Days 7 & 8 - Journey's End

Portomarin to Arzua

Today should have been a lot easier. Yesterday's long hard push to get into town as quickly as I could without Dad slowing me down finally took its toll on my legs. 

It was bound to happen sooner or later, but my legs are quickly becoming much harder to move. In the evening they begin to seize up and the mornings I can't move without making old man noises.

Leaving behind the impressive river, I cycled up and out of town. I realise I've begun to become really irritated by humanities need to build towns next to water sources. This invariably means they're placed at the bottom of hills, which in turn means I always spend the first part of the day cycling up a stupid hill. Ergh, damn human logic.

The first hour of this morning's ride was also a real slog. I left Dad to go and get a taxi but it took at least an hour before my legs stop aching. Warming them up for the day's ride has become harder and harder. 

Once I get going I begin to feel so much better. At this stage of the journey Spain's hills have returned to the undulating countryside of before. 

This makes riding a lot easier, obviously, but it also means there's a lot less time to recover on the downhill sections. I remember them; they were lovely.

Today's ride became just a bit mundane. A 'just get there' sort of day. Not that the scenery itself wasn't lovely and the ride itself pleasant enough. It was more a bit nothing. 

One thing is for sure though, the closer we get to Santiago the more walkers there are on the paths. This is a nice thing, more people to say hello to, but my goodness, I wish they would just get out of my way.

It can really slow your progress down. Big groups of walkers will stroll in lines down the path completing block the way. You approach behind them slowly, making sure you give plenty of time and space for them to act by ringing the bell and then, when they still don't know you're there, shouting at them. It's at this point that they all scatter in different directions like frightened stupid hens still ensuring that there's no clear path through them. 

Now they all turn around and look at you angrily because you've interrupted their conversation and scared them half to death. This gets old very quickly when you have to go through the entire arduous process every 100 yards or so.

But, it's all part of being on the ride and the annoyance is quickly forgotten. Especially once I arrived at the trip's penultimate hotel. 

A short ride outside of town and nestled snugly out of the way, with stunning views of the countryside, the newly converted farm houses of Pazo Santa Maria.

It was exactly what was needed and a long rest (hence a few days between the last few posts) was long overdue.  

Onto the last day and in Camino de Santiago!

Arzua to Santiago de Compostela

It's the last day and Dad has mustered up enough strength to have a go at getting back on the bike. It should be easy enough. This is the shortest ride of the entire trip and at the end we'll finally be in Santiago.  

Today was always going to be a bit of a slow day and there's nothing wrong with that. After the mountains and valleys of the last few days, heading into Santiago at an even pace felt lovely.  It was wise to take things slowly, given Dad's back, but even if we wanted to pick up the pace, the throngs of walkers all doing the last leg of the journey continually slowed us down.

It wasn't the nicest part of the ride. Heading into any large town you're bound to see some of its industry and ruins on the outskirts. Not to mention the odd suburb, but the Camino path, to its credit, did a lot to avoid most of these areas and we were mostly treated to the small farms and villages that we had become used to.

A few hills still managed to get in our way but overall this was a good day to be on the bikes and we thoroughly enjoyed the last few hours with them. And heading into the town itself, once we'd gotten through the new parts of town, Santiago quickly became a beautiful maze of gothic churches and ancient alleyways.

We had to dismount the bikes for the last leg of the journey and getting lost here was almost inevitable. We lost sight of our friendly yellow arrows somewhere in the new town's shopping district and my plan of just heading towards the largest steeple came a cropper when we accidentally followed a large party of people into the grounds of church and were promptly locked in. 

It just looked like part of the town and a road around the building blocking our way. 

We had to backtrack and figure out a way of opening the large wooden automatic doors before continuing on, but we were close to the end.

In fact, it was just round the next corner and before we knew it we were in the enormous square at the centre of Santiago looking at some stunning old buildings. 

Finally. 

Done. Time to rest and have a beer. 

And that's the trip. A few (really) tough days riding and we made it to one of northern Spain's most beautiful cities. Not bad going really. Sure, the ride was sometimes gruelling, but it never stopped being fun. Unless you count the time my pedal fell off. That wasn't fun. 

Macs Adventures has been great and they offer a ton of holidays, too. Some as hard as this and others a bit easier. We might give it a while before we sign up to something quite this hard again. But that certainly doesn't mean we won't. 

                            For now, I'm going to rest my legs. On Monday I've got to cycle to work!

Day 6 - Lone Wolf

Today has been tough. The walk yesterday really took it out of me. I did get a new bike though, and this one has a bell.

Win! After Dad's back twinge (which we figured is muscular and not a slipped disc or anything) we decided to wait and see how he felt in the morning before riding. I wasn't optimistic, though.

It was still stiff and rather than wait around, as today represented the most milage out of all of our days (about 65 km), we decided I would crack on and Dad would try to follow in the car.

Or, he'd meet me at our final destination at least. I thought this might be alright. With a fresh bike and no one to slow me down I figured I could really go for it. And I was right, but that brought with it a whole host of issues I hadn't yet had to deal with.

The early part of the day was way (way!) harder than I was anticipating. Up on the mountain the terrain was rough and the ups and downs going across it were difficult to deal with. There's something of a technical skill to cycling on these sorts of rough roads.

You need to keep peddling to keep your momentum up and at the same time you need to keep an eye on the path directly in front of you. One false move and a large rock could easily put you in the bush. And here, that bush is just a cover for the enormous cliff below it.

It was at least a lot cooler up there, but I had visions of a lovely downhill trek for miles on end. This finally did happen, but it wasn't until after a good hour or so of more up.

And going down constantly isn't as easy as you'd think either. Sure, it's easier than going up, but constantly going down over seriously rocky and steep roads is exhausting in its own way.

And going down brings with it a horrible sense of foreboding. Every inch you go down you know, eventually, you'll more than likely have to come back up. And that's exactly what happened.

The best part of the day was the dramatic change in the scenery. From the blustery mountain tops to the haze-covered hillsides to the muddy lower valley; today saw the most changes. The Spanish scenery has gone through some lovely shifts as we've moved from Leon across towards Santiago. Even the smells have changed. Where the mountain top was  cool and blustery, in the lower valley there was thick foliage and eventually this gave way to sweet-smelling pines.

Getting down into the valley, though, I think I should have stuck to the road. Down there the Camino path wandered through some ancient villages and farms but the road, once again, forced me onto two feet.

It got really tough too. Once out, and this was after about two hours of slogging it through the mud, I hit some lovely roads and what do you know, they went down!

Lovely smooth roads going down hill. Bliss. Obviously this wasn't going to last but it did mean I got a good few miles under my belt before the going got tough again. Without the need to rest I found myself continuing along the trail and only ever stopping when I became out of breath.

This happened a lot, it's really hot here, but the pace was certainly faster. Along the road my Belgium companion from the previous day caught me and promptly overtook me after a brief conversation – he is seriously fast on that bike of his.

I thought my back tyre was getting a little squidgy and became paranoid I'd gotten myself a puncture, which was bad because today of all days the path became really rocky in the latter stages. Well, rockier than it's been.

I managed to make it to our final destination by half one though. After emerging from some thick forests I was treated to the most stunning views of a beautiful river and, despite its size, it looked really rather inviting.

I left this morning around eight, so that's pretty good going I think for 65 km. I feel awful now though.

Really tired. There's still two more days riding ahead and I think tomorrow I'm going to take things much slower. It's not looking likely that Dad will be able to join me so I'll be lone wolfing it again.

Day 5 - A 'comedy' of errors

Templar castle minus the Templars.

Ponferrada to O'Cebreiro

What would be the worst thing to happen on a ride like this? Oh, sure, getting hit by a car or riding off a cliff or just plain old falling off the bike.

Obviously, those sorts of things are horrible. But, outside of that (and any other actual bodily harm), what would be the most inconvenient thing to happen?

Losing your riding partner in the middle of nowhere without any means of communication?

How about getting lost AND managing to snap off one of your pedals? Not just the plastic bit your foot sits on, but the whole shaft that connects to the mechanism. Yeah, we've had a pretty interesting day.

As we've become used to getting up in the mornings, we left Ponferddara at eight and set off under the cover of clouds. It was a cool morning and from the looks of things the two thirds of the day's journey was going to be relatively flat with the final part representing the biggest challenge.

We climbed the hills leaving Ponferrada behind us and spent the morning working our way through the usual suburban districts that surround any large town. As we headed into the countryside, the undulating (there's that word again, who knew Spain was so rotund?) hills became more pronounced and we found ourselves in wine country.

Wine vineyards! Unfortunately you can't drink these. 

The majority of the morning was spent tacking tracks in-between vineyards and this made for some lovely riding.

The tracks themselves were dusty and rocky with the occasional hill and everything was going as it had been over the last few days.

I'd cycle ahead until I thought it best to wait for Dad and he'd eventually catch up and on we would press.

Dealing with the hills this way meant I managed a mid-hill break every now and again letting me recover so that I could press on and claim that 'no hill had beaten me!!!' Moving though the vineyards really was stunning, too. The hills became more pronounced and interlocking and eventually we were well and truly into steep valley country.

We knew from the maps that the afternoon would represent the biggest challenge though. There was an eventual incline of over 1,000 km and it occurred within about 18 km distance of our destination. That meant steep inclines and lots of them. We followed the valley for the early part of the afternoon and that's when things became much more complicated.

Halfway through the valley, and on our way to when the ride would become really tough, I found myself once again waiting for Dad after getting a little bit ahead of him. The minutes ticked by and eventually I became worried something had happened and decided if I just cycled back down the route I'd eventually see him coming up the other way and we could carry on.

This line of thinking took me twenty minutes back though the valley to the small town we'd had a break at, and with no sign of Dad I decided he must have come off the route earlier than I thought and was now ahead of me.

The problem with the Camino way is, though there are plenty of signs pointing you in the right direction, there are still number of different routes you can take. Some are better for the walkers, others, the cyclists.

Realising that Dad was now ahead of me on the trail I thought it wouldn't be too long before I caught him up and we could crack on with tackling the looming mountains that were quickly approaching. Only, things are never that simple. After leaving the town I'd backtracked to, I took a few peddles down the road, felt a wobble in my left leg, and before I knew it the entire pedal, metal shaft and all, had come away from the bike and was left sitting in the dirt behind me.

Brilliant.

I went back and collected it and attempted to reattach it. No luck. I proceeded on foot, pushing the bike as fast as I could. I thought if I could at least catch up with Dad we could work out some ingenious way of reattaching the pedal so that I could ride.

I pressed onwards. Eventually I reached a rather busy intersection where the path crossed with a main road. There was a garage, so using my initative I popped in thinking I could get some tools (or something, I don't know) to help.

I found duck tape (score!) and bought it immediately. This was rubbish. Never try and attach a bike's pedal with duck tape.

Trust me, the legendary status of duck tape as the saviour of any problem is horrendously ill-founded. I proceeded onwards, sans pedal. It quickly became obvious that no matter how fast I walked and occasionally ran (yeah, I ran with the bike) I wasn't going to catch up with Dad.

By now I realised that he would more than likely think that I would have pressed on ahead and he would be trying to catch me up, never realising that I was actually behind him (without a pedal). I pressed onwards, using any downhill moments to hop on the bike and use good ol' gravity whenever I could. I managed to sail past a few walkers but my joy was short lived. Soon, the imposing climb approached.

Pushing a bike is the least fun ever. I lost my pedal a good 18 km away from where were headed and a quick look at the map told me I was still at least 15km from it. Not an insignificant distance, but on foot and with that incline, the day was going to be a lot longer and a hell of lot tougher.

I didn't want to miss out on what Macs Adventure brochure described as a 'mythical' ascent though (pretty sure they meant 'legendary'). I've walked long distances before, how hard could it be?

It turns out, pretty ****** hard. The cloud cover of the morning had given way to a blistering afternoon heat and the road upwards stretched on forever.

It was hard, and steep enough walking up the road, but eventually this gave way to dirt tracks with rocky terrain and inclines, and I'm not kidding, that saw me lifting the bike up wholesale regularly.

The going was tough, to say the least and on my own it was so much harder. A guy from Belgium (I initially guessed Germany) on a lovely looking bike stopped and asked if he could help but realised that was a silly question when he saw the problem. When I told him I was planning on walking the rest of the way and pushing the bike, the height of his eyebrows gave everything away. This was no small undertaking.

The heat and steepness of the climb created a killer combo and before long I was drenched with sweat and my legs were beginning to feel like jelly. Regular breaks helped, but the route was relentless. Even the stunning views did little to help matters, I had to keep going and the chance of a lift became scarcer with every step. Before long the option was entirely removed. The path was no longer road-worthy and I'd walked myself into a corner. I'd just have to keep going.

I made it to the top, obviously. But it was incredibly hard. As I suspected, Dad was waiting for me though he'd only just arrived. Guess he was going even slower than me.

We contacted the Macs Adventure guys and they had a new bike with me within the hour. Seriously impressive stuff and much appreciated.

You'd think the drama of the day would be done. Given the amount of sweat and energy wasted on the climb. But no, there was one more twist in the tale.

After a bit of a break and a well-earned beer, I was in the shower. I heard an almighty scream from the next room and went in to find Dad hunched over and clutching his back.

The collision last week and the day's hard riding had proven a bit too much. He hadn't slipped a disk, bit he had pulled a muscle, which is incredibly painful. We'll wait and see how he feels tomorrow, but right now it's looking likely that he might have to rest his back and avoid getting back on the bike.

I'll keep you posted.

Day 4 - The hills... and the flies!

Astorga to Ponferrada

We woke up with the best of intentions. We managed to set our alarms for 7:00 and up we sprang for a good day's riding.

The map ahead indicated that today would represent the biggest incline of the entire ride, but upon setting out this was a good few hours away and the furthest thing from our minds.

Yesterday's ride lingered in our muscles and though a few aches and pains persisted, it was good idea that we started the ride early.

Obviously it was a lot cooler in the morning and we weren't the only people with the same idea. It seemed like most of the pilgrims were off at the crack of dawn and the first few hours of riding were spent mainly getting around them.

It was slow going to start off with. We were a little stiff from the previous day and the flat farmland lulled us into a false sense of security. Though the map insisted otherwise, in the early hours it was easy to believe that the day's ride was going to be simple. So, we took our time and before we knew it mid-day had arrived and the hills were still ahead of us.

Did I say hills? Really, they were mountains. The skis adorning the cafe entrances should have been indication enough. But, the maps insisted we climb and climb we did. Each town represented a new milestone and though the road ever so slightly increased, each incline was obvious on our calfs. Burning as they pressed ever onward. There's nothing quite like a muscle screaming out in pain as lactic acid fills it and the road requires just a little bit more.

The longer the day progressed the more foolish we began to feel. The latter half of today's journey was a much bigger undertaking than we had originally envisioned. The day pressed on and the hills got steeper.

The views got more impressive though, and that can only be a good thing, The undulating farmland of the lower levels of northern Spain were lovely, but as soon as we headed up into the hills, everything became really quite lovely.

The foliage became a lot greener and richer for one thing, but this brought with it about a billion flies. It was impressive really. The higher the trees the denser the flies, and for most of the ride up the hills we had a constant coating of them. I felt like I was being provided with protective fly shield. They were that dense and consistent, it was as if I had my own bubble shield! It's not the nicest bubble shield ever, mid you.  

The hills went on forever though. As the road pitched round a new bend a new incline presented itself. Each time the road went ever upwards and what seemed impossible became true.

Though the temperature was lower than the previous days we were still drenched with sweat. The road kept going up and we kept following.

Whatever goes up, must come down though, right? That's the rule? Though it seemed hard to believe during the latter stages, at points the road became incredibly steep, we eventually reached the summit and 15km below us laid the day's target.

In pictures the town appears impossibly far away, and though we spent the better part of the day climbing these hills, the downward journey was our reward.

And, as hard as the uphill ride was, the reward was so sweet. On reaching the summit, our destination lay below, many miles away through a haze of smog, and the mountains provided us with the perfect opportunity to let loose.

There was a warning sign before we got going though. It warned cyclists to... um watch out for their own hubris and apply the brakes at least a bit.

Or something. Given the importance of the notice and the steepness of the ride ahead, you'd think the Spanish government could invest in a sign that contained proper English. We got the message though. Loud and clear. Only an idiot would attempt to shoot down these hills at speed. Off I went as fast I could!

The ride up had been hard but let's put it this way, if we had to repeat the journey in reverse, there's no way we would have made it up those hills. We had at least 10km of incredibly steep downhill slopes and let me tell you, it was glorious.

The roads were quiet enough to really enjoy putting the bike where it needed to be and the views were spectacular. I only wish I had a GoPro so that I could show you just how impressive the views were.

The warning was well-founded though. The road twisted and turned and there were many moments I had to slam on the breaks to ensure I didn't careerer off the road and into the bush. The bikes picked up so much speed.

I won't lie, after the slow moving inclines of the morning, to shoot down these hills was an absolute joy.

It was dangerous though. The empty roads gave the impression of safety and though I'd managed to get out ahead of Dad.

There were moments when I misjudged the road. Specifically, when another rider came up behind me and, in a blind panic believing he was a car, I pushed myself too far into a steep corner and nearly went straight into the gravel.

I didn't, and whatever language the rider did speak, I'm pretty sure he could understand my general sentiments as he spend off into the distance.

Though the downhill riding was fun, it was still at least another 25km once we'd reached the bottom, and another few hills finished us off for the day.

We arrived in a town with a Templar castle in the centre of it, and that's always impressive (you can Google what those guys got up to if you're desperate).

Let's see what tomorrow brings!

Day 3 - 'on the road again'

Leon to Astorga

Well, today was finally the day we started riding. After accidentally sleeping in (only till about 8:00, mind), we began our Macs Adventure cycle... adventure! Or at least we attempted to.

On leaving the hotel with a vague idea where we we going, we cycled back into the centre of Leon. I let Dad lead the way thinking he knew what was what.

He had an idea... it was the wrong idea. There were no clear markings up for the route and though I've travelled to a lot of mainline Europe, here in rural (ish) Spain, English speakers were hard to come by.

Round and round we went until we ended up riding past the train station. At this point I got my bearings and with that I utilised my only super power as a first world male: I got my phone out.

After sucking down the better part of a years worth of internet usage I figured out which direction we needed to go in and off we went.

Getting out of Leon itself wasn't that nice a ride. The town had plenty of abandoned industry to ogle and its large roads made for some uncomfortable cycling. As we headed out of town on our way to the nearest hamlet, that would ultimately lead us to the trail, coming in the opposite direction was a trio of cyclist in sporty gear and atop fancy bikes.

The lead rider, a rather charming fellow from a famous British holiday island, admitted that he and his friends were also a bit lost and in search of the same trail as us. Not one to step down from a challenge, or ever admit I don't know what I'm doing, I insisted I knew EXACTLY what I was doing (as is the British way) and advised they follow me up the road and across to the town that would join us to the Santiago trail.

Look at me, pretending to know what I'm doing!

After leaving Leon behind us I had started my convoy with just one Welshman. Now I had one Welshman and three Spaniards!

I needed to keep up the pace! These boys weren't messing about and they had the fanciest of cycling gear. Up a rather large hill we went until the famous seashells of the trail revealed themselves and our part-time friends sped off into the distance. They were pros, there was no keeping up with them.

Getting onto the trail itself was good though. The number of walkers or, pilgrims, trekking on its cobbled stones was impressive. Getting past them on the bikes depended on the slightness of the path itself, which varied.

Something I quite like about this trail is that everyone that passes each other feels the need to shout 'dom Santiago' at each other as they do.

This amuses me. Cycling up and down the Taff trail in Cardiff, this is a tradition I'm planning on adopting. The next time you see me cycling you'll hear me screaming 'Taff Trail!' or 'St Mary's Street!' at everyone I pass in an effort to translate the tradition. That'll be fun.

Most of today's ride was spent next to Spain's international roads, which is as much fun as it sounds. Though the latter half saw us finally head into the undulating farm land, we were met with rocky pathways and steep inclines. I was totally fine with this, Dad less so. As soon as the mid-day heat got to us we found the going got significantly tougher.

I thoroughly enjoyed it though. I've yet to meet a hill that can beat me (even the steepest of streets bows to my skilful use of gears) and we ended up spending about 6 hours on the bikes. Though the distance is short (around 50 km) the terrain certainly slows you down.

Keeping an eye on the path itself is fun too. Heading out of Leon we were treated to some lovely run-down industry and the shells of the path revealed themselves on bins and the odd bit of crumbling wall.

As we headed into farmland territory, rocks and trees began sporting the famous sigil. The path itself varied in quality.

Though I loathed being close to the road due to the noise of the traffic, as soon as we headed away it became a lot more difficult to ride, but much more in-keeping with how I had originally envisioned the ride to be.

Large stones and steep hills ensured we got a good work out. And, obviously the heat didn't help matters. We had to pick ourselves up some shells of our own, which we'll attach to our bikes tomorrow.

Everyone had them and I guess it has something to do with the significance of route itself. You've got Google, you can look up what it means. It's probably something religious.

Right now, I'm gonna get some rest and prepare myself for the ride ahead. It's only gonna get harder, but I'm ready for it. I promise I'll really try and do some vidoc stuff like I said I would yesterday, but let's just see how things go.

Here's a pic of the fabled shells:

Day 2 - trains, pains and... mankinis

After arriving in Madrid last night at about 10:00, we thought we'd go out for tapas immediately. It's not like most Spaniards even emerge for dinner until gone midnight, so by all accounts we were heading out early.

Being the technologically-minded one, I instantly took to the internet (after demanding to know the wifi code within seconds of stepping into the hotel, obviously) and started researching bars and restaurants.

Now, I'm terrified of living my life without the safety net my phone provides, but do you know what's more terrifying? Spending the night in a awful bar because you couldn't find a better alternative (first world problems abound).

Thankfully, my phone found an infinitely better alternative about 15 minutes walk from our hotel. Hundreds of wine bottles were stacked against the walls and after a lovely glass of Rioja, a boar burger and various other small snacks from the bar we walked away very content.

We were only ever spending a single night in Madrid and so after a quick breakfast (continental, of course) we headed over to the train station to take the next step in our journey.

After spending a few minutes looking at the dry Spanish countryside, I started thinking about Madrid and what the city itself offered us as we passed through.

Normally I'm sure I'd be able to gush lyrical about the lovely restaurants and tiny quaint details that made it such a stunning place to visit. But, passing through (barely touching 9 hours on the ground in Madrid) it reminded me just how much European cities resemble each other.

It's an odd by-product of the connected world we live in, but I left Cardiff with plenty of H&M, fast food chains, other clothes outlets and various places I generally refuse to enter on ethical grounds, to find that that's exactly what the historic city of Madrid had to offer. Perhaps it's because the branding and advertising remains the same that drifting from one European city to another creates a weird sense of dev ja vu. But it really is odd to be in a foreign city and feel quite at home because all the shops are the same.

I suppose it means you just have to dig a little deeper to find the good stuff, but we didn't have the time to scratch beneath Madrid's surface. Onwards to Leon.

After watching half of Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo (my choice) on my laptop, we arrived in Leon to 34 degrees C heat. I had initially thought this would be the biggest threat of the holiday, but after a few moments in the sun I decided that it wasn't actually that bad. In fact, it was quite nice. A short walk to our hotel later and we were met with our trusty steads for the week.

Our bikes met us at the hotel, as did two representatives of Macs Adventure Holidays. Bless, their English wasn't great (I teach English as second/foreign language) but we managed to muddle our way through and they showed us what was what.

To be fair, though I'm used to my skinny single gear bike, the mountain bikes provided look sturdy enough. They've got enough panniers and are light-ish. They should be easy enough to ride (I hope).

Our walk into Leon had been quiet and had given us the impression that the town itself was one of those middle European cities that had a large enough populace on paper, but in reality was a bit run down (complete with graffiti) and lacked any real individuality or spark. This, we were to find out, was a grave misjudgement on our part.

Imagine stumbling onto Glastonbury (or any other peripheral town hosting a massive festival), unbeknownst to the scale and scope of partying occurring therein. I'd imagine it'd be a bit of a shock. That's exactly what we stumbled into in Leon. A music festival, of sorts, filled with students, brass bands and lots and lots of booze, had turned the town into party central.

This lot were setting off fireworks from their hands and the drink was flowing freely. We stumbled into this mess at around two thirty in the afternoon and the party was in full swing:

Not that anyone in the town seemed to mind. Kids and elders were wandering around like this was totally normal and though the party was clearly going, the atmosphere was inclusive and everyone seemed to be having a great time. It was good old fashioned fun.

Here's a picture of a gentlemen in a mankini to prove just how much fun everyone is having. You can't NOT have fun in a mankini. It's impossible.

We left the party in high spirits. We do have a bike ride to do, after all, and some of us need our beauty sleep. We're planning on waking up early, around 7:30-ish, to get going as soon as we can tomorrow. The sooner the better; if the mid-day sun hits us, we'll certainly know about it.

Anyway, I'll try and do some vidocs as we go, so look out for those.

Kilometres ridden: 0 km (still!)
Alcohol consumed: A bit too much
Injuries: Feeling too old to be around young people

The Big Ride - Day 1, easy street

Quick guide:

Twitter: @Dai_Lynch

Periscope: David Lynch

This is an adventure blog. That's what we're calling our holiday. An adventure. We're not off to Spain to sit by a pool and watch the hours tick by. Oh, no.

We're off to achieve something. Sort of.

I won't waste your time or anything. We've all got stuff to do, books to read and people to see, and all that crap we seem to spend a lot of our lives doing. I'm writing this because I need to, mainly.

So what are we doing exactly? Well, my Dad and I are cycling from Leon to Santiago, in Spain (if that wasn't obvious). It's a UNESCO World Heritage route, apparently. Right now I'm sat in a hotel in Madrid and generally feeling pretty good about the many days of bum-aching cycling ahead.

There are a couple of reasons for this; mainly, I really enjoy cycling. I essentially use my bike to get everywhere I need to go so I'm on two wheels most days. Living in Cardiff means everything is within cycling distance, pretty much. Whether that's the cinema, work... the pub, the cinema. I can reach everywhere I need to go. That does mean I have to spend most of my year in shorts and I'm perpetually getting oil all over my legs, but hey, it's the price you have to pay.

My bike is a single gear. It's not a 'fixy', so I don't quite qualify for that level of hipsterdom, but it's hard enough to ride to ensure that I get a good workout where ever I go. That's why I'm generally feeling pretty confident about the ride ahead.

According to the Macs Adventure website (the company we've booked through; I don't know why there's no apostrophe either) we've got on average around 50 to 60km to do each day. Annoyingly, it's rather vague regarding the terrain of these days, but how hard can it be?

Though I said I'm feeling pretty good about things, my Dad is less so. In a well-meaning effort to get ready for our trip, he decided he'd take his bike to work one day. This resulted in a rather nasty crash.

Here's a picture of his bike after the crash. Not a pretty picture:

He's totally fine; the bike less so. As so often happens when riding a bike, a driver approaches a junction, looks both ways doesn't register the bike hurtling towards them and then attempts an early exit of the junction.

The only saving grace of a bump like this is that the car in question doesn't have to room to pick up too much speed. It doesn't, and didn't, stop the car destroying the bike and shoving Dad into the middle of the road, though.

Luckily, nothing was coming the other way. He got away with a rather nasty bruise to his side. Lucky, eh?

Here's a picture of him enjoying a beer on the first night:

He's feeling less confident about the self-described 'strenuous' ride ahead. I reckon we're gonna be alright. It can't be that hard? The route itself takes in the famous pilgrimage trail often taken by monks and the like (I've done some excellent research). It runs from Camino to Santiago, though we're picking it up in Leon (I know, we're totally cheating). It's been in use since the Middle Ages as a Christian route, but before that the Romans regularly utilised it for trade.

In my head Russell Crowe's Maximus galloped down it to find his wife and son murdered sending him on his gladiatorial killing spree, but that's just me. I've no idea exactly how hard this whole thing is going to be, but it should be a lot of fun.

The idea is that'll keep writing a little entry each day to let you know how it's gone. I'll also be on Twitter and Periscope at various times, but that's all dependent on wifi. Keep an eye on my tweets though, and I'll keep you updated.

That's day one done. Easy. Just a train to catch up to Leon tomorrow. I'll try to find out more about the history of the route and put into context exactly how sacrilegious and blasphemous we're being riding mountain bikes down it (kidding – but that's always a worry). Here's to day one - cheers.

It's been easy.

Kilometers ridden: 0 km
Worries: Quite a lot (we nearly missed the flight from Bristol due to traffic, but some skill-full driving by our National Express bus ensured we managed to scrape our way in).
Injuries: 0
Alcohol consumed: Three beers and two glasses of wine (yum).

Also, my name's David Lynch and my father is Nigel. Just thought I'd make that clear. If you're joining us for the week that's important information. See you tomorrow!