Dennis Hollingsworth

A Day at the Races

Nacho and Leslie invited Kiko and I for a day at the races as they exercise their JoeDarcy team. Xerlo and Maite's son Oriel was competing too. Muy bien, Tio.

The day started with a rendezvous with Kiko at Bar Josep. There, one of the patrons, a guy who manages the boats at Mar Menuda, told us that Xerlo's boat sank after the high winds we had last Friday.

(!)

So off we went to the races. Maite, Xerlo's wife was leading us there. We told her the news, and she decided not to tell Xerlo just yet. Kiko agreed, certainly not by mobile phone. Xerlo's son Oriel was in the race today and a father's attention should be fully upon his son on this ocassion. They (and we) decided not to tell Xerlo until after the race, at dinner. A baggage of bad news.

After an hour's ride through Catalunyan countryside that looks like a mix of northern and southern California, we get to the racetrack. A hot day.

As the crowds gather and the teams prepare, we got in as freinds of Nacho's Team Joe/Darcy. The support caravans that assembled behind the shops was a party. The first order of business was a paseo:

Even though a track divides the stands and the shops (or maybe because of it), there is a kind of urban space, a room for community between the built masses.

I know. I thought it too. No, Kiko is not posing for a shot.

Ok, maybe a little bit.

The pursed mouth happens all the time, as long as I've known him. The arms akimbo probably comes from a builder's life: "Why did you paint that wall black when I told you explicitly that it should be white?!?" or "No, the doorway is over there, not here!".

Berta frolics, youngest daughter of Nacho and Leslie.

Nacho's shop. It's like an art opening.

And this, the art object?

And this, the art object that Oriel rides. Or is he a performance artist?

So Xerlo, Maite, Kiko and I make our way to the roof to watch the start of the race:

As the riders are on the circuit, Kiko's friend Mannix offers to take me out along the parallel road so we can shoot some pictures:

Mannix is well named. He is a big man, a bear of a man, all muscle. Our scooter was tiny. Riding behind anyone on a scooter presents a problem of where to hang on to... Mannix's belly was so ample and too hard (muscled) to actually get a grip. You have to rely on the collective surface tension of the palm of your hand, hoping that that little bit of friction would be enough to overcome the accelleration forces of the ride. I managed the best I could. Mannix drives fast, too.

Nacho and his Irish business partner.

Towards the end of the race, Nacho's racer Jordi was second in position... then his bike crapped out.

Mannix (and I) helped Jordi coast his bike downhill for the shop. Jordi was pretty upset.

Mannix would push the bike with his foot, accelerating the scooter along.

When we got to the aid station, we dropped the bike off. The three of us jumped on the seat of the tiny scooter (maybe 700 to a thousand pounds of dudeness) to make our way back to the shop. Someone who took it upon themself to be an authority (plainsclothed police?), told us that we couldn't do it. Mannix and Jordi got very worked up about that "This isn't Barcelona here!". But they said it in a very animated Spanish way. All gesticulating and everything. You'd think they'd get in a fistfight or something.

We went anyway.

?Ole!

Note the expression on my face. Purposeful. We're doing serious things here, people.

We're bringing Jordi back. Yea.

A day at the races.

But it didn't end there... even though my camera did. The batteries ran out of a charge.

We told Xerlo about his boat at dinner. Xerlo took it well, a real measure of his character. I was expecting to hear a few of the fine points of Castellano/Catalan colorful expressions. But that lesson will have to wait for another day (usually at a bar late into the night). Xerlo absorbed the blow very well.

I don't have pics from the end of that day of the hometown of Maite and her mother Marga, Caldes de Montbui. The name points to the natural hot springs that dates into antiquity. It was a treat, a perfect end of the long day.

The town looks a little scattered and nondescript until you get inside and Maite's tour reveals the historic hot baths (Roman archaeology) and town laundry (locked, but Kiko let us in by fiddling with the locked gate). Kiko stuck his hand in the water and got a shock from the heat (74?C). The cobbblestones in the street and main plaza are hot from the geology below.

(image source for the two pics above)

She then took us to her second job, the noodle factory. That business is 300 years old and counting. Super cool inside, so much history, the pasta machine looks so old, thick cast metal and all. Everything is hand made. Then she showed us a picture of her mom, Margarita a pretty twenty something back in 1955, at work in the factory.

Xerlo had to go back to Tossa to check out his boat, so we caravaned back home. Beached, we applied our best forensic skills but with no result. The reason for the failure of water tight integrity escaped us. The propellor was mangled, but the tow ashore was the probable cause of this. The sea is a harsh mistress indeed.

Xerlo wants another boat.

?Claro que si!

Posted by Dennis at July 22, 2005 2:22 PM