Of Stupidity and Serendipity

Saturday morning I was standing by this volcanic lake 10 miles or so from Girona, with picture perfect rowboats, early morning sun glimmering off the water, and the Pyrenees guarding the distance, all of which would, I suppose, have felt rather remarkable if it were not for the fact that I was way too frustrated to enjoy the scene. I had gotten up super early to begin a ride that was much more ambitious than it was feasible, and immediately spent the first two hours getting lost no less than half a dozen times, turning circles in Girona and ending up on a endless stretch of harrowing highway, trucks and all. On top of which, I had inexplicably decided to leave my bank card at home, only to find that the pension I had chosen didn't take credit cards, leaving me with so little cash that I knew I was facing a long weekend of hunting through remote pueblos in search of that one restaurant with menus in enough languages to offer me a "tonnyfis sandwic" for 15 dollars, and yes, to accept a visa. And I was feeling the Octoberish lonely, wondering why the hell I thought it was a good idea to be here, alone, miles away from anything and anyone who cares about any of the above.
Pero bastante, no? Si. Hubo un cambio, por supuesto.
A troupe of middle-aged cyclists on sturdy mountain bikes rolled up out of the blue and stopped to ask me a few questions about my cyclecross. At first I thought they were just interested in the bike, but it soon became clear that they were trying to figure out whether it could manage the trail they were headed towards. When they decided it could, and to my immense relief and delight, they invited me along. I spent the next four hours being treated to all the wonders of a gorgeous valley, history included. These folks were amazing. They spoke Catalan with each other, but were kind enough to switch to Castillian whenever I was in earshot. I was regaled with stories about Lance Armstrong and Floyd Landis, both of whom keep houses in Girona and frequently train in this valley and in these hills. I heard about how the people in the valley sheltered people from Banyoles (the cyclists' town) during Franco's sweep of the region during the civil war. They told me about the evangalists from the United States who had taken up residence in the valley, and asked whether it is true that estadounidenses don't believe in the virgin. They pointed out a miniature "golden gate bridge" dating from the 10th century, told me how the colors in the valley change with the seasons, and took me to a natural fountain with (they assured me) potable water (I was not so sure the next day). And when we came to a particularly tricky rocky descent that was iffy for my cyclecross, they all got off their bikes and walked down with me. We eventually parted ways, they giving me advice for the road ahead and passing on extra energy bars, me summoning up every expression of joyful gratitude I could muster in Castillian.
Afterwards, I returned quickly to the effects of my over-ambition. 80 miles into the first day I was thinking: four more times around the park--I can make it (and then beginning to fear the hill--utter stupidity, oceans away from the park). I think I cycled around 150 miles this weekend (and today can hardly climb stairs), but I'm not so proud of that figure, seeing as I was suffering too much to enjoy 11th century monestaries tucked into hills along the way.

I did, however, enjoy an exquisite moment back in Girona at the end of Sunday, sitting in the old cathedral (siglo XIII, spire here to the right) when a choir shuffled in to practice, sending marrow-harrowing echoes off the old old stone walls.

Que suerte tenia, que suerte.

Today I am back in Barcelona, in class, throwing out mistakes with every phrase. October again, como siempre.