Three Rides And A Walk.

Funny how life works out, one minute you’re enjoying Spanish sunshine, a week or so later it’s a touring site in the English Lake District, surrounded by people who look as though their only attempts at an erection are the awnings on the side of their caravans. Me and The Breadlad had been brought in to lower the age profile of the site before the coffin-dodger van came collecting and one of us isn’t exactly young. We felt like youths, objects of curiosity for the beige people to curtain-twitch at, fat-tyred bikes and colourful clothing, as though they had suddenly caught a glimpse of the twentieth century. To be fair, the sun had followed me from the Costa Del Sol, turning the Lake District into the perfect corner of England. We had come for three rides and a walk - yes, a walk; anyone who knows me will be well aware of my aversion to the whole red socks and map cases thing, having got all that nonsense out of of my system by my mid-twenties but it was for a good cause, a sponsored jaunt up England’s highest mountain in aid of Cancer Research. 

Day One - route 

Once we had attached all the umbilicals to The Breadlad’s little home from home; who’d have imagined there was so much to do just to stay a few nights in a caravan, like a space shuttle just before take off, doors, sockets and ports all waiting to be connected to some service or other: water in, water out, electric in, bodily fluids out (no solids) and the all important TV aerial because the greatest pleasure of a caravanner is to sit in a field and watch Coronation Street. 

We were in no rush, our ride for today actually started just across the A66, in Threlkeld, an old favourite route, a pedal along the Glenderaterra Beck valley, that gargantuan cleft between the mighty Skiddaw and the slightly smaller but equally majestic Blencathra. But first we had the road climb which passes the Blencathra Centre, a heartbreaking start to any ride, steep tarmac which mellows to become only slightly less steep tarmac, tarmac turns to gravel after a small car park but still keeps climbing gradually upward. Eventually it levels out, dropping for a speedy descent to the head of the valley, where we perform a U turn and climb up to the the singletrack on the opposite side, a ribbon of gravel, hugging the elephantine flank of Skiddaw, high above the beck, beckoning us onwards, goading us to go faster regardless of the drop to our left. Towards the end, gravel is thrust aside by slabs of jagged rock, off-camber igneous eruptions trying to push us into the valley below, riding on a clifftop, Lonscale Crags, no coming back from a tumble over this edge, just a few lines in the mountain rescue book. Will discretion be the better part of valour today? I’ll leave that for you to find out. 

Turning a corner, the trepidation evaporates and a wide, fast track drops us to a stream crossing and the inevitable climb back out again. A couple of hundred metres later we are in the Cheat’s Car Park, between Latrigg and Skiddaw before heading eastward down the long spine of Latrigg, back to Threlkeld. A perfect little mountain bike ride, compact but not without adventure, away from the masses, a whole fellside to ourselves even on a Sunday afternoon.

Day Two - A walk.

Went for a walk. Enough said except to say walkers are friendly folk if you are not on a bike.

Day Three - route.

Whinlatter, some days it’s just nice to have a trail centre day, no route finding and steady climbing. Numerous diletantes came crawling from their winter hibernation, lured by the promise of graded trails and predictable riding. 

Even though most of us have done Whinlatter more than a few times, it is still fun, the climbs are reasonable and the downhills are superb. Our usual routine of Blue Loop, North Loop, South Loop, cafe was followed, dry tracks, sunshine and plenty of rests while we waited for “much improved” (his description) gym-rat Benny The Brawl to catch up. 

The trauma of actually being outdoors seemed to have interfered with the ability of his legs to maintain an actual cadence; or perhaps, this being his first visit to the Lake District in his short life, the awesome vistas unfolding before his peepers were awakening an appreciation of life beyond the Playstation. 

Day Four - route.

The final day of our mini-break and the excellent weather is continuing, me and The Breadlad decamped the caravan while Rod was enjoying a full english in his B&B. Owing to the Open All Hours shop in Keswick being shut by 10pm, our breakfast was a rather frugal affair but fasted riding is in vogue at the moment so we soldiered on. A short drive took us to Ings, a small community scattered each side of the A591 but with a microbrewery and pub serving food all day - most important for our return. We had came to have a crack at Garburn Pass, a lakeland classic, so they say, then again, they say that about the Ullswater lakeside path and we would rather stick spokes in our eyes than venture there again. Following a route from VP Guidebooks’ Lake District Mountain Biking, we crossed the road and followed the instructions, whose bland words gloss over a lot of graft, for example, follow the bridleway, climbing easily at first but then with more difficulty near the top, or, more realistically, virtually unrideable rock-filled chute. 

We carried on, ascending gradually and negotiating gate after gate. Do farmers get buy one, get one free on gates? Three miles in some short, steep ascents elicited disturbing noises from The Breadlad’s back end, nothing to do with last night’s beer and everything to do with his freehub, which withdrew its labour shortly afterward. The usual two B’s, bouncing and braying, failed to re-engage the pawls, so for him the war was over, luckily downhill back to the car. 

Me and Rod continued as a duo passing through a few more gates until we eventually reached the descent to Kentmere, which is loose, rocky and fast, we juddered our way downward, standing on the pedals and scanning the way forward for pedestrians. We reached tarmac at Kentmere church, where we turned left (eventually, the moral of that story - don’t let the one without the map go in front) and headed up Garburn Pass. Some pedalling may have been involved at first but that soon gave way to carrying and pushing up the scree and loose rock tumbling down from heights as yet unseen, onwards we plodded, covering (for the North Yorkshire riders) three Turkey Nabs, we reached the top, before realising we’d only surmounted the foothills and something akin to Ingleby Incline stretched out ahead of us - it was almost rideable at first but bedrock shouldered its way through the gravel, giving birth to small boulders as it reared upward.  

And then we really were at the top, sandwiched between grassy fells, the track leveled out and our remaining Scooby Snacks were munched while breathing returned to normal, both secretly hoping the descent would not be in similar condition to the ascent we had just dragged ourselves up. We wanted flowing and fast riding not brake-jerking, technical, over the bars, bonce boulder-bouncing. We needn’t have worried, the descent is worth every back-breaking moment, brakes off, fast as you dare, watching out for my new friends - the walkers. Like all good things it came to an end, inevitably at another gate, the book recommends turning round and reversing the route, our stomachs recommended a swift return to the pub. Stomachs won.

Another Terra Trailblazers Fuengirola Trip

An account of a trip to Sierra Cycling in Fuengirola, Costa Del Sol. May 2018

Too many words? Click here for video.

Day One

Route

Never the most popular thing, the 4am alarm but when you know within a few hours you'll be riding dry and dusty trails on the Costa Del Sol it never seems as bad as the alarm heralding 12 hours in a chemical factory. The Terra Trailblazers Jolly Boys outing is underway again. After an uneventful flight, we emerged to sunshine and warmth, unlike Newcastle three and a half hours previously. Soon, we were changed and fitted with our hire bikes, Giants and Commencals this year, before the van dropped us off at the pueblo blanco of Mijas, for lunch and the San Anton half day ride back to Fuengirola. The Ginger One set the tone within the first 10 metres when he pinch-flatted attempting to follow Ash, our guide, up a kerb. His tube was changed with more alacrity than we could ever muster and we resumed our ride downhill through narrow streets between rows of whitewashed houses. 

At a cafe in a sunny square we met the other clients who had worked up an appetite for lunch on their morning ride. The Terra Trailblazers had an appetite for lunch without working for it - nothing new there, to be honest if we could only eat when we'd worked for our food there would be a control room full of emaciated wrecks, so weak they could barely croak at the apprentice to turn the kettle on. Our new riding buddies were six guys from southern England, although they seemed to think they lived in the Midlands, somewhere way past York anyway, so it's South to us, and a Finnish guy who was on his last day of riding. Everyone was in a relaxed mood and the banter was flowing, unlike our riding, which had been somewhat start-stop, baulking at stairs and trying to remember which side of the road to ride on. We blamed jet lag obviously.

Lunch finished we embarked on the San Anton route which leads back to Fuengirola. Predominantly downhill but even better, dry and dusty - something we are not used to. Our southern companions demonstrated a fine turn of speed on the loose tracks and their young star rider, Tom, joined the guides in casually riding down a minor cliff, as we looked on, fabricating excuses as to why it would not be possible for us. Leaving behind el campo, minor roads took us to Fuengirola for a post ride cerveza at a seafront restaurant. First day done, a pleasant afternoon ride to sea level, entertaining company, especially the attempt at a Geordie accent by Ash, which sounded like a West Indian Tom Jones. It's not even as though there were any Geordies present for him to impersonate. The fact we are not actually Geordies appeared to be of geographical insignificance.

Day Two

Morning route
Afternoon route

After the usual excellent Sierra Cycles breakfast, two van loads of bikes and bikers set off for Malaga and after a little confusion in the city streets, were disgorged at one of the many El Mirador’s dotted around Spain. This mirador marked the start of downhill track high above Malaga, which, predictably, we followed and what a track it was, always a pleasure, sometimes loose and rocky, other times, pleasantly loamy, carving through the trees. The area is known as Malaga Bike Park but bears no relation to British bike parks, being more akin to the off-piste stuff we find hidden in our local woods. At one point we arrived at a duel slalom track dug in some woodland, featuring small jumps and tabletops, which was good fun. One of the southern lads tested the effectiveness of his helmet by head-butting a tree after a bad landing from one of the tabletops, if he lived up north, technique like that would guarantee him automatic membership of the Terra Trailblazers. 

Continuing in a generally downhill direction we were introduced to various and varied trails, made all the better for not having to plough through six inches of mud. Some trails were so good we did them twice despite the climbs back to the start. Eventually we emerged onto tarmac, pedalling through a suburb of Malaga to a lunch spot, chased by ominous dark clouds. The outside tables were all reserved, inside was filled with Spanish families lunching and chatting at maximum volume, we squeezed ourselves around a couple of tables and perused the menu - all in Spanish, no concessions to tourism here, an opportunity to make those Spanish lessons pay. 

While we were eating, the rain in Spain did not mostly stay on the plain, it lashed against the building, ran in rivers down the road and filled the deep wells of despair within us. In the van heading towards Mijas it continued, some idle talk of cancelling the afternoon pedal was bandied about, by the time we reached the drop off point, the rain had ceased but the temperature hovered around British levels. Las idiotas disembarked as the more sensible crew stayed in the minibus and headed back into town, we shivered our way to the start of the San Anton descent again and found ourselves riding through mud and puddles. In Spain? Within a few minutes the clouds had blown over and warmth and happiness returned. Until we reached the Fuengirola seafront, where the rain caught us up again, in the last few metres from the house. Muddy bikes, muddy legs, nothing cold beer and a hosepipe couldn't sort out.

Day Three

Route

Another day: another breakfast. A big day today, we planned to do a route from one of the big montanas which loom above Fuengirola, equal in height to England’s highest mountains at around a 1,000m. The trail is called Ashes To Ashes, one of Sierra Cycling’s red graded routes and unfortunately for us, begins at the dreaded quarry start, one of those “ten minute” climbs, on cold legs, which make the one for the road final drink last night seem not such a good idea as it was at the time. Eventually, we panted our way to a halt by a sign which points casually skyward and promising a route to Malaga. Time for some hike a bike. Our reduced crew - the southerners were taking a rest day - began climbing a narrow, tree-enclosed trail on steep rock steps, bikes catching on branches, while assorted spiky plants demonstrated their resentment of our incursion into their territory by scratching at our legs. Slowly, we gained height until we reached a T junction and the path levelled out. 

Back on the horizontal, a quick pedal round a corner and we stopped to take in the view, the ground falling away to verdant  foothills, dotted with small white buildings and winding tracks, conifer plantations blanketing the hillsides, in the distance Fuengirola spread out in front of a cerulean vista of sea and sky. Jon, today’s guide, pointed out the tracks we would be descending on, vague lines through rock and scrub, leading to a tree-lined ridge. Rested and refreshed, we set off the loose path, always conscious of the drop to our left but concentrating too hard on the trail in front to worry about it. Then came the switchbacks, my own personal nemesis, luckily they are well spaced, giving a good run of singletrack between the inevitable crawl round the corner, trying to remember which pedal up or down, which knee to be sticking out, usually teetering over a massive drop onto body-breaking rocks or evil cacti. 

At a fire road breather, we let Jon talk us into a further ascent, of the “it’s not as bad as it looks, I promise” variety so we could ride down the tree covered ridge line. The ascent looked too much like Ingleby Incline for my liking but Jon’s assurances proved true and the top was reached with only minor profanity. The trail down was worth the effort, even though a few switchbacks appeared, I was starting to get the hang of them (or they were getting easier) and the riding between them was perfect, hurtling downhill (okay pootling), skipping over rocks in the sunshine, the smell of pine and wild rosemary in the air. A more arduous set of switchbacks, (perhaps I haven’t mastered them as well as I imagined) brought us to a road and suddenly we were in the vicinity of lunch. The “roll down” to the cafe was an excursion from Jon’s usual veracity, being a fairly stiff road climb but the food was so good we overlooked this. 

Lunch was interrupted by the arrival of some genuine Geordies, well two of them were, one was an imposter from Billingham who was a neighbour of mine for many years before he moved northward. Introductions made and lunch finished, we crossed the road onto the Valtocado trail, another of Sierra’s routes back to Fuengirola, some roller coaster tracks which eventually pick up the Rio Fuengirola which is followed all the way back to town. 

Day Four

Route

After breakfast, we said goodbye to Oz and The Ginger One because they were returning to the dubious delights of England on a Bank Holiday Weekend, me and Rod had an extra day to enjoy. He opted for the hardcore black route Telecom Towers, while I took the more leisurely option of Coin Woods and The Roman Baths. 

Disembarking from the vans at a petrol station, we immediately entered a rocky chute, which even more immediately gave me a pinch flat. I was riding the bike previously ridden by The Ginger One - which he’d obviously cursed (he’s from Darlington, so his Romany DNA is strong) because he had to return to work. Swiftly repaired by Ash, we carried on to Coin Woods to ride a pleasantly loamy track downhill to a blindingly white fireroad, another of those “so good we rode it twice” tracks. Except for me, the curse of The Ginger One persisted and to cut a long story short, several more inner tubes were utilised before one decided to stay inflated. 

The rest of the group - today in double figures - were remarkably patient and eventually we re-commenced the ride, mainly on pleasant wooded tracks until we crossed a bridge near to the Roman Baths. The terrain changed to some type of bamboo forest, which encroached on the track until we reached the river and the Roman Baths, hand cut steps lead down into a small pool into which sun warmed water trickles, being hot and sweaty, we were more interested in the cooler water of the river, one of the southerners took to skinny-dipping but the rest of us kept a British stiff upper lip and stuck with a bit of light paddling. 

Suitably refreshed, a bit of bushwhacking brought us to a rocky ledge, clinging to a cliff side above the river, which was masquerading as a path. It turned out to be easier than it looked. A couple of, frankly gruesome, climbs on dirt roads eventually delivered us to the lunch stop at a garden centre, too hot to sit outside, we dived into the cool of an awning, where we drank several litres of water between us. Our server seemed to be living by the old Northern adage “ne’er cast a clout ‘til May’s out” as he wore T shirt, shirt and jumper, along with a sturdy pair of jeans, unfazed by the heat as we dripped sweaty puddles onto his floor. Appetites sated, we rode up another dirt road ascent before crossing the Rio Fuengirola to pick up the Valtocado route again back into Fuengirola. One of the Geordie contingent, Keith, was kind enough to demonstrate the cooling effect of clip-in pedals and uneven river beds by keeling over into the water. A rapid return to Fuengirola ensued, perhaps more rapid than someone on his fourth consecutive day of riding might have chosen but this being my last ride, it hardly mattered. 

And that was that. Esta terminado. Another excellent visit to Sierra Cycling, the weather was kind, the beer was cold and literally nothing is too much trouble for Alan and his team to sort out, he even drove one guy to the other side of Malaga and back to pick up a part for his bike. Service above and beyond. The other clients were excellent company, the banter constant, the guides were efficient, professional but more importantly, friendly and approachable and had infinite patience with a lardy, old bloke who can’t do switchbacks.