The wet cobbles were icy slick from street cleaners that rinse off the grime from the morning delivery trucks, the sticky ice creams from the after school snacking kids and the alcohol from the late night revelers. I rode through the old town of Girona cautiously, my bike slipping and skidding in the corners, to meet the “boys” for a training ride; the shopkeepers who were sweeping their steps in daily routine, waved a friendly hello and smiled.

We meet at a café/bar in the center, under an arches that cover a walkway that outlines a local placa — a spot we chose because it is dry on rainy days, and while waiting for others, or contemplating the ride, we can always grab a quick coffee or sandwich.

One by one the boys rolled in from different directions, their apartments scattered throughout the old town or Barri Vell. Training brings us together daily; half a dozen riders from different squads, meet to ride, chat and work. Cycling is unique in this respect. The Toronto Maple Leafs wouldn’t shoot around a puck with the Canadiens, their rivals, and the Williams Formula One team certainly wouldn’t test their cars while Ferrari drives around on the same track. Perhaps oddly, these relationships in training don’t carry over to the races. As soon as we pin on our numbers we are again rivals, to the end.

After a few minutes of deliberation about a route we decided on a ride in the mountains. We had all eaten well in expectation of five-or-so hours on the bike and were ready to leave Girona for the highest peaks within a couple of hours. Today we planned on riding to Montseny, a mountain that lies between Girona and Barcelona with a peak at 1600 meters and a 25-kilometer sinuous mountain road to reach the top.

The four of us rode at a steady speed, chatting at first, and then as the road ascended, the chatter was replaced by rhythmic breathing, the click of gears, all somehow, in tune with the noisy silence of the mountain’s forest. Rain began to fall in large icy drops but we pressed on. Races don’t have rain delays, so neither do our training rides.

As the summer approaches, riding becomes easier. Climbs ascended early in the year that are a struggle are now ridden smoothly, at higher cadences, in bigger gears and faster. The difficulty is lessened and somehow the body is able to push itself harder, the exertion higher, but the perceived exertion less. This is fitness and in June our fitness in the mountains begins to reach its peak as the major goals approach.

The races are getting hillier as the mountain roads are cleared of snow and the passes opened. At the Volta a Catalunya we climbed the first long climbs of the season and in the Dauphiné Libéré we will race three stiff mountain stages which take us over many of the majestic Alpine passes. Our climbing legs need to be good now.

The kilometers ticked by as we climbed and the hours seem to pass more quickly than we realized. Not yet at the summit, we had three hours in our legs, and we started to get worried about making it home in time to pick the kids up from school at 5, to meet our wives. We all wondered who would have the nicest doghouse when they got home. We pressed on.

In the distance an orange cyclist, hunched over on his bars, his rain jacket catching enough wind to make him look like a human pillow, appeared. A good cyclist can always tell if another cyclist is competent, a professional, even if he is just a spot in the distance. Although just a spot of bursting orange, we all had a hunch it was Juan Antonio Flecha.

Flecha lives in Barcelona and for him Montseny is the highest climb within a reasonable distance to train on. As he neared our group, he spun around, peeled off his orange cape and began climbing with us. A couple of quick hellos, some chatter about the Giro and its ludicrously hard stages, and then we were back breathing deeper as the pace intensified, everybody quiet, glancing down occasionally at their power meters to see the pertinent numbers: heart rate, watts, cadence.

Once at the top, we could see Barcelona, the Mediterranean coast, Girona and to the north the high snow capped Pyrenees. George Hincapie and Flecha pulled out their cameras for the photos of the day; we zipped up our jerseys, covered up with our rain capes, ate Powerbars, drank, and then began the descent towards home. The clock read that we had been out for well over three hours; we needed to make it home in two and a half to avoid the doghouse.

The ride home is not nearly all downhill, so our work was not done. The time in the saddle somehow seemed insignificant although we were out riding for as long as the kids were at school and nearly as long as the shops were open. When I think back on my career on the bike many of the best memories are of moments just like this one.

As we neared Girona we upped the speed, riding in a smooth paceline, with a sprint for a town sign that is as nearly hotly contested as a true finish line. When we entered the old town of Girona, it was alive. The streets were dirty again from the day’s activities, the school kids were licking their ice creams, and the bars were slowly filling up. Our day on the bike was over and with a nod, a wave, we agreed on a time to meet again the next day to do it all over again.