks for a while, but didn't detract from my good mood at all. After I'd fixed it, and had a bite to eat, it was back to the breakneck (comparatively) pace and in no time at all, I was in Malaga. There was an incredible tailwind behind me and there was no way I was going to slow down at all, let alone stop and check a map, so I blasted along through the city streets, blindly trusting my instincts. I was going so fast that I entered 'the zone' – a state where time ceases to have meaning, and one's entire consciousness is devoted solely to the task at hand, namely maintaining the fast speed. My thoughts went something like this:

zooooooooooooooooooom; red light, stop; zooooooom; orange light, go go go!; zoooooooooooooom..........watch out for that car turning left!; red light, stop; zoooom (plus a few more iterations of the same); zooooooooooooooooooom; oh no! Autovia!; get off, get off, get off!

My instincts had let me down. I'd forgotten that Malaga is almost completely encircled by autovias and autopistas. Hoping that I'd be able to slip out of the city on back roads, I tried navigating by compass, but pretty soon hit a dead end. It was pretty horrible, the whole back end of the city was an industrial district, which oozed a miasma of pollution and corruption. It really wasn't worth going through the city at all, I wish I'd gone inland a bit instead.

The only option was to take the autovia it seemed. The lovely N-340, which I'd enjoyed taking all the way from Barcelona, had merged with the A-7 to create a monstrous motorway, which was not very fun to ride on at all. The shoulder was tiny and was lined on one side by a rumble strip and on the other by a concrete safety barrier. I wasn't able to relax at all as the cars buzzed past at 100kph, having to focus intently on holding as straight a line as possible (not that easy when you're riding a not very well balanced touring bike!). After five km, I'd had enough and took the next exit, hoping to find another way. I didn't on my own, but I spotted two motorcycle police hanging out under a bridge and they pointed me in the right way.

The route led me through an urbanizacion right on the coast, so I forwent roads completely and rode on a bike path next to the beach. For a while it was very pleasant indeed as I basked in the setting sun. Sadly time pressures forced me back onto the road – a much nicer one than the autovia, but still with a lot of traffic on it. I was actually going about as fast as most of the cars. I'd seen a sign announcing that Marbella was 35km away, and with an hour until sundown, I was a little apprehensive about getting caught on these roads after dark. So it was time for a long, desperate push! I got up out of the saddle on all the climbs, giving it everything I had.

After a while, the 'camio de sentido' that I was on ran out, and I was dumped back on the autovia. Apparently bikes were allowed on it, because although the signs forbidding pedestrians, horses and dogs were up, there wasn't one for cyclists. I still really didn't want to ride on it though, so I took the first exit and looked around for another option. Five km of detouring convinced me that there really wasn't another option. The autovia went right up against the coast, and the buildings on either side didn't seem to be linked by any service roads whatsoever. It really was not a nice place to be if you weren't driving a car.

Oh well, sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and do something really unpleasant. The manager of another campground (expensive and full), which I stumbled upon just as I was about to get on the autovia, told me that the next place along was only seven km down the road, so that strengthened my resolve even more. It wouldn't be fun, but I was going to do it. So with darkness only minutes away, I put my lights on, got on the road and basically sprinted. I thought I was going hard before, but it was nothing compared to this. My average speed was around 35kph, and I pushed so hard up the hills that I was soon well over my anaerobic threshold. The motivation to not slow down was pretty powerful, so I kept going through the pain, just trying to get there as soon as possible.

The guy at the other campsite got my hopes up unfairly. It was a good twelve km away, not seven! Eventually I got there though, and sweaty and smelly, rocked up to the reception and paid for a night.

Surprisingly, I was barely tired after that effort and the 110k that preceded it and had one of the best runs in a while, feeling very strong uphill. It's amazing how my body can cope with this kind of workload day after day, especially when I often run a massive calorie deficit (it's quite hard to eat 6000 kcal in one day I've discovered).