Day 1 - Into Spain

Team Bike fuji 2009 (45 of 96)
Originally uploaded by M.J.S.

Another descent. A 4x4 decides to pull out in front of me; the Centaur brakes cope admirably, and I use my best 'tut tut' shake of the head. Other cyclists at the small bar opposite look and laugh.

A long, sweeping descent, into the heat of the wooded valley. Some short climbs, and a series of villages. I'm feeling pretty good, despite the heat. We pass a town, by the river Belaqua. The water is green and good, and most of us strip down and dive in. The locals watch, smile, and offer us refills of our bottles. We talk about the route a little and head on at a quick pace - there is still some 30 miles to go, having done 60 miles, and three real climbs.

Then we stop at a town. A puncture. We settle in the small square, and decide not to have a drink at the bar. I go to the van to get a track pump and a powder for my water. 'Are you going in the van?', one of the three ask; 'no', I say; 'well, you should catch up with the others'. I wheel my bike up off the square and head along the road in the direction we were going.

Suddenly, the laps around the parks kick in, and I get up some speed down the valley gorge. I must catch up with them soon, surely? 10 minutes pass. No sign. The van doesn't pass. I get to another village, then a town. Roncal. It is hot. There is a cafe, a river, a bridge. People sit out and look at me. I decide to play it safe and wait for the puncture group. The town clock reads 3:15. No sign. I decide to wait for 3:45.

Nothing. Perhaps they turned off earlier? There weren't any real turns, though. Are they still fixing the puncture? If I've gone the wrong way, then the sensible thing is to meet at where I was last sighted. I sprint back. No sign of them. The young people in the village stare. I wait around.

Perhaps I missed a turning? After 20 mins, I head back to Roncal, then wait. Press on, along the road. Signs to Pampalona. A few turnings left, over the mountains, which I assume we must be crossing. Where were we heading? Luchon, I think. Or was it Luz?

Earlier that morning, I ask if I should take a mobile. No need, I was told. I stick my debit card in the saddle bag anyway.

Back to Isaba, as I now know it is called. I ask the people in the square. The English left about an hour ago. They pointed the way I went. Now I can't remember- did I do the trip to Roncal twice, or three times? I remember asking a family if they saw some cyclists. They brought their young son out, as he spoke English. No, he said. I went to a bar to ask for the internet; he suggested the hotel back in Isaba, with a mixture of basic Spanish and sign langauge. Another man showed me where there was a bank - it let me take out 100 euros. Time for a coffee, some change and a call to my mobile phone - the only number I could remember. Perhaps they would find it in my luggage. Work out a plan.

Back to Isaba. By now I am sweating, hot. I walk into the hotel. The young people from the square are there. They say hello and laugh. A young woman says there is no internet; I try and explain my predicament, and she takes pity. I use the machine behind the desk, and get a collection of numbers.

I head to the square. No sign, and call every 15 - 30 mins, leaving a few messages. The phone box eats money.

I decide to have a beer. A coffee. The woman in the bar looks at me suspiciously at first, then in the end teaches me a few words. I hear some English voices. I sit outside for a couple of hours. The square fills. People say good evening. Ladies sit and gossip. I think about what has happened. The front group must think I am in the back, and vice versa. When will it be noticed that I'm not there? And getting everyone up over the final cols and down before nightfall would have to take priority.

Back to the bar; I introduce myself to the English voice. His friend is also English. I explain my predicament, and wonder if I could borrow their mobile. One looks suspicious, but Chris goes back to the hostel to get his phone. They are doing the GR11. They suggest a game of cards, and that I might stay at the hostel. Then, at 9:30, I get through to PT. The Team sound exhausted. It's suggested I bed down for the night and meet around 8:30. I agree. Relief all round.

Chris shows me the small, basic hostel. The cook takes great time and trouble going through the menu. A beer, tomato salad, salted cod, a tart, and then to bed. 21 Euros - plus some snoring Spanish, and the sound of the church bell ringing. The hostess is the spit of MJH. I wonder what to do about my contacts - one stays in, the other in a glass of salt water. I peel off my stinking clothes and try and sleep under the rough blanket.