Pouncing Lessons: Part 1

The morning is warm, already nearing 60 degrees at 7:30am. That make the dressing easier: no leggings, arm warmers to be removed later, regular socks. A craft baselayer tank and full dew rag for the head are concessions to the morning coolness. Able to leave off the leggings, leaves more room in the pockets to carry food. 'Brings lots of fooooddddd,' Geoff wrote in his email. 'Tell him to bring more than a banana and a granola bar,' he told Janet on their ride yesterday. Food equals fuel for the miles we have planned for today, Catalan sud.

I'm feeling fine, wonderful, as I drift through the village. The mix of birdsong and the sounds of village life and sun blend. The temperature drops just below Villelongue as I drop into the shaded valley. Cold, cold. Hard to warm-up when my knees are turning shades of red. I turn up on the road to Le Boulou and quickly meet another rider heading my way. 'Bonjour. Ca va?' 'Ca va!' The shadows tell me he made an effort to catch onto my wheel. No problem, I don't want to push very hard with these cold temps anyway and we move along the valley road together. Montesquieu, the climb onto the D618, the TGV construction that constricts the road, the descent into Le Boulou consectutive rondpoints going in every direction, Perpignan, Le Perthus, Ceret, Barcelona. The other rider's shadow is gone, dropped, but not on purpose. I ease off on the pedals and stand to stretch on the climb to the large rondpoint where Geoff and I meet.

We meet the other club riders up for our little sportif today, most are familiar, but some are new. One is Alain, a cuisinaire from Amelie. Another is an older fellow on a Trek 5500, the second Trek I've seen in these parts. On our coast down to Maureillas, I catch him checking out my Trek and we talk a bit about our bikes. Veronique is there, savage on the Col de Llauro Sunday, she takes a more maternal role today, tending the slower riders on the climbs. David, the retired Scottish architect rounds out a bunch of about a dozen. I pull a banana out of my pocket and we're ready to roll by the time I toss the peel into a trash can.

I have never ridden my bike in Spain, so this is a first. Geoff explains that this was a common training run for Thor Hushvod, imported local hero who lived and trained here. Often they would do a combination of the Catalan north and south routes, about 180k, have a lunch and a break and then do an afternoon run of 80k. Five days a week. In a training camp of a month, they could get in almost 4000 miles of riding.

We take a turn at Maureillas on the Via Domitia, the Roman road linking Spain and Rome. Again, the age of this place hits me over the head. Romans were taking this same route 2000 years ago. Once up on the national route above to Le Perthus, Geoff points out the original Roman bridge below, still functional, now a small bridge amongst newer homes. The long drag to Le Perthus and the border is about 6k at a modest 6-7% grade. Perfect for me. I just spin away, thinking of the day and riding to come. Soon, I'm behind Alain and notice he's definitely putting an effort in. Fine, I make sure it's all aerobic for me. Before the town sign he jumps. A quick look back and there's no other riders in sight, so I let him go and let the heart rate slip back into zone 2.

Geoff and David catch up in the traffic jam that is downtown Le Perthus. Everyone coming from Spain to buy things in France and vice versa across the border in La Jonquera. The border itself is a thing of the past with the ascension of the EU. A few border police are checking cars for smugglers or illegal immigrants, but most just whiz past the deserted control stations. Geoff is a bit in front of me, catching a draft from a truck. Pedaling with not much force, I can manage 40mph, but he's slowly pulling away. A black Saab pulls next to me, makes eye contact and then eases in front, offering me a draft. Gracias! Now I'm doing 50 and closing the gap. The driver taps his brakes to let me know he's slowing for traffic and I move past to pair up with Geoff.

The route turns off the national highway, direction Capmany, and wait for the other riders. Alain pulls up with several other club members, but they go up the road 50 meters before they stop. This rankles a bit and Geoff goes up to explain to them that we need to stick together. For many riders getting dropped on a climb is a loss of face, and I'm sure a couple are feeling that right now.

The road to Capmany is quiet, groves of olive trees line the hillsides, along with vineyards and a variety of high desert greens. There are no people, no tourists, no cars, no trucks, just the road, the hills and some cyclists. We pass the village and the road climbs a bit, Sant Climent, Espolla, each 5k apart, separated by rolling hills and hugging the south side of the Alberes range. Between the two, there's a military base and they're shelling one of the peaks. Every few minutes a mortar would sound, preceded a few seconds by a poof of black smoke on the peak. At Espolla, we stop and regroup again; the route can take different paths here.

Col de Banyuls, the sign was small and white, indicating it wasn't a large road. No indication of how far it was, or the fact that it marked the frontier of Spain and France. Just a little sign pointing down the road. We start to climb again and again the group is whittled to David, Geoff, Alain and myself. We reach the top of a grade and I ask if that was the col. 'No,' Geoff laughs and points to a mountain in the distance. Alain keeps asserting himself at the front of the group. Funny how this works, this interaction between cyclists. Who is a courer? Who is a club rider? What does it mean when someone goes to the front for no reason but to be in the front? Are they trying to prove something, show someone up, assert their dominance? When these things are said outloud, or written down, they seem petty, foolish, trivial boy stuff. On the bicycle, a primal reality sets in. Dominance. Who is strong, who is weak? Who is alpha? It's something felt in the gut, sub-rational, but everyone feels it.

The critical thing is what you do when you feel it.

Alain on the front for me today meant that I would follow his wheel up to the anaerobic level then let him gap me. This meant I was second by a bit on the Col de Banyuls, feeling the joy of propelling myself up it's 10-14% percent grades. Geoff and David rolled up behind us, the rest of the club quite a ways back, Veronique the mother hen making sure the last of the chicks made it to the top. The vistas were breathtaking. The Mediterannean spreading out to the east, the dry Alberes next to us and the backside of the Tour de Madeloc even with us. Alain shared that he had ridden to the Tour before. I struggled with my past tense long enough to fail to answer that I'd ridden it as well.

A couple bites of sandwich, a picture or two and, just as we set out for the rocky descent, David's front tube blows. A few minutes later this would have meant injury or worse; now it's good for a laugh and not so subtle analysis of his inner tube and it's many patches. David is a thrifty Scot and it looks like his tube died of old age.