Total distance: 114.5 km. Total climb: 500 m.

The longest day begins with full sun on my back as we head southwestward from Carrión de los Condes. Just like yesterday, the line marked on my map shows our route following highway N120 for first section (43 km in this case). But west of Carrión it is a ghost highway, abandoned to us cyclists while vehicular traffic rushes toward León on the newer divided highway, A231, which I glimpse to the north now and then. I dub it the “Superhighway de Santiago,” but it’s actually called the Autovía de León. We’re in our second full day of riding on the meseta, the central plains. The area has been termed “the breadbasket of the Roman empire” for its role in ancient times, and it appears that things haven’t changed a lot over the centuries. At this early stage of the growing season I observe not “amber waves of grain,” but green fields, barely knee-high with stems bearing fat green beards of wheat. There are signs of fertility in the avian kingdom as well. At every town a stork’s nest  invariably caps the church tower and many other high spots. But unlike the doves of Boadilla that I read about yesterday, I doubt the storks help control the insect population or make good eating. They fly to Spain from northern Africa to spend the summer breeding. When the weather turns cool, the storks fly south again, leaving an abundance of combustible nesting material littering urban rooflines, clogging the chimneys and smokestacks. On the outskirts of Carrión I spot a nest balanced at the top of a pole, like the “crow’s nest” of a sailing ship.

At kilometer 15 our course tacks to the northwest, which gives me a slight assist from the southwesterly winds. After 30 km the N120 loses all semblance of a once-mighty highway and dwindles down to a quiet, if bumpy, two-lane road. The soil is reddish here. The walking trail runs right beside the road. I imagine riding past a pilgrim walking a donkey. Fortunately, Judge Pancho is riding with me at this point, and confirms that there was indeed a donkey (at the cost  of having to endure his pun: “it must be Don Keyxote”). Just before noon we arrive in Sahagún, the only town of significance we’ll see before León. Some of the other riders are already digging into early lunches of tortilla or even spaghetti. But it still seems like morning to me. I’m not ready to go against the relaxed schedule of this land. As the others finish their meals and rejoin the race, I choose to savor a midmorning café con leche. Then I pick up a couple bocaditos (mini versions of the typical sandwich) for the road and meander out through town.

At the far end of Sahagún I loiter to inspect the ruins of the Monasterio de San Facundo, the saint whose name is condensed in the town’s name. The building is aptly described in CCH as “a brick, three-nave basilica with no transept.” The use of brick, instead of the usual stone, identifies the “Romanesque-Mudejar style” (influenced by laborers who descended from the Moors of southern Spain). I change rolls of film while inspecting the brickwork. Nearby, an arch spanning the road, the Arch of San Benito, which was formerly the façade of the monastery’s church, now is more like a triumphal arch and bears a Hapsburg coat of arms.

Leaving town I hear the voice of a pilgrim with an English accent, and I stop to investigate. It is a party of two young men and one woman, all from London, who have walked from Pamplona. I bid them buen camino and ride on. By now I figure I’ve fallen far behind my group and it’s time to play catch-up. I start pedaling vigorously. Limited by only a slight wind and occasional gentle grades, I sustain speeds of 25 – 35 kph. Not very impressive compared to the 70 kph that riders in the Tour de France can sustain on level ground, but still a respectable clip. But even at this pace I won’t catch sight of Julia and John-Giebler, who is today’s sweep, for nearly an hour.

The lightly traveled road that I’m following runs in a straight line through a flat and unvarying landscape. I see fields of grain stretching to the horizon; a few dots in the distance are buildings,  which contribute the barest minimum of variety. Here for the first time our route coincides exactly with the walkers’ Camino; the path is just few feet to the left of the road, with a strip of tall wildflowers and weeds in between. To the left of the path is a seemingly endless row of trees with full, round, leafy foliage – all the same species and of identical size and shape. They are spaced with mathematical regularity about a dozen paces apart. This is the about closest likeness that a real world scene can have to a computer-generated image – or perhaps to one of those drawings in the Atlantic Monthly by visual humorist Guy Billout, whose landscapes play games with this very sort of repetition in our man-made environment. Because they are on the south side of the westward-trending path, the trees provide patches of shade for the pilgrims throughout most of the day. As I come upon one solitary pilgrim I stop to photograph him as the lone living character on this monotonous stage. Then, to my surprise, the character talks back to me. Says something in German, then Spanish, and I realize he is inquiring about my nationality. After I identify myself as Americano, he switches into fluent English and begins to tell me of his travels. Although he’s carrying a heavy pack, he still walks at a brisk pace, fast enough for me to ride along beside him as we converse.

He is Belgian and began walking, all alone, from Antwerp on 8 April – over two months before our encounter here on the meseta. Rather than take one of the traditional routes across the lowlands of France, he blazed his own mountainous route across the massif central – the edge of the Alps – and then lengthwise along the Pyrenees. There, while trying to traverse a high pass, he ran into a severe snowstorm and was forced to turn back and find a different route. At Santiago, he tells me, he will definitely give thanks to the saint for delivering him from this potentially life-threatening incident. After emerging from the mountains and merging with the traditional camino, he lightened his load by sending his tent and camping gear back home. At his pace he covers 40 – 45 km per day, double the pace of the typical pilgrim. We talk a bit about the weather: he thinks we’re lucky we haven’t been caught in the type of downpour that’s common on the meseta; I utter thanks that it hasn’t been so hot. But it is hot, he corrects me, and I realize that my perspective has been distorted by one of the benefits of cycling: you make your own wind. Realizing that it is time for me to make my own wind, I bid him godspeed and resume my attempt to catch up with the tail of my pack.

However, my arrival at the town limits of El Burgo Ranero around 2:00 presents opportunities for another delay. According to the CCH, which I carry in my saddlebag, the intriguing name of this town may simply be the result of dropping a letter from the term for a town in grain country (El Burgo Granero). But there is a second, more whimsical, hypothesis: the words could refer to a burgher at some time in the town’s history, who had the unusual profession of ranero, which would be a seller of frogs. At any rate, the town has an albergue where pilgrims may lodge for the night. When I step inside to add a stamp to my passport I see that many have already checked in and are attending to matters like laundry, using the facility’s coin-operated machine. Across the road I notice a bar with a patio, a clear opportunity for a beer and a snack. By now I have learned that if I ask for a draft beer (cerveza a presión), I will be served a small glass, only about eight ounces. And the alcohol content of the lager is low, so a beer is just right to provide refreshment on a hot afternoon and a bit of energizing carbohydrate without impeding pedaling performance. I sit outdoors in the shade of an umbrella, sip my draft and begin to consume one of my bocaditos. Under the table a scrawny, but friendly, calico cat approaches me, as quickly and boldly as Dean homing in on a pretty woman. I scratch the cat’s head a few times, then give her what she really wants: a few slivers of salty jamon from my sandwich. When my food is gone, the cat quickly moves on to another person who has just arrived by car. When my beer is gone as well, I swing back onto the saddle and resume pedaling.

After another half hour on the road I finally catch up with Julia and John-Giebler, who have  stopped at a fountain in Mansilla de las Mulas for water and shade. This seems very much a  ghost town. The sun is hot, the air is dry, and no townspeople are to be seen. Having already spent most of a long day in solitude, I stay in the company of my two fellow riders for the last hour of the trek to León. The villages we ride through (names like Villacelama, and Villanueva de las Manzanas) seem empty and bleak. It is clear that the wise person withdraws indoors for a siesta at this hour. Only mad dogs and bicyclists stay out in the mid-day sun – and, actually, there isn’t even a mad dog to be seen. Our only hint of life in the towns are the attractive clusters of healthy roses that decorate many homes.

León, with 147,300 residents, is only slightly smaller than Burgos. Mercifully, however, the aproach to León, unlike the long struggle entering Burgos, is a quick transition from village to city, and traffic is light, because we arrive at siesta time.

After checking in, showering and drinking another cerveza at the hotel, I walk three blocks to the cathedral. My first sight of the interior again brings tears to my eyes.