Epic Racing around the World

Back in 2003 I “found” myself living in Madrid, Spain, for a spell…racing bikes, learning the ways of staying up late, sleeping later, and riding the train to the mountains for some of the best road riding on the planet.

My friend Guille and I went to a mountain bike stage race a few hours to the south east of Madrid during that arid summer.

Hot. Dusty. Desolate.

It reminded me quite a bit of the mountainous areas of West Texas. The race was to be a proper multi-day affair : 3 days of 50k XC stages…not the “mtb stage races” of the US where 3 days really consists of nothing more than a 5min TT, 20 min STXC, then finally after waiting around…a singular XC effort on Sunday.

No, this would be real racing.

5k’s into the event, I can’t remember what happened, but there was a major mechanical meltdown that wouldn’t allow me to finish the point-to-point stage. Bummed, no doubt, but at least I could “ride” the rest of the stages if the bike could be repaired. 5pm on a Friday in a remote part of Southern Spain…that wasn’t happening.

Our race hotel, as with all hotels in Spain, had a bar on the bottom floor. Being savvy travelers, we picked a room with a balcony that opened up - cool air in the summer is a life saver. Problem - this balcony opens up above the bar’s front door. Bars on a Friday, in Spain, don’t even start partying until 2am…and rarely slow down before dawn.

Sleep would be a challenge. And then it got loud. Late in the night/early in the morning, shouts, yelling, and chaos disrupted our fitful sleep…bodies flying through windows and shattering glass on the ground. Women screaming and men yelling. Onto the balcony we flew to see drunks scrambling up from the pavement and a crowd gathering.

Flashing lights. Cops. Firetrucks. Crying. Dawn wouldn’t arrive soon enough.

Completely disgusted with my situation, I told Guille I’d simply ride my broken bike the estimated 20k’s to the train station and take a 3hr train ride back to Madrid - I’d be home before noon, get in a ride, and could do a local road race on Sunday.

Travel bag on my back and a high five to Guille to ride like el viento in his race, I was off before sunrise.

20k’s became 40k’s before the train station appeared, and if you’re familiar with the Spanish and their approach to red tape, when a conductor told me I couldn’t take a bike on the empty (and direct) train back to Madrid, and that I’d have to wait another few hours for the train to Valencia, then wait for the train that would take a bike (and me) back to Madrid…arriving 12hrs later that evening, you can understand the virtual bond I have with Guille. Yo soy enfadado, would have put it mildly.

And I place eternal blame on him for that ordeal.

Payback.

Its best served cold. That story happened in 2003. 5 years later, I’ve put Monavie/Cannondale rider Mitchell Peterson in his guest room all week while Mitchell waits for this weekend’s World Cup in Madrid. Guille has to entertain him. Feed him. Dodge his flying limbs.

Enjoy the ride, Guille!