Bucket Ride - Pyrenees, Spain and France - Part Two

Bucket Ride

May 12 – 20, 2017

The Pyrenees: Spain and France

Part Two - Thursday through Saturday

Thursday; Rocamadour to Pau

If you don’t ride in the rain, you don’t ride. That doesn’t mean riding in the rain is fun, at least not for anybody who is sane. But it’s the dues you pay of the experience that goes with the feeling of freedom of riding a motorcycle in, not looking through glass at, your surroundings, with the wind in your face (sometimes nasty gusts), fragrances (sometimes foul smells), and weather (sometimes wet). We all knew from our satellite phones that were not going to escape rain today on our way to Pau, but it was predicted to start midday – so the sooner we got started, the longer we would ride in good weather, and the less far we would have to ride wet. So we all agreed, resolved and swore at dinner we would leave earlier Thursday morning.

Of course, we didn’t. We were all checked out, loaded up and ready to go in the car park at the anointed hour – except for he-who-shall-remain-nameless, who strolled in accompanied by one the waiters who was carrying his panniers. The waiter turned out to be quite a delightful young fellow, who carried the bags down mainly because he wanted to talk with us and look at our machines. He was a motorcycle enthusiast himself, I can’t remember exactly what he rode except it was what we refer to as a “crotch rocket”, lots of speed. Once that conversation was over and the moto loaded, others who routinely deliberately pulled on all of their gear methodically while those of us who are impatient Type A’s quietly went a little beserk, as we routinely do. Ready. No, now photographs had to be taken some of us who had been unable to do on our day off.

At last, behind schedule as usual, we were off, again happily riding through the parc naturelle, headed south west toward the border. Our first rest stop was to be Villeneuve- sur-Lot, which literally translates as New City on the River Lot, only “new” was a very long time ago, actually 1254 AD. I don’t recall even seeing the arched bridge that is the city’s main claim to fame because by the time we arrived sometime past lunch time the air was full of mist and drizzle. We left our bikes in the City Hall Car Park (parking lot to us Yanks) and retreated to a random little corner brasserie to grab coffee and something to eat (which was ample and delicious) before scurrying back to our now very wet bikes (read, sopping seats) and donned our rain gear in what fast became a soaking rain - then sat in the rain while he-who-shall-remain-nameless deliberately put on a balaclava, glasses, goggles, helmet, and gloves, and rather than mounting up, rested back against a tree. After Villeneuve-sur-Lot we entered a grand second growth forest, clearly lumbering country. The smells of stacked fresh cut logs and miles of  trees interrupted only by wood lots reminded me of similar sites in Pennsylvania and Alabama. There were no towns of any size in this stretch, but for lunch we somehow stumbled upon a working man’s restaurant, for lack of a better term. It was off the main road a half block or so in a village that had seen better days, and we weren’t even  sure it was open until one of our number stuck his head in to see. Like Leslie said, “It’s not like there was a neon sign out front.” It was empty except for the very friendly proprietress. It was after the normal lunch hour and she had clearly just finished up serving her regulars, but she still had quite a selection of hearty hot food available – bread and soups and beouf bourguignon and the like. As I recall it was all quite tasty and very filling, but we were all so thankful to be warm and dry that our culinary discrimination may have been dulled. I think the nice lady was quite happy to double her business that day on her leftovers! The interior of the old building was hand hewn peg and dowel post and beam construction. It reminded me exactly of old lumberjack mess halls I have seen in the U.S. – which is what I suspect it originally was. Soon we were all happily chowing down, with our motorcycle jackets and gloves hung all over the radiators and chair backs to dry out a little. It was one of those serendipitous finds that we probably couldn’t find again even knowing it is there, somewhere.

 I don’t remember much of what we passed the rest of that afternoon, I spent it hunched down against the blustering rain while my rain pants edged up over my boot tops, sending water coursing into my boots so I could experience the joy of flexing my toes in cold water. Joy, oh joy. That is until short of Pau, David unexpectedly again began having trouble with his balance and began weaving erratically and drifting into the wrong lane. We had to stop, and luckily found a large hotel with a large warm lobby staffed by three young women and some kind of massive Pyrenees wolf hound or sheep dog, who were all gracious enough to welcome us in. (The dog loved having his  tummy rubbed). Actually the stop was welcomed by all of us so we could wring the water out of our gloves and flap away some of the chill. David had something to eat and after about 40 minutes, we were on our way again. The rest of the way to Pau was pure wet misery. We were all grateful to find our hotel, a modern golf resort – only to find that the staff had not yet turned on the water heaters, so no hot water for a bath, and worst of all, their scotch on the rocks was a very expensive but very precisely measured measly 1.5 ounces. I’ll have a double, please. All ended well after a good dinner, by then the hot water was running, and I removed the insoles from my boots and used the hair dryer to dry out the inside of my boots. I quickly fell asleep, surrounded by socks and gear festooned about the room in various odd places to maximize evaporation.

Friday; Pau, France to Monzon, Spain

Thursday night we solemnly resolved to leave Pau early, but of course, things did not go without a hitch – several, in fact. First there were misplaced eyeglasses to be searched for, then wending through morning traffic in a construction zone to fill up empty gas tanks featuring a squabble over which gas station was closest or easiest among people who had never taken our route or even been in Pau before, and then a lengthy “discussion” with the gas station attendant who did not speak English but insisted that the “customer” copy of the signed credit card receipt was inadequate, she needed the “merchant” copy, which had somehow been misplaced in the handoff between David and her – but at long last we were on our way out of Pau, as usual later than planned, but once again, as usual, within a few minutes on the road everything was marvelous!

We took route N-134, named Route de Fromage (the cheese road) through the lovely French Parc national des Pyrenees to the picturesque mountain town of Laruns, where we stopped for a break. The area has one of the lowest population densities in France at 15 residents per square mile!

We were definitely in French ski country. I stuck my head in a patisserie with visions of croissants au chocolat avec café au lait, but found myself waiting behind three young American women who were giggling constantly while interminably trying to order bucket loads of pastries for the next morning. I determined that the place offered no coffee, and gave up. Two doors down the street was an eclectic shop crammed with all kinds of mostly Christmas and winter skiing bric a brac - and four locals,  drinking coffee! But, this shop did not offer pastries. After a few minutes, Leslie disappeared and bless her heart, returned with a bag full of assorted pastries, including my croissant au chocolat! J She had 8, one for each of us - which was fine until he-who-shall-remain-nameless took one each of two varieties for himself, leaving us to divide one of the larger ones in two to share so nobody was left out. Oh, well. I guess that just shows French pastries are to die for.

From Laruns, we continued on D-934 up the steep sided canyons and suddenly open valleys of the Ossau River Valley and over the pass at Frontera del Portalet – a name suspiciously reminiscent of Port-a-let, a well-known American porta-potty supplier! Thankfully, the pass resembled nothing like its false cognate name might suggest. Snow was abundant so snow ball fights erupted amid taunting and laughing. Leslie flagged down a passing car of tourists. It turned out some of them had lived in the US for a while, and were most happy to oblige us by taking a group photo, which we reciprocated for them. On the Spanish side of the border the road was re-named A-136. We descended through the Spanish ski resort of Formigal (who knew Spain had ski resorts?) through Monte Perdido to Broto where we stopped for lunch at Pradas en Ordesa, a surprisingly elegant (and very good) restaurant with a “Motorcycles Welcome” sign out front.

We were now in Aragon, and the terrain was once again much more arid. We went from being cold and wet the previous afternoon in Pau to hot and dry as we followed a river to the ancient Moorish stone walled village of Ainsa. Ainsa is strategically situated on a hill top at the junction of two rivers, Rio Ara and Rio Cinca, in a high valley flanked by mountains. A few kilometers to the north, the vertical cliffs of a great snow streaked crag, the Peña Montañesca tower high above the town. Founded sometime before the 8^th century, Ainsa was both a trade center and a Moorish military stronghold. The incredibly well preserved Moorish battlements dates to the 11^th century. The Christians reconquered the area from the Moors and built their church and castle in the 12^th century. Today, Ainsa is a prosperous retirement and outdoor recreation center. The valley to the East was flooded in 1969 to make a huge reservoir. We took plenty of time to explore the historical sites and had a leisurely coffee in the magnificent Plaza Mayor before heading up into the hills above the reservoir, where we were treated to terrific vistas and, in Brian’s words, “a seeming endless supply of bends with many hairpins” – a difficult combination because the beautiful views diverted our focus from the road that demanded our full attention, lest we become part of the landscape! We ended the day dropping through sloping pastures and poppies to the ancient city of Monzon, visible for miles sitting on a high hill topped by a castle of the Knights Templar that clearly has its architectural roots in their Moorish predecessors.

We pulled into Monzon late, so did not have any time to see the city. Our hotel, the Masmonzon, was brand new and very modern, and clearly a hangout for out for the younger upwardly mobile set of Monozonites. At dinner, my magret of duck was delicious, the best I had on the trip, but our Spanish chef apparently was a true believer that beef is made to be eaten only rare. After three trips back to the kitchen, the filets were still not done enough for Lovett and David (who was now unofficially known as Hitch, as in the opposite of without a hitch), so they went hungry. No matter. While the rest of us old fogeys retired, Hitch returned to the bar where he was invited to join a wedding party, and drank the night away – at least until he woke me some time after midnight literally bumping into walls and trying to unlock the door to the wrong room in the dark.

Saturday; Monzon to Barcelona

Fittingly, our last day on the road was to be “all about the road” - a long, hot twisty one through Tremp to Berga, back in Catalunya and through the Coll de Boixols, then past Monserrat into Barcelona. As usual, we first stopped to fill our tanks with petrol. I happened to get through near the first and was quietly sitting on my moto minding my own business and talking with Brian about the route when Dave came rushing by too close and scraped my panniers with his – so much for turning in an undamaged bike -  and thus was born “Demolition Dave.” He was full of energy this morning, and drove around and  around the petrol station lot until we were all ready to go. It must have been very lively party last night!

The road did not disappoint. We started out through the Olvenas Canyons, a rock climbing mecca looking all the more rugged juxtaposed with the large stark and sleek modern art sculptures that lined the road. We stopped at Tremp for our traditional coffee break in a picturesque square beneath a huge bell tower. 

After a minor mishap when Hitch forgot to close a pannier and decorated the sidewalk with his belongings, we rode into twisty heaven - sinuous steep gorges on skinny roads literally carved out cliffs hundreds of feet in the air, endlessly weaving back and forth and back and forth until I found myself relishing the rare straight away as a break. I once again found myself next in line behind Demolition Dave when we hit a short stretch of 4 lane, and he started wandering in his lane again. When he almost wandered into oncoming traffic, missed by a car by less than six inches, I knew this time it was not carelessness. He was having another episode. I raced ahead to wave Brian over. At our first opportunity, we all pulled over for a drink of water and for David, a snack. After a brief rest and assurance that David once again had his balance back, we continued on to a delightful little restaurant bordering a river for lunch.

After lunch, we had two choices: the more direct motorway south to Barcelona, or a longer route along more back road twisties. We were concerned about being in a remote area if David had another episode despite his heartfelt protestations that he was fine, and besides, several of us were feeling a little fatigued with our full bellies, so the consensus was discretion over valor. We took the shortest route down the motorway. As we approached Barcelona, you could see the jagged edged ridge of Montserrat thrusting straight up into the sky like the edge of a worn saw blade, first in front of us, then to our right. Aptly named, Montserrat means serrated. I could not make out the famous Benedictine abbey, not surprising as it is nestled in a stone notch and may not even be visible from our side of the range. That will just have to wait for another trip. One can hope, right?

Meanwhile, poor Brian’s travails were not over. He was paying everybody’s tolls, but the machine would not let him pay for more than one bike at a time, and only gave him small coins in change. He kept shoving in about 20 coins each for everybody’s tolls, naturally dropping a few in the process and having to pick them up from the ground, while motorists behind him grew increasingly impatient. It was actually kind of funny. Mel or Arthur one, I don’t recall which, finally went over to help him out. No good deed goes unpunished!

This was a tour that just barely came together with mix of extremely experienced to rookie riders, bound together by a common love of motorcycles. It is a testament to all of us that it came off so well. We all love you, David aka Hitch aka Demolition Dave. Your enthusiasm was well, inspirational! We are just really glad you made it through your first motorcycle tour in one piece - barely! Here you are taking a much needed and delayed nap at our last gas stop. Leslie, you were a brave trooper to travel as the only female with this haphazardly selected group of all-male over the hill derelicts - and with such good humor! Douglas and Arthur, you showed your real character the way you took care of David in his hour of need, and Brian, you definitely proved the worth of having an experienced guide, overcoming inoperable sat navs, an accident that was not your fault, and truly going the extra mile (s!) to ride back to pick up David from the hospital. Mel, your equanimity, good humor and even temper throughout kept us all on an even keel. And Lovett, what can I say about you? Unique. Genuine. A good friend. Would you rather be riding motorcycles or driving a railroad engine? 

And I apologize to each and all of you for my type-A attitude, and thank you for joining me on this adventure. You know, despite our misadventures, I have absolutely no doubt that all of us would all do it over again in a heartbeat!