I must have fallen asleep around 5 a.m. At 8:30, the alarm goes off; I snooze it until 8:35, and then until 8:45. At 8:50, the bike rental guys let me know they’re already outside. “Damn,” I think, “we agreed on 9.” I go out to pick up the bike and then head to a café next to the hostel for breakfast. By the time I finish, it’s already time to check out, so I hurry.

It’s cloudy. I check the forecast, and it says there’s a 40% chance of rain. I stay at the hostel a little longer to charge my phone and, when I step into the courtyard, I see it’s drizzling. Nothing serious. I can buy a rain poncho at the sports store four blocks away. However, just as I step out and close the door behind me, the drizzle turns into rain. Suddenly, everyone is walking with umbrellas. I rush toward the store, but after just one block, I’m already soaked.

I take shelter under an overhang, waiting for the rain to stop, but instead, it intensifies. This looks like it’s going to last a while. In a burst of courage, I dash across the street to another overhang and step straight into a puddle, soaking my shoes. I’m now two blocks from the store, but the city feels like a giant shower. Across the street, I spot a covered passageway in the cathedral square—a good place to wait out the rain. I stay there for a while, contemplating whether I should stay another night in this city. I check the hostel’s website and see it’s fully booked.

Suddenly, I realize the rain has stopped. I seize the opportunity and hurry to the sports store. I buy the poncho, and when I step outside, it’s still dry. This is my chance. I’ll move forward, even if just a little today.

The nearest city is Zarautz, 22 km away—an hour and a half by bike according to Google Maps. “I’ll go fast,” I think. I set the route on the map and start the ride. The sky is clearing. I follow the bike path until I reach a tunnel made just for cyclists. Amazing. I pass through it and continue. The flat path starts to slope—gently at first, then steeper… and steeper. I can’t pedal anymore. I get off the bike and push it uphill. I walk and roll on the descents—or at least that was the plan, but the climb doesn’t end. In fact, the slope gets even steeper. Two hours pass, and there’s still no sign of a downhill. Google Maps keeps saying I’m an hour away, even though it said I’d arrive in an hour and a half… two hours ago.

The path is deserted; I’m the only one here. Hunger starts to creep in. I begin questioning my decisions. I recall the words of the bike rental guy, warning me this wasn’t a bike-friendly route. I also remember the sports store employee in Barcelona telling me he did this same route and regretted it at some point. I press on with difficulty. Every step feels heavy. Finally, I spot a descent. “This is it,” I think. I get on the bike and ride down. It lasts no more than 15 seconds before I’m climbing again. Eventually, I reach the road after crossing what felt like a jungle trail. Google Maps says 40 minutes left. At my pace, I figure it’ll be at least two hours. I’m starving.

At last, I come across a restaurant on the outskirts of a village and decide to have lunch there. They serve peas as a starter. It’s not particularly tasty, but it does the job—the portion is big. Then they bring out a steak with potatoes, and that restores my energy. I had planned to cover at least 50 km today, but now I think I’ll stop in the city 20 km away. I’m done. It’s been too much.

I arrive at the hostel, take a shower, and go for a walk on the beach, which is just a couple of blocks away. I sink my feet into the sand and reflect on what I’m doing and what lies ahead. I like the coast. I like the sea, but maybe this path isn’t for me.