Decisions, decisions. Turns out my rear tire will hold air for four or five minutes before it sends my bike wallowing left and right with each pedal stroke, demanding a refill. With six kilometers to Valdeangorfa, I do the math. I can stop six or seven times to pump it up and still get there quicker than by attempting an immediate roadside repair.
Roll to a stop, jump off the bike, rip the pump out of my knapsack, attach it to the valve, pump like a possessed chimpanzee for two minutes, pump back in the knapsack, and ride like Steve Bauer to catch my wife before the tire goes flat again. Monty Python would be proud.
We eventually pedal into tiny Valdeangorfa and reach the Plaza Mayor, or town square, as my exhausted tire deflates for an eighth time. The plaza is empty, not a single person in sight anywhere, but we can see a bus stop sign a block ahead. We push our bikes to it, remove our backpacks, and take a deep breath to prepare for whatever comes next.
Riding to our hotel in Cretas at this late hour is out of the question. We need to find a bus, taxi, someone or something, to transport us, our packs, and two dirty mountain bikes, the remaining 37 kilometres to Cretas.
A large mobility van slides to the curb across the road, and the uniformed female drive hops out of the vehicle. I ask if she speaks English, to which she modestly replies, “Un poco” as she assists a senior in a wheelchair onto the van’s lift.
“Do you know if there are any taxis in Valdeangorfa?” I ask. She replies that the local cabbie, the only one in town, lives across the road, but he’s out of town today, so no, there aren’t.
“When does the bus come?” is my next question? She thought there was one more scheduled for sometime this evening, but didn’t know when.
“If I bought drinks for all your passengers, would you be interested in leaving them at the taberna here with your assistant while you drove us to Cretas?” was my last, desperate question. She laughed, got into her van, wished us good luck, and drove away, much to the chagrin of her passengers who heard the offer.
Within a minute a bus stopped on the opposite side of the road. Sensing our need, the driver asked if he could help. He couldn’t. He explained that local buses like his only travelled within their own province, and Cretas was in another province. He left before I thought to ask about possible connections.
My job on our cycling trips is to be the route planner, and at the moment I could see a seriously negative performance review coming my way.
I began sizing up each van that drove by, looking for one with a single driver and sufficient cargo space to carry our bikes. I’d thrust out my thumb, then try to persuade him or her to drive us, for the right price, to Certas.
As I was eyeing the sparse traffic for candidates, my wife Els noticed a sign we’d missed. It pointed to a restaurant and hotel a kilometre away. Was a Plan B available?
At the moment I could see a seriously negative performance review coming my way
As we began to consider this option, she thought for a moment and said, “I’ll call our hotel in Cretas and ask them to send a cab for us.”
Oh-kay, I thought. At this point anything was worth a try, but Cretas has 571 people, unlikely enough residents to support a taxi company, especially one with a vehicle capable of carrying both of us, the driver, and two mountain bikes. Plus the receptionist would have to be skilled enough in English to understand what we were requesting. And also, other than being at bus stop number 931, that we really didn’t know where in Valdeangorfa we were. Good luck.
Els place the call. The receptionist understood and said she’d get back to us.
Within ten minutes a sparkling new Audi SUV rolled up and out hopped a 30-something guy. “You looking for a taxi?” he asked with a grin.
Rapha, the Audi guy, had come to tell us in person that his friend Carlos was on his way from Cretas to pick us up. How did this just happen?
Rapha, who lives in Valdeangorfa, got a call from the receptionist in Cretas. He in turn called his buddy Carlos who happened to own Matarrany Adventura, an outdoor adventure business located in Cretas.
“He’ll be here in an hour or less,” shouted Rapha as he drove away with a wave. “Stay here, this is the only bus stop in town. He’ll find you.”
We’re sure Carlos could read the relief on our faces from 100 metres down the road as he approached. “You’re not the first folks I’ve rescued out here,” he said with a laugh as he scrambled out of his tour van.
On our drive back to Cretas, we learned Carlos had bought the business from a friend three years ago, and moved back from the lure of Barcelona to the area where he grew up. He said he knew he wouldn’t get rich, but he and his family were passionate about Matarranya and wanted to help others enjoy its natural beauty. Considering he had a degree in Business Administration and Management, and Masters degrees in Marketing and Education, he was truly walking the talk in tiny Cretas, their adopted home.
He also shared that he was taking three women, two from Canada and one from the US, up to a canyon trailhead to begin their ride tomorrow morning. We asked him to take us too.
The next morning, three women in casual clothes stood across the street from Matarrany Adventura’s storefront as Els and I approached on our bikes. One had an enormous loaf of mouthwatering but terribly unhealthy white Spanish bread jammed into her backpack. Carlos was loading three spiffy Cannondale electric trekking bikes onto his trailer.
Els chatted with the women. Two were from Newfoundland, one from Massachusetts, and Carlos was taking them and their rented bikes to the Via Verde Terra Alta – our destination as well. We’d be driving with them and the still-warm bread, smelling of delicious saturated fats and low-quality carbs. Their lunch would be avocado sandwiches, freshly made along the trail, washed down with an undisclosed beverage. As we all piled into the van, we sensed the party was on.
It is always the people and the unexpected that make travel so worthwhile. Friends, community, empathy and a ton of luck had saved us today.
Part 2 of 4. Next week: Rail trail tunnels in the dark aren’t for sissies, and we accidentally discover Diego’s outdoor bar on techno night, lighting up tiny Benifallet. Miss Part 1? Here it is.
