Day 3 - Hinojares to Gor: Bikepacking the south of Spain
Day 3 (Problem Day)
Destination: Gor
Proposed distance: 64km, elevation gain: 1225meters, surface: 65% unpaved
Detoured distance: 60km, elevation gain: 1307meters, surface: who knows, some of it wasn’t road or path of any kind.
In case you missed the previous episodes in this series, you can find them here:
The hotel restaurant was eerily quiet in the wee hours of the morning when I flipped over Jocelyne’s bike to tinker with the shifting. I had spent the last while laying awake in bed ruminating about our most recent bike-related problem. Since mid-day yesterday, Jocelyne (Care Bear)’s bike had been noisily grinding gears as she peddled making quite a ruckus. It wasn’t a crisis, she could shift into and hold the easiest gears for climbing (this being a critical bike-related function since we had perhaps over-zealously composed the trip to feature an ambitious amount of climbing). Her issue was on the smaller end of the cassette where it was skipping gears, but the whole thing would clammer away noisily as she turned the cranks. I figured my 3-star bike mechanic skills were up for the challenge, so I snuck out of the room and got to work. I made some adjustments which did improve things, but ultimately she seemed to be due for a new chain. A bike shop enroute felt like wishful thinking. I did a quick search which yielded exactly one option, an e-bike rental store located in a small town somewhat out of the way. We’ll call them later. I’ll go see if Care Bear’s awake and has any better ideas.
Back in our room, Jocelyne was awake and had more bad news. She was sick. This seemed right on schedule. A red-eye flight, no sleep, two hard days of riding, and questionable nutrition didn’t exactly culminate the requisite resources for a functioning immune system. “What do you want to do?” I asked disheartened. She had a cough and was feeling pretty lousy, but thus far did not appear to be on death’s doorstep. We debated our options, including calling the trip and catching a ride back to Granada. She felt well enough to ride, but would have to take it day by day. That was good enough for me. Today we were headed to the best accommodation of our trip, a cave house built high on a cliff, modelled after the historic cave dwellings renowned to the area. I had been looking forward to this for weeks. We intentionally planned a shorter day’s ride, allowing for some down time at the unique accommodation with its promised incredible views. Maybe we could even have real food for lunch AND dinner. That thought alone was so enticing I almost skipped back to our bicycles. Three full meals plus a shorter day?!? Luxury! This seemed especially well timed now that Care Bear was sick and could probably use a long afternoon nap. I handed her an IMODIUM coated Advil Cold and Sinus to help ease her suffering, double checked she was on board with this plan, and packed up our things.
We circled back to Care Bear’s bike problem, and I explained the need for a new chain. Care Bear had taken on the team roll of official translator, so with the assistance of our trusty translation app, she made the call to the aforementioned e-bike rental company. “No servicio,” they told us. Couldn’t you just sell us a chain? “No servicio.” Sigh. This would have to be a future Jocelyne and Amy problem, let’s just get on the road.
Despite everything, we were actually packed up and ready by our pre-arranged breakfast time, but were without restaurant staff. In fact, there was no hotel staff anywhere, at all. We waited half an hour before Care Bear called the posted hotel phone number. Cue translation app. “We need food in mouth now. What gives?” The staff was, of course, outside smoking.
Eventually we were served a yummy and much appreciated continental breakfast, complete with a highly coveted fresh cappuccino. During breakfast, we learned the candies we thought we would be purchasing to fuel today’s ride were actually mini donuts and croissants. Though this does, in theory, work as fuel, pastries contain overall less carb density as a fuel source. When undertaking long endurance activities, carbs are king, and the faster and easier to digest the better. On our training rides at home, we aim to consume 60-110 grams of carbs per hour. That’s 240 to 440 calories per hour, and not a single calorie wasted on fat or protein. These donuts were not what we were hoping for, but with no gas station or grocery store in this tiny town, we didn’t have many choices. Agh, ok fine, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. We had a short day planned. We could make this work. Plus there’s a town along the way, we can just stop for lunch. We settled on a package of mini chocolate covered donuts, which I packed away in my panniers, and were on the road by 9:40, once again later than we had intended. Not the smoothest morning, but at least we were on our way.
As we climbed out of town, I had one last stop at the beautiful lookout. ”Hasta luego Hinojares.”
Our ride began on relatively flat on delightfully paved roads through groves of olive farms. I stopped to pick an olive from one of the trees, curious what a fresh one tasted like. It looked so pretty hanging there, like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. And just as Eve had experienced, this was a huge mistake. Unbeknownst to me, freshly picked olives are overwhelmingly bitter. They contain a polyphenol compound called oleuropein, a naturally occurring defence mechanism particularly abundant in unripe olives. It works to deter pests, animals, and unassuming tourists from prematurely eating the olives while they’re still attached to the trees. The bitter taste was overpowering, and lasted the better part of an hour despite persistent attempts to relieve my tastebuds from their agitated assault. Care Bear found this particularly amusing (but apparently not vividly memorable as I convinced her to try one later in the trip! Ha!).
Our olive grove tour continued through beautiful mountain scapes, complete with a Harry Potter style train bridge, and an aptly placed romantic swing overlooking the valley.
Our first descent was down into this incredible valley. One of the top five most beautiful things I have ever done in my life, so I decided to don the GoPro head gear to see if I could capture the moment.
Check out the river of lush green forest pictured below that composes the valley floor, spilling to the left of this shot. It’s actually a Poplar tree farm. This is where we headed next.
We cruised farm roads, following the base of the mountains when we were suddenly halted by a landslide of car sized boulders. As Care Bear was optimistically suggesting that we could probably navigate it in our bike shoes, three farmers working the Poplar tree farm flagged our attention, pointing us towards a bypass. This was serendipitous, we didn’t encounter anyone in the depths of the backcountry yesterday, yet here were some farmers, saving us from a dangerous hike-a-bike section. Thank-you random farm hands, we are in your debt.
We crossed a little stream running the base of this expansive mountain range, remarking on how implausible it was that tiny stream could have influences in carving the lines in this dynamic landscape. We found the geological history of the region fascinating.
From here the ride became progressively more remote.
Remote and desolate. The town we anticipated as our lunch stop was pretty dire. It looked like the type of place you could both choose and slaughter the pig for your ham sandwich. No thank you. We still had our donuts, so luckily we weren’t desperate for a stop. Don’t slow down Care Bear, I think I could sell my sunglasses and purchase this entire place.
The terrain grew progressively more remote, and our bike computer navigation progressively less reliable. The roads were loose shale, technical with large washouts, and there was a lot more elevation than the ever optimistic Ride With GPS had predicted. The surface changed so much, we never knew what was around the next corner or over the next hill.
At one point the road disappeared all together.
Around 30km, in the depths of the most remote part of the day, touring little more than a washed out ATV trail, Care Bear stopped me, “you’re missing a pannier.” WHAT??!?!? You’re Joking. I looked back. She was not joking. Time stood still.
Fluckon de neige.
I could hardly believe what I was looking at. Panic gripped my throat. No. Don’t. Pull it together. Let’s think this through. Care Bear, go back through the photos you took of me during the ride, see if you can tell how early I lost it.
Remember this picture? Did you notice the missing pannier? We didn’t either.
It happened somewhere in the first 8km of the trip. More than two hours ago, and a whole lot of climbing. Turning back was not an option, it would take too much time and too much effort, especially for Jocelyne who was falling progressively more under the weather (my poor sick little Care Bear, this is all she needed). Plus we definitely did not have enough food now that I had lost our donuts.
I was rapidly transcending into a floodgate of hysteria. How could we just notice this now? Jocelyne had spent the day riding behind me and my pannier had been missing for, like, two hours. How is it even plausible that I didn’t notice it missing? I literally got on and off my bike at least a dozen times, always on that side. I just finished pushing my bike through a freaking field standing on that side. My brain would not compute what just happened. I was crumbling, spiralling recklessly into an emotional trap of self doubt and self loathing. We’re completely isolated, hours from civilization, in a foreign country. We did not speak the language. Hold it together, panicking will make this worse. We needed a plan.
First, inventory. Here’s what was lost:
Amy’s rain jacket, wind jacket, arm covers, and riding gloves (weather protection, this wouldn’t be a problem until it was a problem)
Eight emergency gels (food)
My bike lock (we had two)
Our only European adaptor and Amy’s charging cords (this was a big right now problem)
Eight chocolate covered mini donuts (ugh, our only lunch related thing!)
The most important item was the apter and charge cords. We had no way of charging our phones or bike computers without it. Without phones we loose communication with the outside world, had no translation apps, no way to take photos, no ability to locate hotels, grocery stores or restaurants. Without bike computers, we had no maps and no directions, inevitably bringing the trip to an abrupt stop. Jocelyn still had her USB charge cords, so if we could find a European charging block we could charge her phone and both our bike computers. With just that we could keep going. We wanted to get back to Hinojares to look for the pannier, but if we couldn’t find it, maybe we could find a store that had charging cords or electronics. We needed a car.
It made sense to first contact the hotel and see if I managed to leave it behind. As if granted one small grace, there was internet connection in this desolate mountain pass. Thank you Allah, Jesus, Buddha, Krishna. I found the hotel’s number, then using our sacred translation app, and we contacted the front desk. Supposedly they searched around, but couldn’t find it. Given our previous experiences with the language barrier and their ‘yes, we will have your breakfast ready at 830 am but not before we spend 30 minutes outside smoking’ work ethic, this felt unlikely, and I was doubtful they understood what they were looking for or what we were asking. Strike one. Maybe if we can get back we can get into the hotel and look for ourselves. We needed that car, but we were still in the middle of nowhere and had 35km of technical riding before we reached our next accommodation. We couldn’t be standing around wasting time looking for car rentals. I contacted our Airbnb host, Maria, while Care Bear texted her parents to see if anyone could manage to find us a rental car or a ride share back to Hinojares. Having people work in the background while we rode helped maintain some semblance of morale. Maria eventually got back to me with the number to a local taxi company, saying if they wouldn’t take us, she would. Excellent, we now had a tangible plan that tethered us to hope. Time constraints now replaced the weight of the missing pannier. We had to finish up the rest of this insane ride, then get back to Hinojares to drive up and down backcountry farm roads searching for a small black bag all before twilight. Prospects were grim. Care Bear remained optimistic.
As we rode on and time lapsed, my emotions grew increasingly overwhelming. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I hated myself. I hated the world. I was grieving the loss of our chill rest day and miserable for being the cause. We needed to keep moving, but to manage that I needed to maintain some semblance of a functioning psyche, so I forced my misery into an uncomfortable internal container. It took everything I had to keep moving forward. One peddle in front of the other. Hold it together. Jocelyne doesn’t hate you. There’s still hope. I drowned out my internal self-deprecating narrative by attuning to the soundtrack of Care Bear’s grinding gears, and of course…
We attempted to pick up the pace, but the road was soft and loose, like riding in a sandbox. It was as if the earth was trying to shackle us to this moment, entirely bitter sweet as the landscapes were becoming progressively more spectacular. It was honestly one of the most beautiful parts of the entire trip. I took some photos so we had a pleasant visual representation to which we could eventually re-associate this moment. This is what I saw.
But this is how I felt.
My phone was almost dead. I needed to turn if off to preserve what minimal battery I had left. I texted Will one last time…
One of my panniers is missing. It had the chargers. My phone will die tonight. This could be the last you hear from me until we get back to Granada or Madrid.
…and took one last photo before I woefully turned of my phone.
We had a hard climb out of the valley of misery with not enough food since I had just lost our donuts. We passed some more incredible landscapes but took no photos because, you know, the phone thing. The terrain eventually levelled out but turned into a bone-rattling mess of a road. It was like the universe saying ‘hey, wanna ride this giant cheese grater?’ It wasn’t long before we were stopped, turning the phones back on to look for a better option. We found a paved shortcut. Paved! Awesome, suck it universe. We continued along this slightly more traveled route hoping to flag down a sympathetic passerby and bum a ride to our accommodation, maybe even back Hinojares if we paid them enough. We waved down everyone we saw, but only one vehicle stopped. They were French. This was promising, we could even converse unambiguously. We were obviously distressed explaining our situation and asking them for help, offering to pay them for a lift. They said no, they didn’t want our bikes to make their van dusty. The French. Wow.
Eventually we arrived at our accommodation and met Maria, our benevolent Belgian AirBandB host who was fortunately empathetic to our situation. She was prepared to spend the rest of her afternoon driving us around looking for the missing pannier. Maria thankfully speaks perfect English and Spanish, thus taking over the role of official group translator. It was 2;30 pm. The drive back to Hinojares was 50mins. We had at least managed to secure a ride back to Hinojares with enough daylight hours to warrant a search for the missing pannier. But first we were in dire need of a meal. We all piled into Maria’s Westfalia. She chauffeured us to the local supermarket for groceries and a snack. Closed, for an undetermined amount of time. Sigh. Of course it was closed. Why did we even waste time checking. Hunger would have to wait. It was time for the hunt.
For what felt like an eternity, I was staring out the window in anxious discomfort, pleading to be granted the one small fortune of finding my pannier. We were starving, so that never helps distress. Maria distracted us with travel stories of her own and local knowledge of the area. As we drove on, I added keeper of morale to her already onerous list of group responsibilities. We limped our way back into Hinojares. I held my breath as we approached the hotel. Closed. Why is everything always closed in this country?!? Wait! We have someone who speaks Spanish! Maria called the hotel staff. They were adamant the pannier wasn’t there. Disapointed, we left the hotel and retraced the first part of our day, the 8km distance before the first picture was taken without my pannier. All three of us were fixated on the roadside terrain, unblinking as we drove through a tessellation of olive groves, eyes straining with anticipation. We found no sign of it. Strike two. As a last Hail Mary, I had Maria call the hotel one more time to convince them to let us in and search for ourselves. After some protesting, they agreed, and we were headed back to the cursed Circe’s Island that is Hinojares. I jumped out of the Westfalia, pleading that I would find it sitting on a chair, right where I left it. I searched the hotel. Strike three. All hope was lost. I was gutted. Fighting back tears I climbed back into the Westfalia. It was time to go.
The weight of the situation descended on me with crushing force. I was ashamed for loosing the pannier in the first place, for not noticing it sooner, for making us backtrack all this way and spend all this time only to not find it. I was stuck with grief for what I had lost, what I had cost us in time, and rest, and stress. I was seething in self-condemnation for ruining our chill day, one for which both our bodies yearned. But mostly I was sick with distress that if we couldn’t replace the chargers, this would end our journey and it was all my fault. This could not be happening. I needed this trip so bad. I had spent so much time rehabbing my body, dealing with the medical, physical, and emotional turmoil this year had brought. This trip was supposed to be my comeback tour, and Jocelyne had been keen to travel it with me. This was her journey too, a break from the realities and monotonies of daily life. She needed it as well. And it could all end here because of my own inattentive negligence. This couldn’t be happening. I wanted to disappear.
Luckily there were two functioning humans in the front seats moving us forward. We had a big problem, but still had time to resolve it. We needed a charging block to continue this journey, and we currently had transportation faster than a bicycle to try and find it. We drove to the nearest, largest village to continue our search. Ponzo Alcon (population 5,000) reportedly included an electronics store, but despite Google’s specified business hours, it was closed, obviously. I was beginning wounder if the entirety of commercial Spain was a global hoax. Not sure where to head next, Maria stopped a local resident to asked if there was a store that sold chargers. Surprisingly, she knew of one and walked us to its location. Not only was it open, they had chargers!!! WHAT! It felt like we had found the Holy Grail. I was euphoric. I lost 30 lbs in that moment, grabbed every charger in sight and skipped to the cash register. On the way back to the vehicle I spotted a store dedicated entirely to candy, where I again bought everything in sight and skipped to the cash register. Rapidly shoving food in my mouth, I met up with Care Bare at the grocery store, and rapidly shoved food in her mouth. The grocery store was open!! I LOVE Pozo Alcon. Where’s the T-shirts? We bought groceries for dinner, breakfast, and a little extra to leave a tip for Maria (along with a giant pile of cash). The reckoning was complete, all debts had been paid. Things were finally looking up.
On the way home, Maria suggested we stop for a drink. She took us to a little road side restaurant for a beer and tapas. The Spanish tradition of serving snacks with every drink regardless whether your ordered it or not was fast becoming our favourite cultural norm. Our beers arrived with a plate of olives and tiny ham sandwiches (3/9). We raised our glasses to toast the moderate success of the day, broke bread, and shared stories of travels and tribulations. Maria was a fascinating human, and had significant travel experience herself, including two years traveling by horse and wagon from Belgium through South of Spain. She could certainly relate to requiring assistance from locals in a foreign country, which is probably why she was so kind to us. She recounted feeling entirely at home on her horse, and thought we must have similar sentiments on our bikes. I think even after only three days that was true, and part of the reason why this whole experience hurt so much. It felt like I lost part of my home. Maria thought the pannier was more likely taken than lost, as the places we were riding this morning, though rural, were still reasonably populated. She schooled us on Spanish culture, saying it’s customary to be overtly helpful, but there’s an implicit ‘finder’s keepers’ undertone. While I quietly morned the loss of my missing pannier, she offered some final words of wisdom. There are a great number of poor people in this part of Spain, hopefully whomever found it needs it more than us. I was somewhat comforted by this small token of experiential wisdom, and if it happened that my pannier’s new owner was not in desperate need of a new rain jacket or riding gloves, then I hope they at least enjoyed the donuts.
Today’s shout out goes to Maria, our bilingual guardian angle. Without her we don’t know how we would continued this journey. Plus she drove us around for nearly 4 hours.
I owe a special thanks to Jocelyne, my Care Bear. Your patience, resourcefulness, and adaptability continue to pull me through many shit situations. This year would have severely sucked without you.
Nerdy Bikepacking Stuff:
Now, the question you have all been wondering, “how the hell did you loose your pannier?”
Well, I’m not certain. It’s possible it was a manufacturer defect, or more likely, user error. For this trip I purchased a TailFin Aeropack and pannier system, a top of the line system used by bikepackers and pro racers much more capable and adventurous than I. TailFin’s panniers have a lever which locks them down to the Aeropack, but it’s a tad finicky, and if the hooks aren’t fully seated on the pannier mount, the lever will close but the panniers will not be secure. However, I didn’t realize this until after. I’m reasonably certain this is what happened and I did not leave the pannier at the hotel. We rode through a town with a couple of downhill speed bumps, which we hit with enough speed to jump the pannier off the Aeropack rack. In town it would have been snatched up pretty quickly. This is my currently my best working theory. We had some significant trouble later in our trip due to the pannier’s lost contents (stick around until Day 7 for details), and Tailfin was sympathetic, giving me the benefit of the doubt it was an issue on their end, and have since sent me a replacement pannier. That was incredibly nice of them. They placed far more faith in me than I place in myself.
You may also be wondering how Care Bear was feeling after all this. Yeah, not great. The journey did continue though, so stick around for Day 4 to hear what happens next.
Related Blogs:
The caves pictures above are some of the oldest human settlements in south-western Europe. They date back to the Neolithic Period, approximately eight thousand years ago. These cave sites, and their remnant artifacts have shed valuable inside on life during the prehistoric period in Spain. The caves are built into limestone cliffs, creating a natural shelter for humans and livestock. However, the arid climate, sparse rainfall, and persistent erosion cumulated into an inhospitable agricultural climate, and the economic consequences forced the settlers to move on decades ago. All that remain are the crumbling shells of what once was someone’s home. We saw them everywhere.