All That I Knew Was A Hole In My Tent (That Was Letting In Water! Letting In Water?): Near Canada to Madrid-Hostel Las Musas.

October 18, 2015

No Traffic here. But its an old adage: your tent springs a leak and the weather just becomes too wet for camping.

Well not exactly.

There's a wet patch in the tent roof with a bead of water suspended from it's middle, about to drop. Seems I have a leak, but it's so small: there is no wet, nor puddle underneath on the floor by my sleeping-bag. And during the whole tour, this is only the second time camping in the rain, so I'm not too worried about it as long as it remains only a small leak.

I see this while waiting to sleep. Due to the short day and early stop and thereby lack of tire-ness, I'm finding it difficult getting to sleep. I'm sat up reading by the light of my head-torch. The book still "The Frontiermen" bought in a street market bookstall back in France during July, is a page turner. People living in the new States of Kentucky and Ohio, part of the then seven states, or "Seven Flames" as the Indians called them, their lands having been encroached upon by incoming white men around 1800, certainly lived an interesting and dangerous existence.

In the morning rain has been replaced by fog. Visibility is down to about a hundred metres starting off. The road still damp. Though descending further, visibility is extended until the fog goes in low misty grey cloud. And further still, a few breaks in the cloud open revealing blue sky.

Around ten, I stop at a big restaurant by a roundabout, the road-sign from which has "CL505. Madrid", and have a tostas breakfast, meaning to make this do me until getting into the city later in the afternoon. It seems an establishment popular with classic old car rally people, as there are lots of framed photographs on the wall of 1950s cars and their drivers posing by them, parked by the curb outside on a much sunnier day than today.

The morning remains overcast though promising. Then morning become noon. I've descended a long way, crossing over a viaduct high above a reservoir with nothing more than a puddle along it's middle after a dry Summer, followed by the inevitable climb the other side, lengthy and arduous back up to near fourteen hundred metres; then descent steeply with scrapping overly thin worn brakes, toward Escorpial: a town with an ecclesiastic sounding name, it sits below in the valley middle and it's sky-line is dominated by a cathedral dome.

The road by-passes the town and from a roundabout, I'm on M500 (M for the municipal of Madrid): it is a narrow single carriageway road to begin with, without a shoulder, feeling hairy, as there is steady traffic both directions, just as the day become duller and more like rain. Then goes to dual-carriageway winding fairly steeply downhill, when the rain come on, pelting it down. The road is fast a wet black sheen as cars slosh pass in spray and my brakes are working overtime, my leggings and feet become inundated with sogginess, cold rainwater and I hold on shivering.

Robles is where M500 runs out at kilometre zero. Thereafter about the only road I can see to take me further toward Madrid is the autopista, A6, which I continue on, realising if I'm pulled over, I'll get a double whammy find for cycling on the motorway and, not wearing a helmet, as I ride tight in by the crash-barrier on the vehicle wide shoulder. But fearing the worse, I leave on the second exit slip and try finding an alternative.

I cycle parallel to the motorway along a commercial street until that runs out and I've to turn and ride along a street at a right-angle away from the motorway. Then ride round in circles through residential streets, with every street turning that appears to be in the right direction towards the city-centre, a dead-end; in such, I'm forced to follow a little road back in the opposite direct alongside a fence, until I come out at a small roundabout with a sign "M500 Madrid". I ride down the slip-road. It is another motorway and it starts pouring down rain again. I remain soaked by rain on this road, eventually coming to a park at the side and see therein a cycle-path, at last. I find a gap through in the crash-barrier. The park cycle-path will lead me right into the centre of Madrid, as I meet and am passed by many rain-cape clad cyclists, while rain drips from overhanging trees.

I cross a bridge and ride uphill to the historic centre, taking shelter from a very heavy downpour underneath a road-bridge on the way. When it has eased I continue further up into the pedestrianized park in front of the royal palace, build by a son of the French court who married into the Spanish dynasty in the eighteenth century. Its a replica of the palace in Versalles, only much bigger. Though I don't do much sightseeing. I find shelter in an archway and take out my computer where I've downloaded a map with the location of a hostel.

It takes a little finding my bearings until I work out where I am in relation to the map. Then find a street leading to a square, off which is Calles Jesus y Maria and number 12, hostel Las Musas.

As I write, I've been here a week. I've done the sights and met a great gang of new friends from various parts of the world. Hostels not only live up to their original concept of promoting understanding between people of the world, but also can be the start of great friendships.

I've been to a bike shop and got myself a carton and totally dismantle the bike in order to pack it and all my gear in snugly for the flight to Buenos Aires. I'm hoping it isn't over the weight limit.

Well that's that. Sit comfortably and enjoy Crazy Guy On A bike.

My next update is the radio program "Desert Island Discs" I hope you are enjoying this feature added to spice things up. A moment's pause. I think its great.

Anyway, there's nothing more to say. I'll leave you with some pictures of Madrid.

See yeah.