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| Nope. Don't know her. Nice though, eh? |
Rides: 200K in two days because I could not help myself.
Five days ago went from Perpignan to Girona. Back in Spain, not so bad, in fact really good. Weather makes a difference, big time.
Before I go to the hotel, I go to the finish of the Volta a Catalunya. I scope out the camera locations. As they come over the line, I take my shirt off and hold up my flyers jersey. I get maybe a full minute of TV time. Lesson: don't try so hard.
Hotel way up on the hill, beautiful view. Ask for some ice. A bucket of ice. This is like having only one channel of TV and yet the episode always has a different ending. This time she thought I wanted a "pocket of ice" which, if you say it with a Spanish accent, sounds a lot like what it should be.
Two days, and two rides. 200K. It exceeds the hype. It's gorgeous. New muscles in my quads are responding now and not complaining. Ass keeps telling me we are nearing 40 and to chill the fuck out. Brain does not listen.
Sun is out and although there is no Pandora, and I don't mind listening to the same playlist 4 times. Mostly because I zone out and I also realize that I may have completely stopped looking over my shoulder, because I have begun to trust the drivers. Because they deserve it.
So I can put my head down and let my legs find a rhythm and let my mind off of it's leash. When my mind is of it's leash I'm lucky to remember 25% of what I think of. Most of the time it's far less.
Four Norwegian guys at my hotel, on a dude-cycling-getaway, I guess. One of them is more friendly than the rest. I sell that one all of my extra gels and energy bars I over-stocked on, for about half of what I bought them for.
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| Girona and it's gorgeous switchbacks. |
I find that strange, but then I remember that cyclists are primarily only one of two types: the guys who have fun riding (nice) and the guys who have fun kicking sand in your face (delta bravos).
Girona: A+++++
Girona behind me, Barcelona ahead. This part I have been looking forward to, but not from a biking standpoint. I plan on finishing up this last week like I've got the inside tip that, for sure, the world ends on the 31st of March.
So I ball it out in Barcelona. I book the best boutique hotel in town. It's ridiculously expensive but I care not. The staff runs out to wave me goodbye when the Picasso and I go out on a day adventure and they are there in the underground garage to greet me when I return.
Room service out the ass. Breakfast's are more than my mortgage payment. Who is watching? Exactly.
I'm pretty sure I was one of only a few guests those few days, and its only a small hotel, but I felt like a King. The concierge makes me two nights of last minute reservations at some of the best restaurants in Barcelona.
First time I've had two nights of tear-inducing food. You take that food in your mouth and you just want all the talk to stop for a couple of seconds and if you had a pause button you would use it.
Sardines. Oh, shit. Meaty and salty and all kinds of flavors in that 30 seconds in it's in your mouth. Couple it with a mild green pepper and a local red wine and see if you don't accidentally drool before you get it to your mouth.
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| Final moments of Volta A Catalunya. Yours truly circled in red with Flyers shirt (off and up). |
I don't ride, but that was the point. I wanted two days to do nothing but stroll, nap, eat, enjoy, have desserts, reflect, and basically, have a vacation. Of course that's exactly what it seems like I've been doing for six months, but I can't properly put into words how different from a vacation it has actually been.
And also a circle was completed. I can't be much more specific than that because I dont have the intelligence to articulate it; but I knew there was a reason I had to return to Spain. I came here for two reasons; (1) ride my bike and (2) go to the Costa Del Sol.
The first reason was obvious to me. The second one, maybe not so much. But I'm happy to say that an answer was provided, and I won't forget that answer, ever.
