Amanda goes on a beach holiday, turns her back to the sea and rides inland to find trails and adventure.
Given the opportunity of a cheap flight, a lift from the airport, and free accommodation, there aren’t many destinations I wouldn’t manage to get inspired by. There’s an adventure to be had almost anywhere and, even if not, there’s the novelty of getting more stamps in my passport throughout the EU now…
My partner’s dad, John, is renting an apartment on the south coast of Spain for the year. Blue skies, sandy beaches, churros and good coffee? Usually I’m not great at the whole beach thing, and I could list 20 odd reasons why, but the only relevant one here is that I can barely go a day without riding a bike. I know that John has a few bikes out there, but how many times can you noodle along the coast before craving something more challenging? But still, this comes as my first opportunity to test out my Covid Passport, and my administration skills for new travel rules, so I sign myself up and allow my coach, I mean partner Rhys, to plan our adventures.
Rhys isn’t the type of guy you’d expect (or want) to find in Singletrack World. He’s a diehard bike racer and fan of acronyms such as FTP, TSS, NP, IF. He has a penchant for seeking out the toughest events, the most difficult climbs, and anything else that can test his limits. If you read the Last Word in issue 141, I need say no more. So allowing him to plan our trip was a mistake from the word go, when he promptly found a website detailing the 100 hardest road climbs in Spain, and then began plotting the off-road versions of them.
We take a very early flight out from Manchester and arrive in Malaga at 10.30am. John meets us at the airport and drives us along the coast to Torrox Costa, and by 1pm we have a beer in hand and 28°C sunshine on our happy faces. Sitting out on the terrace at the apartment, there’s a sparkling view of the Mediterranean, and on the left in the far distance we can see some big mountains. The apartment is in a gated complex with a pool and plenty of that crunchy, dehydrated foliage you find in hot climates.
There are four bikes in the apartment: two top spec Specialized Turbo Creo gravel e-bikes with Pathfinder tyres, and two road bikes. We have a play around on the Creo e-bikes, and are shocked by how easy they are to ride without turning the power on. It’s this discovery that leads to some of our most ambitious ride plans, as we believe the flat coastal sections and the descents will be fine with no power. We can basically ride them like a regular bike, and use the battery when we get tired. And so begins our ‘beach’ holiday.
Sierra de Lújar – Sea To Sky, And Then Some
Distance: 198.41km • Elevation Gain: 3,708m • Time: 9h 26m
The plotted route for this ride tricked me into accepting the challenge. It takes an 80km undulating coastal yomp to get to the base of the climb, and the same to get home. So, in my mind, there’s only 19 challenging kilometres followed immediately by a huge descent. Easy, right?
At around 60km, Rhys stops to point out a mountain in the distance, which just so happens to be our destination. It doesn’t look too daunting, and there’s an inviting beam of sunshine at the peak.
At 96km, the coast is a distant memory. We’ve passed through Rubite, a quaint village 790m above sea level with a drinking fountain that I almost believed was a mirage. We’ve collected a stray dog that appears to know all the shortcuts. I’ve spent at least an hour chiding Rhys about the thick grey cloud that now dominates the peak of Sierra de Lújar and skews our view, although I do appreciate he can’t control the weather… and we’re at the point of the ride where most sane riders would begin their descent down the other side.
A rough, narrow, dead-end, and in places very exposed, track leads up to the left. The moment we begin pedalling up it, the gravity of any potential mechanicals or crashes hits us both. I’m a worrier by nature and I rely on Rhys to assess situations for what they really are, so when he is equally as concerned it’s as if my comfort blanket has been ripped from me and blown off down the 1,800 plus metres that we’ve somehow cranked our way up to. We’re isolated, it is so remote and, of course, we have no phone signal. So we tentatively pick our way through the loose rocks, stick close together, and neither one of us dares to admit that we’re so cold we can’t feel our hands.
The summit is an anticlimax thanks to the cloud cover. The descent is terrifying, as our hands are frozen and we’re trying not to fall to certain death at each loose switchback. My stomach refuses food and fluid at around 140km, we argue about my inability to eat or drink, and we get home in the dark.
Porto Paez Blanca – The White Road
Distance: 56.55km • Elevation Gain: 1,302m • Time: 3h 23m
For want of an easier day, we agree to a full off-road loop that doesn’t include the coastal yomp I am starting to tire of, and even Rhys is happy about a sub-100km day. There’s a curious looking valley on the map that cuts through the middle of two places we’re familiar with, and it’s almost hard to believe there’s a trail through it.
The ride takes us through a wild tunnel of rock and trees, with frequent opportunities to peek through the woods at the valley below. We don’t notice the exact moment the ground turns into pure white gravel, but it’s beautiful. A total nightmare to pedal on, but beautiful all the same. There’s no consistency to the size of the rocks, or how loose they are, so no matter how long we spend on here, every unplanned skid comes as a harsh reminder that we really need to be careful. As, once again, we’re isolated and have no phone signal.
The white road goes on for a while, and when we’re not distracted by the views of the deep valley below and the seemingly endless road ahead, we’re focused on staying upright and not dinging the rims of our borrowed bikes. This feels like a really difficult way to have an easy day, and the challenges keep on coming.
We find ourselves warming to the idea of a shortcut, since the white road has exhausted both our energy and our daylight. An arrow on the ground points us down a technical trail, one that we’re completely underbiked and unprepared for. Initially I’m irritated, but I can’t help but laugh as we take it in turns to attempt to ride the unrideable. Eventually, I notice there’s some singletrack sweeping alongside, so we’re rewarded with a fast fun exit out of the valley, and in no time at all we’re drinking red wine in Frigilianna.
Peña Escrita – Welcome To Jurassic Park
Distance: 101.33km • Elevation Gain: 2,256m • Time: 5h 22m
This ride came about when Rhys fell upon an intriguing piece of history. Located in Almuñécar at around 1,200m above sea level, Peña Escrita, nicknamed ‘The Zoo In The Sky’, was a zoo within a National Park. Following reports of undocumented breeding, a shameless lack of licences, and most alarmingly, animal deaths leading to visitors seeing carcasses and skeletons in plain sight, the zoo was closed in 2015. It so happens that there’s a brutal climb leading to the gates, with a mere 4km beyond the gate to the top of the hill. Our friend Brad comes along, not one to miss out on a one-off opportunity.
I had the option to ride an electric gravel bike for this route, but I thought the numbers looked quite tame and in theory we needed no more than a road bike. The route to and from the entrance is mostly road, and past the gate is a concrete track. We don’t know what condition the track will be in, but, for efficiency, road bikes seem the logical choice.
At the gate, the reality of how immediate the zoo closure was sinks in. The ticket booth is stocked, there’s paperwork and files on the shelves, and just to add an edge of tension, the windows are smashed in.
The 4km from the gate averages 14%, with pitches hitting the 30% mark. I can’t find the words to describe the physical and mental battle to churn up this hill. I also can’t explain why I am so determined to get to the top. Mostly curiosity, and partly feeling like I’m a character in the post-apocalyptic game Fallout, I have such an urge to explore that I somehow keep moving.
The main path is eerily silent, and quite surreal. We’re in a cloud, so can’t see much ahead, which makes the signage for the enclosures gradually come into focus as we ascend. Hippos, lions, bears, eagles… There are still bones on the ground. The enclosures are fully intact; the cages are open; the padlocks have been cut. There’s nothing but our own common sense stopping us from going into each of them.
As we reach what feels like the top, a cold chill runs through Rhys and he announces we need to leave right now. Brad is as fascinated as I am by the clear evidence that the zoo closed with zero notice. There are crates of unopened Coke and Cava, and the office buildings would appear to still be occupied if it weren’t for the subtle signs of nature moving in. There are leaves on the ground, trees beginning to branch through doorways, and cobwebs… Struggling to keep a hold of reality, I’m grateful for Rhys’ reminder, and we head back down to the gate, suddenly regretting not having grippy tyres or a bit more comfort.
In a welcome contrast to the top of the mountain, our descent is drenched in golden sun and an uplifting sense of freedom. None of us regret this day, but none of us would ever consider a revisit.
Rest Day
Distance: 40.58km • Elevation Gain: 579m • Time: 1h 50m
Believe it or not, all these climbs have caught up with us. Our legs are tired, our lips are chapped, my other lips are chapped, and Rhys can’t sit down without whimpering. So a day at the beach is suggested, and nobody objects.
Our beach of choice is one that I’ve been eyeing up all week, every time we’ve ridden east from the apartment. It looks like a postcard… turquoise water, empty beach, all compacted in a horseshoe-shaped suntrap. There is only one way to access the beach, and it’s a steep gravel road with tight switchbacks all the way down. There are sections of concrete that make you pick up more speed than you want to, so we drift and squeal our way down and are amused to find the trail ends quite suddenly and it’s really hard to ride on pebbles.
We choose a spot at the far end of the beach, park up our bikes, get out our books and beers, and attempt to rest.
Five minutes into our book club, I announce that I’m going for a swim. I strip down to my bib shorts, which really just means removing my socks, given the 28°C heat, and confidently march toward the water. Both Brad and Rhys point out the violent waves that are getting much bigger at the shore, but I naively claim I’ll swim under one to get to the calmer water further out. What happens for the next five or ten minutes is a blur. I am picked up by the first wave I approach, and aggressively slammed into the cobbled shore, then immediately pulled back out for round two with the next wave. Brad, a confident swimmer, comes in to help, or to experience the chaos for himself, and he too gets pinned under the water and struggles getting back to dry land. Eventually, I steal a breath and find I have enough fear-induced adrenaline to fight my way out, and Brad isn’t far behind. We sheepishly admit that it wasn’t one of our best choices, and spend the next hour or so removing pebbles from our bibs and bras.
What goes down must come back up, and having won against the sea, we have one last challenge: the climb out from the beach. Brad makes light of it and proceeds to stop at each of the steepest switchbacks to shout ‘VAMOS! Feliz Navidad!’ in encouragement, yet earns himself a stink eye and mutterings of ‘let’s not invite him again’.
La Maroma – The Wild Dogs
Distance: 86.46km • Elevation Gain: 2,003m • Time: 4h 50m
Our decision to ride to La Maroma was made for us by the mountain itself. It is visible almost all the time, even at the coast, and demands to be explored. The route out is quite tiring, a combination of negotiating roundabouts, rough dirt tracks and an unexpected amount of climbing before the mountain itself, and by the time we’re zigzagging up the trail to the top, I’m not convinced I have the full day in me. Rhys, understanding the volume of riding is a shock to my legs, kindly slows the pace and makes sure we enjoy the climb up. We find weird bugs, we scope out downhill tracks that look like life-enders, and we enjoy the remoteness.
We reach the open mountain top and find a fast natural pump track to the highest point we’re willing to go to. The summit is ahead of us, and we have a spectacular view of it. There are wild horses, goats, alpine moths and lots of funky plants that I fear don’t get enough eyes on them, as the entire area feels wild and esoteric. Turning back on ourselves, distant views of Sierra Nevada confirm how remote we are.
A traverse across the top leads us to a fun descent. We blast through grassy ruts, negotiate sudden flat, loose corners, and frequently stop to take turns in saying ‘I can’t believe how good this is!’.
We find ourselves in some woods and are grateful for the shade, but our relief is short-lived as we round a bend and catch sight of two very angry looking dogs. They’re big, showing their teeth, hunching down aggressively and slowly edging toward us while spitting out the most terrifying growl. I put faith in my approach to cows on the trails at home, which is to calmly talk to them. This, unsurprisingly, has no effect and we burst into action to shoot past them. It’s a lot of drama; my heart is in my throat, yet they don’t take chase. We think they’re guarding a herd of goats, and I enjoy a good five minutes of Rhys telling me how brave I am. I continue on, my head busy with questions. Why do cows respond so well to me? Can’t goats defend themselves from infrequent visits by tourists? Are we nearly home?
On Reflection
Prior to this trip, if you were to ask me for a list of my dream holiday destinations, I could guarantee the south coast of Spain wouldn’t make it into the top 50. I go on holiday for mountains, lakes, remote woodlands to explore, new hobbies to try, and most importantly, to feel out of place. I want to be forced to be culturally educated, try new foods, accept different customs, and experience another way of living. The one thing I absolutely cannot get excited about is sunbathing. So, it’s fair to say that I assumed Torrox would be a ‘typical’ beach holiday, full of tourists and expats, Irish bars, burger bars, and locals used to speaking as much English as they do Spanish. I knew there were mountains nearby, but I didn’t consider them near enough to be accessible.
In contrast to my assumptions, the mountains we climbed are the biggest I have ever pedalled up. We explored, in some instances possibly further than we should have. Though I didn’t see any lakes for a wild swim, it turns out the sea is an adventure in itself. The locals didn’t speak much English at all, I discovered churros, and I’ll never complain about Irish bars since they seem to always serve the best beers.
There’s an adventure to be had almost anywhere – you might just have to put some effort into finding it.
