Ep. 18 - Cycling 2750km from Belgium to Spain

All Music by "Under the Skin": https://open.spotify.com/artist/0AvLx...
Intro music by NRA lab, Audio File ID: 119647
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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.