We checked out of the Hotel Arriaga, but the BMW, wouldn't start. There we were, on a Friday in Bilbao, with no place to stay, a dead bike, and no clue as to how the Roadside Assistance plan worked. An hour later, a mechanic shows up and jumps the bike. "Just don't let it sit for longer than a day," he says. We had planned to visit Toledo, but now we were going to dump these beater bikes off at the rental shop in Madrid, by 8 pm. It was now 11 am. If all went well we would make back to the city in time, but where we were staying and how this would all work out was anyone's guess.

It was the hardest ride ever. Eight hours later, Madrid loomed on the horizon. Exhausted and bleary eyed, we battled stifiling rush hour traffic.

Stressed out, stinking badly, and trying not to kill each other, we somehow made it to the shop by 8:15 pm.They were still open, and didn't seem surprised we had trouble. By then, we were HUNGRY, and we didn't want to stay in Madrid. The shop manager, Juan, suggested we catch the AVE Bullet Train to Sevilla, but the last train departed in 30 minutes, at 9:00 pm.

We ran to the station, in full (heavy!) moto gear. With 15 minutes to spare, we made it to the AVE station, and plunked down the charge card to purchase two Clase de Primera tickets for the two hour ride to Sevilla. The clerk sneered at us. Two smelly bikers on the First Class Car?

Covered with chunks of bugs, stinking profusely, and slathered in grime, we boarded, and camped out in our private, air conditioned booth, with well-heeled bankers and lawers as our neighbors. After a European shower in the bathroom, we sat down to sip champagne (complimentary on this car!), eat a four course five-star meal, and sip Cognac after dinner. Yum! Of course, there was still the matter of finding a place to stay at 11:00 pm on a weekend night in Sevilla...