Sullen, dark, gray as lead.

The wind was howling. Rain was puddling on the driveway. It was going to be a miserable day, I could already feel it. I turned on the TV as I showered and packed my belongings. The night before I had tossed things about, my usual Capricorn organized self having gone into the dumpster as I was looking for tools and drying out clothes. I was still stewing over the poor job that Dudas had done with my chain. I knew at the time and should have been more adamant about replacing it properly.

My neck was stained blue from the bandana I wore to protect it from my wet jacket collar chafing it raw. The weather channel was showing the equivalent of a hurricane moving across the European Continent from deep in the Atlantic. Temperatures were dropping, a Low pressure ridge was moving in, and everyone was bracing for huge amounts of rain. They were already predicting heavy flooding.

And... it was heading East directly in line with my path. I was in for it!

I got off the freeway and headed towards Pamplona. The city is World famous for it's Running of the Bulls event. This has to be seen to be believed. Imagine a bunch of Testoterone crazed, liquor laden, Macho young men scrambling, running on cobble paved streets from a herd of (horny) bulls, thru the downtown of the city. I'm told there are no 'old' men doing this. Either they haven't survived, or perhaps they've just smartened the hell up! In any case... it wasn't something I'd do even on my wildest daze. Thanks, but no thanks.

The SIerra De Lebia rose to meet the Pyrenees once again. This range of mountains rivals the Alps farther East of me, and was every bit as beautiful. It would have been even more so had I been able to see them. As I climbed, one switchback after another into the high passes, the fog became so intense on these narrow roads that I was forced to turn my signal light on to warn motorists of my presence. I could see nothing! Nothing but cloud that is.

Visibilty in many places was reduced to mere meters. My speeds dropped radically until the speedo needle was barely nudged off its pin.

I was still on the Camione de Santiago and was meeting walkers and bicyclists constantly. They for the most part seemed resolute, hunkered down, like me, just trying to make up ground at whatever forward pace was possible. The danger in these passes was that a collision was entirely possible. There was no shoulder absolutely NO room for any errors whatsoever. The good news... traffic was extremely light on these back mountain passes. The Autostradas carried the bulk of road users, from city to city at high speeds and only local traffic or the rare motorcyclist passed this way.


I passed into France at noon in a quaint little walled village by the nom of, St Jean de Port. In the center of the town, I stopped on a sidewalk to have a cafe and crossiant under the eve of one of many restarant/cafes. I shivered in my rain gear, no longer plugged into the warmth of my electric vest, sipping my Cafe Americano. The town of St Jean had obviously been of some importance in medival days, remnants of the walls visible from several vantage points. On another day, I would have been enticed to spend several hours walking the city in shorts and T shirt. Today, in baggy rain gear wet boots and rain soaked gloves, the tourist thing was hardly in my mind. I did however, in an attempt to warm up somewhat, wander both sides of the road bridge and snap a few pics.

Last year, just prior to my Euro departure, I had gone shopping for new camera gear. Being a motorcyclist, as always I wanted compactness and flexibility. I had given up my 35 mm SLR camera several trips ago, for the advantages that digitals offered. I had settled on a Panasonic SW20 video camera that fit into the palm of my hand and for stills, an Olympus Stylus 850. As an added benefit, both cameras were water proof, something I found out to be handy when I'd accidently dropped my Panasonic into Lake Balaton helping someone from the water. Although my intentions weren't to photograph lemon sharks in their natural habitat, having a camera impervious to rain was a blessing, as I was finding out.

Coffee finished, chain adjusted once again... I was off towards Mont de Marsan.

Riding conditions were horrid. Wet roads slippery, the rain pelted me constantly like BB shots fired from close range. Sometimes so hard, that they actually clattered from my visor. Eventually, before the day was thru I was soaked once again to pretty much all the important regions of my body. My hands, my feet, down my neck and into my crotch. (yes thats an important region too!) You gals may not be able to appreciate this piece of irony, but when that first random stream of cold water gets us there, it is the most spine tingling, numbing, cringing feeling. Of course after a few minutes, it becomes irrelevant. Something akin to bathwater, in your shorts!

I got stuck in traffic at Mont de Marsan, in the right lane, no where to go. Something was wrong, no one was moving. The rain was coming down in buckets. Now I like cats and dogs as much as the next guy, but this was ridiculous. I edged my way across lanes, traffic moving slightly to allow me to pass, U-turned on the street and made my way back towards a traffic bypass circle a few hundred meters back. This allowed me to skirt much of the inner city. There was no let up whatsoever and after passing a hotel on my left, with a McDs next to it, I U-turned once again and pulled in to the parking lot. To welcome me the skies opened the sluice gate and water literally poured from the heavens. I just shook my head, this was no fun at all, and the prospect of riding across the continent in this weather didnt particularly appeal to me.

My normally shining ride was covered in gritty, sandy, baked on grime. My gear was soaked thru and thru and my body was weary. It was 4 Pm but I didn't give a hoot at this point, I just wanted a warm room and a blistering, paint peeling, scalding hot shower.

The Hotel Hexagone provided both.