Sep 2006

We have run out of picture space on Nathan´s page, so please continue to follow our journey on Allen´s page at:

http://ajk.travellerspoint.com

This sign means:
Pilgrim,
If you want to arrive in Santiago
With Strength and Vitality
Throw a drink of this great wine
And it will bring you happiness

Thank you to those who made the wine fountain at Irache possible, it has been a constant cure for all that ails us, especially since we make sure one water bottle is always full of la Rioja´s best!

The Fuente de Irache brought us a great sense of accomplishment on a day that began by us getting lost on our way out of Pamplona. Pamplona itself is a magnificient city that would be a joy to spend some more time in, as long as you didn´t need to ride out of it on a bicycle. As we walked our way out of the city, as is our habit given the traffic, toward the route suggested by a secondary guide book, the heavens opened up and the worst rain of the trip descended upon us. We wound our way through the city using every overhang and doorway possible to stay dry, denying that our eventual soaking was imminent, and then we arrived, we arrived at the entrance to one of the busiest highways yet, and no bike lane was evident. Allen looked at Nathan, who with a glint in his eye seemed bound and determined to try it, and with his aged wisdom, convinced Nathan that the better part of valor was to find another way, so we turned around. That is when we encountered our second Camino Angel, a garbage truck driver who stopped Allen to warn him that a stick was stuck in his tire, and who pointed us along our true path to Los Arcos. The true path to los arcos presented itself as the N120 highway, which through the rain, wind, and numerous Semi-Trucks, gave Allen a crick in the neck that only a Masaje in Los Arcos was able to solve. Though somewhat stressful, the truck drivers and other motorists are very respectful in Spain, they give you as wide a berth as possible given the conditions and always honk when a sticky situation appears imminent.

The rain stopped and the wind began to whip us around, a fork in the road took us the long way around, but we eventually ended up in Irache. At the monestary in Irache was the Fuente de Vino. As is our custom, when we are lost, we look around like we know what we are doing, which inevitably causes someone to ask if we need help. In this instance, a group of 8 elderly men and women eagerly came to our rescue and pointed us to the fountain.

The wine flowed like manna from heaven, and it was all we could do not to fill each of our water bottles with that sweet nectar.

The N120 had a way of dissapering on us, and seemingly turning into the A12, a full fledged Autovia, which, although litely traveled, did not seem in any way fit for bicycles, and we soon learned that was the case. As we were coasting downhill on the A12 a motorist pulled alongside Allen and began to yell out his window at him. The motorist stopped at the next off-ramp and waived us to stop then he began to yell at us in spanish that we were not allowed on the A12, that we were Tontos (stupid) and that we had to get off that road. Nathan, responded by attempting to argue with his limited command of the spanish language and asked the gentlemen in the kindest of terms how it was any of his business or how it was his problem, once his Spanish was exhausted Nathan resorted to thanking the gentlemen in only the most condescending of manners and we proceeded to exit the A12. Now, our exit from the A12 turned out to be just what the Camino had ordered as the N120 magically reappeared...we came to see the very angry spanish gentleman as our third Camino Angel, although the possibility that he was one of the many faces of the devil is still up for debate.

Once back on the N120, it was long yet smooth sailing to Los Arcos. An Oasis appeared in the form of a gas station in the middle of nowhere, which loaded us up with carbs, and drinks. Allen began asking Nathan how much further, and like any good travel guide, Nathan´s response was just around that next corner or just over the next hill...let´s just say we arrived in Los Arcos just in time.

Made it into Burgos last night. No sleep the night before. I woke up to a rainy and dark sky and to say the least was not feeling it. Nathan gave me a look of reassurance and like we don´t really have a choice. So there we are making our way out of Santo Domingo and the winds begin to blow hard. Now, I´m not that heavy and the winds were blowing me around a bit, so I had to really steady myself and concentrate which was so difficult because I had not slept. This state of mind added something to the dreamlike landscape I was now slowly making my way through. Open planes, a quiet road, all alone. Out of nowhere I freaked, there was literally a hand on my shoulder! It was Fritz! A 58 year old Holland man whom we had run into now and again along the way, he bicycled right along side for a good while, shielding the wind until I regained my strength. For the next 12 miles Fritz, Nathan, and I rode together, chatted, drank wine, ate dark chocolate and made our way. The wind no longer really bothered me as now there was a new challenge in my path. My right leg began to ache intensely...

Yesterday, we rode from Los Arcos to Santo Domingo de la Calzada, a day which was marked yet again by the weather, this day however was the day of the wind and the semi-truck. The wind blew in our faces all day long, which itself made for a long slow day of riding, but throw on top of that the N120 highway which we rode on all day, with Semi-Trucks passing you at 100km/hr and it made for a very entertaining day.

Then with only 15km left to go, it became quite evident that I was bound for a pilgrim´s entry into Santo Domingo. I broke a spoke on my rear wheel, which is not in and of itself debilitating, but marks the need for a bike shop when we get to Burgos today unless I am to face a total collapse of the rear wheel after spokes break one by one. Then the chain slipped, again minor. Then the rear tire came up with a sizeable gash causing the tube to be exposed and so the tire blew up, again, not a big deal, however in replacing the tube my pump broke, so Allen said he would carry it for me. So the tire replaced and once again on the road, not 1km into the ride the tube blows again, it is now evident that I need to replace the entire tire as well as the tube, so Allen and I decide he will continue on to Santo Domingo, only 2km, and get a place to stay for us while I change the tire and the tube. After an epic struggle getting the new tire and tube to become friends, it hit me...Allen still has my pump, so, a 2km walk into Santo Domingo, perhaps a proper entry for a pilgrim on the way to Santiago...

Still to me it seems as if none of these factors are very much of a distraction at all, the countryside is so beautiful, and I am enjoying the life of a vagrant so much. There is something liberating about riding down the side of a highway in a torrential downpour or a devastating headwind. After dealing with all of these things, pain, wind, rain, never ending mountains, angry mountain goats, it seems as if part of this trip, part of the journey is to overcome fear, breaking out of those traditional bonds that we hide behind or that prevent us from truly realizing our potential. I wouldn´t change a thing...although maybe next time I will carry my own pump

Through sometimes torrential downpours we meandered our way through the Pyrenees foothills along the N135 to Pamplona. We stopped at this cross and accidentially discovered our very own treasure hunt, to find and follow the hand painted yellow arrows guiding us along the camino to Pamplona and beyond to Santiago. Finally, soaking wet, yet cheerful, the imposing walls of Pamplona came into view.

Innoculation. To avoid getting the plague, one minor shot in the arm is usually sufficient. To avoid an overcrowding of Pilgrims in the refugios one dose of the Pyrenees.

We have often said that no amount of preparation could have prepared us for the multi-state bar exam multiple choice questions, well no amount of training could have prepared 2 out of shape, aging lawyers for the climb through the Pyrenees mountains.

From St. Jean Pied de Port it was an 18 mile ride gaining nearly 3,300 feet in elevation, suffice it to say as far as bike rides go, it made for a nice walk. With St. Jean still in view we quickly realized that we stood no chance tilting at this windmill, and began to push our bikes up the steep ascent. After 7 miles of pushing and riding (very very small stretches) the road ended and the reign of the Devil´s long horned mountain goat began. We were forced to push our bikes uphill through grass, rock, gravel, dirt, and mud (just like grandpa always said). When we finally reached the top and Roncesvalles, our shelter for the night, was in sight, the Devil reared his ugly head yet again. The rain and wind began to wip, Allen went momentarily insane (something about hating Nathan), Nathan cursed the Gods, and we began the most tretcherous descent into Roncesvalles imaginable. Pushing was no longer the appropriate description, more like defying gravity as our heavily ladden bicycles dragged us down the mountainside through rock, gravel, grass, and rain. Just as we began to imagine the inumerable, dangers that lurked in that forest, Roncesvalles revealed itself.
9 hours later, the Pyrenees had allowed us to escape with our lives if not our egos.

If our flight plans weren´t interesting enough, the ensuing train ride to St. Jean Pied de Port was the icing on the cake...so when does the Camino begin...

From Bordeaux to Dax to Bayonne to St. Jean Pied de Port (the intended starting point of our journey), only took four trains, 6 hours, some harried train to train transitions which we quickly mastered, and one very angry french train conductor whom we could not understand despite being told 3 times something about our bikes (we ignored him), we met Tilli and Buddha.

Tilli (our first Camino Angel), her husband, and her dog Buddha had been walking the camino for 57 days from Belgium when Tilli began to have an irregular heart beat in Bergerac where doctors informed her that she would have to take at least a week off. Tilli trained to St. Jean Pied de Port to wait for her husband who continued on foot. Tilli´s wish for us "I hope you meet yourselves"

After being uncerimoniously dumped off of RyanAir into the 1 room airport in Bergerac France, and discovering that no taxi was avaiable into town with our bike boxes, we realized that we had our own means of transportation. We put our bikes together to the tune of some french song sung by 6 French Soldiers and a bar maid (who gave us ice cold water for the ride to come). We began our moonlite ride into the unknown, and then before our eyes, a beacon in the darkness...we turned right

The first of many obstacles on the longest day! We arrived at London´s Heathrow Airport at 7am London time, a full 30 minutes ahead of schedule, however, security would not let us off of the plane until almost 8:00 a.m.. We were then transported to the Customs and Immigration area you see here. It took us 2 hours to get through Immigration. By the time we left Immigration, our bags had already been offloaded, and were waiting in the farthest corner of the baggage claim area. We grabbed our bike boxes and began to run through the London Underground to the bus depot that would transport us to Stansted Airport and our flight that was only 3 hours away...We missed the bus...we turned around and ran back through the London Underground to the Heathrow Express, a high speed train that would take us directly to London´s Paddington station. At Paddington station we learned that the Circle line, the most direct route to Liverpool St. Station and the Stansted Express train was closed! So we took the Bakerloo line to Oxford Circus where we ran through tunnels carrying our boxes, knocking over innocent Brits, on our way to the Central Line to Liverpool St. Station. Upon arrival at Liverpool St. Station we learned that the Stansted Express had been momentarily converted to a SLOW bus. After an hour, we arrived at Stansted Airport with 15 minutes to go before our flight, then we saw the lines...suffice it to say we spent the 7 hours in a Stansted Coffee shop waiting for a flight to Bergerac France...

The tiny airport near Bergerac, 1:00am, no taxi will take us to our hotel de Bordeaux, putting our bikes together, French soldiers singing in the background, moonlight ride to Bergerac, priceless!

We fly tomorrow! Up and out the door at 4am. This journey marks the end of one era and the beginning of another for me, and in seeking to find my way and my inspiration, I continue to turn to the Prayer of St. Francis for guidance on the way...

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Pyrenees here we come!