Still Monday 7th October
After my early morning sight-seeing tour, we enjoyed the most authentic Portuguese breakfast of the entire trip - with freshly baked bread rolls, a whole local cheese, figs just picked in the garden and freshly squeezed orange juice for which you had to peel your orange first, but not the way we were used to. Only Jimmy and I mastered the art, helpfully assisted by our hostess.
The Oirish had left in the small hours, as both Seamus and Daithi had work commitments back home - and thus the Anthill Mob was down to six.
Saint Matthew kindly offered to ride with me again but I didn't want to spoil another one of his rare fun days with the boys. With hindsight I'm really glad I declined...
The lads set off to Bragança on the trails and I headed north towards the historic village of Castelo Rodrigo.
Not even 20 kilometres into the journey, not far from the parish of Vilar Torpim, the bike started to wobble a bit. It felt vaguely like a puncture but the tyres looked fine and the pressure gauge confirmed that there was nothing wrong in this regard. Mmm, let's see if I can get to a point where the trail meets the road and - with a bit of luck - ask the boys for their opinion.
Alas, in addition to the wobbly feeling I could suddenly hear a loud clanging noise from the rear of the DRZ. I stopped, checked everything I could think of, took the front sprocket cover off (I'd once trapped a small flint stone which started grinding my chain away), looked at the rear brake (thinking of another incident in the Dordogne, where the calliper got stuck and the friction heat had melted all the surrounding plastics away), but I couldn't put my finger on it. It couldn't be the wheel bearings, which I had changed only three ride-outs before the trip, could it?
However, after another circumnavigation of the impressive town wall of Castelo Rodrigo, I was sure that there was something seriously wrong with my baby.
My first point of contact, my wonderful personal mechanic, had forgotten to switch his phone on in the morning
rolleyes but the Great Organizer was on call. The group was already 25 miles further north near Barca d'Alva and the Roman Road but they would come back to rescue me.
That wasn't really necessary, one experienced bike tinkerer would suffice... The boys must have had the same thoughts because half an hour later, one single knight in shining armour appeared on the horizon.
My one and only Possu!
Steve examined the DRZ, found that the brake calliper bolt hung on the last winding of its thread
, test rode the bike up and down the hill and then confirmed that the rear wheel bearings had indeed collapsed.
And that was the end of my biking holiday. For the next five hours I sat in a little park outside the historic village waiting for my saviour who raced up the motorway to Bragança on his mousses, fetched our van from the camp-site and came back all the 179 kilometres to rescue his Pumpy...
My hero!
We only stopped for a quick coffee and pastry in Vila Nova de Foz Côa but it still took us until 8pm to get back to Cepo Verde - just in time for dinner with the rest of the group. Steve must have done over 330 tarmac miles that day...
I can't quite remember what we had to eat or any of the tremendous piss-taking which naturally ensued. But that may not only be down to the excitement of the day but also the copious amounts of Telmo's fabulous vinho tinto consumed in the course of the evening. The last thing I recall is sitting in the boys' cabin with several dubious bottles on the table...
Mind you, as there is no photographic evidence and no record in the Book of Truth, I'm pretty sure that nothing report-worthy happened - and I still woke up next to Possu in our own cottage the following morning...
To be continued
After my early morning sight-seeing tour, we enjoyed the most authentic Portuguese breakfast of the entire trip - with freshly baked bread rolls, a whole local cheese, figs just picked in the garden and freshly squeezed orange juice for which you had to peel your orange first, but not the way we were used to. Only Jimmy and I mastered the art, helpfully assisted by our hostess.
The Oirish had left in the small hours, as both Seamus and Daithi had work commitments back home - and thus the Anthill Mob was down to six.
Saint Matthew kindly offered to ride with me again but I didn't want to spoil another one of his rare fun days with the boys. With hindsight I'm really glad I declined...
The lads set off to Bragança on the trails and I headed north towards the historic village of Castelo Rodrigo.
Not even 20 kilometres into the journey, not far from the parish of Vilar Torpim, the bike started to wobble a bit. It felt vaguely like a puncture but the tyres looked fine and the pressure gauge confirmed that there was nothing wrong in this regard. Mmm, let's see if I can get to a point where the trail meets the road and - with a bit of luck - ask the boys for their opinion.
Alas, in addition to the wobbly feeling I could suddenly hear a loud clanging noise from the rear of the DRZ. I stopped, checked everything I could think of, took the front sprocket cover off (I'd once trapped a small flint stone which started grinding my chain away), looked at the rear brake (thinking of another incident in the Dordogne, where the calliper got stuck and the friction heat had melted all the surrounding plastics away), but I couldn't put my finger on it. It couldn't be the wheel bearings, which I had changed only three ride-outs before the trip, could it?
However, after another circumnavigation of the impressive town wall of Castelo Rodrigo, I was sure that there was something seriously wrong with my baby.
My first point of contact, my wonderful personal mechanic, had forgotten to switch his phone on in the morning
rolleyes but the Great Organizer was on call. The group was already 25 miles further north near Barca d'Alva and the Roman Road but they would come back to rescue me.That wasn't really necessary, one experienced bike tinkerer would suffice... The boys must have had the same thoughts because half an hour later, one single knight in shining armour appeared on the horizon.
My one and only Possu!
Steve examined the DRZ, found that the brake calliper bolt hung on the last winding of its thread
And that was the end of my biking holiday. For the next five hours I sat in a little park outside the historic village waiting for my saviour who raced up the motorway to Bragança on his mousses, fetched our van from the camp-site and came back all the 179 kilometres to rescue his Pumpy...
My hero!
We only stopped for a quick coffee and pastry in Vila Nova de Foz Côa but it still took us until 8pm to get back to Cepo Verde - just in time for dinner with the rest of the group. Steve must have done over 330 tarmac miles that day...
I can't quite remember what we had to eat or any of the tremendous piss-taking which naturally ensued. But that may not only be down to the excitement of the day but also the copious amounts of Telmo's fabulous vinho tinto consumed in the course of the evening. The last thing I recall is sitting in the boys' cabin with several dubious bottles on the table...
Mind you, as there is no photographic evidence and no record in the Book of Truth, I'm pretty sure that nothing report-worthy happened - and I still woke up next to Possu in our own cottage the following morning...
To be continued
