Archive for June, 2014
Tomorrow, Wednesday, June 4, is National Running Day.
National Running Day is held annually on the first Wednesday in June, and is a day when runners everywhere declare their passion for running. This tradition was started in 2009 to give tribute to our sport and to unite those of us that love to run. For various reasons, many can’t, so I give tribute tomorrow to those that can’t but want to. My run tomorrow will be dedicated to you.
For more information on National Running Day visit: http://www.runningday.org/
If you are looking for some things to do to celebrate National Running day, the top five (5) things I plan to do to celebrate National Running Day are:
- Sign up for a race.
- Tell my running partners how much I appreciate their company.
- Get a massage – reward my legs and give thanks that I am able to run.
- Buy a pair of shoes and donate a pair of shoes to a charity.
- Eat junk food and not feel guilty about it! I earn it.
What are your top 5 things?
Whatever you do, do it with passion. Whether you are slow or fast, don’t forget to thank God for giving you the gift to run.
– Coach Dan
After a good rest at my favorite albergue, as usual I woke early and as usual planned get an early start on the day’s walk and my second day in the meseta. So as to not disturb those sleeping I carried my gear downstairs and packed to leave. A pair of Frenchmen joined me as they too were heading out early. We “knew” each other from other short “visits” on the Camino, but we shared little due to our language barrier.
We had rain on the very first day leaving St. Jean and climbing over the Pyrenees. Since then, the weather has been nearly perfect, but this morning it was cold and gray and raining lightly. The Frenchmen headed out before me as I grabbed a cup of coffee and croissant. I was out as usual before sunrise on a very cloudy rainy morning, it was dark. And, with a path that led through trees outside of town, finding the way marks was difficult. I actually stopped before exiting town trying to use the light from a lamp to see the next yellow arrow. I used this pause to put on my rain jacket, pull out my headlamp and put the rain cover on my pack. It looked like the day would be challenging.
The trail was an earthen path that widened into a narrow, two-tract lane – about the width of a car. The official “way” was removed from but paralleled the main road between Hontanas and Castrojeriz. The path didn’t appear to actually be a country road – maybe a rarely-used trail for some farm equipment. Because of the previous night’s rain there was considerable puddling and in the very limited early morning light I had to watch my steps if I wanted to keep my feet dry.
The day brightened a little. I turned off my headlamp. I had covered about 5 kilometers in just over an hour when I turned left and came out on the paved road. Considering the remoteness of these towns and the early morning hour, I was surprised (and just a bit concerned) when I saw a car stop at the intersection of the road and the Camino path – and seemingly wait for me as I approached. As I got closer the passenger got. Glimpsing up, I was relieved – very surprised (because I was certain that only the “Frenchmen” and me had started out early), but relieved – to be greeted by George (from Arizona), with whom I had shared the paella dinner the night before.
George directed his flashlight beam at my shoes as he said, “somebody took my boots this morning.” I guess somewhat defensively I said, “well, these are mine – I’m sure.” He quickly agreed that the Vasque Mindbenders that I was wearing were not the boots he was looking for. I explained about how the Frenchmen and I were the only other ones out early and that they were probably 20 or 30 minutes ahead of me because I waited to have a cup of coffee before leaving.
My walk continued on the road through San Anton and into Castrojerz, an interesting town with castle watching over its medieval streets. After a cafe con leche and a brief rest, I made the gradual (but significant) climb in a light rain up to Alto de Mostelares. I enjoyed a brief break at the summit in a shelter with Frida and Jen (from the albergue the prior night). We then had a very steep downhill to a relatively flat and mildly rolling path for the rest of the day. I passed Frida, then she caught back up in the town of Itero de La Vega where we searched for lunch spot, but most things closed – Easter Sunday. Finally, we had to double back to the albergue at entrance to town – where we lunched on bocadilla of ham and cheese and ran into Jen (again), Carmen (from the day before), and David (from the albergue the night before).
The day started to clear. Rain gear came off and skies brighten. Most of my fellow pilgrims were stopping in Boadilla del Camino (our albergue in Hontanas had recommended another new albergue there), which would make for a 28 km day. I decided, however, to push on another 6 kilometers to Fromista (making its a 21-mile day) as part of my plan to shorten my time in the meseta. Sun begins to peak through as I walk through Boadilla. The trail then followed a canal that cut through the agricultural landscape, so the terrain were perfectly flat, so I made good time heading towards and into Fromista. Low on euros, job one was finding an ATM, which I did right away. Unsucesssful at the Santander cash machine, I ran into the Frenchmen, who had left the albergue just before me that morning. Fortunately an ATM across the street had an adequate supply of euros and I restocked.
I secured a room at the San Martin hotel and headed for an outdoor table to put my feet up and relax. While enjoying my afternoon cervesa, Ciaran from Ireland (another pilgrim about my same age) joined me in the café. Two days before his son was to start the Camino, Ciaran decided to go as well (how’s that for planning!). Now his son was a few days ahead of him, but they’d meet up in Santiago. (I was see Ciaran several times in the days to come – and, we would finish in Santiago at the same time and see each other at the Pilgrim Mass.)
Showered. Walked around town. Stopped in church long enough to focus on the day (it was Easter Sunday), give thanks and offer prayer. Back at the hotel I ordered some wine and pasta and worked on photographs, journal and blog. I called Cheryl and enjoyed a good night’s sleep in a private room – my second one after 13 days on the Camino. My second day in the meseta was not the monotony I had anticipated. The landscape had included traversing a high ridge and the scenes were more varied than the first day, including an interesting medieval town, a canal cutting through the agricultural plains, and the more modern town of Fromista.
Upon leaving the great cathedral city of Burgos, the pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago enters a region known as the “meseta.” I had read about it in Camino guidebooks, and I had heard about the meseta – both from people who completed the Way and from Spanish pilgrims familiar with this part of their country. For many this region is thought to be the most challenging on the Camino – not because of any physical challenge relating to the severity of the terrain (such as climbing through the Pyrenees), but as a result of the mental challenge relating to the monotony of the topography.
“Meseta” is simply the Spanish word for “plateau.” Meseta refers to the high, plains of central Spain. While the meseta occupies a large portion of central and northern Spain, my walk on the Camino was in the northern part, just below the Cantabrian Mountains, just west of the Pyrenees and extending across most of the northern edge of Spain to Galicia in the far northwest. One well-written website about Spain describes the meseta as follows:
Largely treeless and windblown, the Meseta is blistering hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. During the growing season, the northern Meseta shimmers golden with cereal crops and then retreats to a dusty dryness, while in the southern half vineyards, rows of olive trees and the saffron-producing crocus carpet the otherwise barren plateau. Flocks of sheep roam large stretches of the Meseta, moving south along ancient rights of way (“las cañadas”) in the fall and returning north in the late spring.
This region is largely known as “Castile” politically or “Castilla Y Leon,” which is the largest autonomous political subdivision in Spain. It plays a critical if not dominant part in the history of the Iberian Peninsula and the evolution of what is now the country of Spain. The region is home of the Castilian language, which we know today as “Spanish.” The northern part of the meseta historically is dominated by landmarks, villages, monuments, and other remnants of both Roman history (as gold was discovered in the mountains just to the north, which was mined and transported for the empire) and the Reconquita (as Christians retook the land for the Moors/Muslims). El Cid – one of Spain’s national heroes – and Don Quioxte – the protagonist from one of Spain’s most influential works of fiction – are from the meseta region.
I was prepared for boring, flat and open vistas. When thought of from a negative perspective, this landscape lacked definition or interesting landforms. With endless fields of wheat, the colors were dominated by basic, vibrant hues (blue sky, white clouds and green fields) with little variation or nuance. From a positive perspective, the meseta recalls American landscapes like Montana and its “big sky” with brilliant cloud formations against a spectacular blue background and grounded by a verdant, green base. Yet, the “warnings” I had received to prepare for long, flat, straight pathways near roads, led me to develop a plan to reduce my time in these area. While I was averaging 20 to 30 kilometers a day, I determined that if I could add 10 km a day, I could turn 5 days in the meseta into four days. Physically I figured that the flatter terrain would also make it easier to press for longer daily walks.
I started my assault on the meseta by leaving Burgos before sunrise. As I approached and then walked right next to and past the cathedral on my way west out of town, I watched the moon as to hung between the cathedral’s tall, Gothic spires. I had hoped to be hiking by 6:00 a.m., but the albergue was locked down (and we were locked in) until 6:30 a.m. After passing by the cathedral in the limited morning light, I started looking for yellow arrows to show me the way out of the city on the Camino. Just a head of me I saw a woman (“Carmen”) glancing around, like me, for some indication as to which streets and what turns to take to leave the town and enter the meseta.
I caught up to Carmen (who is from the southeast of Spain) and we worked together to find “the way.” A few minutes later we ran into “Lynn” from British Columbia and the three of us headed out into the broad landscape as the sun was rising. (Little did I know then, on Day 12 of my journey, that despite separating and reacquainting various times, the three of us would walk the final 20k together into Santiago 17 days later. But – that is the way of the Camino.)
The first 11 k of the meseta lived up to its reputation. We met “Ricky” from Japan on his first day the Camino – he started that morning in Burgos, which reminds that not everyone starts in St. Jean. Many Spaniards start in Pamplona or Burgos or Leon. In Puenta La Reina (on my fourth night) I had dinner with Frank from Austria who had actually started his walk – his Camino – in Austria. A few nights later I would bunk with friends from Holland that started in Holland and walked the entire way over three years – this year they were finishing the last third and planning to arrive in Santiago about the time I planned to do so. (I would see Ricky many more times over the next 17 days and – amazingly – would see him too in Santiago. Again, that is the way of the Camino.)
The hiking was comparatively easy. Good conversation (see previous post) provided considerable interest, where the landscape offered little. As predicted, Day 1 in the meseta was a long haul, made challenging mostly because of the sameness of the steps. Carmen enjoyed our conversation, at least in part, because she said she could practice her English with a Canadian and an American. Our destination was a small town named “Hontanas.” As I began to tire I was slightly distressed because I knew we had gone over 30 kilometers, but I could not yet see the village. We only “found” the town when we were right upon it because it sits low, almost below – protected from – the plain.
Late in the day we neared the tiny hamlet of San Bol. We were tempted to stop, take off our packs, rest and drop our hot, dusty feet in the fountain there to test the pilgrim legend that such a soaking in this special fountain cures the weary traveller of all foot pain. Yet, when we saw that it involved a detour – even though it was just a half of a kilometer – we marched on because our destination was less than 4k ahead. Tired and ready to stop, we eased ourselves down into the town that had been all but hidden from us. Carmen headed for the municipal albergue and I went to the private one across the street. We met later for a celebratory cervesa (beer).
My albergue that night would prove to be the nicest pilgrim hostel of the trip. It was relatively new, so everything was clean and worked well. The shower was roomy with a changing area plenty of hot water and no timer shutting off the flow every three minutes. This hostel featured a beautiful courtyard with large picnic table where I met Frida from Germany, Jen from Australia, and David from Denver. That evening I joined Jen and Frida around a large dining room table to enjoy a large “family-style” paella with other new friends from Arizona, Holland, France, and Florida.