Buenos Tardes You Former Villain of the Peace.

October 7, 2011

More so in Spain, I've noticed, whether it's the heat and the resulting grime making me look so dirty, people look at me through narrow unfriendly eyes as if at an outlaw of old. My matted beard and filthy unkempt hair giving me even more the air of a vagrant. But yesterday evening I noticed a difference, both in myself and in people I met. Eyes sparkled when I uttered "buenos tardes!" I had taken a shower after all.

And if living on the road was wearing me down, it wouldn't much longer. I decided that after nine weeks on the road this cycle-tour had ran it's coarse and, the city of Granada where I now write should be it's natural finish-point.

Mechanically speaking, I haven't had much luck on this tour. Given that the usual culprit the wheels were great, as they were running on thirty-six hole hubs, the rear symmetrical, that is without dishing to weaken it. The frame even looks bomb-prove. Alas, it was the things which one wouldn't expect, or normally don't cause problems which sadly let me down. The replaceable gear-hanger, the bit hanging down behind the rear-right drop-out that the rear derailleur screws to, and is often bent or broken in a crash, I thought such a bit if broken, a new one would be easily available in any bikeshop. What I hadn't reckoned on was Merida having the ill-logic to make the gear-hanger on their bikes different to most other popular brands, thereby defeating the whole object. When my Merida fell over breaking the gear-hanger I couldn't find a new gear-hanger. I had to soldier-on therefore riding a single-speed. Hills were manageable on the one available thirty-two-tooth ring, running-on twenty-one sprocket gear that the chain incidentally lined up with perfectly, with near perfect chain-tension, vertical dropouts notwithstanding, after I'd removed a number of chain-links and rejoined the chain, taking up the slack of the missing derailleur. It was though the long warm days on flat roads which were a pain in the posterior, quite literally. All that rapid pedaling in a relatively small gear (not having big-gears to bowl along while sat smoothly, instead rocking up and down a lot in the saddle), trying to go fast while going pathetically slowly which would chafe fragile skin against the saddle edge, causing rash. And then there were the disc-brakes. Three cables snapped and the hydraulic oil leaked. But enough said.

Summing up, the final two and a half days on the road were mundane and uneventful, where I looked ahead to the finish and pondered over everything which I'd do differently next time. Like ride a good steel touring bike and avoid parts of Europe, the insane over populated resort-touristy areas such as the French Riviera.

Rows of olives olives olives. The hills ahead are the only natural feature and if olives could be grown there, there would be olives there too.

The longer account of the final two days goes on a little, so-readers feeling tired from lack of sleep, may just be asleep soon. After breaking camp, I whooped back down into the gorge. (See what I mean! A pedestrian narrative.) A plunge down steep wooded hillside much too quickly, further along into the gorge from whence the road had wound it's way up out off the evening before. The vehicle width tarmac road at last allowed me to ease off the brakes on a straight across the slope with tall pine trees enclosing either side, then swung steeply down and over a bridge spanning a fast flowing stream, and reared up the wooded hillside opposite. I rode uphill a few switch-backs in cool shade, the sun not yet risen above the rim of the hill behind me, and then I paused to rest looking back at the wisp of mist lower down where the gorge widened into a valley. I laboured out of the saddle, powering the pedals down squarely in slow inconsistent stumps up the further switchbacks, where the morning sunshine caught the hilltop just short of the final crest. On the long descend which soon followed, I saw pretty much what lay ahead for the rest of the day. While stopped with the bike lent against a wall which retained the road terrace fashion, my view ahead, beginning at the slopes below was one of olive and lemon trees in uniform straight rows, covering all, every available bit of land, like a great army of soldiers on a parade ground, stretching as far as the eye could see ahead: it was olive and lemon grove country. All day I rode in it's man-made monotony. By evening though I had reached some semblance of original nature, a narrow valley below rocky crags.

The day was one in which I first cycled North, then West and finally South, in other words a big U-bend, so by evening after I had pushed the bike up a long grassy track to camp high on a hillside, I believe that the hill I could see far across from me, a dark silhouette on the darkened landscape at nightfall, lit by the last of the day's sun, was the same hill where I had broke-camp early that very morning.

At a crossroads, straightahead to lesser olive country.

An hour later, a few kilometres further, I clear the ground of stones before pitching the tent.

The following day past and past through a somewhat less monotonous landscape of yellow stubble field. It being the season just after harvest, with brown freshly ploughed and cultivated strips in preparation to sow next year's cereal crop, creating a patchwork across the gently rolling hills. There were also a few strips of sunflowers, now just forlorn black stalks with dejected black heads ready for harvest, and indeed, in many of these the combines hummed across shaking up dust in their wake.

I was going to ride all the way into Granade that afternoon but the Autoroute slowed me. Not having a great map, and no obvious alternative, I rode onto and followed the service road alongside, which was good compacted gravel, but steadily deteriorated until rough rutted track which eventually came to a dead-end. But, then I found my way on to a road which split off the autoroute and continued parallel. It was then five o'clock and as luck would have it I saw a campsite signposted. That was where I had a nice refreshing shower and noticed the change in people's attitude towards me, when the new clean me went grocery shopping.

This morning still clean and fresh and with not far to go, I kept going until the road rejoined the autoroute again without any obvious alternative. There was though a short parallel service road from a interchange which led to a petrol station followed by a big hotel, then into a smart residential area, but with no way onwards, the only way was back the way I came. From-back at the interchange I crossed over a bridge with traffic swishing by underneath, to an industrial estate on the other side, where I cycled along streets with steel framed glass fronted office blocks and company depots. A couple of times I came to a dead-end and turned a corner onto a parallel street, cycling back and forth, like cycling in a maze. But then I saw the road with a cycle-path at it's side and a sign for Granada.

I am now checked into the city's Hosteling International where there's a big group of lively teenagers, as teenagers cheerfully are, from the city of Toledo as most wear shirts with Toledo on the back. I'll be here a few days while I plan a flight home with memories, memories good and others mixed of this tour.

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