The bus pulled into the familiar Santander bus station on time, at 2215. My hotel was very close, barely one hundred metres away, but it was still a struggle to get my bike there. It was heavy on my shoulder, awkward and required frequent halts. The shoulder strap remained attached, just, although there were some worrying noises as more stitches gave way. It will need (professional?) attention before the flight home.

I had planned a couple of days in Santander. One to get my bike reassembled and one to help with the time change adjustment. I didn't recall packing my pump in the usual last minute rush to get my bike into its travel bag and, when I investigated, it was nowhere to be found. Bev confirmed that it was still on the floor in the garage in Calgary. So job one, not too difficult in Spain, was to find a bike shop.

My disc brake rotors (I remove them from the wheels to travel) were not in the bag pocket where I usually place them. I was sure I remembered packing these! I was considering another trip to the bike shop when they showed up in my frame bag. I definitely hadn't placed them there; security must have opened my bike bag at the airport, sorted through stuff, and replaced the rotors in the 'wrong' place. Kudos to them for managing to get the bike packed into the bag again – never an easy task.

For the last couple of trips, I've carried 1.5 litre water bottles on my front forks. This time, I had switched to some Old Man Mountain fork packs, small dry bags with room for more stuff. They now contained my water bottles and my emergency camping gear, freeing up space in my panniers. Just as well as I will be carrying the bike back and a fairly bulky carry-on pack that I used on the plane. This is the first trip without going through England, and having somewhere to store items 'not needed on the voyage.'

A short day to start. I rolled out about 1130 and stopped after a few hundred metres for some bike adjustments. The handlebars were not quite perpendicular to my direction of travel. And I rotated the handlebars back a little, reducing the reach and lifting them a bit. I slid the saddle forward about one centimetre to compensate a little for the longer stem I had for this trip.

I could tell I'd been off the bike for too long but it was fairly straightforward out of the city on cycle paths. Then I joined the Via Verde del Pas, another cycle path. So there wasn't much traffic to deal with. But I had to stop very frequently, to rest. And to ease by bottom which was finding the saddle very hard.

With all the lengthy stops, it was late afternoon when I got to my hotel, a transport hotel attached to a gas station serving an adjacent motorway but quite pleasant. Arriving late was not a problem as I knew I would have to ease into riding gently. My thighs were sore and my bum felt bruised from the saddle. But I'd planned a rest day. One of many, it would be, as the weather forecast was threatening. I tried to extend my stay but the hotel was booked on Saturday night. But a pension in town, above a 'mercado' convenience store had room. The man who checked me in, from the store, had a very calm and welcoming aura.

I returned the keys to the owner in the mercado below and set off to The Factory for breakfast. All that seemed to be on offer was toast and tomato, and a coffee. Enough to do me for a while. Then back on the cycle path, hoping to reach Vega de Pas, about 38 km away. Quite a distance in my current state of fitness.

I noticed a bicycle pump track on the outskirts of a small town. Adjoining the cycle path. Easily distracted, I stopped.

But it wasn't the pump track that piqued my interest: it was the two structures beside it. Climbing walls! Easy to access and free. What a lovely idea! There was a bouldering wall, with a cushioned base, and a lead tower. Outdoors, but with some shelter from the rain.

I presume petty crime is less of an issue in Spain. I'm not sure how long these expensive plastic climbing holds would remain in place, in the UK or Canada.

The path is a Via Verde (or Greenway), generally a reclaimed rail track. This particular one that I'm riding is the Via Verde del Pas, 35.5 km in length.

In Spain, there are more than 3,500 kilometers of old lines of disused railroad that have been recovered as itineraries cyclists and hikers within the framework of the Greenways Program that since 1993 has energized and promoted the Foundation of the Spanish Railways F.S.P. (viaverdes.com)

There is a discontinuous Via Verde from Santander to Valencia (Via Verdes FC. Santander - Mediterráneo), which I hope to use as much as possible, linking the various sections with navigation help from cycle.travel

A couple, him from Switzerland and her living in Spain, rode with me for a short while. Thankfully a short while because I had to try to keep up to their pace, which they had presumably reduced for my benefit. They, too, are heading to Valencia (having started in Bilbao) but are on a tighter schedule and had already lost some time due to needing some bike repair. After a while, they moved on, hoping – they said – to get over the pass today. And I could stop to get my breath back.

Not unsurprisingly, after ten months of no physical exercise, it is not only my legs that are weak. My heart rate spikes quite easily, toying with 160 at one point. (Using the standard '220-age' formula, my maximum rate should be 148!) So when it reaches 150, I think it valid to stop and catch my breath. Rarely does it want to come down below 110. Give it a couple of weeks and I should see better recovery.

I stopped for some lunch (bread and sardines) around half past two. And went to book the hotel in Vega de Pas; I had been reluctant to commit to that distance too early. But the room was no longer available. I found a place close to where I was, more expensive than I wanted (80€)but out of the rain.

And when I put my bike in the storage room, there were already two bikes in there. I recognised the bikes from the couple that passed me earlier. So they decided not to go for the big climb today.

I didn't see them again; they weren't in the restaurant when I had dinner. And, of course, their bike were gone when I came down for breakfast. This solitary slow cycling senior has his own pace and his own schedule!

A short section of farm double-track through meadows of noisy cattle, bells a jingling. Then on to the A-road to Burgos. Traffic but not too much and something of a shoulder. Slow, with weary muscles, and frequent halts. The saddle wasn't so painful. I wore padded shorts again today. And I dug out my rear light and wore my bright red raincoat.

Then I turned off onto the road to Vega de Pass, signposted 11 km away. Less shoulder, but quieter. Some traffic but it seemed considerate; it is Spain after all. But it only takes one driver on his phone, inattentive on the quiet road.

Old stone farm buildings on the outskirts of Vega de Pas. Pas is the name of the river I've been alongside for the last couple of days.

A quiet village with nice old buildings. My hotel is a splendid old house, beautifully furnished and maintained. I sat outside on a stone bench for a while before calling the number on the door to let in. Victor arrived in few minutes to let me in. I had booked for two nights but enquired about three. (The weather looks wet for the next two days and I don't fancy pushing my bike up 800 m to the top of the hill in the rain and cool.) No problem. Then he returned to his lunch with his 100 year old mother. It was his 62nd birthday so his mother had him quite late.

Steady rain in the forecast for the next two days. Not ideal for pushing my bike up a long hill. I'll hang tight for a couple of days. Maybe get this blog caught up!

A reasonable start (around 10 am), a stop at a panaderia for bread, and the day began in earnest. It promised to be a difficult one. It kept its promise.

I rode two kilometres of steady uphill, not too steep but steep enough, before having a rest. Then I rode another one kilometre. Then 300 m but that stop was, ostensibly, to take a photograph. After that is was pretty much hike-a-bike for the next few hours, climbing steadily, head down, counting steps. After 500 steps, I'd stop and admire the view. Which was spectacular.

The road was quiet, four or five cars per hour to start. Some pedestrians were out, walking their dogs: local women mainly. One, dogless, stopped for a brief chat. She was Peruvian, and we were both American. Her south, me north. Then, I continued to sit on the road barrier and she carried on.

Hours passed as I worked my way upward, walking at three-four kph but with frequent (every 500 paces, rarely 1000!) stops, my average speed was less than that. Considerably.

I could see the outline of the road, contouring along the valley side, high above. And the white of the road, zigzagging below me, letting me know that I was indeed making upward progress.

There were more motor cycles, big touring machines, than cars although both increased in number as the day wore on. Bicycles, too. Light road bikes with no panniers. Luxury!

One cyclist, on his way down – no doubt he had passed me earlier on his way up – stopped and asked if I had a problem. No, I said and just indicated my thighs. He looked at my gearbox and asked whether I had a battery. Nope. He seemed marginally mollified that I wasn't on an e-bike. Then he told me off for my choice of footwear, which I staunchly defended. All this without much common language.

It was almost seven o'clock when I reached the top of the pass, marking eight painstaking hours to cover around only fifteen kilometres.

Here, I left Cantabria. And was into Castilla y León. The summit signs were also for Burgos. Cantabria and Castilla y León are two of seventeen autonomous communities of Spain, sparsely populated Castilla y León being the largest of the seventeen. Burgos is a province of Castilla y León.

Yes, a long day in the sun after a light breakfast. I was somewhat encouraged that I had managed to plod on (what choice did I have, really?) despite having had no exercise in the last ten months, despite being 72-years-old, despite being obese, despite bad knees and a bad ankle...

Then downhill to Espinosa de los Monteros and my hotel room. On the fourth floor. Without a lift.