Traveling Cyclist in Analucia, Part II

Like the mountainous Alpujarran region carpeting the coastal mountains between the Mediterranean and the high Sierra Nevada, the San Luis Valley of Colorado is home to poor, skeptical Castillan-speaking farmers and is a magnate to all kinds of "alternative lifestyles" including Buddhists, Democrats, artists and sculptors, modern versions of hippies, new-agers, UFO seekers, professors and students of various ilk and interests, Shirley Maclain, and even Christian monks. The topography of the regions are dramatically similar, as well: the Sangre de Cristo mountains of the San Luis Valley rise majestically like a garden wall from the high, arid valley floor to over 14,000 feet, while the high Sierras gradually build from the Mediterranean, through the more arid lower ranges that make up the Alpujarras, to an elevation of about 11,500 feet.
In fact, however, the Sierra Nevada range--the second highest range of mountains in Europe--is tremendously taller than the Sangre de Cristo range of the Rocky Mountains. The reason for this is that the Sierra rise from sea level--literally, from the Mediterranean Sea--whereas the Sangre de Cristo get a nice leg up as they start from a valley floor already perched at a lofty 8,000 feet: the nearest "sea" is the Pacific Ocean which is one-third of the continent to the west. The vertical of the Sierra Nevada, then, is a true 11,500 feet, whereas the vertical of the Sangre de Cristo is on the order of 6,000 feet. In terms of sheer vertical, the Sierra Nevada are nearly twice as high as the Rocky Mountains.
As you head north, away from the coastline, and into the Alpujarras you encounter several lower, but impossibly steep ranges including the Sierra Lujar, and the Sierra de la Contraviesa. The small villages of the Alpujarras are thriving vestiges from the region's Moorish and Berber past, where Muslim sultans ruled until 1492. The last of these Sultans, Boabdil Naziri, surrendered the city of Granada and his palace of Alhambra and, in an uncustomary generous act by Ferdinand and Isabelle, was allotted domain over the Alpujarras from the small mountain town of Orgiva, what today is the center of trade for the western Alpujarras. That act of kindness was short-lived; about as long as it takes to ride your bike through the sparsely populated village.
The obvious impact of the Moors on this area is constantly reinforced through visual cues, some subtle some not. The less subtle cues are the magnificent and impossibly ubiquitous terraces on which almond trees, lemon and orange trees, olive trees, and numerous other fruit bearing species thrive. These terraces were part of a vast, ingeniously engineered water transportation system out of which a network of complex water sharing canals moved the precious liquid from the snow-rich Sierra Nevada to the bleached, water-starved lower elevations. The less obvious cues, perhaps, are in the colorful geometric tiles that adorn nearly everything in the gleaming, white-washed towns clinging impossibly to the steep mountainsides of the ranges demarcating the region.
The Muslims, forbidden by the Quran to recreate the hand of Allah's work through realistic paintings of animate objects, nevertheless celebrated the order of God's impeccable universe through their understanding of algebra and geometry. This celebration is evident in the ridiculously proportionate yet insanely complex symmetrical knots and designs adorning so much of Spain's tile and plasterwork, doors and river stone walkway--and, by long historical extension, that style so often denoted "Santa Fe" or "southwestern." These complex designs are the result of a deep understanding of mathematics and geometry and were seen as profound insight into the universal order of things, as intended by Allah. It's not so different, really, from physicists today who use numbers to untangle the mysteries of the universe, and to point to the existence of things never to be seen by the human eye on both the micro and macro levels.
Another perhaps more subtle reminder of the influence the Moors had on this area is the woeful wail of the region's singers. Even in Spanish, the sorrowful music sounds to me like the haunting call of the caliphate from the highest minaret.
If the Moors had applied their same geometrical fervor to the entirely unreasonable and disorganized roadway system adorning the Spanish mountains we, as cyclists, we be much worse off. Clearly, the Romans had no hand in building the goat paths that are today called paved mountain roads and connect the network of villages that spreads vertically rather than horizontally. But as an old riding partner of mine used to say, "I like a road with character," and in the Alpujarras there are an abundance of characters.
Whereas some riders look upon a 45 or 60 minute mountain ascent as a descent through the seven rings of hell, I relish the idea. 60 minutes of a slow grind at sub-lactate effort is precisely what I require to build the leg muscle my genetics failed to provide. After a very quick 2 km descent from our precipitous perch on Monte los Almendros (the mountain of almonds) where we've rented a villa, I'm on a farm lane gliding effortlessly through lemon, orange and almond groves, smelling mimosa, and forced only occasionally to stop for the herd of strong smelling goats being shepherded from one field to another. Dodging a mine field of remnant goat turds and odiferous splotches of urine, I catch up with a main artery for a bit, trundle through the town of Velez de Benaudalla, am soon at the base of a climb headed for Orgiva, and then well above that, up to the spa town of Lanjaron.
From Lanjaron you stay on the main road, needle your way through a winding field of eco-friendly windmills fed pertually by the relentless wind--a cheerful, modern day salute to Don Quixote as I whisper by--drop slightly down and over the Autovia de Sierra Nevada Motril-Granada, and then plunge down to the reservoir in the valley floor, just below Beznar. Here begins another near hour-long climb first up to Pinos del Valle, and then to a crest in a lush, pine laden valley in the Sierra de las Guajaras called the Valle Lecrin. This unspeakably gorgeous spot is sheltered by the wind and is fed with sparkling streams where tall grasses grow green and thick, bees hum joyously as they go about their business, an array of birds chirps and chases insects, lemons and oranges sun themselves, fig trees are springing to life, mimosa and scotch broom flagrantly showcase their canary yellows, and olives and almonds ripen on their branches. The Arabs called the Lecrin the "Valley of Smiles," and if you visit you'll know why. And you'll smile.
Heading out of the Lecrin Valley the road pitches abruptly upward and you are quickly above the forests. For me, there is a queer and disquieting sense of forlornness when riding in mountains without trees: above timberline in Colorado gives me spooky shivers, and it’s no different in these various, wind-swept and sun-bleached sierras. The sound of unprotected altitude is haunting: it is a disturbing void, a near auditory lifeless world aside from the rustling of the wind. This uneasy feeling is made all the more poignant when riding alone…a creative mind is not a particularly terrific asset at these moments especially as you start to question the sensibility of riding tubulars with no spare tucked neatly away. "Ah, let's see now, when did I last see a car?" "How many kilometers would it be back to Pinos?" "Are there mountain lions in the Sierras?" "Naive American Cyclist Found Dead in Harsh Spanish Mountains." I can just read the story now, people shaking their heads in incredulity that anyone could be so stupid to ride alone out there.
Now, it used to be that I loved descents. Dropping down Molas Pass at 11,000 feet into the town of Silverton, CO in the Iron Horse race from Durango to Silverton was the pleasure that made that damnable sufferfest all worthwhile. The road, closed to traffic, allowed you to cut the corners with no risk of winding up as the hood ornament on some Texas tourist's Cadillac. And at speeds at times well in excess of 50 mph, the sheer exhilaration was--as I can only imagine it--the nearest thing to free falling from an airplane. No. It was, in fact, even better than I can imagine that as the effortless inter-working of body and bike, the harmonious unison, whilst fluidly carving so effortlessly a high-speed turn takes mindless concentration (an oxymoron, I know) that I cannot imagine of any other physical endeavor. To over-think the speed with a singular focus on the apogee and exit strategy of each turn--all the while hoping like hell that you properly glued your tubulars--would be tantamount to slamming on your brakes, pulling over, climbing off your bike, and watching the end of the race as a spectator. Instead, you let your wheels roll, you feather the brake--keep the braking surfaces cool, don't melt the glue--lean, tuck down, back on the brake hoods, squeeze gently, arrrrrrrrrrrrch through the turn, watch that gravel patch, tuck, accelerate, pedal like hell...
That was 22 years ago. I was 20. I was immortal. 22 years later and morality seems to be wagging a finger in my face telling me I better behave. I'd like to tell him to f--- off but the fact his he gave me a gentle reminder of my ephemeral and tenuous presence on this planet about a year ago. It was a distinct and much needed reminder that we are very fragile creatures and that we best learn to appreciate the few fleeting seconds we have in the universal scheme of things. That's what I'm doing in Spain.

The Traveling Cyclist

Being a fly fisherman as well as a competitive cyclist I started to reflect on the two sports during my recent trip with Cervelo to the Giro d'Italia. Passionate as I am about both sports, I started to draw (perhaps overzealous) analogies. Disanalogous as the two may in practice be, in principle the passion and diversity shared by their mutual participants is perhaps unrivaled among all other sporting endeavors. From an obsession with products and cutting edge technology, to a compulsive addiction to literature and all things lifestyle-related, cyclists and fly fishermen share numerous similarities, none of which, however, is more similar than the yen to search out the best grounds (or waters!) on which to play.

The search for the perfect stretch of water or the ideal sinew of road borders on obsessive if not obscene. Who, for example, is willing to travel the globe in search of the perfect football (soccer) patch or turf, the perfect basketball court, the world's finest baseball venue, or the nirvana of all tennis courts? Who, other than cyclists, will clear two weeks of their schedule and risk divorce from their spouse to travel to remote, often foreign, mountainous regions just to worship on their sport's most noble battlegrounds? Fly fishermen will literally scour the globe looking for the perfect trout stream: be that in the nether reaches of Chile, New Zealand, even the Kamchatka Penninsula, or as near as the headwaters of the Arkansas in the Colorado Rockies. Like fly fisherman, cyclists (both competitive and passionate enthusiasts) will trundle all around the planet in search of fabled stretches of straight and serpentine streets. These roads--draped and strewn over mountains, meadows, and marshes like spaghetti randomly tossed by God's own hand--are the cathedrals of cycling and they beckon the souls of cyclists with the same persuasive power as the Khalifa calling the faithful to Mecca.

In just the last 8 months I've had the wonderful good fortune to ride in Mallorca, the French Pyrenees, along the coast of the Adriatic in central Italy, and most recently the Dolomites of northeastern Italy. For each trip I've packed my Cervelo SLC SL into a well-trusted Thule bike case and trusted the travel gods to see it safely deposited at each destination. Anyone who has traveled with a bike knows this is no easy task. Aside from logistical problems of lugging a 30 Kg super-oversized piece of luggage, there are the inevitable quarrels at check-in regarding random upcharges and over-size baggage fees. More often than not, your bike will not arrive with your flight, but will show up a day or two later (NB: because you're paying to fly your bike, you can ask for a priority lable to be placed on your bike case: this will insure that it is sent with your flight and will virtually guarantee same-time arrival). The point of all this is that massive dedication is involved in traveling with a bike to a far-off locale. It requires a mental tenacity, physical strength, patience, and fair bit of good humor way beyond that of traveling with running shoes or tennis racquets.

But as the traveling cyclist knows, the pay-off is immense. For the competitive cyclist, the opportunity to train in the Alps, Pyrenees, or Dolomites will provide a clear advantage during racing season: leg strength, sub-lactate and lactate power, aerobic efficiency and sustained anaerobic power will dramatically increase from just a few hundred miles in these unrelenting mountains. For the sporting cyclist, who above all enjoys a spirited ride on the hallowed roads of cycling's greatest feats, the vistas, people, camaraderie, and proud claim "I've ridden there!" whilst watching a grand tour imbue a cycling adventure with a kind of intrinsic worth that goes way beyond the price tag. In both cases, the ability to immerse yourself in the local culture in an extremely intimate way is priceless. Riding a bike in a foreign country does not always come with the same stigma and cruelty one may experience in regions of the U.S., and in many countries, when you're a cyclist, you already speak the local patois: verbal barriers are broken down by a common love for the ride, the bike, and the heroes of the sport.

Most recently I had the very good fortune to join Gerard Vroomen and Tom Fowler from Cervelo on a 9 day cycling spree in Italy. Joining us was Francesco Sergio, who is in charge of European Cervelo sales. With a small cadre of other riders from the States and Europe we delighted in the company of the UCI's #1 ranked women's pro team, Cervelo LifeForce. Stationed in Gabicci Mare, just south of Rimini, the pervasively morbid reminder of Pantani, we enjoyed some seriously hardcore and aggressive training with the team. After 3 days and twice as many rides along the Adriatic's coastal ranges it was time for some Giro action, so we headed far north to our hotel at the base of the fabled Passo Pordoi. The Pordoi was one of the featured climbs during Stage 15 of the 2008 Giro d'Italia and so it also featured prominently in the Dolomites Stars Giro d'Italia Granfondo (actually, Stage 15) which we rode on Saturday, May 24th--one day prior to the pros.

If you have yet to do a granfondo (cyclosportif, in French) it is highly recommended. The tempo you set on such a ride is up to you and your legs: some attend these events to race for the prize money and honor of winning. Others, like our group this year, ride it for the challenge and the lifetime opportunity to experience Europe's great racing roads as would a pro peloton: with support and access only to cyclists. Along the way you'll experience a few crowds cheering words of encouragement to ease your suffering, tremendous views, and a dramatically greater appreciation for what a pro cyclist has to endure to earn a living at a wage exponentially less than that of almost any other professional athlete.

Preparation for riding in any mountainous terrain is imperative: riding a grandfondo likewise requires solid preparation and, above all, a solid hydration and nutrition strategy. Stage 15 was 160 km with over 15,000 feet of climbing, and three words which Brian Walton had emailed me the night before the event kept ringing in my head: Respect the distance. In so doing I kept my heartrate below my lactate threshold for 7 hours, drank 10 19 ounce bottles of liquid, ate 3 ham sandwiches, 3 oranges, 4 bananas, 2 packets of cookies, the equivalent of 4 Italian Twinkies, and in the last 30 minutes of sheer suffering up the Marmolada (a 7 km diabolical, gun-barrel-straight 13% climb that tortures the mind and degrades the body) two sugar intensive gel packs. At the finish I was greeted by a smiling Gerard, who had just finished the 96 km version, and who seemed all too happy to inform me that I needed to change into fresh, dry kit for the 25 km ride I now had back to our hotel!

Passionate cyclists, like devout fly fisherman, will tell tall tales full of embellishments and exaggerated bravado, but we all know this and almost relish in the fact that our achievements--while greater than what 99.9% of the population would even consider doing--are so substantially inferior to what that .01% of professionals can accomplish that it numbs our brains. But when you travel as a cyclist to roads you've eyed since you first saw LeMond contra Fignon you catch an ephemeral moment of personal greatness which elevates you to something better than you were or what you thought you could be. In those fleeting moments perhaps we find the true value of life: it's the memory of those moments, the replaying and retelling of them in embellished states, that makes us feel rather than just be alive.