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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 9
I awake and curse the sun for being so hot. I fumble around and find my mobile phone to see what time it is. 0700 and still voices pass by, bikes roar and bang and music can be heard in the distance. The noise is so relentless I’ve actually managed to tune it out for the most part. As consciousness fully regains its grip on my mind I notice my stomach is burbling and grumbling away. On no, I’m not going to need the toilet for a full on sit down visit am I? Please lord no! Please don’t make me go to the plastic toilet things, I’ve managed to avoid them all weekend, why now!?
I’ve managed to use toilets at the mall for sit down visits, but my stomach is telling me a visit to the plastic holes of hell is inevitable and becoming urgent. I throw my shorts on and do the instantly recognisable strange walk of the clenched butt cheeks. At the toilets my eyes are crossed and I’m sweating. Open door, look, wretch and cough, close door, move on. Repeat this action several times until the heaving and retching is not as bad as the pain from my butt. Oh joy, this one is not so bad. I wipe the seat as best I can with the shard of toilet paper I’d grabbed on the way in and sit down. Oh sweet relief, oh joy, oh bliss. I duly note my smell is possibly worse then the smell was when I came in.
I was my hands in the trough then retrieve my towel for a very quick shower. All the time I’m thinking how good it is to be a man. I can pee anywhere really. After my visit to the plastic hole of hell I decide never ever to go near anyone who has visited one of these instruments of torture until he or she has had a full industrial shower. Even after my cold icy shower I still feel unclean.
I decamp and reload the bike. I ride to where the stag do crew are camped but there is no sign of life and I don’t want to wake anyone. I decide I’ll leave with no fuss or ceremony, that’s the way I like it. The plan for today is quite open. I could ride up to Merida and find camping there, about 200 to 250 miles, or I could carry on through Merida and go right up to Salamanca, about 450 miles in total. The Scottish crew are planning to go straight up to Salamanca, get the hard part of the journey done and make the rest of the trip a lot easier. I’m going to see how I feel along the way.
I leave Faro. On the road again my thoughts reflect on the rally. I didn’t spend much time with the stag do crew, I didn’t spend much time with anyone really. I did find plenty of people to talk to but always felt somehow “on the outside”. Musically the offering was for the most part not to my liking. I like modern rock not the traditional biker music. And I don’t like being a small part of a very big crowd, being herded here and there. I reach the conclusion that for myself rallies need to be done with a group of friends and in a smaller environment. The faro is a good rally, no doubt about that, it just did not suit me.
With all this thinking I think I’ve missed my turning. I pull off the Autovista and consult my map. Indeed I have and I now have to ride 10 miles back to a turning. I find I’m back on the right road, and it’s the twisty road I travelled on my day of hell. This time I’m fresh, this time I’m up for this. Oh yes, it is simply awesome. The sun is shining, I have at least 50 miles of twisty road ahead, the bikes feels solid and alive, I’m wide awake, alive and on my way home. I feel so good as I roll the bike over crests and dips, round bends and through hairpins. I think about the Friday night lads back home. I’m on a 600cc bike built for reliability not speed, if the lads were here they’d be miles off ahead screaming along at immense speed then stopping to wait for me while talking about this bend and that straight. I keep on rolling at 80mph.
The road winding it's way across the valley.
Eventually the road returns to a normal feel as I get closer to Merida. I’m hungry now and my backside is getting very sore already. I’m still stopping every 30 to 50 miles for either a smoke, drink or toilet visit, sometimes all 3. This bike was a dispatchers favourite, the king of all day riding. It must have been a favourite for its reliability not its comfort. My knees are too bent, I’m leaning too far forward and the seat feels like it is made of granite not foam. Merida does not arrive soon enough and when I find a café I almost collapse as I get off the bike.
In the café I look at the menu. This is more of a restaurant with proper meals rather than snacks. As such I recognise nothing on the menu. A waitress comes over and babbles something but I don’t understand. A few minutes of uncomfortable struggle ensue until I spot a skewer kebab meal served with chips being collected. I point and say “Que esta?” The waitress points to something on the menu and now we are rolling. I laugh almost insanely as she makes farmyard animal noises to indicate what type of meat I can have on the skewer. To save her from further embarrassment when she goes “cluck cluck” I reply “si, Si!” This woman deserves a medal for customer service. The food is gorgeous. I tried to find the waitress to thank her again for looking after me, but she is busy elsewhere.
I now face a choice. I can ride for a few miles and try to find the campsite here in Merida, or I can push on up to Salamanca. An hour ago all I wanted to do was get off the torture instrument I call my bike, but now after something to eat and drink I am feeling much refreshed. In my head my thoughts turn back to Cath and the tenuous connection with Merida, how I enjoyed my day of rest after my day of hell and how I could expect some company in Salamanca with the Scottish crew. I decide to ride on.
The roads are now like A-roads back home. The countryside is desert but flatter and more open. The traffic moves at the fast pace I am now used to in Spain. I notice how comfortable I have become doing 80mph without fear of interference from the police. I notice how lorries don’t block the lanes on the Autovista here, how drivers only use the outside lanes for overtaking then pull back in straight away to leave the road clear for faster vehicles. I notice how fast the traffic moves, even when there is nowhere to overtake speeds rarely drop below 60mph. I also notice how on the odd occasions speed fall to 45 or 50mph how frustrated I become, yet back home this is the norm.
With all this speed the distance signs to Salamanca soon start to get smaller and eventually the town looms into view from the desert. Initially I am totally lost in town but I spot a building that looks familiar and know where to turn. Much to my surprise my memory serves me very well and soon I’m heading for Santa Marta des Tormes. As I roll into the campsite my bones are aching, my feet are sore in my boots, sweat is dripping from my nose and my backside feels like it has been rubbed for 9 hours with sandpaper. But I do not feel the despair, hate and exhaustion I did on my day of hell.
After booking in and handing over my passport I find the Scottish crew have completed the same trip and are already pitched. I pitch alongside and we catch up on today’s events. They too have had a long trip but with no real problems. They are busy hanging out washing and checking over the bikes and I do the same. The bike is still carrying the correct amount of vital fluids and all is present and correct. Washing is scrubbed and hung out on guy ropes and all is well with the world.
Bikes, tents and washing on the line.
It is now I am with the Scottish crew and there is no-one else around that I start to get to know them better. George is married to Liz, Mel to Sandra, and Bill to Susan. Sandra and Bill are brother and sister, I would never have guessed. I find out what they do for a living, about the town in which they live and about how they know each other. I also finally hear the full story behind George’s favourite phrase, “straight through!” It is a phrase used by a Scottish radio DJ who does crank calls playing a character called Hector Brocklebank.
It is decided to eat at the hotel adjacent to the campsite. We walk across the car park into a large dining area set out in a minimalist fashion, very modern and very clean. We are waited on courteously and the meal is perfectly fine. It seems quite odd now to be sat in a smart room, being waited upon and eating off real china after the rally. I take a visit to the toilets that are huge, clean, shiny and lavished in marble. I am alone and it is so quiet I take a moment to relish the pleasant surroundings and tranquillity.
We talk about how the rally was, the strange differences here compared to home and I am further informed of Hector Brocklebank’s exploits and adventures. We sit outside the café in the cool evening air to relax and talk. We all agree the trip has been an experience but very hard work and no-one seems to be in a rush to come back next year, at least not on a bike. I take a great deal of relief in hearing this, I had wondered if I was being a wimp but if these hardy Scottish folk were weary then I should be too. As the beer flows and the Scottish accents become harder to understand I retire to bed a little before the rest.
The Scottish Crew
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Preparation
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 1
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 2
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 3
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 4
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 5
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 6
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 7
The Portuguese coastline is not quite what Ren was expecting. Then there's the case of the disappearing helmet.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 8
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 9
Ren has to brave the plastic portaloos of HELL at the Faro Rally. It's also time to leave the noise and chaos and get back on the road Northbound
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 10
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 11
It's another long and hot ride across the Spanish scenery. Still, every sweaty mile is a mile closer to home.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 12
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 13
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 14
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Aftermath
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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell