As the roads had become straight, flat and baked into Tauste, I expected more of the same on the way south to Cariñena.

 

This stretch of the journey though came with one more element. Sheer, unrelenting, spine-shuddering terror.

 

The N122 south west from Tauste begins as a single lane major traffic route, with the typical generous hard shoulder used by cyclists all across Spain. Around five miles in however the hard shoulder disappears, while the speed rises to 100kmh and the number of articulated lorries pushing the boundaries of that limit come along one every minute.

 

With a regular flow of traffic in the opposite direction and the unwillingness of the drivers to slow down, that often means certain death passing by one foot to your left.

 

At one point, somewhere north of Magallon, I decided my nerves couldn´t take any more and contemplated curling up in a ball in the roadside ditch, in the hope that one of the herons stalking there would carry me to safety.

 

As this seemed unlikely, I resorted to the stiff neck method of sprinting along, looking over my shoulder every three seconds and hopping off the road every time a juggernaught approached.

 

After 35 miles of this, having eventually reached Cariñena with all limbs attached, I then performed a sin. I bought a train ticket. This took me to Teruel and away from the worst roads of the central plains.

 

For my sin I was, surprisingly, rewarded. Teruel is a magnificent city, which lights up at night like an ornate Arabic lantern. The smallest city by population in Spain, it sits in the mountains at 915m above sea level and boasts numerous Mudejar monuments that dazzle the eye.

 

While in Teruel, I visited the Solo Bici bicycle shop and was advised by the mechanic to take the N234 road to Valencia. This proved to be a masterstroke, as after leaving the city, the road forks off onto the Autopista 23, which it then runs alongside for all of the 80 miles to Sagunt, just north of Valencia.

 

It is a ghost road, almost completely unused, apart from some very happy cyclists. Better still when travelling south, there is a point just south of a town called Barracas, where it briefly becomes the CV2392, where a downhill slope begins and doesn´t stop for 10 miles. A descent of 1,800ft which had me grinning so wide, my cheek muscles nearly went into spasm.

 

Having rolled into Valencia alongside a friendly local club cyclist, I have spent a rest day luxuriating in speaking English, restocking on cycling supplies and enjoying the delights of the big city. As well as the important ritual of saying hello to the Meditarranean Sea. It has been missed.

 

I am now well and truly accustomed to my cycle tour routine: Personally check 50 miles of hard shoulder for glass; arrive at lodgings for the night wearing the appearance and arroma of roadkill; negotiate to have bicycle in room with me, then attempt to get it in to the lift, in front of the proprietor, without ruining the walls; use complimentary shampoo to wash cycle kit in hotel sink, before showering; search for food, must have FOOD; indulge in dessert after every meal, using the justification of calorie intake; investigate the surroundings, attempting to hold conversations in pigeon Spanish. Finally, stretching regime and.... collapse.