Total distance: 89.6 km. Total climb: 800 m.

Cultural highlights: church of San Juan de Ortega, Burgos cathedral

The day’s course will take two long arcs bouncing northward off N120, a heavily traveled, divided 2-lane highway that we will criss-cross and occasionally follow for the next three days. The long detours add distance to what one would travel by car (or by foot, since N120 follows the true Camino, but they keep us out of the path of heavy traffic. We will cross the pilgrim’s footpath several times and begin to encounter lots of pilgrims.

In the morning in the dining room of our hotel in Santo Domingo a breakfast of cold cuts and cheese, crusty bread and jam, yogurt and fresh fruit is spread out for us on a long table with a yellow tablecloth in a large dining room with yellow walls. The embroidered chairs are positioned sideways, and we wonder if the intent is for us to eat sidesaddle.

After eating and vacating my room I walk out the front door toward the garage where our bikes have been stored. Right in front of the hotel I encounter my first bicycle pilgrim who is not in our group. A man in his late 50s is holding a trail bike with full suspension and panniers fully packed with gear. He is talking with one of the members of our group, and I learn that this man and his wife have ridden one of the tributaries of the Camino de Santiago from Frankfurt, Germany following the walking path all the way, rather than riding on roads.

It’s another cool, cloudy morning and our ride begins along a road between fields of full-bearded grain, still quite short and very green. About 10 km out the road begins a gentle climb up rolling hills, around which it seems every square meter of relatively flat ground has been cultivated. These are the Montes de Oca, and they don’t seem that difficult to climb. The sun breaks through the clouds. When I stop to take a few photos of wildflowers the sun feels hot on my back, but the temperature feels pleasant as long as I resume pedaling. Approaching a hill where the road takes a couple switchbacks I see 72-year-old “T Rex” of Houston far ahead, nearing the top and still standing on the pedals. Ten minutes later, when I reach the same point, I look back and see Paul, Julia and Dean at the bottom behind me.

When I road levels off I pick up speed. I happen upon a woman cyclist, riding much slower, who looks familiar. It is the Dutch woman that Dean grabbed from the crowd the night before in Santo Domingo to pose with him for a photo. She too is a bicycle pilgrim, but one carrying her own gear and probably staying at hostels. I say hello and, somewhat apologetically, refresh her memory about the circumstances of our meeting the night before. Then I move on quickly. Dean, I know, is not far behind me and I suspect that after he recognizes her he will accompany her to the next town.

In the late morning I arrive at the village of Belorado and find a marketplace in the plaza mayor. I circle the plaza, finding things for sale like lingerie, power tools and heavy duty flashlights. Having no urgent need for any of these things (nor means of transporting them) I proceed to a bar for café con leche and a glazed donut, the only pastry I find other than the ubiquitous  magdalens, Spain’s cellophane-wrapped version of the Twinkie. As I sip my café, Paul and Julia arrive and also the Dutch woman and two other cyclists from the Netherlands. There are also many pilgrims on foot.

 After Belorado there is a short stretch of riding on N120. Fortunately, the shoulder is wide and we don’t have to compete with traffic. There is a bit more climbing, but soon I am back on a quiet two-lane backroad gliding gently downhill past picturesque towns with names all beginning with Villa: Villalbos, Villalmondar. The descent does not mean that the climbing is over, however. At the bottom I am following the Río Oca, through the Puerto de la Pedraja, a “steeply sided gully that cuts through the center of the region” (CCH). But all too soon the chalk arrows direct me sharply away from the river, and I have to begin a strenuous climb up to the second ridge in the Montes de Oca. As The Complete Cultural Handbook describes, “In the local dialect, monte indicates not a mountain, but a hilly, desolate, scrubby wasteland. The Montes de Oca are certainly that: rolling, pine- and oak-covered hills and gullies.” A strong wind picks up, retarding my progress, but nicely cooling.

The end of the climb leaves me not on a ridge but on a high plateau at an elevation of about 1,000 meters, which our route will maintain for the rest of the day. Here, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I come upon the church of San Juan de Ortega (Spanish for “thistle”), a 12^th  c. Romanesque church with an unornamented 15^th c. façade. The adjoining monastery houses a pilgrim hospice. There is also a bar. Arriving here at the peak of lunch time (2 p.m.) I find it packed with pilgrims. The walking path and the bicycle route converge here, and everybody has to eat. The Texans, Rex and Terry, are finishing their meal and yield a seat to me at an outdoor table shaded by a large umbrella. When I go to the bar to order food, the bartender tells me something in Spanish with gestures, from which I understand enough to deduce that no tables are available and it’s too busy to provide counter service. However, he agrees to my request for uno bocadillo y cerveza. So one more time I find myself eating a ham and cheese sandwich.

Maria Elena, today’s “sweep” emerges from the bar and joins me at my table. She is fluent in Spanish, and the bartender has refused to give her any food other than  papas fritas: potato chips. I share my sandwich with her, somewhat relieved not to have to eat the whole thing. The dry meat on dry bread is not exactly fine cuisine, but accompanied by a cold bottled lager it satisfies my appetite. The sun is intensely hot and bright, reflecting off the reddish white earth. I pull my felt hat from the bike bag to supplement the shade provided by the umbrella.

For the rest of the day’s 90 km ride I fight a strong westerly wind. For another stretch of about 9 km our route is again on the shoulder of N120. Due to the wind, a speed of 25 kph feels like the blasting 50 kph I would normally attain only while descending a steep hill. If I were in my morning bicycle commute, rushing to work, I’d be getting frustrated with my slow progress. But being a pilgrim with hundreds of miles and many days ahead of me, I know that fighting the elements won’t get me to my destination any sooner – and that the journey itself is at least as important as reaching the goal. I assume a monklike (I think) attitude of patience. I pedal gently at a sustainable, steady pace. But I cannot quite overcome my annoyance with passing trucks – either one approaching from the opposite direction or coming up from behind. Although there is plenty of space between us, a truck coming toward you blasts you with a wall of wind, while a truck passing in your direction sucks you into a vacuum for a split second until the prevailing headwind, made turbulent by its passing, slams back into you. 

When the chalk arrows direct me to turn off the highway I breathe a sigh of relief – but only for a few minutes until our side road takes me up an incredibly steep incline. And if the climb alone isn’t enough, I am joined by a dump truck with its engine roaring, grinding gears and belching smoke as it climbs the hill at a speed only slightly faster than mine. Fortunately, the dump truck turns onto a road leading to an apparent refuse site, and this marks the end of my climb as well.

Burgos, with a population over 160,000 is the largest city we will stay in. Consequently, there are several kilometers to ride from the outskirts to the historic center of the city, where our hotel is located. Fortunately, we don’t have to compete with city traffic, because there is a bike path  running through a large city park thick with trees. On the down side, these trees are some sort of poplar similar to the North American cottonwood, and their tufts are ripe. As I ride, the headwind blows a storm of fluffy down directly at me. Being already quite congested from a mild cold that made itself known this morning, I can’t avoid inhaling the stuff.

Upon check-in at the Mesón del Cid in Burgos I am impressed with the view. I fling open the  shutters of my room and look directly on the nearby west façade of the gothic cathedral. Seeing this cathedral is the highlight of the trip for me. I love Gothic architecture. On the outside I love the spires and gargoyles and the ornate tracery of the windows. On the inside I am awed by ceilings of unimaginable height with elaborate, delicate nerve vaulting. At least one of my fellow riders voiced a preference for the earlier Romanesque. Jack Hitt, too, in Off the Road makes his case for the Romanesque:

Despite the grandeur of the Gothic, Baroque, and other styles, I find myself drawn to the secure comfort of the Romanesque – the heavy walls, dark interior, thick columns, and simple sculpture. If I could conduct a poll among pilgrims, I’m certain the Romanesque would win. The style flourished in the 1000s and 1100s, and the churches were built largely because of pilgrim traffic. Some critics even call this style of building “pilgrim architecture.”

Romanesque appeals to pilgrims because it is built to a scale that is especially fitting for someone on foot. These churches are small and cozy; even the Romanesque cathedrals are manageable spaces. They are humble, comprehensible buildings. The columns are low. The sculptures are visible at eye level or just above. From town to town they play out the same themes and tell the same story. The repetition is soothing. After a while, they feel like home.

. . .

A Romanesque church asks a visitor to step back and make sense of what can be seen, which is everything. Gothic can only be seen in part. It is literally and figuratively beyond comprehension. Gothic doesn’t serve the grandeur of creation; it competes with it.

I can appreciate everything he says (and we are of the same view about the excesses of the Baroque). But I love to be overwhelmed by something that is beyond comprehension.

So after a quick shower my priority is to visit the interior of the cathedral. From the hotel entry it is a short walk down a broad stone staircase to a small plaza and from there just a few steps to the central doorway. It is a bit disappointing that a large part of the central nave is closed off with scaffolding and black plastic sheeting. Still, the sight of the soaring vaults, the stained glass, and, in particular, the towering Mudejar* style lantern vault at the center of the crossing brings tears to my eyes. Just as I am overcome with awe, my mood is shattered when fellow rider Dean walks up and says in a lowered tone of voice, “So where’s the big kahuna church in this town?” I’m ready to kill him.

As the name of our hotel, Mesón del Cid, suggests, Burgos has some fame as the birthplace of El Cid, a real man known to many Americans as he was portrayed in a 1961 film starring Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren. This was a Hollywood fantasy spun off from a 12^th-century epic poem, which itself highly romanticized the story of the actual man, Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, who was born in 1043. The real Cid may not have been quiet so virtuous as the movie hero. Rodrigo got involved in the power struggle among the heirs to Ferdinand I and was banished from the kingdom of Castile. (That much the film got right.) But then, according to the Lonely Planet guide to Spain, “He embarked on a career as a soldier of fortune, offering his services to this ruler and that, not caring whether they were Christian or Muslim, but growing more powerful and wealthy with each exploit.” Eventually he recaptured the city of Valencia from the Muslims and set himself up as ruler, living there until the ripe old age of 56 (rather than dying heroically in battle as portrayed in the film). His remains were returned to Burgos, and his tomb can be seen in the crypt of the cathedral.