Today was what some might call a “down day.” I call it a “strategic masterstroke of self-preservation.” After all, I have been walking since June 1, and though my feet and legs are still in shockingly good shape (probably because they’ve already accepted their fate), my energy reserves have taken a vacation to somewhere with colder beer.

So, when the plan for today involved a stage nicknamed “the leg wrecker” in low 90s heat, we did what any wise, experienced, slightly lazy pilgrims would do: we called Rocio.

Ah, Rocio. Our taxi driver, our savior, and, apparently, part-time Formula One driver. When she saw us again, she thought it was pure chance. Little did she know, we actually requested her, she the woman is faster than a Galician gossip chain. She did not disappoint. In fact, she delivered us to O Cádavo in one piece, but I suspect we arrived a few years younger due to her near light-speed driving.

As we zipped along, I watched the Camino crisscross the highway like a confused snake. Each of those gentle undulations that looked so scenic from the passenger seat would have translated into 15 to 20 minutes of sweating, huffing, and me questioning all my life choices. Instead, we covered it all in about 25 minutes of joyous wind-whipped laughter.

Tomorrow’s plan? A casual stroll from O Cádavo to Lugo — just 30 kilometers, which sounds charming until you add 93-degree heat and realize there is exactly one bar after 8 kilometers. After that? Nothing but an endless stretch of personal reflection and possible hallucinations about ice-cold Kaz de Limón.

T1 and I bravely tackled the first 8 kilometers before our collective common sense (and lack of additional bars) persuaded us to call Rocio again. Meanwhile, J and T2 took the day off entirely and wisely called for a lift from their own starting points.

Reunited in Lugo, we did what any triumphant band of tactical pilgrims would do: checked into a semi-fancy hotel. We pretended to be civilized adults as we unloaded our bags and immediately transformed the room into a drying rack for sweaty socks. Lunch followed, complete with a generous serving of Xeato (Galician ice cream), which might just be the pinnacle of human achievement.

I have to hand it to my companions. They were all smart enough to listen to their bodies (and perhaps their stomachs) today. As for me? I have learned that sometimes the most heroic act on the Camino is not to march uphill in punishing heat but to lift your arm, call Rocio, and buckle up.