Recently, I was working with a student on an interesting piece of writing. To be specific, it was P. J. O’Rourke’s How to Drive Fast on Drugs While Getting Your Wing-Wang Squeezed and Not Spill Your Drink. If you’re not familiar with this piece, I can heartily recommend it; it’s a 1978-masterpiece of gonzo journalism. Anyway, this particular piece reminded me of a sortie a few years back on the Costa Blanca with Big Em, who I’ve mentioned before in Lessons From Spain.
One particular morning, the alarm went off at stupid o’clock. It was dark outside; the air was crisp; and the house was quiet. It was a day that neither of us were relishing: Em on account of his lack of pre-pre-season training, and myself because I have a near allergic reaction to early mornings and early rides—why people think riding before ten in the morning is a good idea is beyond me. I killed the alarm and hauled myself out of bed and went in search of coffee. On reaching the kitchen, an enthusiastic Goose greeted us.
“Hola, chicos.” he said while pouring himself a half pack of Cheerios. “Feeling fresh?”
Fresh wasn’t the exact word that came to mind. I think a more apt choice would have been battered or hungover—in fact, anything but fresh. But being the martyr that I am, I grunted some form of reply and went in search of the coffeepot.
His enthusiasm unabated, he asked, “Ready for a century?”
I didn’t reply, choosing instead to help myself to a very large, heavily sugared coffee before sulking off back to bed. I reckoned another fifteen minutes would be of more use than breakfast—you can always eat on the road, right?
An hour later, we were rolling into the petrol station cafe where we’d previously met the wiry old pros. Out front, our hosts, the Club Ciclista Pedreguer, were waiting, looking eager to set off on the ride. My stomach was rumbling, and I was so ravenous, I could have killed for some tostada or huevos rotos.
“Goose, can you tell them I need to grab something to eat?” I said.
“Ask them yourself,” he replied somewhat unhelpfully. At the time, my Spanish was limited to “Dos cervezas, por favor”, which although incredibly useful was of little use in the current situation. Before I could protest any further, there was a crunch of gravel, and the first riders were off.
Now, some people swear by riding first thing in the morning without food or drink. They believe it somehow strengthens the body and helps endurance and stamina. I can tell you, these people are fools: riding hungry sucks. As the kilometres rolled past, I was consumed by visions of tapas, huge coffee cakes, and burgers that were dripping with cheese and nestled into mountains of fries. I can assure you that at no point did I move into some other world of endurance or performance. Nope, I struggled in the middle of the group and fell into a dark place, which was filled with self pity and despair.
The hours passed, and I dropped further and further towards the back; I was a straggler. And when we hit the final pre-lunch climb—which, by the way, was at the 140-km mark—I started to glide backward. One by one, riders picked me off until I was finally alone, crawling up the sinuous road with nothing but empty tarmac and the bleat of an occasional mountain sheep for company. At this low point, I’d like to say that I’d bonked; it would have given me some kind of excuse, but no, I was broken mentally. You know that point where you just want to stop, throw your bike to the floor, and collapse in a pile so that an unsuspecting motorist might find you one day? Well, I was at that point. I stopped, looked out across the sun-kissed landscape and, then, fortunately, realised I had absolutely no idea where I was. I got back on my bike.
Finally, I reached the summit cafe. I walked in to see waiters clearing empty bowls of some sweet delicacy from the riders’ tables. My hopes of food were once again dashed. I slumped, deflated, into a chair next to an old guy. He turned to me, looked me in the eye, and grinned.
“Carajillo para mi amigo,” he said while slapping me firmly on the back.
A waiter approached and placed two glasses on the table. Sat at the bottom of each glass was a dark potent shot of espresso. The waiter then proceeded to pour a generous slug of dark rum into each glass. I took one and downed its contents. The caffeine and rum had an instant effect on my body; I could feel the concoction pulse through my veins, bringing new vigour to my ailing self. I turned to my companion; he hadn’t touched his. I signalled to him to drink.
“No mi amigo, you take two—one for each leg.” He slapped my still aching quad.
I downed the second, and my head began to swim; I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. A strong hand gripped my shoulder.
“Come, amigo. We ride now.”
I stood, swayed, and headed towards where I thought the door was located. Outside, the intensity of the sun hit me. I didn’t think I’d be able to clip in, let alone make it home. But somehow I got onto my bike and pointed its front wheel down the mountain and towards home.
Once again my companion spoke. “Ride like birds, amigo. Vamos!”
As I started to descend, something magical happened. My quads bulged, everything but the road ahead disappeared, and I started to flow. I didn’t touch the brakes. My new Michelin Pro 3’s squealed as I swooped around hairpins. And one by one, I picked off the other riders until I was yet again on the road alone.
That evening, back at base, we were sat around the dinner table refuelling with gusto. Goose poured the wine and asked, “Hey, Pete, what happened on the mountain today? You were insane.”
Popping another piece of chorizo in my mouth, I replied, “Was that old guy and the carajillos.”
Goose stopped pouring and looked me squarely in the eye. “What old guy? Today was the youth ride.”
If you enjoyed this post, you might also enjoy:
Surviving Mallorca’s Roads - How to survive super sheep, German tourists, and death defying locals.
A Travesty Unfolds - An irreverent dive into the world of post-Brexit retirees on the Costa Blanca.
Lessons From Spain - Further adventures with Big Em on the Costa Blanca.
