Bruno Compagnet, Christophe Verstraet and Jérôme JJ set off to pedal between the French High Pyrenees and Spanish Aragon. An escape to the heart of the light, along an earthly crust kneaded by the timeless, with for only bousoles, friendship, the will to go further and the hope to arrive somewhere.
Freedom
Leaning on the handlebars of my bike, I contemplate the ruins of an enormous geological structure of staggering beauty, which will also inevitably disappear. The formation of a mountain range is always accompanied by the hazards of life. Water, frost, wind and man have shaped this landscape, which you can discover by pedaling along the winding roads and tracks that criss-cross the southern slopes of the Pyrenees.
Christophe and Jérôme join me. Our three insignificant silhouettes have certainly not escaped the eye of a griffon vulture winding up thermals in a perfectly orchestrated ritual, the origins of which go back long before man invented the concept of ritual… This environment plunges me into a reverie that our daily lives strive to blunt. Three days earlier, we jumped onto our saddles to leave the Aure valley with no clear roadmap other than the desire to cast off and enjoy the moment.
My relationship with bicycles is rooted in the magic of childhood, and is one of those moments that will remain engraved in my memory until the grave. In this case, the moment when my mother removed the little wheels from my bicycle, and I felt for the first time the incredible freedom of floating weightlessly on two wheels. I liken this experience to the first time I stood on a wave while surfing, or when I made my first turns on wide skis in powder snow.
At the end of August, the Cominges offers beautiful options of small roads often shaded and neglected vacationers who prefer the national and major roads. We come across tractors and natives who drive quietly. We get our bearings.
Tangible
Christophe’s brake pads sing in the descents. I tighten the straps on my saddlebag which swings slightly in the curves. The smell of fresh grass and fresh grass, the humidity of a small stream, the refreshing shade of a descent in the undergrowth, the insistent look of a herd of cows, the blue smoke of a teenager on his two-stroke 125… To be on a bike is to be part of the landscape and let our happiness slip away in this bucolic environment on a human scale. A bicycle now connects Toulouse to the Val d’Aran and allows us to avoid most of the consubstantial stress of an international road.
My back hurts. I did not sleep well on the concrete slab that served as a mattress. What I see from the sky under the road bridge is a concert of stars illuminating the end of a bad night. Ten meters from me, Christophe snores in the dumpster of a truck while, below, I see the legs of Jérôme lying along the wheels. I whistle gently to wake them up. Everyone silently packs up their sleeping bags and mattresses before setting off again. This will make us forget a difficult first night, which had the merit of testing our ability to adapt.
The night before, we ended up in the dark with a few drops of rain and intense traffic. Having made the choice to start light, so without tents, we found refuge under this bridge a dozen kilometers upstream of the border. With the sky as the only limit, we cross the small sleepy town of Viella where we are happy to find a bar open at 6:30 am. Coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and buns… We are ready for the long road to the Bonaigua pass.
This valley, which from a geological point of view should be French, has become the exclusive ski resort of the Spanish Pyrenees. Even the king comes to ski on this area. The buildings, shops and car park testify to this. Baquera has all the assets of a modern snow factory and I am happy to get away from it and climb to this pass that rises to 2,072 meters. The sun is already hitting the highest peaks and the north face of the Aneto. We pedal together with Christophe while Jérôme, whom we have lost sight of, follows at his own pace. For an apprentice cyclist who has never climbed a mountain pass, he passes this baptism of fire with flying colors. It says a lot about the energy of the man.
Grace
Diving on the Noguera de Pallaresa is a marvel and a strong moment of emotion. The downhill bike is the link between the skier and the cyclist in me. Christophe is also a biker and, in his own way, a speed enthusiast. Jérôme, who lives in the Basque country, is a surfer and has an innate sense of skiing. Curves and trajectories are part of our lives and vocabulary. Reading, anticipating, braking and taking angles are part of the game. We don’t just let ourselves go downhill. We live it fully while keeping a little margin to avoid the fall. The landscape invites us to travel and we feel all the sensuality of this warm wind of freedom and pleasure along this slide that brings us to Sort, 50 kilometers lower, where we find an excellent restaurant.
Lying in our hammocks, in the shade, along the river, we let the hottest hours pass. A burning wind lulls us and makes the leaves of the trees sing. Between two swims, we watch the parade of rafts and kayaks.
We leave the Pallaresa-Bonaigu Valley after having a drink in a small bar in Gerri de la Sal where a customer provides us with some information on a small hidden road. Its coarse-grained asphalt meanders on a ledge full of scents exacerbated by the storm that rumbles upstream. It is a mountain road that forces drivers to slow down to cross paths. It is crossed by lizards, flown over by royal kites and bordered by brambles, fig trees and gray rocks. It rises with the mood of a path traced by the steps of man and animals rather than by the will of machines.
Hairpin turns, short jumps, she is charming and I am under the spell. From the outset, she announced the color by a solid blow of ass. And together, we all went dancing, encouraged by a laughing peasant who shakes a closed fist. Fortunately, I had anticipated and I passed in 36/ 32. I hear Christophe crack his 30/26. In cycling language, it means it’s steep. Jérôme flew ahead. And then at the exit of the fourth hairpin, the view emerges over the valley and the surrounding mountain. The storm is approaching and the village of Panamera that we reached at the same time as the first drops. The vibration of the place and the moment is incredible.
As the light chases away the shadows of the oak grove just a stone’s throw from the village, we unhook our hammocks in the cool of a serene morning. The softness of the grass beneath my feet as birdsong celebrates the dawn, a striking contrast to our first night. Gestures are simple and fluid. Everything easily finds its place in the various panniers. We pick up where we left off the day before. The physical movement warms our muscles, still asleep from the night.
Serenity
There is a natural relationship to the world in cycling. We do not only contemplate the sunrise over the mountains of Catalonia, we are part of it. Being in the landscape is to feel in a deep and almost animal way, the heat, the wind, the rain. Mountains are not just mountains seen from the cockpit of a vehicle, they are hills and trials. A pass becomes a deliverance that precedes a jubilant descent. In our own way, we have taken possession of the landscape. These are not simple decorations that parade, but a universe that we lived in our flesh. We were hungry and thirsty and they pushed us to see what we had in the legs and bellies.
In Senterada, after a bridge, we stop in a café located at the crossing of the valley that goes up to Pont de Suert. It’s a real bar that must have seen carriages, and probably heard the sound of the boots of history. The walls are decorated with photos of a distant past. The welcome is nice. Alba serves us three americano coffees and I order three tomato breads with cheese, ham sprinkled with olive oil, some garlic cloves and red wine. The clientele is eclectic and joyful. It’s a lively place, just the way we like it.
After this meal, we eat some miles, with a long siesta along the river at the hottest part of the afternoon. We end the day with a beautiful moonrise at the Aragon border. We hang our hammocks on magnificent pine trees. Shooting stars, the song of a tawny owl and the day’s fatigue accompany us into a deep sleep.
The world
The original idea was to cross the country, but the contemplative aspect of the little-traveled byways got the better of our navigation choices. It wasn’t really about making specific stages, but rather about spending time in the saddle and enjoying all that the road and landscape had to offer. We rode enthusiastically, pushing our luck westwards, towards those sierras and canyons that I love so much and that I was rediscovering from a new angle.
The water’s edge has become our Ariadne’s thread. From Ainsa, we head up the Rio Cinca, then turn left after Escalona to bathe in the surprisingly warm, low-lying waters of the Rio Bellos. We plunge along the canyon of Anisclo and its impressive limestone cliffs, before finishing by the light of our lamps under the flight of bats. At the entrance to the plateau, sheepdogs chase us towards the small village of Buerba, where a small bar is still open for a beer. We set up our hammocks on the outskirts of the village under a crystal-clear sky. My heart is pounding. Tiredness and the beauty of the world have turned into an emotional cocktail that keeps me awake for a long time.
The next day is in the same contemplative mood. Bushes of blackberries bursting with sunshine and sugar shattered our hourly average. We had decided to shoot at the foot of Peña Montagnesa. It’s a beautiful mountain and a superb promontory that allows us to admire the route we’ve covered before considering the next stage of our program. In the last hours of the day, we arrive at the threshold of the Sierra de Guara. On our bikes, we’ve crossed mountains, climbed exhausting roads and crossed desolate chasms where hot winds blow. Sweat beads Christophe’s forehead and my shirt sticks to my aching back. We look south into the distance. There, where the last shadows skim the ground, driven by that blood-red sphere that disappears behind the cordilleras lined up at the edge of the sky. We were elsewhere. We were far away. I take off my cap to let the wind cool my head. We drink warm water and bivouac.
Our journey ended in Rodella, a small village in the heart of the Sierra de Guara. The end of the road. The end of a beautiful escape.
Bruno Compagnet
