The pharmacy’s sign blinked, “42°,” the equivalent of 107 degrees Fahrenheit. My melted brain struggled to make sense of the numbers. Córdoba’s stone buildings seemed to sway in the hot breeze, and the cobblestone streets radiated heat like an oven.
My husband, Tom, and I were continuing to circumnavigate the globe by bicycle. From Córdoba, we planned to begin a 700-mile section through southern Spain and Andorra. This marked our first day back on the bikes after three months of visa-related delays. The process had been a mind-numbing, occasionally depressing mix of poor decisions and questionable bureaucracy that took far longer than anticipated. We’d left Spain in mid-April amid chilly thunderstorms and returned mid-July, the most ill-advised time to ride in the region. But even in scorching temperatures, we were thrilled to be rolling again.
After a night’s rest in town, we tackled the road in earnest, waking at 5 AM to squeeze in 45 miles before the heat became debilitating. Our daily routine developed quickly: make sandwiches from a full baguette at night, rise before dawn for a shot of espresso, and ride through pepper-scented olive groves without stopping until early afternoon.
As we continued through charming and friendly farm towns in Andalusia, the details of each day blurred. Sweat left streaks of dried salt on our clothes. Still, most days we were able to cover 50 to 80 miles in the flat terrain, often on converted rail trails, with occasional tunnels that provided all-too-brief respites from the sun. Cicadas chirped loudly, almost tauntingly, and my eyes burned from the dryness. Passing Don Quixote’s windmills, pedals spinning slowly, I channeled his futile struggle.
Once the heat became too much, we’d stop at a municipal pool and spend five to six hours floating in the water and resting in the shade. Amid grandparents playing with grandkids and teenagers lounging coolly, we read or napped for hours. Once the pool closed, we’d ambled off to find a camping spot.
If there was no pool, we’d either find a cheap guesthouse with air conditioning or kill time with small glasses of cold beer at a local bar accompanied by old men watching bullfights on TV. We nibbled on tapas of fried anchovies, olives, cold octopus salad, or jamón, a Spanish cousin of prosciutto. It seemed like the locals ate the dry-cured ham with every meal.
After a week of riding, we pulled into Valencia and took a few rest days to enjoy the city’s historical plazas and vibrant neighborhoods. The coastal climate was cooler, but more humid. We played cards and people-watched at a sidewalk cafe over glasses of tinto de verano, cold red wine with sparkling lemonade and ice.
From Valencia, we rode 60 miles east and called it a day when we reached some secluded sandy cliffs above the sea. The small bluff yielded to round rocks shaped by waves, and we were delighted to have stumbled upon one of the rare places along the Mediterranean coast without highrises, theme parks, or plastic kiosks selling trinkets. Most of the beaches were crowded with pale tourists, their skin various shades of pink, red, and deep leathery brown, but this spot was tucked away, with only one Spanish family camped nearby. They invited us to join them for paella, everyone spooning out rice from one large communal pan.
Turning inland, we rode toward Manresa, a town on the outskirts of Barcelona. A few days before, we had arranged to stay with Nuria and Urbici, our first Spanish hosts with Warmshowers, the famous hospitality network for cyclists. Their house in the countryside had incredible views of Montserrat’s jagged mountain peaks to the south.
I cooled off in their pool and splashed around with their kids while swallows darted across the nearby hayfields. After swimming, I took a deep nap in our upstairs room, later waking to distant thunder and the flash of lightning. Dark purple clouds approached from the west, and I excitedly walked outside to revel in the cool air the storm was bringing. Rain drops pricked my arms, and the gentle breeze felt like navy blue air wrapping around me. I wished I could bottle that feeling and put it in my panniers.
We joined Urbici’s extended family the following day for their weekly gathering on the patio. Urbici’s mom, Marta, prepared a feast. First, she wheeled in a cooler and started cutting up a whole cooked octopus with kitchen scissors. Then she began on plates of sliced tomatoes, marinated red peppers, olives, and jamón, of course. Over dishes of cold potato salad, smoked salmon, and glasses of tinto de verano, the whole family discussed our trip enthusiastically in English, Spanish, and Catalan.
Another Warmshowers host, Jordy, welcomed us in Ponts. We had dinner with him and his parents at 9 PM, and again discussed our trip in a multilingual conversation. Jordy’s parents were fabulous. His mom wore bright blue eyeliner, and changed into a long, flowy orange dress for dinner. His father, Giuseppe, filled a porrón, a traditional Catalan glass wine pitcher, with cold red wine. He then held it about a foot above his mouth and poured it like a well-aimed fountain. Apparently, this is a Catalan thing. Tom tried it, with minimal spillage, and Guiseppe clapped him on the back.
The next morning, Jordy cooked us breakfast, and Guiseppe set down a cold bottle of vino to go with our omelettes. The condensation on its sides dripped down as we laughed and considered this other Catalan tradition. We departed in molten heat at 11 AM, sans morning wine, and rode on the west side of Rialb Reservoir, its opaque turquoise water taunting us, to a sidewalk cafe in La Seu d’Urgell.
With two beers, two sparkling waters, one Powerade, and one lemonade on the table, we felt rehydrated. That night we bonded with Berta, yet another Warmshowers host, over a shared love of biking and running, and in the morning, she laid out a breakfast fit for royalty.
The Catalan hospitality was hard to leave, but from Berta’s we cycled 13 uphill miles to cross into Andorra, the 26th country of our trip. The increase in elevation meant cooler weather, and we took two leisurely days crossing the Pyrenees. On steep switchbacks, serious-faced road cyclists passed me with ease, and I marveled at their lightweight bicycles.
Our last campsite in Andorra was at the top of a pass and treated us to panoramic views as wild horses roamed around our tent. Tom and I agreed that it was one of our top ten favorite camping spots of all time. The next day, we had another lifetime highlight: the long, curving, smooth descent into France. Tom was grinning like a schoolboy at the bottom.
Despite the challenging heat, we said our heartfelt gracias to Spain. We looked forward to France with enthusiasm, and what the French call joie de vivre, the joy of living — the type of passionate delight that emanates happiness and appreciation for all of life’s little moments. That, and slightly cooler temps.
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