ベルギーからスペインまで2750kmのサイクリング（第18話）

ベルギーからスペインまで2750kmのサイクリング（第18話）

Hey everyone, we are Lean and Whim, a couple from Belgium. We have set out on an epic cycling journey from Belgium all the way down to the southern tip of Spain, over 2,750 km in 32 days. Join us in our video diary as we ride through stunning landscapes, tackle challenges, and experience all the surprises along the way. Subscribe and hop on for the ride of a lifetime. [Music] We start the day with bacon rolls and morning sun. In the cafe below our room, workers grab their breakfast and head off to their jobs. I follow their lead and we eat outside on the terrace. The rolls are warm and savory, exactly what we need. Our host is kind and welcoming. I’d give him six stars if I could. But the litter scattered around the terrace spoils the picture a little. Not his fault. That much is clear. We have only just entered Spain, and we hope this isn’t the norm. Just a rough first impression, one we’d love to see proven wrong. [Music] [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Music] [Applause] [Music] After crossing the mighty Pyrenees, You would expect the toughest climbs to be behind you. A sigh of relief for the legs, perhaps. Well, think again. My calves and thighs can toss that idea right out the window the moment we roll past the town of Agawitz and veer off the comforting smoothness of asphelt onto gravel. At first, it’s charming, a gentle roller coaster of green and stone. It even looks inviting, seductive almost. But our by computer has no time for seduction. It reveals what is coming and soon the path bears its teeth. The climb begins. Steep, steady, and then suddenly brutal. My heart does its best to keep up, thumping out a wild rhythm. 189 beats per minute. That’s not cycling anymore. That’s cardio chaos. Heat. Heat. [Music] Heat. [Music] [Music] Heat. [Music] And then finally the summit and with it the smile wide arm a grin pulled straight from the soul. It is stunning up here. Unseen beauty wild and quiet. Once again it proves what every cyclist secretly knows. Climbing hurts but it always rewards. My [Applause] [Music] [Music] [Music] Heat. Heat. N. [Music] Oh, [Music] heat. Oh, [Applause] [Music] heat. We are back on Astro now, but the challenge hasn’t disappeared. It has merely changed clothes. This time, it’s the monstrous breath of passing trucks that tests our metal. 10-tonon beasts race past us, their gusts snatching at our handlebars and balancing our bikes with a violent sigh of wind. We try a detour, but a Spaniard on a sleek road by confirms what we already feared. There is no detour. The main road is the only road. So we enjoy grit in our teeth, eyes forward, minds set to blank. This too shall pass. And pass it thus. Not even a kilometer later, we finally leave that high-speed corridor behind and sink gratefully into a picnic break. Breathing, recovering. The silence tastes like honey. In the distance, diggers scrape and claw at the earth. Even here, where we sit, a slice of soil has been cleanly shaved away. Are they cleaning contaminated ground? Or, my personal favorite, unearthing the forgotten bones of a medieval city. Between facts and fantasy, I’ll choose romance every time. [Music] [Music] Heat. Heat. [Music] baby. [Music] Not much later, we find ourselves in Arka, a name that feels like a breath of history. A village tucked away like a well-kept secret. We roll into its center. narrow cobbled streets, quiet stone houses, and ancient walls that seem to hold centuries of stories. It’s like cycling through a still moment in time. The heart of it all, El Cero de Arcta, a fortified hilltop built by French monks in the 11th and 12th centuries. 14 towers once stood guard, nine remain, weathered by time, but standing proud. Near the old church, we spot a small water tap. And honestly, I have never refilled water in a place that felt more sacred. As whim fills them, people dressed in white with rat scars or sashes begin to appear in the streets. A little further on, the village seems to be gathering. There’s clearly something going on, a celebration in full swing. We’d love to stay, but the road is calling. And today, it still asks a lot. [Music] Hey, [Music] D. [Music] The road turns gentle, stretching through golden fields and quiet rows of crops. The wind now firmly in our favor, carries us like a whisper across the land. On either side, the landscape offers its colors freely. Grapes clustered in heavy bunches, tomatoes blushing rat in the sun, and slender pepper strings swaying like festive garlands. It all looks ripe for the taking, but we ride on, content to look, not touch. [Music] Another [Music] [Music] [Music] respect. [Music] A little later, we find a picnic spot wellplaced, well-built, clearly once designed with care. Solid benches, broad tables, and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. It should be a place to rest, to breathe. But its beauty is blurred around us. The ground is sprinkled with waste. Bottles, wrappers, scraps of yesterday’s carelessness. We have only just arrived in Spain. Yet already we have seen it more than once. Litter dropped as if it belongs. As natural as gravel on a pass [Music] under under P another n [Music] Heat. Heat. N. Heat. Heat. N. We roll into Peralta and just before crossing a bridge spot a quiet park, perfect for camping. First, some groceries. But when we reach the town center, we notice massive wooden fences lining the streets. Not just planks, but heavyduty barricades. I tell him, I think they run pools here. Moments later, a local confirms, tonight is the closing event of the town’s fiesta and Sierra, the bull run. Every hotel is fully booked, but a host run by angels of fate offers us a simple room. We must unload fast. They lock the doors at 6:00 p.m. sharp. Why? Well, because the pools pass right in front of the entrance. No fencing there, just door meets pool. We skip showers, change quickly, and take position behind the sturdy barrier across the street. A distant bang marks the start, then silence and anticipation. The first bulls charge into view. Confused, alert, unsure. [Music] Oh my god. Honey. [Music] [Music] [Music] The crowd wants action and they will get it. People wave cloths, umbrellas, scoreboard, tounding, teasing and provoking until the bulls snap. The crowd roars. Wouldbe matadors leap over fences with gymnastic urgency. One brave or foolish soul spin circles around the bull, dodging horns by millimeters. The beast slips on slick tails, which might just be the reason that man lives to tell the tale. [Music] I don’t know. [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] Wow. [Music] [Music] Glory. [Music] What are you doing? [Music] [Music] [Applause] Watching the bull run leaves a weight I didn’t expect. I saw bulls slipping on the smooth pavement, roofs sliding out beneath them, some crashing to the ground. Their eyes, wild, confused, overwhelmed, spoke louder than any roar of the crowd. Two men even struck them with sticks trying to push them forward. It’s hard to call it harmless. No blood perhaps, but the distress was written all over their bodies. This wasn’t sport. It wasn’t tradition in its purest form. It felt more like panic disguised as entertainment. And even after the dust saddles, the feeling doesn’t quite let go. [Music] behind the fan. [Music]

All Music by “Under the Skin”: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0AvLxd0MOteC026aTgu8KX
Intro music by NRA lab, Audio File ID: 119647
—
The day began gently—with golden morning light, the smell of bacon, and a seat on a sunny café terrace. Egg-and-bacon rolls in hand, we watched local workers grab breakfast on the go. Simple. Satisfying. A moment of calm before the climb.

And what a climb it was.

Just past Agoitz, the tarmac gave way to gravel, and the gravel soon gave way to gravity. The path grew steeper, rougher, scarred by past rains. My heart raced, my legs protested, and before long I was pushing—fifty kilos of bike and baggage—up a slope littered with loose stones. It was brutal, beautiful, and strangely rewarding. The kind of effort that carves itself into memory.

We reached the top breathless but smiling, then traded gravel sweat for asphalt tension—busy roads, heavy trucks, and wind blasts that rattled our handlebars. Eventually, peace returned. We drifted through quiet farmland, past grapes hanging heavy on the vine, tomatoes ripening in neat rows, red peppers glowing like lanterns in the sun.

Artajona was a revelation: a hilltop village wrapped in medieval stone, silent streets, and ancient towers standing guard. At the church, we found a tap—humble, unassuming—yet I’ve never refilled water in a place that felt more sacred.

Then came Peralta. Wooden fences lined the streets, and the signs were clear: the bulls would run tonight.

We found shelter in a hostel just in time, then stepped outside to watch the spectacle unfold. The bulls came thundering through—hooves slipping on smooth stones, some animals falling. Panic flashed in their eyes. Two men struck them with sticks to drive them on. The crowd cheered. But from where we stood, the excitement felt edged with something else—something uneasy.

Was it tradition? Entertainment? Cruelty dressed in celebration? We’re still not sure. But the weight of it stayed with us, long after the dust had settled.