A few years ago, I was dying on one of the ugliest climbs of the Camino de Santiago — legs on fire, 12% grades that felt like they were personally offended by my existence. It just kept going and going like a sadistic Spanish staircase to heaven.
Way up the road I spotted four cyclists. Little by little, I reeled them in like a determined snail. Three were riding together, chatting away. The fourth was dangling about twenty feet behind, looking like he was questioning every life choice that led him there.
As I pulled alongside the straggler, I heard English and assumed they were British. Up
ahead, one guy was joyfully roasting his friends: “Come on, you slow bastards, my
grandmother climbs faster than this!”
I was somehow still feeling fresh — one of those rare unicorn days. I looked over at the guy next to me and said, “Sorry mate… I’ve just gotta do it.”
I stood up, mashed the pedals like I owed them money, and dropped the whole group like
they were parked. I hammered over the top and stopped at the big monument to St. James,
sucking wind and feeling pretty smug.
A few minutes later they rolled up. We started chatting and I discovered they weren’t British
at all — three from mainland Spain, and the quiet straggler was from the Canary Islands.
That’s when things got weird.
The Canarian guy wouldn’t stop staring at me. Full laser-focus, mouth slightly open, like he
was seeing a ghost. Finally he stepped forward, voice shaking with excitement:
“Pepe… can I please have a picture with you?”
I laughed. “Why would you want a picture with me?”
He looked at me like I’d just asked why water is wet. “Because you’re Pepe Benavente!”
Apparently Pepe Benavente is a big famous singer from the Canary Islands. And this dude
was convinced he’d just met his musical hero halfway up a random mountain in Spain.
I tried to be honest: “Look, the only money I ever made singing was when someone paid me
to stop.”
The joke cleared his head with six feet of altitude to spare. Now his buddies caught the
fever. Suddenly all four of them were crowding around me like I was Taylor Swift on the
summit.
One by one they lined up for photos, arms around my shoulders, huge grins, while the
others snapped away like paparazzi. I was laughing so hard I was shaking in the pictures.
They still didn’t suspect a thing.
Before I rode off, I couldn’t resist. I muttered just loud enough for them to hear:
“Darn it… I can’t even go on holiday without getting recognized.”
Then I clipped in, pointed the bike downhill, and descended like a thief escaping the scene
of the funniest crime I’d ever committed.
I still laugh every time I think about those four grown men proudly showing their friends
photos of “Pepe Benavente” they met on the Camino — while the real Pepe was probably
somewhere sipping a drink, blissfully unaware he had a body double crushing mountain
passes in his name.
