Like it or not, the Basque Country is probably the closest thing that we have to a cycling Mecca in Spain. Sure, you can bust a gut climbing the Marie-Blanque during Quebrantahuesos; you can watch yourself roll backwards on the Anglirú, but to get a real flavour for passion for cycling, without a doubt, you've got to go north, up to Euskadi.I know. I'm over-generalizing, I'm over-romanticizing how much better things are outside of Madrid. But there's something about going through that pass at Pancorbo, just north of Burgos, where everything gets green and rocky and lush, and you could be mistaken for thinking that you'd landed in Switzerland.
Friday night: AG and I meet at his place, put the bikes in the car, pray that the traffic on the M30 isn't going to be too dense and blast the hell out of the city. I'm thankful that at least one of the Saturday boys hasn't bailed - the thought of going up to Bilbao with Luis alone made me kind of nervous. Not because Luis is a bad person; he isn't. But he's sixty, he could easily be described as cranky, and he has his self-righteous bullying side, something which has alienated more than one person in the past; if something goes wrong, I don't want to bear the brunt of his pissy-ness.
Bilbao is a bitch to drive around. It suffers from the same orthographic problems as Prague - a river valley quashed between hills on the east and west side of the estuary, the only place to put highways - and when we get to Etxeberri, the southern suburbs, we realize that we don't really remember (or, for that matter, know) how to get to the youth hostel. We call Luis. Luis keeps trying to tell AG how to get there, but tells us a bunch of wrong exits, which means us diverting in and around the airport (totally on the wrong side of the city) and when it becomes clear that we're totally freaking lost, Luis just harrumphs and hangs up. We finally make it to the youth hostel at 10:30; reception's closed, Luis is irritated as hell that we didn't follow his instructions (which meant taking a nonexistent exit off a highway we weren't even on) and we're all hungry.
To make matters more tense, each of us has consulted a different weather webpage, which means that we've all got different forecasts. The boys plan a Saturday ride to Castro Urdiales from San Juan de Muskiz that we can do if the weather is good. "Good", however, is highly subjective: At what point do we bail? Blue patches are starting to break through, the wind doesn't seem to be as bad as it is in the city, and we do have the cars.
I'm going to confess now that I'm bad at fantasizing when I'm on a bike. I fantasize about riding with famous riders, hanging out with someone like Beloki or Eneritz Iturriaga (who I know is based in Gipúzcoa, not Bilbao). I don't know if I should feel guilty about this or not - not that AG isn't good company (and Luis can be if he's not being a self-righteous grump). I admit it: I fantasize about hanging with the big dogs, not the faces I see ever single week, Saturday in and Saturday out. I guess it's like being married to the same guy for twenty years. Your mind starts to wander. I think about what it'd be like to actually cross paths with someone famous, one of those OH MY GOD moments that keep you faithful to your training plan for weeks afterwards, because you want to think that somehow, the magic and the power can be transmitted.
Muskiz. Muskiz. Sounds like "¡Mosquis!", which is what the Spanish version of Homer Simpson says instead of "Wo-o-o-o-w.....!" San Juan de ¡Mosquis! I think, but don't say, because I don't feel like being grumped at by the guys.
The terrain is definitely challenging. More Homer Simpson: Road goes up...road goes down...road goes up....road goes down. Then Road Goes Way the Hell Up on a 9% crest before Castro and there's a general feeling of SILTS (Screw It, Life's Too Short) that sends us into the nearest bar to find tortilla and coffee.
We spend most of the afternoon either eating or sleeping off what we've eaten (or at least the guys do; see Part 2 below) and then it's back into town to meet Josu, walk around, find dinner, maybe find some place to watch the Spain-Turkey match.
To truly understand Josu, you have to understand his well-earned reputation as the Cycling Recycling King of Anywhere South and West of the Pyrenees. Josu's bikes are so old that he'd probably get a small fortune were he to auction them off on eBay; the old Specialized that he rides into town to meet us at the Guggenheim not only still has the old gear levers - he's still managed to hang onto the original tires. (Rather than blow €399 on a BOB Trailer, he built his own out of a hybrid of -- I am NOT making this up -- lawnmover parts and the structure and wheels of a shopping trolley.) Just as we were passing in front of the Guggenheim, however, AG leaned over the back wheel of Josu's bike and pointed to a point where the bead had popped out from the rim. "Yeah," Josu muttered, "I keep thinking that I have to fix that." Ten minutes later, he didn't have a choice: the inner tube blew with the force of a firecracker, scaring a group of tourists and a flock of pigeons. Luis obligingly gave Josu two of the four he'd purchased at Decathlon that afternoon.
And then the big morning came, rainy and hard. Not soft pitter-patter rain that slides against the window, but big, gobby, aggressive raindrops that woke us up at 6:55 (made even tougher by the clocks going forward and robbing us of an hour of sleep.) Got dressed. Dragged our butts down to breakfast. Luis goes to pay. Discovered that the credit card number I gave wasn't a deposit, just a guarantee - Luis was asked to pay the €120 I thought I'd paid. Luis in a bad mood, growling and grouching. Antonio flexible, but not wanting to get involved. Me, thinking, let's just get down to the damn race already, can we?
Five minutes later, we're there. We don't know where Josu's got to, but we managed to arrive at the starting line a hair before 9:00AM, just as the pelotón is heading off -- and what a delight it is! There are other women on their bikes. There are all kinds of bikes, from decades-old Pinarello ten-speeds to Giant commuter bikes. There are tons of volunteers and members of the regional police, the Ertzaintza, who cheer us on. There are no drivers who honk at us. There are more and more patches of blue sky, punctuated by dark grey clouds that filter beams of sunlight that spotlight patches of the intensely green landscape. The air is thick with the smell of cut grass, pine and eucalyptus. There's no noise except for the occasional whirr of an underlubed chain and the occasional smartass trying to harrass his friends into going faster. Oh, and the occasional, "¡¡Aupa, Chamartín!!" (I'm the only one in the club making an appearance; the others are back in Madrid, competing in the Francisco Sanz Trophy ride.)
And the women are friendly and fast and smile at each other and cheer each other on. There's one woman who's blonde, very well put together, and seems to be at the beginning of her racing career; her legs are -- there is no nice way to say this -- huge. She's overweight, but you can tell that she's on the rebound from something: giving birth, surgery. She's strong. She can more than hold her own in the group. And her sunny blonde hair and sunny disposition would put paid to any mouthy bastard who tried to tease her or psych her out. I go out of my way to be friendly to her. I remember being like that and being judged on what I looked like, not what I was capable of doing.
I lose Luis (not entirely unintentionally) at about Km 20 when his chain starts giving him hell; AG and I pull ahead and keep going together until we get to the rest stop (a bit of a misnomer - no toilets, just bushes.) After we refuel with cookies and Coke, it's off again, for the last bit of the ride, including the longest climb (which, to be honest, isn't that long.) The crowd has started to thin out: heads are drooping, cadences are going down, but I still feel good. Looking back, I know that I could have given more, but I really don't like going all-out on routes that I don't know because I specifically don't want that happening to me when I don't know how far I am from the end.
Twenty kilometres from the end, my left foot starts hurting. I get to Exteberri, and the two Cokes I had hit bottom; a full bladder means more pressure on my lower back. I try adjusting my hand position and a rocket of nerve twitch shoots up my arm. I'm not hungry, I'm not thirsty, but I am ready for this thing to be the hell over with. I end up riding in with a bunch of guys from Ciudad Real, one of whom has to be pushed along by his mates because he's bonking so hard that he can hardly see straight. I still have two energy bars, so I give him one; it's the kind of gesture that I would appreciate if I were in his position.
"Thanks, Chamartín," he mutters.
I wink at him. "You can pay me back at Quebrantahuesos. I will see you at Quebranta, won't I?"
He kind of nods and shakes his head at the same time. His buddy claps him on the shoulder. "¡Venga, chaval! We'll be there!"
And then it's through the Plaza de Francisco Moyúa and we're there, with the big inflatable arcs and people cheering on both sides of the gates and I go like hell, with a big stupid happy bug-catching grin on my face. So THIS is what it feels like to triumph, even if you don't win.
First big ride of the season. I am definitely hooked.
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