Day 46: Bilbao to Santander | 114km
17 July 2026
I slept in the top bunk, and I made the terrible mistake of jumping down the last few steps instead of slowly climbing down. This is normally not a problem, of course. I can usually stick the landing. But after two days of climbing and many kilometers on the bike, my legs gave way when I landed, and I had to grab hold of the bunk bed railing to stop myself from falling. A quick cortisol spike to wake me up. The breakfast at the hostel was surprisingly filling, but I didn’t enjoy the crowd so early in the morning. I’m not my best self until a few hours into the day. Many pilgrims were lined up for breakfast, and other large groups of travelers had already taken the tables when I arrived. It reminded me a bit of school, all of us standing in line with trays, waiting to be served.
Almost immediately after leaving the pilgrims’ hostel, I met an old friend, also known as a mountain. I could tell yesterday’s distance, climbing, and many hours in the sun had taken their toll on my body. My calves were tight from the first pedal stroke, and every time I stood up to climb, they reminded me of the previous two days. Although I knew today’s ride would be significantly shorter, the elevation was about the same, meaning there would be more, and much steeper, hills to climb.
My philosophy on hills changed a little back in Sweden. Instead of despising the climbs, I started focusing on the joy of rolling back down. I definitely felt that joy yesterday, but today the hills were shorter and steeper, which made it difficult to find a good rhythm. Mentally, I’d much rather tackle one long climb than five short ones, even if the total elevation is the same. Your legs never really get a chance to recover.
Despite the relentless climbing, I was happy to be on the Camino. Seeing people walking and, in some ways, on a similar mission gives me a lot of energy. Everyone takes on long hikes, bike rides, or adventures for different reasons, and if you’re away for long enough, I think those reasons shift over time. I’ve noticed my own reasons changing too. At the beginning, I was focused on covering distance and reaching the next destination. Now, I’m just as interested in everything that happens along the way. Still, it feels like many of us on pilgrimages share something in common. Even if we don’t communicate beyond a friendly nod as we pass each other, I can still feel a sense of community.
In some ways, I think seeing other people who have stepped away from everyday life for weeks or months, just like me, brings me a sense of peace. It quiets that little voice that occasionally whispers, “Why?” That question usually appears during the low moments.
As I approached Santoña, I caught the short ferry across the bay. The town sat neatly along the water, with beaches stretching out toward the open sea. It felt like the perfect place to stop and refuel, so I wandered through the narrow streets looking for somewhere to eat. Besides a good-looking menu, another requirement is somewhere nearby where I can safely leave my bike. I found a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant tucked into a quiet square, so I sat down and ordered a poke bowl and gyoza. It might seem strange to order non-Spanish food in what many consider one of the world’s greatest food regions. But I knew I’d be passing through plenty of small Spanish towns over the coming week, and I figured this might be my only opportunity to eat something different for a while.
I still had about 45 kilometers to ride after lunch, but I was feeling surprisingly strong, and the distance passed smoothly. It was also exciting to return to the tent after spending the previous two nights in hostels. Thin as it is, my tent has been with me since the beginning of the trip, and there’s something comforting about sleeping in familiar surroundings. The campsite, a few kilometers west of Santander, was beautifully located right on the coast. The fresh ocean breeze reached all the way through the campsite. I was told there was an accessible beach nearby. My legs felt heavy after getting off the bike, but if I didn’t go, what would even be the point of this trip?
The walk wasn’t far, but the tired little devil on my shoulder tried to convince me to conserve my energy for tomorrow’s ride. It got me thinking about the expression “going the extra mile.” On this trip, that saying has become very literal. When I’m completely exhausted, it’s surprisingly difficult to literally go the extra mile to a viewpoint, a slightly better restaurant, or a more scenic route. Anything that doesn’t bring me closer to the destination can feel like wasted energy. But going the extra mile is exactly what keeps this journey from becoming nothing more than traveling from A to B. I’m cycling 7,000 kilometers, so what difference does an extra few make if it elevates the experience? It doesn’t sound like much, but day after day it can feel like a big ask.
I’ve also realized how much I admire people who do difficult things and still choose to go the extra mile. The ones who take the scenic route, stop to set up a camera properly, or pause to appreciate the view halfway down a descent. Trust me, when you’ve got a good roll going, the last thing you want to do is stop.
When I reached the beach, there were only a handful of people still there. The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, and the warm glow reflected in the ocean softened everything around me. I sat down for a while, listening to the waves before walking back to the campsite. It wasn’t a life-changing moment or some grand reward. It was simply a reminder that those extra few minutes, or extra few kilometers, are likely what I’ll remember most from this adventure.