Guadalajara – Madrid – Becerril de la Sierra – Segovia – Bernuy de Porreros – Aldeasoña – Valladolid – Villada/Las Megas: 326 km

Flying with a dog and a bike is stressful. From the taxi to the paperwork to the behaviour of the dog to the packing of the bike. So many things to take care of, so many little things that can go wrong. Luckily, at least in Mexico, all is smooth sailing. Maya’s documents are in order, all is good with the bike. The flight is fine, although, after travelling by bike for so long, I find it somewhat insane what we put ourselves through; 10,5 hours of sitting in a way too tight space. On the other hand, it allows us to see what’s on the other side of the world, I guess. Probably worth it in the end. I do have issues at customs in Madrid. Maya’s chip isn’t working. We try and we try. Security gets another two scanners from elsewhere, we scan her body for an hour, but no signal is picked up. A dog without a chip needs three months of quarantine in a shelter. To say that’s not ideal would be an understatement. But the officer is nice about it, after all I do have the paperwork to back up her health, and he points to the sliding doors behind us as he whispers; “Walk through those, don’t look back.” A weight falls of my shoulders as I nearly sprint to freedom.

Daan picks me up at the airport. He’s a friend of a friend, and nothing less than a godsent. All my stuff fits in his car, I can stay over for the night and organise myself, and on top of that he’s ordered the buggy for Maya. Even though I haven’t really slept in who knows how long, the rest of the day I spend repacking, building up my bike and the buggy. Daan’s girlfriend, Ana is studying to become a vet. She helps me out with a new chip, extra vaccinations and a European passport for Maya. The first night here, Maya is a European citizen. As night falls, I’m all set to head out tomorrow. It’s going fast, but I’m excited for the road.

The plan is to make it Las Megas, to Joachim. Two years ago, he, and 6 of his friends bought a piece of land in the Asturias, a mountain range in northern Spain. They have been renovating both the land and what was left of the two buildings on it. Miraculously, our schedules aligned and here I am, making my way to him. Joah is a pianist, and on Sunday he’s playing a gig in what looks to be magical villa up on one of the mountains. I’ve been listening to his music regularly while writing this blog, so I really want to be there!

More below ↓

The first day back in the saddle feels foreign. It’s been three months without riding, and I can feel I’m out of shape. The roads are tranquil and smooth. I’d forgotten about that sweet European tarmac, and the fact that there’s alternatives here to the big, car infested main arteries. The weight of the bike also feels foreign. I’ve underestimated what it means to travel with Maya. My setup is at least 45 kilos heavier between the cart, the food, the extra water and Maya herself. On top of that, I now have double the number of wheels. Every little hill, heck even the speedbumps, feel like serious climbs. On every incline my legs fill with lactate acid within the first few paddle strokes. The first day ends after just 32 kilometres and I’m dead tired. I set up camp alongside a reservoir. I had planned to go further, but dusk is upon us and this seems as good a place as any. There I come to realise I’ve also underestimated the cold. Precisely a year ago I was in Spain too, the southern part. I do remember it as cold, yet definitely doable. Now, when I wake up, the inside of my tent is covered in ice that formed from the condense of my and Maya’s bodies. Her water bowl is frozen shut, my bidons tell the same story. There are even ice crystals on the frame of my bike. I can’t get out of the tent before the sun has come over the mountains to heat up camp. As I wait for the day’s first sunrays I think of Guadalajara and wonder if I should’ve stayed a month longer. All that comfort. But I’m happy to be moving again, even if it’s hard.

The second day back in Europe takes me over a pass. I had planned to this yesterday, but I’m happy I didn’t. It’s a hard climb, and for the life of me I cannot stay seated. I have to push my whole setup, which feels like a road train now, up the steep slopes towards a ski resort. Go to Spain they said, it will be warm they said. The toughness of the task ahead is softened by the beauty of its surroundings. I’m in a white world, the trees, the road, the cars, the grass, everything white and everything glistens in the stark light of the winter sun. It takes me the better part of the day to get up there. I’m greeted with smiles and waves from the pedestrians and cars passing, they enjoy both my suffering as well as Maya’s grin from ear to ear as I push her up the mountain. She’s happy here, I’m mostly drained in sweat. The downhill is worse. The sharp cold air cuts through my sweat soaked clothes. I’m not moving, only breaking, and my hands feel like they’ve turned to glass. I need to stop repeatedly to warm them in my crotch, until they start to hurt from the heat. But I make it to the somewhat bigger town of Segovia.

Segovia is a lovely place. Loads of middle-aged churches, only interrupted by monasteries from the same era. The roads wind and meander, and my plan is to heat up in a small hotel. They call them hostals here. I visit four, I’m rejected by all; Maya is not allowed in. No warm blanket or café for me tonight. In search of a camp spot, I ride along the river. Too steep to set up camp. An elderly couple recommends me a monastery on the outskirts of town that has a patch of green in front of it. It’s perfect, level and quiet enough not the arouse suspicion. I don’t want to burn their lawn, so no campfire tonight, which means I head to bed at eight. In the morning the fathers, who obviously noticed me, bring me cup of warm tea.

More below ↓

The next day my search for warmer places proves unfruitful once more. It’s only been two days but I cannot wait to exchange my tarp for a roof and I’d like to cut my journey short by taking a train. The local train station is all supportive and explains to me it’s not a problem to travel with both dog and bike, but I need to get myself to the long-distance station when the train leaves for Oviedo in about three hours. Elated I sip a coffee on a terrace until making my way there. Once at the train station, it’s not even up for discussion; bike in a bag or no bike at all. In search of a “yes” I talk to multiple Renfe employees but the answer remains the same; “impossible.” Down on my luck I smoke a cigarette outside, pet my dog and come up with a new plan. Soon enough, my state of mind changes. Go with the flow, if I don’t make it, it’s all right. I find a beautiful park 10 kilometres from town, I don’t even regard it as a day lost.

The days to Aldeasoña and Valladolid are challenging because of the cold, and boring because of the surroundings. I ride through barren farm land, nothing is being grown at this time of year. The soil is black and grey, the bony tree branches frozen white in the mornings. It’s only been four days of camping but I need a night inside, both for drying all that I have, and for my mental wellbeing. I take a little detour to an Airbnb in Valladolid where dogs are accepted.

With this pace I’ll lever make it to Las Megas before the concert on Sunday. But Joah promises to pick me up with his car. With that foresight, just one more day in the freezing cold seems doable. I push myself to make it to our meeting point, but the parque ecological that I had planned to camp in doesn’t exist. I set up camp between a big roundabout and another monastery before sundown. The next morning Joah arrives while I’m having my first coffee still in my sleeping bag. Perfect. As we ride through the snow-covered mountains of the Asturias, I’m grateful I’m here, warm and relaxed, instead of in the saddle. I’m excited to see how he’s been living here for the past couple of years. I hope for warmth by the time I leave.