The goal was to choose hotels within historic town centres, close to elaborate plazas, cathedrals and castles; basically to go where the action had always been for centuries. That implied hotels with thick stone walls, small windows overlooking cobbled streets, and tiny archaic rooms. No Motel 6-styled suites with two queen beds, a mini-fridge and computer desk. Instead, two single beds pushed tightly together and a small antique side table filled a room.
Mart, my brother-in-law and cycling bud, stood silently glowering at the two beds in our Madrid hotel the first night. Two single mattresses, each slightly less than a metre wide, were individually sheeted then cozily jammed together. A single cylindrical pillow shaped like an enormous white tootsie roll was propped across the full width of each bed.
For the record, we’ve biked Texas, the Dakotas, Mississippi, and many other states, previously sharing a room successfully each trip.
Mart removed his riding shoes, sat on one bed, wedged his feet against other bed, and pushed hard. They were locked together. He stood up, surveyed our situation, reached toward the head of the beds, grabbed the fluffy white tootsie rolls, and jammed them into the narrow gap between the mattresses.
“We can use our spare clothes for pillows,” he said, rather grumpily.
This late October ride through Spain’s Extramadura region southwest of Madrid was my first in Europe since Covid, and checked off all the boxes. New cycling terrain for both of us, geographically remote and far from any tourist crowds, theoretically warm and dry enough for pleasant riding at this time of year.
Extramadura is a sparsely populated agricultural region bisected by the Sierra de Gredos mountain range, resulting in equal parts arid rolling hills and verdant green valleys. Although the vistas are spectacular, technological advances in mechanized farming have rendered small family farms unsustainable, causing young people to emigrate to urban areas and incomes and population to fall.
European Union Cohesion Funds have flowed to the territory, financing new transportation and energy infrastructure designed to reverse economic decline. Excellent new roads were perfect for cycling and not heavily trafficked. Most have signage warning motorists to provide two metres of space when passing a cyclist, double what Ontario laws demand. The extreme caution motorists displayed when approaching convinced us that life in prison must be the penalty for an infraction.
Ancient history and pre-Roman culture were abundant, but generally in concentrations insufficient to attract many tourists. Our route intersected the 1000-year-old Camino de Santiago’s Via de la Plata pilgrimage trail, and we cycled the Perales mountain pass on the Canada Real de Extramadura, an ancient livestock drovers’ road leading from Portugal northeast to Salamanca.
"The extreme caution motorists displayed when approaching convinced us that life in prison must be the penalty for an infraction"
After a thankfully eventless sleep in Madrid, we caught a train to Avila, two hours west, to begin our ride. It bucketed rain non-stop, so we remained on the train for an additional hundred kilometers to Salamanca. From there our day’s destination, rural Alba de Tormes, was an easy 27-kilometre ride, even in steady rain.
Ten kilometers in I got a flat front tire. The culprit was a small seed resembling a coronavirus with hooked, thorn-like spikes. I removed it from the tire, installed one of my spare tubes, inflated it, and we were on our way. No problema.
Within four kilometers, my rear tire went flat. This time two of the spiky seeds had penetrated the tire. I removed them, or so I thought, installed my last spare tube, and inflated it. The tire was flat before I sat back on my bike. Problemas grandes.
I borrowed a third tube from Mart, installed it and a new spare tire I carried just in case, and we rode on toward our hotel.
In three kilometers the rear tire flatted again. Without any more spares, my only option now was to pump it up, ride as fast and far as I could before all the air hissed out of it, then repeat. Mart rode ahead to register us at the hotel.
I eventually rounded a corner into Alba de Tormes, and there was Mart in front of spectacular Basilica de Santa Teresa, unsmiling in the rain astride his bike with a flat tire. We silently pushed our bikes the final 500 metres to our hotel, checked in, and ripped our tires apart.
Seeds were imbedded in every tire. Repairing all the punctured tubes exhausted our supply of patches, and the thought of continuing our trip in three or four kilometre segments between endless repairs was a morale-crushing non-starter. We needed to return to Salamanca, find a bike shop, replenish our spares, and come up with a Plan B.
Our non-cycling train and bus tour continued next morning when we loaded our bikes into a local bus destined for Salamanca. If our bus arrived on time, we’d have 22 minutes to yank our bikes from the cargo bay, pump the tires, pull on our helmets and careen three kilometres through traffic-filled city streets to arrive at Biciclettas Palacio before they locked up for their traditional afternoon siesta.
We made it with two minutes to spare. I relayed our sad tale of endless flats to Pepi, the owner, then showed him a sample of the culprit seed. He laughed. Reaching across his workbench and overtop a barrel full of discarded bike tubes, he showed us a jar packed with similar seeds.
“Goatheads, they’re everywhere,” said Pepi.
Mart and I gasped at this revelation, hearts in our stomachs. How would we possibly complete another 800 kilometres of riding?
Then Pepi produced a box of slime-filled tubes. Bicycling “slime” is a thin, jelly-like liquid filled with miniscule synthetic hairs. When a thorn or similar object punctures a tube, the hairs are forced into the hole by the pressure of the escaping air, where they coagulate to stop the leak. Slime works amazingly well. After a week spent mountain biking in Utah’s cactus-strewn deserts years ago, I later removed slime tubes with multiple punctures that hadn’t gone flat.
Man-hugs all around! With a new slime tube installed in each tire and four more to carry as spares, we were finally on our way. Mart had two more flats during the duration of the trip and I had none — thank you Pepi!
First of three parts. Next week: The foods of Extramadura, a refugee family, world heritage architecture, and a light-fingered thief who took a shine to 50 Euros in my wallet—did I catch him in time?
