Two legs bad, two wheels good

The first time I went abroad independently was with a couple of University pals to Paris in about 1972. We went on the train. We drank filter coffee from bowls, just like Jean-Hugues Anglade, we struggled with the language, climbed thousands of steps and walked and walked and walked. I was very soon hobbling. I'm prone to blisters and foot damage in general. When I wandered around Spain in the 1980s and 1990s using public transport I would always pack all those patent foot plasters, bandages and balms designed to keep one's feet in tip top condition.

We were planning to walk the Camino de Santiago. We still are. Maggie has booked flights and a room and a couple of friends are bound for Galicia at the end of May beginning of June. To be classed as having done the pilgrimage you only have to walk the last 100 kms and that's what Maggie intends to do but I have more time. I fancy the Pamplona end of the French route much more than the Galicia end so I'll do one end and then join Maggie at the other. A chum from around here has signed up to come along, actually it's probably the other way around, I'm probably joining him as he walks regularly and does yoga and badminton and stuff that makes me tired just thinking about it as I flip the pages of my book.

So we were planning and walking became cycling. Like me, Bobby, for that's his name, has problems with his feet. To qualify as a pilgrim, we need to go 200 kms on a bike. That didn't sound like much. First things first though. If I were going to ride to Santiago I'd need a bike. The one I had in the garage came from a supermarket, weighs the fabled ton and cost me 40€. Not really suitable. It was easy to get a replacement. Lots of people think a bike is a good idea until they have to go uphill. There were lots for sale and I bought one - it's one of those half mountain half tourer jobs. I put on some panniers and saddle bags and a cuentakilometros, an odometer. I couldn't hold it off for ever though and I had, eventually, to ride it rather than just tinker with it. I bought padded underwear.

I have pals who don't like to cycle unless the route includes near perpendicular climbs. I see the Facebook pictures of other chums who ride vast distances to go to distant tearooms and take photos of wild flowers. I smoked for forty years. I am reminded of this when, on the slightest incline, I sound like, well I sound like an old bloke with wrecked lungs gasping for air in order to keep his vital organs from failing. I also notice that my legs don't work quite properly when I get off the bike (and what's with this modern form of dismounting where you have to step forward because the saddle is so high?). I also worry that the light headedness which comes over me as I stop and pant may have me blacking out again and earning another ride in an ambulance. I somehow suspect that steep gradients and immense distances are some way in the future or, more likely, in Peter Pan's homeland.

Nonetheless I'm trying. Only 12 kms the first day but today, fourth time out I did just short of 30 kilometres which sounds reasonable enough until you turn it into a bit short of 19 miles and then you add in that the difference between the lowest and highest point on the route was only 80 metres. Worse still I only averaged about 17 km/h. Approximately the same speed as a pig can go when it gets a move on.