Cycle paths shouldn’t disappear?

In the first instance, today, I backtracked and found an alternative route.

In the second, I decided to persevere through increasingly jungle surroundings.

Imagine the scene – no discernible track, encroaching bushes on either side. . . and then – the dogs! Ever since the dog attack in Oregon (Vancouver to San Francisco trip in 2013) I have become hyper-alert to loud barking dogs.

On that occasion, one nasty candidate (of 3 would-be attackers) succeeded with his evil intentions – sinking his teeth into my right leg just above the knee, leaving no fewer than 5 bloody punctures (necessitating repairing to a local hospital for a tetanus shot).

So, when I heard, and then saw, 3 loud Alsatians heading in my direction, the rush of adrenaline was immediate.

The problem was the path – even with a blast of adrenalin to supercharge my pedalling, the terrain just would not allow a hasty escape. I had to pray that they were contained behind a suitable fence.

Luckily, they were. But I failed to recognise the portent they represented.

Fed up with the poor quality path, I sought a different route to complete my journey. Google identified an alternative tertiary road on the other side of the motorway – and a bridge to access it – so, off I went.

So far so good. A steep climb on a good quality road seemed like an acceptable price to pay. A turn left and – back to a “Crunch, Grind, Swerve and Slide” road. Ugh! At least there was no grass in the middle or tall vegetation at the side. And, having climbed a good while, the path thereafter was downhill.

Ah, downhill.

Little did I know I was about to be introduced to the game of “Rock, Sand, Skin”. . .

Rocks – clearly beats Sand

Sand – beats Skin (so, avoid)

And Skin? – unlike “Rock, Paper, Scissors”, Skin just breaks. Skin bleeds. Skin yells with pain.

All it took was a concealed rock/pothole, a layer of sand, and a downhill aspect to send me flying.

And then that awful high speed disaster/slow motion feeling. My right leg and right elbow took the brunt of the damage, acting as an unintended and painful brake.

I spit out the sand and grit and take stock – all 4 limbs are present and accounted for – no apparent breaks. Good.

Bike looks gnarled – it can wait.

Experimental flexing of fingers and toes. Okay.

And then the Pain Train hits me – my right leg and arm are on fire. Some antiseptic wipes clear away most of the sand and grit but I’m bleeding.

I had to cycle 10k to Tordesillas – only to discover they had no hospital (okay – it’s a small town). The pharmacy directed me to the local Clinica and there, a “seen it all before” nurse/paramedic patched me up – cleaned the wounds, applied antibiotic cream, gingerly applied a dressing and gave me a tetanus shot.

I asked how much I owed her for her Florence Nightangale intervention. When I looked puzzled to her response of “Zero” she simply shrugged her shoulders: “European!” (the equivalent cost in the US 11 years ago was US$1,000!))

I could have kissed her.