Cycling Through Spain Despite Illness: Tales of a Stubborn Cyclist
July 14 – When the body begs for mercy, but the mind says “don’t be a wimp”
The day starts as usual, except my body has apparently decided to go on strike without notice. After 81 kilometers, my legs feel as heavy as cement bags, my head is pounding like someone’s hosting a rave in there, and my body temperature could fry an egg.
Maybe I’m sick? Nah, rubbish. Tough guys like me don’t get sick. But just to be safe – and to avoid dying in a roadside ditch – I find some accommodation. The receptionist looks at me as if I’m the Black Death personified.
July 15 – World champion in denying the obvious
I wake up feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck. This is definitely not a morning full of freshness and vigor. If someone asked about my well-being on a scale from 1 to 10, I’d answer “dead fish.”
But whatever, this is a cycling tour, not sick leave! I cross the Spanish border in a feverish haze and roll into some sleepy town, which suddenly hosts a tourist eyeing Tylenol like a dog eyeing a steak. The pharmacist looks at me suspiciously as I stand before him, soaking wet and hot as a furnace.
Fortunately, the weather is good – little wind and bearable temperature. Though on the other hand, maybe I just have such a high fever that even a blizzard would feel like a summer breeze.
n Medina de Rioseco, I stumble upon a hotel so cheap that even my boiled brain gets that it’s a bargain. Finally lying in bed, I come up with brilliant thoughts like: “Maybe I should take a COVID test?”
The result glows like Christmas lights: POSITIVE.
Well, that explains why I feel like expired yogurt left in the sun.
Feverish delusions and cycling feats – or how not to take care of your health
Getting up the next day is like a scene from a zombie movie – I rise from the dead, but with dignity at floor level. My head is roaring as if Metallica is giving a concert, and I’m shaking so much that a down jacket in 30-degree heat seems like a perfectly reasonable idea.
I find salvation in a 20-minute, scalding shower. It’s like reheating yesterday’s leftovers – it kind of helps, but the result still leaves much to be desired.
I swallow ibuprofen and paracetamol like candy (after all, it’s 100% legal doping for sick fools). I carry my bike downstairs – transformed into a sneaking carrier of plague, a lone warrior avoiding people as if I were training for the Olympics in social distancing.
Destination? Burgos – 150 kilometers from here. Does this make sense? Absolutely none. Do I have all my marbles? History has already answered that.
I ride in a strange state of suspension between fever and enlightenment. Can I even feel my legs anymore? Is it the wind pushing me, or have I transformed into a purely spiritual being on two wheels?
In Palencia, I pounce on coffee, a baguette, and a pastry as if I hadn’t seen food in a week. People around have no idea they’re sitting next to a feverish cycling zombie planning to conquer Burgos with the power of sheer stubbornness and a first-aid kit full of pills.
I pass farmers harvesting grain and philosophize: if they’re toiling in this heat, why shouldn’t I pedal? Animals in the fields follow me with looks that clearly say: “What an idiot, can’t he see he’s barely alive?”
But what do I care? I’m on an expedition, I’m on an adventure, I’m an idiot to the power of ten.
Finally in Burgos: Ice cream, corona, and a pilgrim invitation I instantly dismiss
AT LAST! I’m in Burgos! After 150 kilometers of fever, hallucinations, and an amount of painkillers that should be illegal, I finally wobble to my destination. Reward? Ice cream. Two scoops. What the heck, maybe even three. A sick cyclist deserves a proper serving of calories and cooling for his red-hot head.
Another test confirms the obvious: I’m still a walking biological bomb on two wheels. Logic? Thrown in the trash long ago. Stubbornness? My trademark.
Sitting over ice cream and trying not to infect half of Spain, I notice a whole herd of cyclists. They arrive in groups, loaded with luggage, with saintly expressions. Could it be a rally I haven’t heard of?
No way. They’re pilgrims. Heading to Santiago de Compostela. Our eyes meet over my ice cream, and it’s immediately clear that we belong to completely different worlds. They’re riding for spiritual enlightenment. I’m riding because I apparently have some suicidal tendencies to push north with a fever like a madman.
“Will you join us?” asks one of them, looking at me hopefully.
I look at them, they look at me. My black, rock ‘n’ roll heart and virus-infected body respond in unison: “Forget it, man.”
My route leads north, towards mountains, sea, Norway. While they pedal south in search of life’s meaning, I insist on heading north – infected, feverish, with a masochistic passion for ignoring all the alarms my body is sending me.
We part with a smile and a two-meter distance. I slip away from Burgos. Northern Norway awaits. And I’m going home – if I survive my own stubbornness and stupidity.
