New York, New York

Running the marathon was the primary purpose of this trip to New York.

It was a tough day at the office but the harder ones, and overcoming thoughts of quitting, are the sweeter ones once they are eventually done. 

At the 5 km mark I was toast. It just happens sometimes, there’s nothing predictable about the marathon. Although, in this case (humble brag warning), running a second marathon within a month probably had something to do with it, particularly as a good proportion of the month was taken up celebrating the first one.

New Yorkers know how to put on a show. Rather than a starters’ pistol there is a starters’ howitzer! Brooklyn is transformed into essentially a 12 km long block party. When you get onto the Queensborough bridge and see the dense jumbled Manhattan skyline, pain sensations confused with endorphin rush, you can’t help but feel something existential moving within you. And then the roar of supporters as you exit the bridge and take a sharp left onto First Avenue …you would have to be a cold fish indeed not to get goosebumps.

The Bronx smells like a garbage truck interspersed with some pretty wicked skunk. It’s here and in Harlem that you have the best bands with searing pitch perfect black female voices that pierce the chest. Why would you not embrace this enriching aspect of your culture and national identity?

Running a marathon brings many personal insights. For example, that after all these years ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ is worth another listen.

Time for a few beers.

Sweet Home Chicago

Chicago is a wonderful and complex city.

A city of unrivalled public sculpture and gardens against a backdrop of the most stunning architecture, the former bequeathed and the latter commissioned, like latter day Medicis, by those made rich by railways, oil, steel and other spectacularly successful but not necessarily sustainable American industries.

The Chicago Institute of Art houses ‘A Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte’ (Georges Seurat’s pointillist masterpiece and one of my favourite paintings), the mesmerising ‘American Gothic’, Hopper’s celebration of drab public spaces as places of refuge in ‘Nighthawks’, and ‘the Great Wave off Kanagowa’. It undoubtedly rivals the New York Metropolitan.

Directly across the road begins Route 66, and with a little imagination one can fantasise jumping into an old Ford with Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, driving West until they run out of land.

As I walked along Michigan Avenue one early morning there was a man perched on a box blowing a whistle, toot-toot, toot-toot - repeatedly, inappropriately, annoyingly - to draw attention from passers-by to a very extreme and poorly constructed poster depicting President Biden as a child-molesting Nazi. 

The same afternoon at Grant Park a Christian Evangelist group dominated the space with microphones, telling us all that we were arrogant and evil, presumably because it was Sunday and rather than being in church we were out enjoying ourselves. “One day you will all die” …yes, no argument, but it’s a huge leap from there to prostrating oneself before an imaginary, psychopathic god with the morality of a toddler.

I mean this sympathetically. I think Americans feel more keenly than most cultures the alienation of their capitalism, of being invisible, and consequently they say and do dumb things to be noticed. In the US you are constantly mugged not for your money but your attention.

On the other hand, you walk into a neighbourhood sports bar and you meet great people.

So, anyway, I came here primarily to run the Chicago Marathon and I’m happy to say I completed it. That’s Chicago II and Marathon VIII.

Beautiful, bustling, brilliant Barcelona

Following my rendezvous with the Extraction Team of Vicki and Luke we drove to Narbonne to spend a day with friends then here via Figueres, birth and resting place of Dali, and Girona, a very pleasant old town with an impressive cathedral and basilica.

In Barcelona we continued the cultural exploration with visits to the Picasso museum, assorted Gaudi structures, and the Joan Miro Foundation. 

Dali I can take or leave with the exception of The Persistence of Memory which to my mind is one the most important artistic statements of the 20th century, along with Picasso’s La Guernica. Gaudi I dislike. Gaudi is gaudy! Miro’s project to desacralise representative art - and the propaganda of elites embedded in it - while ennobling everyday life is executed, well, artfully. Well worth the visit.

The Extraction Team organised some great walks. We have covered most of Barcelona on foot, averaging 12.5km/d. This has created space for guilt-free enjoyment of the local food scene from tapas bars to up and coming Michelin star restaurants.

Last stop before heading home. Two more days to go!

Grande Randonnée des Pyrenees (GR10) - Gavarnie to Le Taillon (3,144m) via the Brecht de Roland (2,804m)

Distance: 14km

Ascent: 1000m

Descent: 1000m

Strictly speaking, this hike isn’t part of the GR10. But one would be foolish not to go to Gavarnie or to have a crack at a +3,000m peak while in the neighbourhood.

Picking up the GR10 where I left it in Gabas will need to wait until next year now as today was my last major hike prior to the arrival of the Extraction Team in Gavarnie. 

And what a way to finish up! This was the Pyrenees in all its magnificence. A cirque of limestone peaks. The tallest waterfall in Europe. Glaciers on their last legs from global warming. Rugged moraines. And 1,500m cliffs.

Early on was the ruined remains of a road which was intended to link France and Spain prior to this area being listed as part of the Pyrenees National Parc. My French guide for this climb pointed out that the French had completed their side of the bargain, unlike the Spaniards.

Needless to say, I shat myself (figuratively speaking) much of the way. I struggled heavily with the effort above 2,700m. But we made our way up to the Brecht de Roland, a gap between massive limestone cliff walls.

The mythology is that the Christian Knight Roland (a hero of Don Quixote) created the vast breach with a cut from his sword Durendal in an attempt to destroy it and keep it from the Moors after being defeated at the Battle of Roncesvalles in 778. (Cue: Roger Moore impersonation).

Unfortunately, Le Taillon was covered in cloud today making the final ascent both dangerous and pointless. Yet more unfinished business in this part of the world.

Grande Randonnée des Pyrenees (GR10) - Lac Gentau to Gabas

Distance: 10km

Ascent: -

Descent: 1000m

An easy and beautiful descent through pine, oak and beech forest today. Passed some gorgeous mountain lakes fed by fast flowing streams.

No accommodation at Gabas, of course. So, after a beer and some of the most delicious cheese I’ve ever had, I hitched to Eaux-Chaudes, a one bar/restaurant Béarnaise town, where I found a room.

At night shepherds marched a herd of sheep through town. Then cattle. Then several more of each. A lot of them are lame presumably from falls while grazing in the rugged karst. Some of the cows in particular have terrific bulges where fractures have healed.

Speaking of lame, I’m pretty happy with how the body has held up but I’m in dire need of time out to heal up a few wounds such as those on my hips. My feet look like a crime scene. Also, a rest in a proper bed without people around me snoring and farting would be nice.

Grande Randonnée des Pyrenees (GR10) - Etsaut to Lac Gentau

Distance: 16km

Ascent: 1600m

Descent: 200m

My biggest lesson on this trip is not to hike in Europe in August, unless you’re taking a more remote route like the HRP and plan to do a lot of wild camping. Accommodation is stretched, there are too many flies and it’s too damn hot. In most seasons, snow won’t be a problem after mid-June (so you can start early June) or before the end of September.

No second or third night of accommodation available in Lescun - which I really needed - but I found a vegetarian B&B in nearby Etsaut. Courgette soup made a nice change to saucisson, jambon, bread and vast quantities of fromage. At least for one night.

The chap who runs the vegetarian B&B had met the author of my Cicerone Press GR10 guidebook and confirmed my suspicion that he is a bit weird. Apparently, he is a naturist and his business card is a picture of him naked. But I digress …

This hike was an absolute ball-tearer! Early on the walker must tackle the Chemin de la Mâture, a 1.2km path rising 250m cut into the side of a vertical cliff. The path was originally constructed in the 1600s by Louis XIV to source and supply timber for the French navy. I reckon they lost a few logs. Keeping a lid on vertigo/anxiety is exhausting in itself.

Thereafter was extremely rough terrain, zig zagging up through a valley to a pass at 2,200m near the Col d’Ayous. 

I saw 2 patous, the Pyrenean mountain dog, but fortunately the shepherds had them under control. They are beautiful but extremely dangerous. Left alone with the sheep as pups they think they are sheep, are as flighty as sheep, but are massive wolf-like dogs. Basically, they have Stockholm Syndrome and are nuts.

The reward was coming face to face with the Pic du Midi d’Ossau at the top of the pass …unexpected and breath taking. And a little further down the other side at Lac Gentau, my vote for best camping site (‘not strictly legal’ category) 2022.

Now we’re sucking diesel!

Grande Randonnée des Pyrenees (GR10) - Refuge Jeandel to Lescun

Distance: 15km
Ascent: 400m
Descent: 1200m

Sainte-Engrace is the last Basque village on the GR10 heading east. After that is the High Pyrenees and the well protected Parc National des Pyrénées.

The plan was to spend 2 nights in Sainte-Engrace to do some bodily repairs, ahead of the transition. Unfortunately, there were no beds left for a second night. The alternative of continuing, my legs too shredded to attempt it so immediately in fine conditions, was out of the question when rain set in all day. 

You don’t want to cross karst in rain.

So, I got a cab up to La Pierre Saint Martin, location of Refuge Jeandel, and a rather horrible 80s ski resort. Not the best place to recuperate but I was into the High Pyrenees at last.

I set off this morning, happy to get out of there, and the difference was striking and immediate. Green pastures were replaced by limestone karst landscape and scree slopes. Oak and beech changed to pine. Limestone peaks jutted above. The scale of these mountains is disorienting. Sometimes, you just need to focus on the track and how you place your feet.

Had my first taste of altitude effects today as I got up to the 2000m mark with effort through the scree. The last 20m of the Pas de l’Osque was pure mountaineering with a cable to hold onto while booted feet with toes clenched clawed onto nothing more than 4 or 5cm of ledge. Fuck that up and you are falling for a long time.

The first water source was at the aptly named “Cabane du Cap de la Baitch”.

Thereafter, the trail descended below the tree line and picked up beech and oak forest once again.
Lescun is delightful. As beautiful an old French village in the middle of the mountains as you could hope to find. 

Grande Randonnée des Pyrenees (GR10) - Col d’Anhaou to Sainte-Engrace

Distance: 14km

Ascent: 150m
Descent: 1000m

Not a hell of a lot to report on this section because it mostly took place in thick fog.

Apparently, I passed along the top of Gorge de Kakoueta which is meant to be stunning vertical limestone.

Further down was farmland and, for some reason, lots of donkeys (including the one pictured staying close by his mum). It’s not right we use the word “donkey” (or “ass”) as a derogation, they’re a beautiful animal. Mules, though, I’ve no time for.

I also trod some very ancient paths where it seemed appropriate to have someone following, clip-clopping with 2 halves of a coconut shell.

The journey should only have been 12kms …but I screwed up my navigation …but then I got the last bed in Sainte-Engrace …but they were full for dinner …but they sold the best cheese in the world, only slightly stale bread and a very passable local red wine.

Along this journey I’ve had a lot of opportunity to meditate on the story told by Philip Seymour Hoffman in ‘Charlie Wilson’s War’:

A boy is given a horse on his 14th birthday. Everyone in the village says, “Oh how wonderful.” But a Zen master who lives in the village says, “We'll see.” 'The boy falls off the horse and breaks his foot. Everyone in the village says, “Oh how awful.” The Zen master says, “We'll see.” The village is thrown into war and all the young men have to go to war. But, because of the broken foot, the boy stays behind. Everyone says, “Oh, how wonderful.” The Zen master says, “We'll see.”