The fixed gear diaries: Barcelona

We casually made our way down the winding stairs of the old Spanish building. There's something I just love about the interiors of such buildings. The smell, the ornate charm and, how, above all - they always feel like quintessential Spain. Having said that, though, I loathe the seemingly never ending marble steps, (yes they look nice) but they're a little slippery and if you happen to be staying on a high floor you better believe that you will have to pummel your poor legs and thighs until you reach your habitación.

Of course as with the majority of these old buildings lifts frequent them. But usually, in my cynical opinion they often look suspect at best, and even if they're  not suspect - the lift is either out of service or is otherwise occupied. Plus they look so small and claustrophobic. So down we trotted, the descent always being more pleasant than the climb. Today we would be cycling to Forum. 

We, Joshua and I had locked our bikes inside the building to the stairwell. I eagerly unlocked my black beast and proceeded to carry it down a further set of stairs. Joshua, meanwhile, had noticed something awry with his fixie... An unsightly flat tyre. Oh no!  How? When? Why?! It must have been the fine night before, perhaps he had picked up a puncture as we swanned around El Born. Much better he pick up a puncture than one of those awful West African 'ladies of the night' that swarm about like locusts. Oh darn. This just wasn't part of the plan. Inspecting the bike Sherlock Joshua concluded that somebody had popped his tyre. A rogue of a Spainard envious at the beauty of his rented bicycle. How malicious. This would be a spanner in our works as we stepped out of the building into the Spanish sunshine wondering where we would go for his wheel to be remedied.

As we walked along somewhat frustratedly in the direction of Barceloneta I tried to not allow this set back affect us too much. We just wanted to be cycling away on our little adventure. A few generic cycle hire shops were unable to help us due to being, well, pretty rubbish, all advising us to go along to another shop. Eventually we found a place that looked more than reputable. A bearded Spanish man told us where we needed to go for a decent bike store, etc informing us incidentally that he was going that way, so we followed him. A nice enough Señor who spoke very good English. Barcelona is generally like that; they speak their Catalan, then Spanish and when it comes to English they are more than competent. 

Inside a lovely, rustic authentic bike store my head constantly turned like an inquisitive owl as I surveyed the space. I had enjoyed being inside of Deviant Bikes, with its modernity and coolness, but this haven is what I would call 'classic'. What one would imagine a real, old school bike store to represent. A humble man who loved his trade. Be it fixing, restoration and selling an array of lovely bicycles. After a little discussion with this Catalonian chap - which resulted in him attending to Joshua's fixie, the wheel was now in good working order. It hadn't been a puncture, thankfully. Basically one prat had let the air out. Why? I can only guess they were either jealous or inebriated. Or as the Spanish would say: "Un tonto!"  

Anyway, back to the programme... we could now begin our boyish adventure. 

 

Joshua and I at the resplendent threshold of Barcelonata. La Playa espectacular. A generous sun that was gradually cranking up its temperature. A cycle lane beckoning us to get started coupled with a gorgeous yellowy beach enhanced by a brilliantly blue sea, all making for a glorious backdrop. Sun glasses on, back packs with essentials, done. Two best friends ready to ride. Vamos!