I hardly remember the details of our ride through Rubite. Maybe the past consumed my memories and buried recollections of the old adventure under a layer of new ones. Or maybe it’s one of those tricks played by our minds when things go rough – the details are stressed out and you are left just with your emotions.
Sierra Nevada in Spain is a top destination for cycling. It is the place to burn ya legs after all those crappy motionless winter months. Full of infinite falsely flat climbs that roll over buttery smooth roads cutting through the slopes of magnificent mountains. And it’s Spain so the weather’s great. Well, most of the times.
Going to Spain we (Łuksza, Radek, and I) had one purpose, and one purpose only: to get those tan lines. And maybe to ride a tiny bit. We were quite successful doing both for the first few days but, to be honest, the weather wasn’t that Spanish.
One day we decided to head towards Albuñol. The weather wasn’t very favorable that day. It wasn’t raining but the temperature was pretty low. So we prepared ourself with all the additional clothing we brought with us (arm warmers, leg warmers, casquettes, gilletes, and overshoes) and set out on a ride.
Long distances, big climbs, and foul weather. All cyclists dream of epic rides, don’t they? We had those dreams too, stoked up with memories of high mountain stages of Giro, so we continued our climb cheerfully even though halfway through the climb to Haza del Lino pass, the highest point on the route, the temperature fell down. Reaching the pass we got what we dreamt of. The shit hit the fan. I mean the snow.
It was bitterly cold and we were freezing. There was no way we could push through to Albuñol. We decided hastily to change our plans and to roll down to Rubite, a small village 5 kilometers away. As much as wise this decision was, it was the slowest and the scariest descent ever. I lost feeling in my fingers and toes, and was shivering. I hardly could brake and the road was wet and slippery. I was praying for better conditions.
Rubite saved our asses. Virtually every Spanish village has a kind of a restaurant or a bar and Rubite wasn’t any exception. The owner, upon seeing our sorry state, offered a heater immediately. The heater, together with cafes solo and jelly bears, brought us slowly back to life. It took us quite a while to recover and when we were leaving Rubite it was sunny again.
During the rest of our ride we were all smiles but we learned the lesson: be careful what you wish for.