Well-rested after our chilled champagne festivities by the seaside, we continue up the way towards Valencia. The early morning ride winds around the cape past vacation homes and subdivisions (which in Castellano translates to urbanización, an odd term for a pattern of development that has little to do with the polyglot density of European urban development) before heading up into the hills. We stop in a small town by the mountains for breakfast, asking for directions in the only bakery we find open: "How do we get over those mountains?" "With a scooter, " they say with polite derision, before the old man scoffs with kindly wisdom at the folly of youth - but we head up there anyways, and at the top find that rifle ranges are apparently The Thing in this tourist-clogged part of the Mediterranean. Signs greet us in German, Japanese, English, as if to remind us that we are no longer really in Spain; now that the climate has at last become reasonable enough for the average foreigner, moderated by the salty sea breeze, the agricultural fields and quaint red-tiled houses have given way to developments that might not look out of place in Florida or California or wherever else human progress has seen fit to forsake culture for conformity...but maybe this waxes too negative; after all, we are still by the sea, and not even a scattering of uninspired high-rise flat complexes (complices?) can mar that...
So we head up towards Parque Natural de l'Albufera, the last bastion of less-developed land before Valencia, up along the flat sandy beaches of the Spanish east coast - except we don't head along the beach, mostly; that land has long since been purchased, and is unsuitable for building roads anyways. Instead we settle for brief snatches of boardwalk punctuated by long backroad travels behind apartments and farm fields. At one point we hit some agricultural developments just out of this town alongside the canals that provide irrigation water to the farms inland. Walls and fences line the road, creating a clearly-defined path like out of a racing game; when we pass a second similar development further along, we are temporarily convinced that we've taken a wrong turn and are now forced to restart the level. We pass pharmacy signs informing us that, yes, the mercury has climbed to a staggering 41 - but we don't feel it with the breeze, which blows in from the sea and cools us off. All this is easier with the knapsack gone...
We reach Cullera by midday, taking siesta in parking lots and cafés and bars; we eat the remainders of a lentil-vegetable stew under some awnings by the supermarket, then set off to charge the computer and find Internet. Connectivity is something we can never take for granted. It is a luxury good, something we must often confront high bar prices and smoky rooms for. It is anything but omnipresent here, unlike in the Bay Area cafés and university campuses where most of my last five years have been spent...
...and we attempt to head out along the water when BAM! My rear reflector shatters, sending clear plastic across the road. I look down; the derailleur has snapped off at the frame bolt and has jackknifed its way up into the spokes, where it is bending into a variety of unusable shapes; at the top, the chain is running on its side due to the sudden deformation. The first two words out of my mouth: "Game over." And it certainly seems like that - derailleurs are expensive, right? What if the impact ruined the wheel? What if the frame itself has taken damage? What if I have to purchase a new bike...but we must go on somehow; stopping here is not an option - so we unlink the chain, detach the broken derailleur, and start walking into town. Valkyrie uses my now-defunct bike as a scooter, while I slowly ride hers.
We have almost reached the centre of town when we are followed by a white van. The van creeps up behind us for a while until we notice it, whereupon the driver informs us (in Spanish!) that he too is a cyclist...he loads our bikes into the back and drives off for Bicicletas Guzman in town, where he knows the owner; we learn that he has lived in this area for 30 years, an unthinkable period of time when you haven't even been alive that long - and we reach the bike shop, unload our bikes, and wait around. For this is high season, and the bike shop is backed up with repair work and customers and such for the next hour - but there is little choice when your only method of transportation has just kicked the bucket. So we wait, cleaning the grease off our hands with the pumice-soap mixture in the shop toilets...
...finally, about 2015, the bike mechanic has finished all other obligations and sets to working on the bike. The frame is mostly undamaged but is slightly bent at the mount point for the derailleur, so she rights that with the help of a massive torque wrench well beyond the size of anything we could reasonably carry in our panniers. She then trues the back wheel a bit, noting that although it is mostly straight the alignment will never be perfect again (until I swap the wheel, that is.) This is followed by installation of a new Shimano Acera derailleur and accompanying chain, which must be sized for the 9-speed gearset. We watch the first stages of repair with intense interest, but realize that we are merely getting in the way and decide to instead wait outside. And then it is finished; the brakes are reattached, the bike ready to ride once more! I approach the counter to pay, expecting a nasty case of sticker shock...
...but she only charges 40€ for parts and labour, not nearly as bad as we had expected. It is late now; we grab a bottle of sherry and some miscellaneous food items at a supermarket just before closing, eat in front as they shutter the windows, and finally head out along through the park. Jorge (the man who drove us to the shop) had suggested that we head down into the beaches just past the lighthouse, where the police and maintenance staff rarely bother those fishing and camping at night - and indeed there are night fishers, glowsticks attached to their poles and lines. We set up the tent, drink, then attach our bikes to a sign that prominently displays an injunction against camping on the beaches - so we decide instead to tear down the tent and lie out on the sand in our sleeping bag, where we quickly drift off into sleep...