Curves, Chaos & Questionable Decisions

After a late evening catching up with Wesley — discussing motorbikes, routes, and generally solving all the world’s problems — he told me about a road called GI‑682, also known as the route of 286 curves. Naturally, I was immediately interested.

I’d reached Tossa de Mar a different way, heading inland after Portbou, but when I checked my 2014 Cape Town route, I realised GI‑682 was the exact road I’d cycled back then. So the morning plan was simple: follow the old bicycle route, but this time with an engine, in reverse (the route not the engine) and significantly less suffering.

Wesley’s research on roads is far better than mine — he’s basically a mountain‑pass sommelier — so I was grateful for the recommendations. He loves altitude, hairpins, and dramatic scenery. Fair enough. It’s the same on a bicycle, except you’re crying and questioning your sanity more.

The 286 Curves & A Surprise Photoshoot

I set off toward the 286 curves and instantly recognised the pull‑in areas. Nostalgia hit hard. At one viewpoint, an English cyclist clocked my number plate and asked if I wanted a photo with the bike. He’d travelled the world on two wheels too, so we swapped a few stories before parting ways.

He was climbing, descending, climbing, descending — the usual cyclist misery — and somehow I still couldn’t catch him for ages. I wasn’t rushing; the scenery was ridiculous. This road is one of Europe’s most popular motorbike playgrounds, and some riders treat it like a racetrack. Meanwhile, cyclists and runners (yes, runners!) were out there trying not to die. In 2014, much of this coastal development did not exist — now it’s all resorts, cafés, and people jogging like they’re in a fitness advert.

New Mexico? No, Catalonia.

To cover some ground quickly, I hopped onto the C‑25 dual carriageway, then the C‑14. The landscape changed dramatically — suddenly I was riding through terrain next to lakes and in valleys that opened up to look like New Mexico: high plateaus, red rocks, and long empty stretches. There were plenty of camper vans about, not sure any were making Crystal Meth though..

Eventually I turned left after El Plada de Sant Tirs onto the N260 and began the ascent into a mountainous part of the Pyrenees. Bend after bend after bend. Fuel anxiety kicked in — the bike claimed I had 130 km left, but that number drops faster than a whores draws when you’re climbing twisties.

Google Maps insisted there were no fuel stations for ages. I knew a town was coming up in about 40 km, so I crossed my fingers and hoped.

The Hidden Fuel Station That Time Forgot

I needn’t have worried. A fuel station appeared like a desert oasis — complete with café and tourist tat. The pumps were so old they still displayed prices in pesetas. Magical.

Inside, a lovely young woman made me a great coffee, and we chatted for a while. This fuel station wasn’t even on Google Maps. Proof that modern tech still can’t beat a good old-fashioned “I hope there’s petrol ahead.”

Ski Resorts Without Humans

I continued through winding through valleys and empty ski resorts — ghost towns in summer. I was overtaken at one point by some man on a mission, he was also on a Himmy, but pushing much harder than I was. Eventually I reached the municipal campsite I’d planned to stay at.

It was closed. Toilets locked. Showers locked. One guy was staying there with an electronic tag that opened the facilities, but he wasn’t willing to share. Fair enough — but also: mate, it’s a toilet, not Fort Knox.

Next campsite: camping‑cars only. No toilets. No showers. I could’ve stayed, but the nearest loo was by the Marie, the town hall. Hard pass.

Third municipal site: also closed. At this point I accepted defeat and decided to find a cheap hotel. After being bitten approximately 52 times by invisible ninja mosquitoes, a night indoors sounded heavenly.

The Ibis, Security Gates & Chain Shenanigans

I rolled into the Ibis in Saint‑Gaudens, opposite a McDonald’s. I spotted a perfect wild‑camping spot nearby, but my brain was done and I’d decided on the hotel. I parked the bike between two vans to hide it, and the receptionist told me the security gate would close at 11 p.m. and reopen at 7 a.m. if also parked it just under my room. Perfect! 

Another biker with a much nicer bike hadn’t even locked his, which made me feel better. I slapped on my two heavy locks anyway — one hip lock — and went to bed. Having my room overlooking the bike, was comforting.

I slept brilliantly. £60 well spent.

In the morning, I checked the chain tension. It was loose. Out came the toolkit. Ten minutes later it was tightened and lubed up like an MP in a brothel.

Breakfast wasn’t included, so I made my own: coffee from my camping kit and a pain au chocolat I’d bought in Belgium, still individually wrapped like some sort of emergency ration did for breakfast.