Day 1,511

Snapped fork

After another wonderful night's sleep, we packed up the tent and headed on our way. Tom had a treat in store, a visit to a salt mountain. You can actually go inside, and Tom was very excited. Unfortunately it was closed, but undeterred, and with the aid of Komoot, Tom planned a route that would take us right up to the mountain, and not on any old boring asphalt roads, but on some gravel tracks, and not only that but we would be able to divert and ride up and over another mountain to get there. Tom could barely contain his excitement. I could.

The gravel tracks were actually more like dried up river beds, covered in loose boulders, full of holes and seemed mainly to go up, straight up. The sun beat down relentlessly and I started to struggle. It may have been the loss of a night's sleep on the flight, the heat, the steepness, the loose gravel, probably a combination of them all but I wasn't feeling like doing anything but curling up into a ball and going to sleep. At one point I seemed to lose the ability to turn the pedals, the uneven ground meant I couldn't reach my feet to the ground and I simply toppled over into a fairly soft, if somewhat prickly, thorn bush. 

I needed Tom's help to get up, and realised that maybe I actually wasn't very well. Still, when bike touring, the only option is to keep on going, nobody is going to get me out of there but me. On and on we went. Every time the track went up, which was pretty much all the time, I had to get off and push. Tom would go ahead, leave his bike, run back down and push my bike upwards. We ran out of water but fortunately Tom spotted a farm above us, yes it meant an extra hill to push up but afterwards, thanks to the kind farmer, we had lots of cool water to drink. 

By now our remote route was getting very remote and the term route was more of a general idea than a reality. It was there, but really only suitable for full suspension mountain bikes. We backtracked (don't you just love doing that?), carried on, then backtracked a bit more. Finally we were nearly there, we could see the salt mountain through the trees below us. By now I was struggling to even stand, nevermind cycle. Another black-grade bit of downhill lay before us. It had drop-offs, roots, was so narrow we would struggle to get through. Ace on a mountain bike, a nightmare on a tourer, especially in the state I was in. Tom though, thought it had possibilities! He was confident he could carry both our bikes down it. Seriously, my man's a wee bit mad at times. He decided to hike down to check it out. I found some shade and went to sleep. Some time later, looking a bit like he'd been dragged through some bushes backwards Tom was back. It was on, he could do it he said. There was just one little problem, at the bottom  there was a very strong possibility that we'd have to turn back because of some locked gates. But we'd have been super close to the salt mountain and not many people could say that. 

Now as you know I do love my man. Will follow him to hell and back. He plans everything well, does his research. He's 100% reliable. I knew he would get us safely out of there, but today I said no. I simply wasn't up for the adventure. So we backtracked yet again, and eventually we found a road that led us past the salt mountain, but not bang next to it, and to a hotel, and for me, straight to bed. 

Salt mountain - we never made it

In the morning though I was feeling a bit better, we decided to leave the quieter rural roads and ride on some asphalt. It was much easier going, and though I was still super slow, I could keep going. The views made it all worthwhile. The traffic was light and very considerate, the looming mountains ahead inspired but also worried me. We took our time, had another few wild camps, shorter days, until finally we were there. In Andorra, country number 30, at the foot of the col. Was I up for it?

The route Tom had planned was a massive climb, a descent and then another massive climb, taking in two fabulous Pyrénéen cols. I knew I wasn't well enough. We talked it through. In 4 years of touring we always ride together. Never take a lift if we can ride. I could probably do it, but it would be lots of pushing and what was the point in that? 

Common sense prevailed. Tom would ride over the highest pass in the Pyrénées, but on a slightly shorter busier route than he had originally planned - 17 miles, 5,000 feet of climbing. I would get the bus. So that's what we did. As the bus wound up, I knew it was the right decision. Tom smashed the climb, and we live to ride another day. 

On the way up the highest pass in the Pyrénées

So now just a few more days of easy riding to Toulouse. Tom replanned our route, slightly longer, a bit of a climb to get us to a greenway which would take us directly into the city.  

Off we went. 20 miles downhill, then a pause in Ax-les-Thermes to soak our feet in the thermal waters to ready ourselves for the climb. We took a small country road, a lady at the bottom wished us a good day, then said ‘Bon courage!’. We exchanged smiles then off up we went. 

It was steep, it was hot, I was slow but I was doing it and not only that I was enjoying it. Finally I was feeling a bit better. We stopped to filter some water and eat lunch in the shade. When we set off again my steering immediately felt loose. 

Odd. I stopped. Tom stopped. We examined my bike. The steering was fine. What was wrong? Then I spotted it. My forks had snapped. My ride to Toulouse was over. Fortunately after backtracking down the hill we got lucky. We could get a train straight to Toulouse from Ax-les-Thermes, and one was imminent. After a quick ticket purchase we managed to squeeze our bikes onto the train within 20 minutes of arrival at the station.

But what next… is this a sign we should stop? Are we getting too old for this? We booked into a hotel, started Google-ing bike shops, and started thinking about what is next for Debs and Tom.

Not good