Holy Mission

Spring training in Spain provides a retreat for the faithful.


We might just as well have been kneeling on prayer mats, chanting "Kumbayah". Though none of us had met before, it only took one glance at the airport check-in to recognize we were travelers on a common pilgrimage. The shaved legs. The oversized athletic bags. A vague yearning for the open road in our eyes. Dead giveaways that we were devout followers of the same abiding religion.

Well, to be honest, I recognized my fellow travelers, though they may not have known me. I wore long pants not just to conceal my unshaven legs but also to hide the evidence of my half-hearted off-season conditioning.

Still, I reasoned, we were embarking on the same holy mission. Only ours wasn't a journey to learn how to better love our fellow man. In fact, we would be preparing ourselves to smite him down in every race and weekend ride the coming summer would bring. We were on a crusade. And this spring it would begin by training on the same hallowed ground where so many of the sport's high priests-even Lance Armstrong himself-have made their pre-season sacrifices. We were heading to Girona, at the Costa Brava in Spain.

After a long but comfortable flight into Barcelona, my fellow pilgrims and I were whisked off to the beachside resort that we would call home for the next week. Perched majestically on the sun-kissed coast of the Mediterranean, the resort, with its white stucco walls and sloping terra cotta roof, even looked like a cathedral. Even more inspiring were the distant peaks of the Pyrénées and the rolling hills and winding coastal roads that beckoned all around. I couldn't wait to get started.

I quickly checked in and located my room, which I found on the top floor of a two-story building tucked into a hillside. The room was set up like an apartment, complete with a kitchen and private bathroom. A terrace opened out to a stunning view of Mediterranean below. And the large double bed called out to my travel-weary body like a siren to a sailor. But here, in the land where my heroes hammered out centuries before breakfast, I knew there was no time for catnaps.

Apparently, my feeling was shared. I found a few other guests already gathered in the lobby, organizing a quick warm-up ride on their own. To say the least, it was an interesting mix of riders. Some were obvious mountain goats in peak physical condition, others weekend club riders like myself, whose off-season idleness was betrayed by our form-fitting Lycra riding shorts.

There was Osi, a slightly built man about 5'5" who had finished Kona three times, competed in a triple Ironman, and finished second at the New Zealand ironman. Georges, a rider in his early 40's, had once been a national track bicycling champion. Beat, a man like myself whose training ambitions fought a losing battle with a demanding corporate job, but still managed to squeeze in about 50 miles per week. And finally there was Werner, another rider of about my ability, and a fellow holdout when it came to shaving legs.

Making our way to the bicycle garage, we were pleasantly surprised to find high-performance bicycles ready and waiting for us. Because we had been asked for our sizes and preferences well before departure, each bike was a perfect fit. With just a few quick adjustments to the saddle height and handlebars, we were off and rolling.

Despite our agreement on a nice easy pace, the differences in our riding abilities became quickly apparent. Osi and Georges sprinted up the hills like jackrabbits with Beat not far behind. Meanwhile, Werner and I plodded up the steeps like Hannibal's elephants. It made me grateful for the ten different riding levels available for the daily training rides to come. About seven levels of grateful.

As is typical for Spain throughout spring, the conditions were ideal. Clear, with temperatures in the mid-sixties, it was a stark contrast to the dreary cold I had left behind. Even better, because it was still the low season for tourism, the streets were nearly free of traffic, leaving them wide open and safe.

During our ride, Werner recounted a mythic tale he had heard involving a ride group leader, Jogi. Apparently, one morning Jogi had gone out for a casual ride on these very same roads when none other than Lance Armstrong himself came pumping up from behind. No slouch of a rider himself, Jogi struggled to keep up to enjoy a brief friendly conversation. However, when Lance geared up a notch, Jogi quickly fell back. That three-minute chat left Jogi exhausted for the rest of his ride.

True or not, the story left an indelible impression. We hadn't signed up for any wine-and-cheese tour. Here, we were training in the temple of bicycling's elite.

Returning to the resort around dinnertime, we found a buffet awaiting us the likes of which I thought hadn't been prepared since the bacchanalian hey-days of Caesar's Rome. Huge roasts of beef; spit-fired chicken; platters of fresh salmon and other fish and piles of shrimp the size of a fist; mounds of pasta with every manner of sauces; and a desert table that would make Julia Child herself blush. Even more amazingly, we learned the feast was to be repeated night after night.

But what first seemed an exercise in excess would soon be viewed as simple necessity. During the training days to follow we would burn nearly five thousand calories on each ride. Not that anyone could have pried that nightly éclair from my greedy hands, regardless of basic caloric considerations.

Dinnertime also became the main social event. As the fine Spanish wine flowed, so did the conversation. And the fact that my dinner companions and I didn't always speak the same language never seemed to stop us from sharing stories about the day's ride, exchanging riding tips and enjoying some good-natured fun at the expense of our fellow guests. Here, there were no distinctions of nationality or class or even ability. We were no longer Americans or Germans or Swiss or Australians. No one was rich or poor. All here were equal under the heavens. We were athletes.

Prior to our daily training rides, we would divide into our different skill groups of between 10 and 15 riders each. The routes were carefully planned to offer an appropriate distance and variety of terrain for each level of group. Leading each sect was an experienced rider who provided instruction, encouragement and sometimes even a little extra help throughout the ride.

This would come in particularly helpful for me on my first day's ride. At the prodding of Osi and Georges, I began my training with the fastest group, which included several hardcore triathletes. Our group was led by Peter, a former mountain biking champion and holder of numerous sports masters certificates.

Initially, I managed to keep up with the group on the flats. But by the fifth climb, I had fallen well back. Just when I had resigned myself to completing the ride alone, I suddenly felt myself surging ahead, actually closing the distance between my position and the mountain goat ahead of me. As I pumped harder, the gap closed even further. It was then that I turned my head to find Peter riding alongside, actually pushing my saddle with his hand as he rode. Needless to say, I dropped down a level for the following days. And I wasn't alone.

Each day, our group would embark on a different route. Some were quite hilly, others more flat and winding. But all were challenging and afforded magnificent views of the almond trees just burgeoning into bloom, the endless groves of citrus trees and the unforgettable windswept coast of the azure Mediterranean.

Upon reaching a predetermined point, we enjoyed lunch served out of the back of our accompanying support van. We'd also take a moment to refill our bottles and grab an extra layer of clothing if we were planning to head for the mountains in the afternoon. Some days the group would even decide to stop off at one of the many tiny mountain villages to enjoy a relaxing espresso. We would take this training thing only so far, we reasoned. We were still on vacation.

The late afternoons were spent gathered around the resort pool, socializing and recovering from the day's ride. The more hardcore triathlon contingent would organize runs along the coast, lap swimming sessions in the pool or "invigorating" open water swims in the chilly sea. Others played beach volleyball or, like myself, indulged in a massage to prepare their legs for the next day's training. Everyone looked forward to the buffet. And the éclairs. Especially the éclairs.

After gorging ourselves on the evening's culinary offerings, we settled in for the nightly training presentation. Topics for these lectures ranged from training techniques and nutrition to new bicycles and equipment. Each talk was conducted by a top bicycling and endurance coach responsible for instructing some of the world's most elite athletes. One presentation even led me to undergo a series of tests to determine my lactate levels, allowing me to optimize my training efforts. Lance, I can assure you that you still have nothing to worry about.

But beyond the new training techniques I learned, the better- conditioned body I forged and the many wonderful memories I shared with interesting new friends from all over the world, I departed Spain with something much more important. Pure, unadulterated inspiration. That summer, I once again began looking at each ride not just as a workout to plod through, but as an opportunity to better myself. After years of hiatus, I began competing in triathlons again. I started appreciating-really appreciating-the sport I loved so passionately again. And yes, I even shaved my legs.

Once again, I could count myself among the true faithful.