Salamanca or Bust

I woke up in my small room in Tordesillas, Spain, feeling flat. I didn’t realize how that would influence my day until later. I was definitely getting toward the end of my trip both physically and mentally. The past few days had been a bit low on the scale of enthusiasm and this one was starting out that way. I realized I needed to get over it and get going. I packed my bags, dragged everything downstairs to the bike, got my pump out and added air to the rear tire again. I hoped we’d make it to Salamanca today – I had already Googled bike shops and it was my priortiy to get a new tire, and hopefully get a little service as well.

After I’d packed up I found some breakfast at a cafe down the street. My hotel in Tordesillas was not in the best area, I realized last night when I came in from town. But for €10 I wasn’t entitled to The Ritz. I ordered eggs and bacon and toast and coffee, and after that fortification headed out. I had two route options – a few miles on the N620 and then quiet and scenic back roads, the routé I’d planned to take, or stay on the N620 the whole way. The N620 road was nice, as previous N roads had been – little traffic, good surface, wide shoulder and not lacking for scenery. Like others, this N road had been made redundant to the traffic that whizzed by on the newly constructed autopista in the distance and I rarely encountered a car here so far. A road sign announced 70 k to Salamanca via the N620 – my back roads route would be more. Maybe it was better today to just stick to the most direct route, I thought. It would give me more time at my destination to get to the bike shop hopefully. I wondered how much a shop visit would set me back. Two new tires, a basic tune. Tubes. I figured about €70. But it should set me up to have smooth sailing for the rest of the ride. I recalculated the days and miles to get to Portugal. It was uncomfortably tight – I’d be back in Salamanca Sunday and wanted to take the train to Madrid Monday. It didn’t leave room for unexpected things like mechanical problems. But if I get a service that shouldn’t be an issue, I thought. After all, I’d been 1500 miles without a mechanical prob. Chances are I’d be ok.

I was 8 miles into the day when I felt sponginess in my rear tire. I looked down and could see the softness. Sigh. Couldn’t we just keep going? I didn’t want to stop and dig out the pump, but saw a good place to do it with a guard rail I could lean the bike on. I pulled over, pumped and rode off. It was a beautiful day and the scenery here was different as the road ran through the river valley. It was a bit like the Sacramento valley on a smaller scale… Shit, now what with the tire? Maybe it was my wheel – there was a unbalanced feeling. I looked down. No, there was something stuck to my tire. With a sigh, I stopped and got off the bike. Fuck, it wasn’t something stuck to my tire – it was my tire. The top up of air I’d just given it forced the tube to distort the worn tire – there were two hernia humps on the tire. This wasn’t good. I laughed. What the fuck to do? I had a tube, but not a tire. I think I had a tire boot in my kit, but this was bulging in two places. And it seemed the tire was done – I was concerned that it would fail in another spot if I tried to use the boot.

Bust

I was 10 miles into my 50+ to get to Salamanca. Well I’d start walking and see what came of that. I envisioned another helpful, kind person spotting the lone female cycle tourist pushing her bike along the road. This could be an experiment. How far would I walk pushing bike before someone stopped?

I walked off with vigor. I was clocking 4.2 mph on the Garmin. At this pace I’d be in Salamanca in a mere 10 hours, just after dark. I didn’t see myself pushing the bike for 10 hours. And as I had this thought, the bike wobbled drunkenly, the serrated metal pedal painfully slamming into the back of my leg. How fun was this?! I smiled out loud to change my attitude. The first vehicle came up the road behind me – a truck it sounded like. It whizzed by. Well, I wouldn’t expect a truck loaded with hay to stop. I pushed on. It was quite pretty here. And it felt good to be walking. At least there was a slight breeze and it wasn’t very hot. Another vehicle passed me – a car. Well, not everyone is going to pull over. People have places to be and some of these cars couldn’t take me and my bike and panniers in any case. A few miles ticked by on the odometer. And then a few more. I thought about what I would say if someone stopped. I came up with a sentence that seemed to cover it – didn’t know if it was correct but should make the point. “Vengo a Salamanca y tengo una problema con mi bicicleta.” I had no idea what tire was en Español. And I had no follow up sentence to say what I wanted to do about my situation. I actually wasn’t even sure what I wanted to do – I was open to getting a ride and figured that would be the only solution as, based on my inquiries the day before, there were no tires my size near here. I realized I didn’t know how to say what I wanted. One should know some language of the countries in which one travels solo.  An unhelpful realization now. I was just under five miles and starting to lose enthusiasm at the prospect of many more miles walking. Suddenly, a small van passed and slowed, putting it’s signal on. Rather than turn down the small road ahead, it stopped and backed up. See, something would happen! A man got out and started walking to the road toward me. Yay!  I was still a ways away. I walked toward him, and when I got closer I raised my fingers from handle bars in greeting. He didn’t wave back. Hm. Closer now, he stepped toward the main road, looking down the road in my direction, but seemingly not acknowledging me. In the distance I heard a big slow moving vehicle. With a sinking feeling, I realized he was waiting for that vehicle – he’d pulled over to show the truck where to go. My spirits sank. I walked past the man and neither of us said anything. Shit, there goes my knight in white work van.

On the horizon I could see a hotel/restaurante, and further off, what looked like a gas station off the auto pista. I pushed on to the hotel/restaurante. As I approached I could see two tables outside in the dirt parking area which were filled with three or four men at each, all of whom were engrossed in the usual conversations men at restaurante/hotel/cafe/bars in Spain have, complete with a lot of smoking, gesticulation and cerveza. As I pushed my bike closer to the establishment, I was sure the men would look up and at least wonder why I was pushing a loaded bike, and that at least one of them would inquire about this backward way of travel. There were a few veiled glances in my direction, but otherwise the men continued their conversation, smoking and drinking. To the point that they didn’t even move out of my way when I needed to get past them. Frustrated with my situation, and mad because no one even blinked at me, I became inwardly angry toward these lazy men, sitting here at 11am drinking beer and smoking and talking. I navigated through them and carefully propped my bike against the wall before going inside to order a soda. The bartender was pleasant, and maybe wondered what I was doing pushing my bike, but he didn’t speak English and I didn’t bother trying to explain my plight as it seemed no one here was in a helpful mood. Crap. This situation wasn’t improving much, and my experiment in the good will of passing drivers had yielded poor results for human kind. I drank my Coke up and walked outside, mentally hitching up my shorts and my attitude. I’d walk to the gas station, although I really didn’t know what to do once there. Jesus. I didn’t want to hitch hike to Salamanca. But maybe I’d find that the man in the shop would magically speak English and help arrange a ride for me with a trusted friend of his. I knew that was unlikely but I didn’t have any other ideas. As I pushed my bike up the sidewalk in front of the gas station and propped it against the wall, despair washed over me. This wasn’t going to work. I was stuck. Involuntary tears pricked behind my eyes and overflowed. I lifted my sunglasses and pressed dirty hands against my eyes. Stop it. Crying doesn’t help anything. Don’t be a pussy. You’ll laugh about this later. I got myself under control and walked into the store to tell the man my distress sentence, preceded of course by “Hablas Ingles?” He didn’t hablas Ingles and thought my tire was flat. I tried to communicate that it was dead – ‘muerte’. He seemed to be telling me there was a tire repair shop for cars back at the hotel where I’d stopped for a coke. Great, the place where manly hormones and beer flowed freely but chivalry and kindness were under drought conditions. I really didn’t want to go back, I had no other options. No matter how pointless it seemed, I pushed my loaded rig back to the hotel, finding the tables now empty of unhelpful men. I went into the bar and asked the bartender about the mechanic. He said he’d be back in 15 mins. I told him about my tire, unclear of what his response was and what would happen when the mechanico returned – after all, he was a car mechanic. I waited outside in a chair against the wall with my bike propped next to me. After a while, the proprietor came outside accompanied by a boy of about 10. The boy had paper and pen. They wanted to look at my bike. The man bent down and started looking at the rear tire. I showed him the problem but he wasn’t actually interested in the worn spot and started to lift the bike to spin the tire – which wasn’t easy on the loaded bike. I realized they were looking for the tire size. I showed him the front tire and said helpfully, “Trentaydos” – 32 I thought. The boy saw the 28 x 11 and wrote it down but I took the bike into the sun where we could see the sidewall better and showed him the 32 mm marking of the tire size. He wrote it down. It seemed the mechanic was looking for a tire for me? Indeed, the boy explained in Spanish but I wasn’t sure I understood and didn’t want to assume. I asked again and asked if he could try English. Yes, that is what was happening. Really? Wow. I immediately felt a sense of shame for having cursed the male inhabitants of Siete Iglesias as lazy, unhelpful macho men. It sounded like the mechanic was going to Valladolid, about 35 miles behind me. Holy shit. I was guardedly floored – to think that a stranger would go out of his way like that to get the tire needed for my bike and to help me…it was almost too much to believe in. That was some time ago. I don’t know how long it’s been. I think I’ve been here two hours? I’ve eaten lunch now and had an ice cream. And written this. I don’t know how this will work out. I know it will be fine eventually but it may not – well, hasn’t – gone to plan. But this is part of the adventure.

The mechanic returned and had two people waiting for him for other repairs. I waited patiently – he’d get to me when he could, hopefully what he had to say was good news. Eventually he came – he was a short man with a large belly and a happy demeanor. He said in Spanish that he wasn’t able to get a tire because my tire is a special size, but there is another shop that has that size but they are closed until 4 and I think he said he’d go then. Wow. All I could say was “Gracias, gracias” as I put my hands together and nodded in a gesture of respect. I told him as best I could that I would stay here tonight because it would be late. That seemed better for him. He smiled and went back into the garage to continue his work. I went inside and asked the bartender if they had rooms and for how much. €20. More than I want to pay to hang out here, but it is what it is. I ordered a beer and went outside into the shade. The old man next to me was smoking a cigar. I tolerated it begrudgingly because I wanted to be outside. And he seemed not to have much of it left. Or so I thought. Another man, who’d been hanging out pretty much all day as far as I could tell, was giving me a constant eyeball and kinda creeping me out.

Creeper over the shoulder

I went inside where the three men seated were raptly watching a soap opera. One of them was eating shelled nuts, unshelling them rather noisily. I was irritable and restless, frustrated that I was stuck here in the backwater, one horse town of Siete Iglesias when I should have been on the road to Salamanca. I reflected on my circumstances. I was being negative at a time when I should be flowing with gratitude. I chastised myself for my bad attitude. The reality of my situation was actually quite amazing. I had been pushing my bike through a barren landscape, 50 miles from my destination, and come upon people who went out of their way to help me. Could I be any more fortunate? I begrudgingly shifted my perspective, still struggling to muster up the genuine gratitude I knew the situation warranted. I was tired – tired enough that even my appreciation of the good things was hard to summon.

I checked into my room – the bartender opened a door behind the bar and called to someone. His wife came in and asked me for my passport. I didn’t bother asking to see the room as I wasn’t going to say no. The wife wrote down all my info for the government and handed my passport back. I would pay tomorrow. She rooted through a drawer and pulled out a set of keys, motioning me to follow her through a corridor past the bathrooms and through the Comedor – dining room – and although still set up as one, probably not used for years. All of these roadside hotels had a similar set up, and all the dining rooms seemed redundant and infrequently used. “Cuidad”, she cautioned as we turned a corner and were faced with steep stairs that would never have passed inspection in the US. I groaned as I took the first few steps with my panniers in hand, wondering why Spaniards, who seemed to be typically much shorter than me, would opt for stairs with nine inch risers. The wife stopped at the first room, opening the door to reveal a large bed in a small room with the usual dire conditions of decor, including a bare bulb lamp on the one night table. Sweet room, I’ll take it, I thought. She opened the bathroom door to show me the shower but the angle was awkward and I simply nodded and thanked her. She handed me the keys and departed. Well, I had a room. It wasn’t the same value for money as others, but under the circumstances it was a pretty good deal. I badly wanted a shower, so unpacked what I needed and opened the bathroom door. Shit. A bath with no curtain and a handheld shower head. Sigh. I turned the water on and the shower head became a writhing serpent, spraying its venom all around the tiled bathroom. Shit!! I tried to get the water under control but found the water pressure so high it actually wasn’t possible to use the hand held, – oh well – bath it is! Once cleaner, I pulled the quilt and coverlet off the bed after clearing the cobwebs from the room and laid down to rest. It was 5pm – hot, and time to take advantage of quiet horizontal space. I slipped into a semi doze.

It was 7:30 and I needed food and, based on the state of the Comedor, I didn’t think it was going to happen here. Downstairs, the three patrons of the bar were mesmerized by a John Wayne film on the television – it was funny how attentive they were, like they were in a theater. Perhaps they didn’t have a tv at home. I went through the bar and outside where the sun was shining low and hot in the early evening sky. The only evident eating establishment in Siete Iglesias wasn’t in Siete Iglesias, but at the modern hotel by the gas station, so I headed there. I ordered the house tinto – not bad, better than I expected – and croquettes. They had wifi so I composed a post about my day and attached a picture of the sign to the tire service and my hotel. I think it conveyed the highlights of my day. I read my book on my phone, had another glass of tinto and a beicon y queso bocadillo and then an ice cream. I paid up and walked back to my digs, where I sought out the mechanico. He showed me what he’d done and told me my new tire was a Michelin and ‘bueno para mucho kilometros’. It was a road slick. Crap. I didn’t let my dismay show, and after all I was going to be on asphalt for the remaining kilometros anyway. Hopefully dry asphalt. Maybe I could Ebay it when I got home. The bill was €50. It was a lot, but any less and he’d have been out of pocket. I tried to ask if he was accounting for his trips to find the tire and he understood and said, “Si, complete”. Ok, no guilt. He did not take credit cards and I did not have enough cash to cover the bill, so we agreed that he could take me to a bancomat a la mañana. Perfecto. And now I am in my room – looking through my window, beautiful sunset happened 15 mins ago as I walked back.

Twilight view

It’s twiight and almost 10 pm. It can always be worse.

Sunday, July 13. A Rest Day.

I was hoping the weather for my rest day would be similar to yesterday – a sunny summer day at the sea! But alas, the sound of rain on the tent this morning knocked that dream on the head. It would have been amazing to lie on the beach today – I’ve had my bikini with me for 700 miles and not worn it yet. Oh well. I opted for a long lie in in lieu of getting up – after all, what did I have to do? I couldn’t even make coffee in the rain. If it was going to rain all day, what could I do? I don’t mind rain so much – I like to go out and walk in it and walking on the beach appealed, but once wet, then what? Life in a tent is different than going home to a house where you can take off wet jackets and gear. Once I’m wet, my wet stuff either goes in tent, gets crammed in the tent vestibule or maybe goes in panniers. My towel was hanging on the fence where I’d left it to dry yesterday – not very helpful today. Ah well, I’d go to the centre ville and find food et cafe. Eventually I dressed to walk to town and planned to be out of the tent for the duration – hoping the weather cleared later and conditions dried out. I walked into town under a light rain with the intention of buying something to eat – croissant no doubt – and going to the cafe bar I was in last night where I could order cafe au lait and eat my two croissants while utilizing the free wee fee. As I came to town, I saw a market with loads of fresh veg that looked amazing, and then a fish market with a huge selection of seafood. More than anything, I wanted to be able to cook. But cooking has dependencies – weather is the primary dependency. Wet weather means I don’t cook. The other main dependency is ingredients that make a good meal. I carry rice, soup mix and a tin or two of tuna – these can be whipped into an emergency meal that is palatable, but it’s not my go to at the end of a long day of riding. Fresh ingredients are what I crave but I’ve not yet succeeded at finding them at the right time of the day to make dinner. Finding a place to camp at the end of the day can be a challenge – throwing grocery shopping into the mix is not ideal. It’s something I need to get a handle on tho because in addition to spending too much on restaurant meals, I’m not able to eat very healthfully. Instead of vegetables and meat, I’m eating a ton of wheat based products – croissants, pizza – crepes and galettes are out after making me full on ill. I’m definitely glutened out – feel awful every time I eat a bread product. France is a culture based on bread. This is bad for me. In every way.

So this morning, I skipped the healthy ingredients on offer and ducked into the patisserie. I ordered pain au chocolat et un croissant. And I found the bar I’d been in. I ordered my cafe au lait and munched away at my croissants. Yes, they tasted like heaven. But felt like hell once in my stomach. I checked mail and media and maps and forecasts and references and wondered how long I could milk using the bar internet while sipping one cafe au lait. Eventually I ordered an espresso as I eyeballed the other patrons to gauge their orders and the time they spent occupying tables. The rain, which had abated, was forecast to turn to part sun by 1pm. I might just wait it out here then, I thought. I watched holiday makers who’d been kitted out in shorts and sundresses the previous day stroll by in jackets while carrying umbrellas. It seemed unfair. This was the French holiday season, and tomorrow was Bastille day. I had no real idea of what that meant in terms of holiday or celebrations but I imagined this to be the French equivalent of Fourth of July weekend in the US. That’s a high holiday for us, a time of barbecues and parades, fireworks and family. Surely the same was meant to be happening here? I felt sorry for the soggy passersby. And I still felt a tinge of sadness for my lack of a sunny beach day. Meanwhile, patrons changed tables – the previous occupants had ordered two bierres between them and taken time to drink them. But they were gone. It was raining. I had no agenda. I had no place to be that wasn’t a tent. I ordered un bierre. The rain pissed down. I worried mildly about my tent. Hopefully it was dry inside. I’d packed my down sleeping bag in the compression sack and arranged belongings in case water came up from the ground. Sigh.

So, it seems I’ve been here for two hours waiting for the change in weather. I’ll need to move on soon. After I finish this second beer, I suppose. It’s still pissing down. Merde.

Sailing to France

While I’ve enjoyed my time in England, I’m aware that a lot of my enjoyment is derived from knowing a bit about the culture and generally speaking the language. Being able to sit in a pub and be pulled into a conversation has been a normal occurrence. Knowing what was being said by people around me, being able to read signs – all the little things I take for granted – will not be so when my ferry docks tomorrow. I don’t speak French. I didn’t take it in school, the accent is completely foreign to me – and very intimidating. My past attempts to speak to natives have resulted in various failures, the most memorable being when I tried to order a baguette in a boulangerie. The woman I spoke to winced when I spoke – I’ll never get that image out if my mind! But that was then. I can still try if I can think of what to say. Problem being I haven’t studied at all. I guess I should have realized that since I changed my plans to include the ferry crossing to Roscoff, most of my trip will actually be in France, not Spain. Oops. Tomorrow I will be fucked 😉

Addicted to You

Well, not you personally, but you collectively. Connectedly. One of the things I am looking forward to on my trip is letting go of constant connection via technology. Saying that, I am armed with it for the trip, from iPhone to Garmin to iPad, but due to the cost of service I will have to be disconnected pretty much all day, with only a little bit of time each day to check in. And I will rely on my phone for GPS directions and map, but even this seems more than I want. Wouldn’t it be lovely to simply ride and be free of everything electronic? I am sure it would enhance the experience by allowing me to be absorbed by what is at hand, to be present and in the moment, and not distracted by a device. Couldn’t I just do this at home? Well, the short answer is “Yes”, but it seems to be more difficult than just doing it. Even right now, I remembered I had to send a text, so I interrupted my writing to do it – that’s awful (but if I didn’t do it, I’d forget again!). Technology is a form of communication at home, and we all rely on it to keep us connected, in the loop, up to date and in the know. Personally, I could live without it, but then I’d be hard to get a hold of. The beauty of being away is that it’s expected that I will be hard to get a hold of, therefore I can experiment with freedom from devices. Saying that, the first step to recovery is being able to admit your addiction – I am Tracy D. and I am addicted to electronic communication. But … you’re a hard habit to break!