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17 Race Across Spain Toro! Toro! We woke up in a fog. I couldn't see the apartment building across the field. After careful scrutiny I spotted a hunched old man moving in the garden plot below us. Later, the fog cleared revealing vehicle and factory pollution. A brown pall hung over the mountains. Spain and France were worlds apart. In two days we had seen more industry than two weeks in France. There was even a Renault factory. When the French could pollute elsewhere, why would they want to pollute their own country? Maybe pollution controls were less strict in Spain, so the French contracted work to the Spanish. We took N21 for three kilometers before hitting a sign showing no bicycles, pedestrians, tractors, and my favourite, a horse and buggy. Compared with the national route, the alternative route had little traffic. The majestic Pyrenees rose straight out of the plain, reminding me of the Rockies, except for the palm trees. Switchbacks slowed our progress. Roadwork crews cheered as we laboured past, giving us standing ovations. Sharon decided Spanish men leered. She couldn't believe it. There she was, dirty, grimy, smelly, covered with a fine layer of passing truck grit; her kneecaps were the only flesh exposed and still the men made rude noises. She wasn't sure how they could find her attractive in her unkempt state. She called them sickos. I thought they knew potential when they saw it. "Vinho?" one called, tilting his head back and sticking his thumb to his mouth. I shook my head and slowly made my way around the next hairpin. My legs were rubbery enough already. It was difficult navigating through towns. The main road disappeared into a maze of turns and streets the width of an ox cart. We got lost trying to find small unmarked roads. After winding in a complete circle we hit N1 with its wide shoulder and tons of trucks. An elderly inebriated Spaniard, at a traffic circle in Vitoria, gave us unsolicited directions. He became hostile when we didn't understand him, waving his cane southward and shouting "Madrid." To get rid of him I kept saying, "Si. Mucho grassy." We were still lost. Many people walked and rode bikes during "siesta." The stores closed at two for a couple of hours. Food was not as cheap as I had imagined. Most food was the same price as Canada. Bread, in two foot long crusty loaves were good, especially if eaten warm. School kids laughed as we rode past. Adults clapped or cheered and waved. We were trying to make major mileage in order to meet Susan and Vicky in Lisbon on the 20th. We had over a thousand kilometers to Lisbon and less than a week to get there. I knew we could do that distance in North America, but I wasn't too sure about doing it in Europe. Once over the Pyrenees we were on the plain. We named our ride RASP, for Race Across Spain, as well as for how our polluted raw throats felt at the end of each day. Outside Madina, heavy pollution and the right amount of clouds made for a spectacular pastelred sunset. We camped in a farmer's prickly field under a starry full moon sky. |
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