Girona

T and T enterprises reunited, in front of our hotel

In 2002, I saw Spanish writer and director Pedro Almodovar's film Talk to Her and was overwhelmed. This was a story, among other things, of two men involved with two women, both in a coma and in the same hospital. It won the Academy award for best screenplay and the Golden Globe award for best foreign film. Talk to Her masterfully deals with the difficulty of male/female communication (sometimes better in coma), of loneliness, and love transcending loss. I recall feeling this movie was so complete, it went beyond the skill of one film maker, and had to be the product of a culture uniquely sensitive, in a very attractive way, to person(s) with a myriad of genuine problems, including neurological disorders. The Spanish, hmmm, I had no idea. They were not even mentioned in the popular book from 1984 The Europeans by Luigi Barzini. Perhaps he felt they were irrelevant compared to the Italians, English, German, and French. But like a beautiful cloud one may marvel at for a few minutes, wonder if anyone else even noticed it, and then forget what it looked like altogether, I had not thought much of Spain since that movie in 2002. By happenstance I am on a plane returning from two wonderful weeks in the northeast section

The Comeback Kid

I discovered cycling in 1969 with my college roommate Todd (See previous entry, The Huffy). We spent many hours together on our entry level 10 speed bikes. Initially our rides were absurd, mostly at night in downtown Atlanta. With no helmets, no reflectors and no lights, we hauled ass, dodging the cars, the muggers and the prostitutes (okay, maybe we slowed a little bit for the night ladies). These night rides were eventually surpassed by the ridiculous 500 mile ride in 5 days, we took through the middle of Florida, in July 1971. Before that tour we probably never rode more than 10 miles in any one day. Once we figured out how to prepare for and manage longer rides, we had a few good trips, including two in Canada. 40 years had passed since we last rode together. Todd  moved to Australia and shortly thereafter gave up cycling altogether. He came out of cycling retirement a year ago and when he did, we discussed a reunion ride for July, 2013.

The original plan was to take on the high Pyrenees in the Southwest of France. But my aging weak legs and Ptosiphobia dampened my enthusiasm for the long 8 % to10 % climbs and descents. So we Google mapped several areas along the Spanish/French border where the Pyrenees begin it's slow decline into the Mediterranean Sea and settled on the city of Girona, a hour's train ride northeast of Barcelona. With an established cycling reputation and several shops renting high end bikes, this was an easy choice. As a bonus, it was not difficult to bring along a mini entourage of other friends and family.

We didn't go to France but Sarah
did get a baguette bag

Girona is a medium-sized city with a small "old town" and river in its center  It is in the foothills of the Pyrenees and about 40-50 km from the Mediterranean. We rented bikes from a great store, which also helped us with  hotel reservations, provided maps and suggested rides. With a year of preparation Todd  was back in his old form. He looks and rides like the five time Tour winner Bernard Hinault. His enthusiasm was palpable and contagious.

The routine was to ride very early every morning to avoid the midday heat, and to get back and spend time with family and friends. Our entourage included the wives, my daughter Sarah and 'other' daughter Jennifer. Our friends Doug and Susan eventually made it over from France and my sister and her daughter, Mary, each stayed with us part of the time. Todd and I averaged riding about 60 miles a day but were usually out for quite some time, having coffee and chocolate croissants, trying to talk to the locals, getting lost of course, and taking advantage of the numerous photo opps. The traffic was very light. The Spanish drivers were unbelievably courteous.

We never had an unpleasant experience while riding. It was as if the area's financial interests depended exclusively on the goodwill of the local and visiting cyclists. The drivers on the winding roads were content to stay behind any rider for a matter of minutes, rather than place either in peril. There was never an impatient car horn or an aggressive attempt to pass us. The contrast between our sometimes hostile locals in Georgia, the maniacal French or to a greater extent, lunatic Italian drivers, was shocking.  No one was in a hurry. If someone from outer space dropped into Italy, after about 2 days, they would conclude, the entire purpose of life was to get from point A to point B faster than anyone else in the country. On one ride we stopped momentarily to look at our maps and several young boys approached to ask what I had on my helmet. When I showed them it was a mirror, they were able to surmise I perceived a need to see the cars behind. When I confirmed their theory, one immediately countered:
              "But why do you need it? The cars will see you."
His innocence was moving. Culture there apparently matters. In Spain, bike riders are respected and admired. If he ever rides in the U.S. he will be shocked by the rudeness of American drivers.

The dwellings in Girona with Cathedral in back round

From the Ride to the Sea

We had 10 rides. Mostly out of town into the hills and small villages, one direction or the other. There were two rides to the sea where we had to go over a Category 1 climb to get there and back. Once we reached the Mediterranean, the road resembled the Pacific Coast Highway, winding along the dramatic rock cliffs hovering above the sea. One day we rode 20 miles out of Girona and then had a 28 km climb to an old town on top of a mountain. We had a bonus of a 20 foot road washout on the long climb, precluding any car traffic. We were joined by Ben, an interesting and likable Colgate Professor we met on the "shop ride" several days before, where several itinerant professionals, locals and visitors all ride together. Many pros still live and train in Girona as Lance did years ago. After a week of stopping for every stop sign and red light, we noted on the shop ride, the locals ran through all of them.

Todd in front of apartment building that
housed Lance and Tyler Hamilton  

Going back to my resurrected feelings on Talk to Her, coupled with a direct experience with the Spanish people on this trip convinced me this was a culture, individually and collectively 'comfortable in their own skin'. I can not overstate how obvious and attractive this appeared to a cycling visitor and to the rest of our entourage. The Spanish ran the world in the 15th and early 16th Century, losing out to the manufacturing English, along with her other European cousins.  Perhaps it takes five centuries of "not being in charge" (or with the French, thinking they are in charge) for this obvious contentment.

The pool came in quite handy for recovery. Here we were
telling Susan how many Spanish pro riders we passed up that day

The food was incredible. We had a kitchen in the hotel. The tomatoes in the small market down the street were as good as our garden tomatoes we cried about leaving behind. We were able to buy whole squid and other good seafood. Naturally we purchased a European Nespresso coffee machine. With 7 to 10 people hitting it hard, it was not that stupid a purchase, until it was time to leave! The restaurants deserve special mention. If you Google the" Top 50" restaurants in the world you will find El Cellar de Can Roca number one. This is in Girona. It is impossible for a restaurant this good to spring out of a vacuum. The day El Cellar officially received the ranking, it had 2 million hits on its web site and in a few days they had to hire three people just to say "no" to hopeful patrons. Needless to say, we did not get in.

The entire experience was life sustaining. The riding, the small towns, the sea, the company, getting to know Mrs. Todd better (Susan, whom we love), breaking bread with family I don't see often enough, old and new friends, the pool side stories, the coffee, the wine, the food. It was a series of pleasures, each stacked on another, and another and another.

How does one capture such an experience in words? The renewal of riding with a lifelong friend after a 40 year interval. The kindness of strangers. The pleasure of  family and friends within the essence of a remarkable culture, brought together in this wonderful city. To borrow "a bit", as my my Australian friends say  from Pat Conroy's  Prince of Tides:  Since I have been home, every day before work as I put on my gear to ride, ".......These words come to me in a whisper, as a prayer, as a regret, and as praise: Girona, Girona, Girona".