Hollywood couldn’t have scripted a more idyllic day for motorcycle riding if they’d hired the best choreographers in the business. Today, it was all about the roads, the scenery, and the sheer joy of being in the saddle, wind rushing past, engine humming beneath us.
Let’s start with the roads—pure perfection for any rider with a pulse. They were lightly traveled, leaving us free to carve through the landscape without interruption. The twists and turns came fast and furious, designed as if by a motorcyclist’s wildest dreams. Uphill switchbacks demanded focus and finesse; I leaned deep into the curves, feeling the bike hug the asphalt. At times, I was tempted to stretch out my left hand, grin like a fool, and graze the ground with my fingertips—an absurd, exhilarating notion I resisted. On the tightest of those climbs, I even had to drop into first gear, a rare move, coaxing the bike through the turn with a surge of torque before opening the throttle again.
By late afternoon, I found myself riding solo for the final hour or so, a chance to soak it all in at my own pace. I paused now and then to snap photos of the breathtaking vistas or chat with fellow travelers—like the Donkervoort Ambassador tour group I stumbled across. They were a lively bunch, swapping stories of their journey so far, their enthusiasm as infectious as the mountain air.
Back on the road, I pulled out from one of my stops and fell in behind an unexpected trio: two sport bikes and a massive BMW touring rig, the kind built for devouring miles in style. The BMW rider’s passenger caught my eye—a figure clad in a sleek, one-piece cruising suit and helmet, her blonde braid swinging like a metronome with every twist of the road. They were clearly linked by Bluetooth, a silent conversation unfolding as she pointed out sights: a condor soaring high above, distant peaks piercing the horizon. Wherever she gestured, my gaze followed, drawn into her quiet wonder.
She offered the traditional biker wave, but with a Spanish twist—extending her left foot briefly instead of a hand. It’s a local custom, I’d learn, and I couldn’t help but smile at its charm. The BMW rider, meanwhile, was no slouch, keeping pace with the sport bikes effortlessly. I’d assumed they were a pack from the start, but when one of the sport bikes peeled off, the rest of us pressed on as a trio. No one faltered—towns, no-passing zones, and dawdling drivers couldn’t slow our rhythm. We were locked in, feeding a shared hunger for the ride.
The turns kept coming, sharp and relentless. We banked hard, tires gripping as we swept through ancient tunnels carved into the mountainside. The passenger’s quick point downward clued me into a river rushing below—missed it the first time, but I caught its glint on the next glimpse. After what felt like a hundred bends, my arms burned for a break, but the thrill of this newfound crew kept me glued to their tail. How long could we keep this up? No one cared to guess.
Our pace was brisk, unforgiving—if anyone eased off even slightly, they’d be dust in our mirrors. Finally, my turnoff loomed. I signaled left, gave a few sharp toots of my horn, and the blonde passenger responded with a wave—a slow, almost regal motion, her hand catching the wind like a sail. The timing was cinematic; I veered off, and they vanished around the next bend, the lone sport bike still leading the charge.
Rewind to dawn: I’d started the day with Bill, Jim, and Chris, part of a loose-knit crew fanning out across the Pyrenees. Kevin paired with Roberto, Don rode with Debbie, and Steve tagged along solo for a stretch. Todd, ever the early bird, had peeled out at 6:15 a.m. for Carrer de Pau Casals, promising to regroup with us at the hotel later. The Pyrenees were the day’s prize, and we were all itching to conquer them.
The morning air bit with a crisp chill, sharpened by last night’s rain. We layered up, fired up the bikes, and listened as JuanJo, our unofficial guide, warned of icy patches on still-damp roads. Our group held tight until the terrain shifted—scattered livestock began dotting the pavement, a surreal twist to an already wild ride. Picture this: you’re climbing a sinuous mountain road, the left side dropping off into a void straight out of The Sound of Music, the right flanked by towering slopes. One wrong move left, and you’re a ghost story no one finds.
Ahead, a rider—maybe sharper, maybe faster—sets the pace, tailing another just as skilled. Then, out of nowhere, a tan cow lumbers into view, followed by a herd, some grazing lazily, others meandering across our path. Stopping isn’t an option; momentum is everything. You follow the leader—Jim, in my case—dodging cows and the odd horse like it’s a high-stakes slalom. Foolish? Maybe. But it works here, a chaotic ballet of man, machine, and beast.
These animals weren’t fazed—cars, bikes, even cyclists didn’t rattle them. I spotted a couple of calves, unbothered as their mothers, and figured this wasn’t their first dance with traffic. The real hazard? Fresh cow dung splattered across the road. Hit that, and you’re sliding into disaster—especially with no room to pull over mid-climb or descent. Dodging it became the priority, a test of reflexes amid the stunning backdrop. The hills are alive, I thought, humming the tune as the landscape unfolded in cinematic glory.
The temperature plummeted to 6°C as we crested what seemed like the top, only for the road to snake onward, hugging the mountainside in a endless descent. Oncoming sports cars and bikes flashed by, no chance to signal warnings—every rider for themselves. This wasn’t a route for rookies; hesitation here could be fatal. Then came the cyclists—a pack of ten, pros by the look of them, training on this beast of a road. I grinned, imagining their inevitable encounter with livestock or a dung slick. They’d seen it before, no doubt.
The night prior, we’d crashed at Hotel Can Cruells in Planoles, a three-star gem that punched above its weight. Most of us slept like logs, thanks to quality mattresses and the exhaustion of five days on the road. My loft bed perched atop a spiral staircase—cozy, if a bit cramped—left Roberto and JuanJo bunking below. Dinner was the real standout: world-class flavors, the best we’d had in Spain save for Valencia’s paella. The chicken thigh and leg dish, slathered in a sauce that could’ve brokered peace treaties, had Bill going back for seconds. Jim Ralph, our Canadian firecracker, declared it a triumph. Anthony Bourdain would’ve waxed poetic—snails in almond sauce, bull stew, chorizo, all the Spanish classics danced in my head, though our rural digs leaned simpler, locally sourced, and damn near perfect.
Today, we’re holed up at Can Cruells for a second night. Steve’s gearing up to ride more Pyrenees, but my arms and soul crave a breather. The nearby bakery’s firing up soon, promising fresh bread I can’t resist. The mountains aren’t going anywhere—8:15 a.m., and I’ve got time.
Later, over a three-course meal, a bottle of red, and water—all for twenty euros—I muse on longganisa, the Spanish sausage that’s woven into Philippine cuisine thanks to colonial ties. It’s a small world, even on these vast roads. Who could ask for more?
Hollywood could not have choreographed a more perfect motorcycle riding day for us if they tried. Today it truly was all about the roads and scenery.
First the roads. Very lightly used. Very twisty in a great motorcycle riding way. At times I learned over, while taking yet another uphill turn. I was tempted to reach out with the left hand, smile and touch the ground. I didn’t but, on a rare occasion it was actually necessary to, drop right down to first gear, then complete your uphill turn.
Later in the day: I rode by myself for the last hour or so. Stopping to take in the scenery pictures or talking to someone like (Donkervoot Ambassador tour) people and how they were enjoying their journey thus far.
And then when I pulled out yet again; this time I ended up right behind two sport bikes and the largest BMW road bike made for cruising.
His passenger wore the same one piece cruising suit and helmet. They obviously communicated via bluetooth. She wore a braided blonde ponytail otherwise I wouldn’t have known who or what. She also often pointed to things like, a condor bird way up in the sky. The far off scenery. When she pointed I also looked.
She gave the traditional motorcycle wave, only in the Spanish way, to other riders. The way it’s done here is to stick out one foot briefly. I think it’s the left one.
This BMW rider was doing a great job of keeping up with both sport bikes. Suddenly one turns off, and we all continued on; now we were three. ORIGINALLY I THOUGHT THEY WERE ALL TOGETHER. We continued like this for a considerable amount of time together. Nothing slowed anyone down. Not towns, no passing signs nor slower drivers. We’re on a mission and we’re feeding our riding passion. W
We banked hard our turns after turns. We entered and exited tunnels that were carved long ago, right through the mountains. The only reason I knew that there was a river below was because she pointed briefly. Too late. I caught the next sighting of it.
Possibly over 100 times of banking turns left my arms now aching for some relief, yet I was still part of this new pack and enjoying the ride. How much longer? No one knows.
Our speed was brisk, and if anyone slowed down, even for a little, they-were gone.
Finally my turn came up. I signaled left and gave several toots on my horn. The blonde noticed and waved back. Sort of a parade wave. The wind caused her hand to act like a rudder in the water, ever so briefly. The timing couldn’t have been better. I was gone and so were they with the sport bike still leading.
First thing in the morning: I rode with Bill, Jim and Chris. Kevin and Roberto teamed up and so did Don and Debbie and Steve. Todd left at 0615 am for the town of Carrer de Pau Cassals. We would see him later today at the hotel.
Everyone was looking forward to riding the Pyreenes today. The morning air was now crisp and cold. Last night it rained. We bundled up and then warmed up our motorcycles. JuanJo reminded riders that patches of ice on yet undried areas could cause a slippery surface.
Our ride team stayed together until about the time that we started seeing scattered livestock on the roads. Imagine for a moment, continually climbing up a twisty mountain road. The views to your left, is like perhaps, “the sound of music” alive. The views to your right is the rising mountainside. If at anytime you leave the road on your left side there’s such a drop-off that you won’t be easily found.
Up ahead, in ascending order is a guy riding his motorcycle, possibly a better rider than you, and also riding faster than you. He’s now following someone, who’s also similarly known, as a better or even a faster than the guy him.
Then suddenly, a tan to light brown colored cow rapidly appears in the way!. They’re all now askew on our road. Some cows are moving while others are standing and just grazing away at some clumps of grass , just up and off the road.
It’s nearly impossible to slow way down or to stop, and so you do as the guy ahead of you does, you continue to dodge the cows and the several horses. I know. I know. It sounds foolish writing it out but, it somehow works around here.
The guy up ahead of you that first encouraged the occasional horse or slow moving cows to move, can’t or won’t slow up, so he sets the pace and you just follow.
He, or in my case Jim continues riding around the livestock. Soon it becomes just like riding an obstacle course around the livestock. This isn’t theses cows first rodeo I said to myself.
I’ll just bet you that they’ve broken through on other occasions. Non of them seemed spooked from the cars, the motorcycles or even the passing bicyclists. Not even the baby cows of which I saw two.
Periodically the occasional splat of freshly made cow dung is on the road. You just dodge it. That now becomes the most important obstacle to avoid. A slip or a fall could cause you dearly. You definitely want to avoid a fall at all costs. There’s absolutely no where to stop as you’re committed to either an upward or a downward position.
The scenery and the views are just gorgeous all around. “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” That about summed it up.
The weather now drops down to 6 degrees centigrade. Once we reach what appears to be the top of the road it just starts to continue to wrap around the mountainside and to drop down as far as I can see. in
The occasional sport car or bike is now coming at you in the opposite direction. There’s no way to warn anyone of any impending danger. It’s every man for himself. This is not a road for the timid or anyone just starting out riding. It would be suicidal or impending death to you.
The small group of maybe 10 bicyclists are now fast approaching in my direction. This is where they train. These are all professional athletes. I wish I could see their faces knowing that soon someone will either hit a cow splat or encounter some livestock. I also said to myself that this is probably not their first rodeo. They’ve probably trained on this mountain numerous times.
Last night most of us said that we experienced a good nights sleep. We can possibly thank the good quality mattress (3 star hotel) for it.
My loft bed was atop a spiral staircase. To reach it I climbed up. Once upstairs you couldn’t stand straight up. Roberto and JuanJo slept downstairs.
The hotel Can Cruells served up the best meals of any meal we’ve had in Spain. Except for maybe the paella in Valencia.
World class in flavors and cuisine. We stayed at the Can Cruells on day six of our travels. And this is only a one star place.
I wish that I had taken a picture of the chicken thigh and leg dish. Bill thought it so good that he had two orders. Jim Ralph, that’s his name is our Canadian of the group. He’s the one that you want to either clear a beachhead with, ride a mountain or get the party started.
The sauce in my dish would have made Bourdain, the food critic, describe to you in detail, a meal he would say; “would be a road to world peace.”
While in Spain Bourdain ate such things as snails in almond sauce, bull stew with local herbs, onions, and potatoes; ham; homemade chorizo; Spanish cheese; bread with olive oil. … . … salmon with tomato, caviar. .…….. All these dishes are available in Spain however, we are so far staying in mostly rural areas where people here don’t quite eat like that everyday. The dishes are all locally sourced and one could easily ask where the chicken or beef or pork was sourced, and they could tell you.
The Sound of Music movie was based on the true story of the Trapp family and their escape from Austria after the Nazi’s invaded.
And just in case you were wondering. Where was Spain during the Second World War?
Well, Spain was just recovering from a civil war of her own and not really able to offer the Italians any assistance.
Spain remained neutral while actively favouring the Axis (aka Hitler). At the end of the war unlike Britain and France, she was not entitled to any of the rewards that come to a victorious country that wins a war. To the victorious so go the spoils of war. And Spain had plenty of her own spoils in the past.
In the early 700s, the Berber Muslims from North Africa, often called Moors, conquered nearly all of the Iberian Peninsula. Over the following seven and a half centuries, the Christian kingdoms to the north gradually retook control of the peninsula, and by 1300, Muslims controlled only Granada, a small region to the south of present-day Spain.
In 1479, King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella of Castile married, uniting their kingdoms, and thirteen years later their armies expelled the Muslims from the rest of Spain.
The rulers of Spain’s kingdoms found that their shared Christianity could unite them and set them apart from the Muslims to the south.
Once Spain was reconquered, Muslims and Jews were all forced to convert or die.
Castile (area of Barselona and where we were yesterday) was an agricultural society based on personal relationships, in which a person’s reputation and honor were tremendously important.
One historian wrote that –
Castilian men were tough, arrogant, quick to take offense, undaunted by danger and hardship, and extravagant in their actions.
They would suffer hunger, hardship, extremes of climate, and still fight savagely against great odds….
Unlike Germany and Italy, Spain was not at risk from the large encroaching power of the Soviet Union.
And the Allies (US, Britain primarily) had no incentive for giving Spain any such aid.
In December of 1946 the newly created United Nations also passed a resolution that boycotted trade with Spain for taking sides with the Axis. After all, it was a World War.
Today we stay for two nights at the Hotel Restaurant Can Cruells in Planoles, Spain. The hotel is said to be a three star hotel.
My roommate Steve is just getting ready to head out now. Today if we choose to, we go to ride more Pyrenees. My arms and my body need a rest.
I now know that soon someone will show up at the bakery nearby. They’ll start producing some of that beautiful bread stuff that we can’t easily get back home.
And I’ll be there to get some. The Pyrenees aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So what’s the rush? It’s only 0815 am.
LATER THAT DAY: The term longganisa is derived from the Spanish term “longaniza” which is a type of Spanish sausage.
With the Spanish occupation of the Philippines, the term was introduced into the language and is now the generic word for most local sausages in the Philippines.
Twenty euros for a three course meal, a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water. Who could ask for anything more.
End
Trawlercat Chronicles 