It’s hot. Now we’re getting to the Spain we expected, the one that is a furnace. We haven’t seen a cloud in days, and there are public service commercials on TV reminding people that throwing glass bottles into fields can start fires as the glass magnifies the scorching sunlight onto the dry brush.

As someone who has biked across Nebraska twice and can appreciate the subtleties of dry, unchanging ranch land, the landscape in Castella y Leon has been pretty subtle, if not downright boring. Fields of wheat, not a tree or piece of shade in site. Flat but not perfectly flat, just like the ocean isn’t perfectly flat when in a small craft.

Ocasionally we’ll pass by a pig farm that wakes our senses, or a group of los toros grazing in the pasture, but our days consist of a series of hops into the sun, from one town to the next where we can find some shade until we make the next 10 km jump to the next village. Usually the village streets are deserted, but anyone out walking gives us a long stare, unbroken by any stares in return. The cafes where we get some water are alive with men on their siestas drinking beer and playing dice.

Passing through this monotonous landscape, we’ve had to find excitement for our pallates instead. I’ve long thought Spain has the best green olives of anywhere in the world, but we’ve also been feasting on the sweetest red bell peppers, wheels of Manchego cheese, and whatever local delicassies the restaurants offer.

Up north we saw a lot of pilgrims traveling the Camiño de Santiago, the route they’ve traveled for a thousand years to Santiago de Compostella, to the cathedral where the body of the apostle James is buried. There are many cathedrals along the route with their own relics, although by this point in the trip we’ve seen enough “splinters of the cross” to build a new housing subdivision, so we’ve avoided many places such as Lourdes.

In Alba de Tormes we received our first flat tire — my rear tire, the most worn of the four because it carries the most weight. It’s near the end of its life and I have no complaints patching a tube every 4115 kilometers.

In France the people passing in cars would sometimes yell “allez allez!” or “bon courage!” as they passed. In Spain, we’re more likely to get the middle finger or “burro!” or something worse. It’s so much like Nebraska it almost brings a tear to my eye (but no, it’s just salty sweat burning my eyes). Does Oscar Pereiro deal with this harassment on every training ride, or perhaps this is something unique to what must be the most desolate part of Spain?

We haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in Spain, with noisy campgrounds or the annual patron saint’s festival on the night we’re there, with music until 6 a.m., which we’ve experienced twice. When we tried to get away from the noise by camping out in the country, the deserted spot we chose seemed to come alive after sunset with teenagers bothering us all night long.

Anticipation builds as we near Portugal.

We should know by now that small roads on the map that lead to mountainous border crossings are going to be steep. The Col d’Erroymendi was the steepest climb we’ve done since entering France on Col d’Agnel. I had to stand on the pedals more than I’ve ever done before, mashing away at the switchbacks from 250 meters (820’) up to 1362 m (4469’), and my knees still haven’t forgiven me. When I remarked to Susana at the top how unusual it was that there weren’t any other cyclists here, she said, still out of breath, “Yeah, forget Tourmalet, come climb this one in your beautiful team jerseys.”

At Col d’Erroymendi there was a small saddle and final climb before the border at the Port de Larrau, 1573 m (5161’). The last several kilometers of road hadn’t been resurfaced and you could see heavily faded paint from some ancient Tour. On the final climb you could make out a dozen inscriptions that read “INDURAIN”. If that doesn’t give you a shot of adrenaline… Miguel Indurain is the Spanish 5-time Tour de France winner (1991-1995) with a heart that pumped so much blood his resting heart rate was reportedly something like 35 bpm.

The pass was ferociously windy and cold, so after changing the language tape in Susana’s head we made our way down into Navarra. The landscape immediately became more arid, the sun brighter, and the land hotter, drastically different from the French side. As we descended, the wind pushed us down the river gorge, until we were on the dry plateau, with sparser, shorter trees and a lot of windmills. I think the landscape looks like an early Almodóvar movie, while Susana compares it to Sergio Leone’s films.

The wind continued for the next few days and seemed to be the only thing harvested in this deserted area, from giant white wind generators. The same wind that knocked us all over the road, and caused much frustration for some of our worst cycling. I kept having to unclip my foot from the pedal, preparing to tripod as a gust would hit us from the side. When the wind was behind us, it was great, pushing us right along, but that was a rarity. I reached 77 km/h going down a hill that wasn’t even that steep.

The towns in Navarra are small and lack stores with regular hours, or much information for out-of-towners. We’re told we can buy vegetables three doors down where there’s a dark room with low ceilings. Want bread? Wait in the town square at 11:30 when the bread truck arrives. It’s just that there aren’t many people living here and ameneties are few. When we do find a market it’s usually closed since siestas last from 1-6.

Any land route to Portugal obviously includes Spain, and it’s not that we’re not excited to be here. But what drives tourism in Spain are the cities and beaches, not the arid countryside. That, and the Portuguese have a relationship with Spain not unlike Canadians have with the United States, where one neighbor is much more economically and culturally dominant. This causes a lot of eye rolling when facts are confused about the smaller neighbor.

When the European Union was formed in the 80’s, the richer countries invested money in the countries “under development”, such as Spain, Portugal, and Ireland. In Spain, a very public way of showing voters where the money was going was by improving the road system, so consequently the Spanish roads are the smoothest and widest of our trip, and allow the few cars to whiz by without bothering us.

We spent the night in Olite, once the capital of Navarra, now a tiny picturesque village. The next morning we rode into Tafalla, where we finally stocked up on supplies. They were preparing for their running of the bulls in a few days, similar to Pamplona’s more famous festival, putting fences all through the town center.

It was here that we decided to take a train to save a couple of days of riding in this windy unforgiving plain, rather than hauling ass to make up time when we’re still feeling beat up from the Pyrenees. Surprisingly, it was the wind and not the Spanish August heat that led us to the train station. The temperatures are cool, and even in the afternoon it’s chilly in the shade.

We’re now in Medina del Campo, 90km east of Salamanca, about to depart southwest in lighter winds and flatter roads.