Irun to Gerona in six days.

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Surely the only objective is to get people out on bikes? And by offering options, you're more likely to get a wider, more inclusive range of cyclists.

Realistically, bearing in mind how far away Spain is, that's likely to be the main deciding factor to limit numbers.
 
Well, not really. If an 'inclusive' club starts offering mainly mountainous routes that have daily time pressure the inclusiveness goes out of the window.

I must have missed the memo saying the Fridays were now only offering mainly mountainous routes!

Even CTC tours include some mountains.

If a tour includes some hilly bits, surely by managing expectations and doing what you can to encourage people not to be put off by headline figures, and providing a mechanism such as splitting a group into different sections, then those who may not have the same speed as you, or climbing/descending skills, can be happy together, then overall the ride is being more inclusive. You shouldn't automatically write people off, and say it's not suitable for them.
 
OP
OP
dellzeqq

dellzeqq

pre-talced and mighty
Location
SW2
just bear with me on this, please. But please take in to account that I would never have people riding on their own in the mountains. The weather can turn, you couild get a mechanical and be missing the golden part..........I don't mind how other people organise rides, the way I'd do it is the way I'd do it. It may be that this description inspires people to go the same way, and that's fine, but if it's a Fridays ride...........

And, for those of you in need of further inspiration........

IMG_0892_zps6509d31c.jpg
 
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redfalo

known as Olaf in real life
Location
Brexit Boomtown
CTC tours also grade their routes in their publicity as easy, easy/moderate, moderate, or enthusiast, allowing people to choose which ones would suit them when they book, which would be a radical departure for the Fridays.

Well, not really. If an 'inclusive' club starts offering mainly mountainous routes that have daily time pressure the inclusiveness goes out of the window.

I respectfully disagree.

Think LonJOG. 680 miles in a week. Starting with a 123 miles night ride, and then the ordinary 75 miles day, plus 90 miles on the last one. The Hell of the North and all that. It was the toughest tour by far that I've done in 35 odd years on a bike.

LonJOG was mountainous. And boy it was inclusive. It was the Fridays' finest hour.
 
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Dogtrousers

Kilometre nibbler
There are a few lovely photos dropped in here. Is there a trove of these pictures uploaded somewhere else?

Although I did note that Agent Hilda said "We missed a hundred beautiful photographs"

It's exceedingly unlikely that I'll be inspired enough to actually go there, but I may do a bit of virtual touring, with maps and the like in bed. And who knows, one or two of my virtual trips have made it to reality. But this does sound rather steep for me.
 

StuartG

slower but further
Location
SE London
I respectfully disagree.
Think LonJOG. 680 miles in a week. Starting with a 123 miles night ride, and then the ordinary 75 miles day, plus 90 miles on the last one. The Hell of the North and all that. It was the toughest tour by far that I've done in 35 odd years on a bike.
LonJOG was mountainous. And boy it was inclusive. It was the Fridays' finest hour.
It was certainly pushing the envelope but it didn't go off it. That first night/day was exactly the same length as the Southwold ride but DZ spread out the time much longer. If it hadn't been for that appalling weather after lunch it would have been comparatively comfortably testing (says someone far from the strong end of the group). Hell of the North was just beautiful riding. The A9 was a bit scary. The last day was the hardest (for me) by far. The logistics didn't give DZ any choice but we went for it and maybe if JoG had not been our final end point some of us might have failed.

I very nearly did.

LonJoG was the ultimate in pushing an inclusive tour to its limit. The proof is EVERYBODY got there under their own steam. Just.

This is different. I've only motored there but it makes the Scottish Highlands look quite cuddly. The long, long stretches away from any habitation - the openness of the terrain. The speed at which weather can just appear do its worst and disappear (height and heat are a deadly combination). The length of those climbs and, for me, the demotivation of seeing it snake away for miles and miles without end rather than little (minute?) Ditchling hiding itself round turns.

When DZ first mentioned it - I thought it may be the first Friday ride I'm going to chicken out of. He tried to persuade us it wasn't that bad. Second thoughts have obviously come into play. There may be a magic way of enjoying the hills without nasty descents. And we know how many group rides have foundered at the bottom of a sharp hill.

If nothing else the leader should enjoy the ride too and the pressure here might ruin that. Testing bits are OK but connected by long periods of just comfortable riding is what some of us do enjoy.

I am still out to be convinced this is a good idea. As I understand it DZ is unsure about being convincing. I will leave it to him. I don't think it right to push him because the hardies can do it.
 
OP
OP
dellzeqq

dellzeqq

pre-talced and mighty
Location
SW2
Day 6 – Ripoll to Gerona – 85km

We got up about seven and headed for the Ribes de Freser railway station. I’d wanted to take the train the day before – and the thick mist in the steepsided valley did nothing to dissuade me. Hopping aboard the Linea 3 to Ripoll would take us to the point that the N-260 became, heaven knows why, the N260A and climbed out of the Freser valley, and, we hoped, out of the mist.

77303_Ribes_de_Freser.jpg


The station was built of brick and stone with low overhanging eaves held by struts taken off the wall. A shelter crafted from materials used and, indeed, celebrated, in a truthful way, truthful that is to the forces exerted in nature, and truthful to the wonder of the railway age. Not that M. Eugene Viollet-le-Duc, the theorist behind this break with classical formality was averse to extravagance – particularly in the lapel department…

eugene-viollet-le-duc.jpg


Anyroad (or rail) up, the 8.12 came in pretty much on time, which is to say four minutes before the timetable lifted off the internet the night before, and we got on. The train rolled gently down the valley, crossing and re-crossing the road and the river below, its smoothness testament to the virtues of the Iberian gauge.

We pulled in to Ripoll, made our way out of the generous station and took coffee and pastries in the café opposite, not in any rush to get the day over with. And then, a little after nine, we set off for Olot, going up, (as was our morning habit) through thick green woodland, sliced through by sunlight, thinking that this hill was nowhere near as tough as those on previous days, but, still and all, if it had happened in England or Wales, which it wouldn’t because it went to 1120 metres, would cause young men in lycra to dash themselves against its tarmac, recording their endeavours in the demented annals of ‘Strava’.

We heard wolves howling. Honestly. It was quite something. Wolves. Or dogs that sounded like wolves. Either way, we were unworried, knowing that wolves had better things to do on such a nice day than to bother tourists of a certain age. We simply turned the pedals, watched the road unwind in front of us and knew that, for all its gentility, this day’s ride was a ride to remember.

We departed the N-260 for good and all and dropped in to Olot. Which had sappy bike paths to nowhere, so we ignored them and ended up on the elegant main drag before getting just a little bit lost beside El Fluvia. Susie’s I-phone told us where we were, and we toddled along the side of the river to the C-152 and turned south to St. Esteve-en-Bas, which, for all its proximity to a the main roads appeared little touched in the last two hundred years. Which was not entirely to the good, as, by this time, we wanted a bite to eat……so we went southeast on the C-63, through our last tunnel and gently downhill to Les Planes, there to find sandwiches and lemonade.

And then we turned left, on to our last road, the GI-531, with kilometre signs that told us when we would reach our destination. Another few kilometres of uphill, and then a descent to the valley of the Riera de Llemana and then, without warning we were on the flat heading southeast knowing that in an hour it would be all over. As we went south, little knots of super-super fast cyclists (and even some super-super-super fast items) were whizzing north. We waved to them, and, almost without exception, they waved to us - as if to say 'sombrero!'

I wasn’t sad about the ride coming to an end – there was a fit-ness to it. I marvelled that we’d done it – close on 600km across some formidable country, pretty much all of which came as a surprise to Susie. Because – here’s the thing. Any muppet can do what he knows he can do, but for someone to take on something that they do not know they can do, and to come through it having achieved much, much more than she thought possible, having seen much more than she thought possible is quite something. We are, after all, talking about a woman of 54 (whoops, now I’m going to have to kill you all) who bought her first road bike five years ago.

Gerona (or Girona) is a nice town. Not big – perhaps the same size as Derby – but very, very pretty. We rode over the same bridge we’d crossed three years ago, and pushed the bikes up to the Pensio Bellmirall. The owner welcomed us and told us that our bike bags had arrived….

This is clever, so make notes. We bought eight metres of ripstop nylon (140 cm wide), took it up to the dry cleaners with a drawing, and had bike bags made to the size accepted by SNCF with two pockets on the inside for our wheels and ties to close the top. Total cost forty quid, plus six pounds for postage to Spain. I bet you’re impressed!

So………..we went shoe shopping. I bought a fine pair of Pikolinos shoes in dark tan and there is no truth in the rumour that Susie bought a pair of green suede boots. Then we went to the lovely Placa de la Independencia, had a couple of beers and some tapas and when back to the Bellmirall to listen to the cathedral bells all night.

And thought of home.
 
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hatler

Guru
If ever a trip justified the purchase of any bike one of the participants felt she wanted, even if completely gratuitous, this would qualify.
And with a new bike, well, you'd want to ride it somewhere special, perhaps somewhere scenic and hilly ?
 

lilolee

Veteran
Location
Maidenhead
I've loved reading all of this travelogue. It sounds amazing, and I am sure it will inspire others to want to achieve this if/when DZ offers this up.

And isn't this exactly the problem being discussed above. I am sure that there will be those who quake at the thought of Ditchling Beacon, who will now be captured by the romance of climbing mountains in Spain.

The Fridays is an incredibly altruistic group, well led by DZ, and well run by all who participate. But I can hear doubt and I'm not surprised. On a climb of Alpe D'Huez, I did with friends, there was a time spread of 1 1/2 to 3 hrs. Fortunately there are cafe's at the top. If we were to carry on down the wait around could easily be 2-3hrs. This doesn't sound ideal to me.
 
OP
OP
dellzeqq

dellzeqq

pre-talced and mighty
Location
SW2
Girona to London - the train home

Breakfast at the Pensio Bellmirall is a convivial affair – the guests sit at one round table. I talked to the patrocinadora about my brother. I’d seen him the previous week at the funeral of one of our oldest friends, and we’d got to talking. It turned out that we’d been staying at the same small hotel in Girona, and were booked in within two weeks of each other. She promised to pass on my regards.

We dismantled the bikes, put them in the bike bags, descended the steps to the river, crossed the bridge and headed for the AVE/TGV station, which turned out to be in subterranean, sub-Foster concrete bunker sixty feet below the old station. The Barcelona to Paris train, one of the new Llyria jobs with double decker carriages but no bike spaces turned up on time, I managed to find a spot for the bike bags and we sat down to watch the world go by.

Here’s a precis of those ponderings

1. We chose the right time of year and the right time of the day. I’d thought that June might be a better bet because of the longer days, but getting up and away in the dark had added another layer of adventure, and, besides, had got us to the top of the hills before the afternoon heat kicked in. We chose the right day of the week – the busiest stretch of road was despatched before lunch on Sunday.

2. We were overladen. Riding up and down big hills is a lot less fun with luggage.It’s not simply a question of the weight, but also of the handling of the bike – it loses that skippididoodah quality that makes standing on the pedals easier and turning on descents something of a thrill.

3. We’d been lucky with the weather. As Stuart G says, rain and wind can come in on the instant. I remember descending the Col d’Aubisque in July, soaked through, teeth chattering, hoping desperately for an uphill to warm me up. The Eje Pirenaico is not quite the same thing as the big Pyrenean passes, but, still and all, you wouldn’t want to come off the Canto in the rain – it would be miserably cold and those hairpins would be a real test of your brakeblocks, handling skills and patience. Descending in the rain in company would be fraught – people would have to listen and do as they were told.

4. The food in Spain, at least the food in cafes and bars, is not great. There were high points like the sublime lambs' tongue on toast, but, by and large it was bread, cheese and ham. By the end of the week I was gripped by broccoli fantasies.

5. We might not have seen some of the towns we stayed in at their best, but Sort and Castejon de Sos were pretty darn dull. Spanish towns sleep between two and five in the afternoon, but Sort goes in to hibernation until eight in the evening.

6. We almost came horribly unstuck on the second day. Would anybody have the nerve to lead fifteen cyclists over those cattle grids and past those locked gates? What if we had ended up cycling on the hard shoulder of the Autopista?

So, how might a group tour work?

Well, the easiest way would be to restrict entry to those people capable of going up the Beacon on a 34/25 or better – but that would make it something other than a Fridays ride. It might be, of course, that somebody reading this account would take inspiration and set off with some mates, perhaps embellishing it with an essay or two in to France (in 1985 my brother and I did Bilbao to Barcelona in six days taking in every Pyrenean pass of note, including the dreadful d’Envalira). Some other people might do the same trip and take two weeks over it. I’d take that as a compliment.

The next best thing would be to have support. We could strip the bikes down to the bare essentials (using force if need be) and stick the rucksacks, racks and panniers in a car. As it goes we know somebody from Irun who might be able to help us arrange that.

Even that wouldn’t work entirely. I reckon that the fastest amongst us could climb the eighteen kilometres to the Coll de Canto in an hour and a quarter. Others, riding lightweight bikes, might take two and a half hours. What do the fast people do at the top? We’d have to share out the TEC duties equitably and rely on the support car to act as a broom wagon. But, still and all, the faster riders would have to get used to hanging around. We might, however, send the speedy boys and girls on a bit of a diversion to tire them out.

Then again, if you’re looking for the ride of a lifetime, what’s the alternative? That’s not as silly a question as it sounds. This ride is disappearing bit by bit as the roads get ‘improved’ and (some of them) get busier, and as the old, traditional villages close down and the small towns on the main road sprout tin sheds, but, for all the shortfalls mentioned above, the combination of physical grandeur, persisting culture, quietness and proximity to Blighty is still way, way ahead of anything else. Don’t give me the Harz mountains or Austria – when it comes to romance the most misshapen Aragonese sausage beats chocolate cake hands down.

For Susie this trip was an adventure the like of which she never expected to undertake. For me this was a goodbye. I wanted to take what might well be a last look at the best ride I'll ever do. For me it’s over. If I never go back I’ll have abiding memories spanning thirty years.

That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t find organizing a group ride from Irun to Girona worthwhile – far from it. In case any of you are in any doubt I count LonJog as one of my finest hours, and I wouldn't call that week a bunch of laughs. This would, however, be tougher. On LonJog you bellyached about getting up early and complained about the hills (like Soutra was my fault), but you did it anyway because you were cozened, charmed and bullied. On Irun to Gerona there’s be no more Mr. Nice Guy Simon. You’d have to start in the dark, stop for refreshments in an organized way and get lots of sleep. Anybody found in possession of mudguards or not carrying armwarmers would be put over my knee and spanked. As you can see I've not got proper answers to some of the questions, and I'd welcome your thoughts - feel free to e-mail me if you don't want them picked apart on the forum.

So…………….we arrived in Paris. What a shambles that town is! As Susie said ‘I don't give a damn if I never come back to Paris again – I’d rather shop in Venice’. Exactly. But the people at the Gare du Nord were helpful, the train home superfast and the taxi driver who conveyed us to Streatham had read ‘Tomorrow We Ride’ by Jean Bobet, and so we found ourselves checking on the fish, sorting out the bills and putting lots of lycra in the washing machine at a reasonable hour. It’s great to be home.

P.s. I've still not sorted out my camera. Credits to Susie and her I-phone for the photos.
 
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