Chilling Quite Literally: Campsite by stream down to near the coast.

December 9, 2014

People that live here are a hardy bunch. They don't live here out of any city person's romantic idealism about mountain air, or picture postcard mountain scenery. The hardship of persistent rain and harsh snowy winters shows in their face. They are pragmatic and remain here through family ties; running a farm, a shop or bar in the village. Given the choice, perhaps many would move away to somewhere with a milder climate.

It turned out a windy evening: strong gusts shaking the tent and bellowing in on the flysheet. Though I've great confidence in this tent withstanding such weather: the semi-geo whatsit being a strong design and heavier at two point nine kilos, than what a solo cyclist would normally carry. And one good thing is, the wind has completely dried out the tent; usually wet with condensation, it is crisp and dry as I roll it up this morning, which is settled with a mix of blue sky and broken clouds. I liked breakfast: salami on homemade bread: a change from my usual muesli.

On the turning around. Dressed like the "Michelin Man". I was too slow for this self-timed shot.

I bet you someone will rate this "INSPIRING"

As I climb steadily towards white snow clad mountains through a narrow gorge, frigid in the shadow cast below near vertical rock face, I've no idea how much more climbing there will be. I hope that the road will follow the deep gorge round and soon top out at "Puerto de San Gloria" signposted back at Riano, and then start descending. The sun's warmth and drying not reaching this far down at this time of year, the road remains damp and there are patches looking like black-ice which I ride on with caution. The verges and the wall on the outside have a few centimetres depth of snow, as does the bows of dwarf birch trees that hold on to the last dry brown leaves of Autumn.

I take a few photos and then the camera malfunctions. I cannot change the shutter and aperture, nor the ISO, nor light balance: what a bummer. It could hardly be the cold; I reckon it is one degree plus, nothing extreme. I manage a shot with the setting it is stalled on of the place-name sign entering "Llavanes De La Reina" a small place with Camino hostels and an outdoor tour company, though there's isn't a soul about.

Last little place before push to "Puerto Gloria"

Beyond the village the hills open and I'm out in sunshine glaring of copious white snowfields either side; where if, I'm to take another photo, a drastic change of camera setting is necessary to avoid over exposure.

The upward road swings left through the expanse of snow toward a barrier of snowy mountains and I'm left wondering where the road will then pass, until nearing the lower slopes, where I see the road ahead swing sharp right and follow the bottom up to a gap, which only takes twenty minutes more to reach.

The polar explorer pose with loaded bike instead of Telemark skis and pulk (skier drawn sledge).

I am warm after climbing and warm in the radian sunshine. I try the camera again. Eureka: it is working perfectly again. I feel a pang of relief.

Dirty grey cloud has engulf the valley ahead, below the mountain pass sign where I pose for a photo, feeling like a polar explorer having conqueror the South Pole. I'm reminded of Roald Amundsen's quota about the return leg from the Pole in 1911 "The return journey from Pole point was like a dream...." or something to that effect. My own return down from this mountaintop would be anything but.

It is terrifying and I still feel the steep damp road could conceal patches of black ice, so I use the rear-brake continually to ease my way gingerly down. The way drops even steeper with a velodrome-like chamber on each hairpin bend. And it is dismaying to glance into the deep valley below, seeing the same road a long way down and know there's still an awful lot of downhill to come. As bad as the fear of sliding off is, is the wind chill. My hands are numb, I can feel the damp nip at my toes and before long my neck, shoulders and arms are acing from being crouched in the same position too long.

Eventually I'm on that road below, still descending, but with a more moderate gradient: there's no longer snow to the side and no sign of ice, so can confidently let the bike pick up speed on straights. The season has reverted from winter back to autumn.

I feel as though I'm frozen stiff when I reach La Vega, the first village of any size with a café. I gladly lock the bike outside and enter. Men stand along the bar and the man that looks to be the patron is pouring wine into glasses. A much older man enters behind the bar, the patron's father whom I order coffee of. I take a seat by a wood stove in the corner and warm myself while looking up at the widescreen, which is on the wildlife channel, the commentary in Spanish. A mouse is tending it's new born; meanwhile a snake is creeping through the grass towards the nest.

I reach Potes around three. It has an alpine resort allure to it. There is a four star hotel called "Hotel Pic De Europe" and is full of expensive looking restaurants. I stop for yet another coffee and pastry, coming to an overpriced four euros.

It rains briefly on the way on from Potes, with an equally brief break of sun creating a rainbow. The road eventually follows a narrow ravine with a swift river to the right for most of what remains of the afternoon; until thankfully, towards dusk, the way opens to a valley with woodland to the side providing a campsite along a track.

Today's ride: 77 km (48 miles)
Total: 9,532 km (5,919 miles)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	0
Comment on this entry	Comment	0