Spain 2024
For the video of our week, click here
9.76 miles. 669 feet ascent. 1,955 feet descent.
Only death, disaster and Sierra Cycling can get me out of bed at 03:30 am, luckily it was the latter today and 8 hours later we were on the AP7 heading into Fuengirola, primed for another week of loose, rocky but more importantly, dry trails. Once we had changed and sized up our hire bikes, part of the Sierra’s new fleet of Orbea full sussers, Alexis drove us to the BP station cafe for a quick lunch, to meet our fellow guests and reacquaint ourselves with head guide Air-Time Tom. We had our first serranito of the holiday chatting with the other guests, whose last ride of their trip was our first, it sounded like they had enjoyed a good week of riding and weather. Tom told us there had been three or four days of heavy rain at Easter, the first appreciable rain for many months, which has perked up the vegetation and wildflowers, leaving the usually arid landscape looking green and colourful. Our route back to the coast, Mijas Down, is one of three routes used by Sierra to ride through the foothills of the sierras into town. It wasn’t long before we were shredding trails, as the young people say, relearning the skill of gravel-surfing on a shifting bed of loose rock while watching out for ruts and the inevitable spiky bushes which try their utmost to claim chunks of pale British flesh as you ride past. There is a little climbing to do, Sierra is not primarily an uplift holiday, although the ratio of ascent to descent borders on magnificent, this 10 mile jaunt to the coast manages around 2,000 feet of descending to offset the 670 feet of climbing. The route finishes alongside the river which runs to the sea at Fuengirola, passing beneath Castillo Sohail, the river is mostly dry but some work near the coast ensures the final section stays full of water. The Sierra accommodation is opposite the castle and it wasn’t long before we were making our first fridge visit of the holiday, part of the Sierra package includes a constantly replenished supply of cold beer, just the thing to wash the trail dust from our throats.
18.24 miles. 1,463 feet ascent. 3,952 feet descent.
Our companions from yesterday are all homeward bound today, Sierra is having a lull in their otherwise busy schedule, with only me and Rod in residence for the next week, which meant our guide, Tom, could push our limits, which is one way to describe a week of elder abuse. Today we were joined by a day visitor, a Lithuanian XC rider, whose name escapes me for the moment. Compared to the two of us, or, let’s be honest, almost anyone in the Terra Trailblazers bunch, he looked like a cycling God, young, fit, tanned, clad in Lycra - he would always have been picked first for the football games, you know the sort. Less than 24 hours after landing on Spanish soil, we were offloading bikes in the dusty car park ready to begin the Helipad Climb, or, to coin a cliche, the Infamous Helipad Climb, as brutal a start to a bike ride as can be imagined. Straight out of the van onto a sharp climb, a wide track composed of chicken-head gravel, the narrow line compacted through the loose rock, meanders from side to side, trying to trick the unwary into rear wheel spin and the walk of shame. Thankfully the angle relents to merely steep, a slight respite before another loose, steep section does its best to force a dismount. It is a little cloudy today which makes things a little easier, usually there is blazing heat, eyes full of sweat and a legion of flies to contend with. The angle of the fire road becomes much more amenable, climbing slightly to a junction with a tree; four tracks lead from the junction, two level, one down, one up - you’ve guessed it. Traditionally the tree is an NSP (Natural Stopping Point), my younger companions must have misguided faith in my ability because they eschewed the NSP and continued onward and upward, as my sexagenerian legs, like Anastasia, screamed in vain. Our Lithuanian friend kept jumping off his bike to take pictures of the mountainous splendour all around us, as I panted past. He would catch me up again, seemingly without effort, the fire road climbed higher and higher until a viewpoint, where we stopped for a bit of view pointing before a level and even occasionally downhill track led us to the final bit of climbing for this section, taking us to a height similar to many Lake District mountain tops and the start of Jonny’s Trail. Jonny’s is a Sierra classic, renown principally for 40 odd switchbacks as it descends to the village of Mijas, parts of the trail are loose, rocky and narrow, with airy drops beneath your outside pedal. Not the place for an XC rider but our new companion managed with few problems, unlike me, whose lack of proficiency at switchbacks is well documented, there’s more chance of me being the next king than completing all the switchbacks. Eventually we reach the Mijas road, finishing down a nice, straight, set of rock steps and ride into the village of Mijas, four grown men covered in sweat, dust and in my case, blood (just a flesh wound, as they used to day in the movies), mingling with tourists and the resident donkeys. After the obligatory photos on the donkey statue, we headed for Fiestas, our regular Mijas lunch stop, where the half chicken is still the best value for money in all of Spain, a monster plate of chicken, chips and salad for seven Euros. Filled with fowl, we embarked on the return leg, down from Mijas to the coast on the San Anton route, the first ride we ever did in Spain, back in 2017. It includes a number of variations, depending on the size of one’s cajones, Tom was happy to demonstrate them all to us, we even attempted some of them. Tom still spends the majority of his ride with either one or both wheels in the air, perhaps something to do with the price of tyres nowadays. On the outskirts of Fuengirola singletrack turns to tarmac and it isn't long before we are riding through strolling holidaymakers on the promenade, stopping to wash the trail dust from our throats at the Tahiti Bar, one of our regular seafront refreshment stops, popular for a couple of obvious attractions and a nice pint of the local brew - Victoria. From Tahiti it is a short pedal back to base, where we said farewells to our Lithuanian rider before a bit of R&R prior to going out for dinner.
16.89 miles. 472 feet ascent. 5,371 feet descent.
Our second full day began kind of grey, like England but warmer, it remained dull during breakfast but Alan and Tom were unconcerned, certain it would brighten up. We were not bothered, we can ride in warm Spanish rain as easily as cold English rain. The plan today was a visit to Ojen, home of a bunch of enduro trails in the hills behind Marbella, in contrast to all the climbing yesterday, today featured a number of uplifts, using the van and Alan’s infinite patience. The Ojen trails are all in woodland but still as sandy and rocky as their high mountain cousins, having the opportunity to repeat certain sections gave us the opportunity to dial our shred on the gnarly tracks (I don’t know what any of that means, it’s young peoples’ talk) following Air-Time Tom as he launches himself off anything which can be jumped. Our last uplift took us almost to the summit of a mountain, we rode the remaining few metres to a hikers’ viewpoint with an awesome view to the coast before embarking on a long, varied route into the village of Ojen. Arriving in the village, we went for lunch in a bar whose unwillingness to serve us what was on the menu paled into insignificance with the slowness of the service. Despite us ordering first, a large group of motor-cyclists took priority and our lunch of three tapas took the thick end of 90 minutes to arrive. Fun though Ojen’s trails are, there is realistically only half a day's riding, so between them Rod and Tom came up with a plan involving the Helipad climb and both sections of SRAM, thankfully only the start of the Helipad climb; the SRAM track is used by professional mountain bikers to test components, so quite what this crash test dummy on the verge of middle age is doing here I have no idea. Apart from a few super-gnarly sections, which were handled in the time-honoured Terra Trailblazers fashion - on foot - the tracks are almost flowy, or as close to flowing as things ever get in this part of the world, I emerged at the bottom having ridden in the tyre tracks of some of the biggest names in the mountain bike world, maybe not quite the same amount of speed or elan but like the tortoise in the fable, I got there in the end. Our finish was San Anton again, which is the most pleasant of the routes back to the coast. Tom demonstrating the fine art of bike levitation, as we worked our way through the test pieces. In view of the late finish, Tom hopped on a train at Los Boliches, heading for home while me and Rod had a leisurely pedal along the seafront back to base, bypassing the Tahiti Bar in favour of the fridge.
21.71 miles. 1,437 feet ascent. 3,520 feet descent.
Tom has been relegated to workshop duties today leaving us in the care of his boss and mentor, Alexis, whose riding style is leisurely compared to Tom’s, both his wheels are usually on the floor, although he does ride what impolite people might refer to as a mobility bike, which is a bit weighty to be flinging around. Naturally, we have impeccable manners and would never cast aspersions on any member of Billy Bosch’s Band of Battery Boys and as the stickers say ‘Not every disability is visible.’ The plan for today was a trail called Rock And Roller, which began from, yes, you’ve guessed it, the Helipad but fortunately we didn’t have to climb as high as for Jonny’s Trail, unfortunately we can’t miss out the initial climb, straight out of the van and into a world of burning lungs and screaming legs but it is becoming familiar now, a necessary evil, spin the legs and switch the brain off, admire the view and the end comes soon enough. Rock And Roller turned out to be more rock than roll, the sort of route which makes you glad you left your own bike in the safety of the shed, as you bounce over rocks the size of suitcases littered across a narrow track. When we were all safely down, we headed to Alhaurin Woods for some gentler riding, blasting through the trees and riding the usual test pieces, which we have attempted with varying degrees of success in the past. Today was no different. At one point, the handy ledge to put a GoPro on, turned out to be the sunbed for a basking snake, which looked similar to a British adder. It slithered into the undergrowth before I could turn the camera on it. Lunch was at another Sierra institution, the BP, just as it sounds, a cafe attached to a petrol station but not a Ginsters in sight. The menu is varied and everything seems to be cooked from scratch; we usually have serranitos, which are a Spanish speciality, a baguette filled with fillets of chicken or pork, serrano ham, roasted green peppers and alioli, as lunches go it is right up there in the top five. Our route back to base was Voltacado which features a couple of climbs but nothing to faze our serranito fueled legs. There are a few test pieces, mainly loose, rutted descents before we reach the river, or rather, the river bed; a lack of rain has left everywhere drier than a dead pensioner’s house plants. A few miles of flat riding, on a gravel track beside the river bed, lead us to the same finish as our first ride, practically on the doorstep of our accommodation.
10.1 miles. 1,394 feet ascent. 3,773 feet descent.
After shirking from riding yesterday to spend the day fondling bike parts, it seems Tom must now have a day off. A day off? A day off from a life of riding bikes in the sunshine, drinking beer and attempting to worm his way into the affections of assorted Spanish female hospitality employees? The sort of life most people have to splash their hard earned cash for and he wants a day off? Apparently he needs to be fit to guide a bunch of real cyclists who are taking our place on Friday, so he leaves us, again in the metaphorical hands of number one guide, Alexis The Battery Boy. Today was to be another favourite from the Sierra MTB agenda, Malaga Bike Park. Now before all you ‘less than adventurous’ mountain bikers become too excited, Malaga Bike Park is nothing like a British bike park, no carefully groomed and graded trails with handy direction signs for the geographically challenged. It is more akin to the sketchy off-piste stuff found in forests all over the UK, except dry of course, slithering downhill on wet mud is replaced with gravel surfing on the exposed hillsides; in the woods, baked trails feature unofficial berms and jumps, created and ridden by local riders. We did a couple of climbs today, on fire roads but the ratio of climbing to descending was about perfect. One of the routes we normally ride is suffering sabotage resulting from some kind of feud between locals, rubbish has been dumped on the trail and someone has resorted to digging deep holes in the narrowest bits of singletrack. Easily avoided but a lapse in concentration could have been nasty. We took a break for lunch but it seemed most of the small roadside tapas places were having an afternoon off, so we drove back up the hill to a rather swanky restaurant where Alexis suggested a few plates to share might save time and get us back on the trails sooner. It was a superb idea, plates of cheese, jamon and chorizo in oil with a basket of bread to mop up the juices, every mouthful was magnificent. Luckily Alan drove us to our next high point, we were too full of food to contemplate pedalling up a mountain. Our route drops down a wooded hillside on a swooping track until we reach an old aqueduct, totally dry today ,although we have seen water flowing in previous years. It is always a welcome sight, signifying the next stop will be a neighbourhood bar on the outskirts of the city, where we can wash the trail dust from our throats with pints of the local brew before we pile in the van for a ride back to Fuengirola.
12.44 miles. 1,427 feet ascent. 4,124 feet descent.
Tom has returned from his rest days, I’m sure he will have spent his free time wisely; now he is refreshed, ready, willing and able to pander to the demands of his clients. Although I’m fairly certain we didn’t demand a 40 minute uphill walk straight after lunch. The day started so well too, we were driven into the hills close to Alhaurin de la Torre, parking opposite a huge quarry, enjoying a few runs of a trail called Happy Days, the top few metres is like riding through a skip filled with hardcore but things soon improve to give an enjoyable ride down the hillside, through the woods. Apparently we were sessioning, just like the young people do on trails, although when I was young, a session meant something quite different, involving unwise amounts of alcohol and a similar chance of injury to riding a bike down a mountain. We moved on to another trail, Smiler I think the Sierra crew have named it, although it might be something different on Strava, another well established, woodland trail, this time with plenty of beginner jumps to keep the old blokes happy. For lunch we bought bocadillos from a small shop in Alhaurin de la Torre, a place Tom takes all his clients, just so he can get a smile from the senorita behind the counter. I did notice the two blokes on the verge of middle age didn’t get much of a smile, it was all reserved for Tom. It won't be long before he is doing wheelies along the road outside the shop to impress her. We ate our sandwiches in the van as it climbed back up into the mountains, ensuring every crumb was swallowed because we knew what was coming next. Way above us is a statue of a wolf - El Lobo - the fire road we are currently sunbathing beside is too rough and broken to drive the van any further. Without a battery between us we pedal upward in the blazing Spanish sun, one by one we capitulate, resorting to a pleasant afternoon stroll in the mountains with a bike each for company. Rod had some solidarity with the “Free The Nipple” movement as he treated his body to a dose of vitamin D. Eventually we reached the summit pergola, beside the wolf statue and drank in the panorama, views all the way to the coast. Tom has a fresh trail to introduce us to today, instead of the usual Lobo route, Toboggan, so called because a section of the trail runs down an enclosed chute. It was less arduous and more fun than the Lobo route but that's only my opinion. It joins back with the Lobo for the bottom part, the sublime berm section, dry and dusty with switchbacks even I can manage, it makes the 40 minute climb worthwhile. A couple of other trails follow before our triumphant trio emerges into the industrial estate which marks the outskirts of Benalmadena, we weave downhill through traffic until Benalmadena Marina, which is almost like the marina in my home town, the sleepy little fishing port of Hartlepool. The similarities are staggering, both have boats, water and bars, of course Benalmadena has sunshine, blue skies and prize-winning architecture, which Hartlepool admittedly lacks but did Benalmadena ever make the history books by hanging a monkey? I rest my case. We find a waterfront table and order beers, three sweaty, dust-covered cyclists amongst the oddly pristine holidaymakers. How can they stay so clean? Do people really spend a whole holiday eating, drinking and walking around shops? Where's their sense of adventure?
14.74 miles. 968 feet ascent. 4,603 feet descent.
The Roman poet Virgil, not the puppet from Thunderbirds, once said “Time flies never to be recalled.” Obviously he didn’t anticipate the invention of the GoPro. But time really has flown this week, faster than a woman jumping to conclusions when she finds lipstick on your boxer shorts. It is our last day and our last ride, ride number seven because we are too stupid to have a rest day. And we are back at the Helipad start, it holds no terrors now, it is merely a long, steep, loose and rocky climb in the baking sun. Oddly enough we see plenty of lycra-clad locals riding down on their hardtails but never have we encountered any other cyclists but us slogging upwards, there is probably a chairlift around the corner which nobody tells the tourists about. Our first trail of the day is Mech Trail, another rocky and exposed expedition down the front of the mountain, I could vaguely recall doing it at some point in the past. The weather has definitely picked up during the week, the low cloud scudding across the mountain tops has been replaced by blue skies and endless vistas of campo y mar. From the bottom of the trail, an uplift in the van saw us back at the Helipad start - again but this time we only had to climb the short distance to the beginning of SRAM trail, which we rode again, pausing this time to explore a cave and later, to watch Tom demonstrate a bit of airtime on the Well Jump. I’m sure I wouldn’t be well if I had attempted it. The second half of the SRAM track is known, on Strava at least, as Steve Peats Brother, we continued down this, meeting the van for our last uplift of the holiday. It took us back up the hill, dropping us off at the start of a route called Football Pitch, so called because it is above the Campo De Fútbol De Mijas Pueblo, which is visible the whole way down. I am not sure if I have ridden this before but it is a nice route with only the odd gnarly bit. We had earlier made the executive decision to postpone lunch until we were back in Fuengirola, so pressed on from the finish of Football Pitch straight into our favourite route back to the coast, San Anton. All the old test pieces and death slides were revisited for the camera. When Tom and Rod had finished posing for posterity, we pedalled back into town for a late lunch in a little tapas bar in Los Boliches, washed down, of course, with a pint of Victoria, just to slake the dust from our throats, you understand. That only left a final ride along the seafront back to base, made all the more poignant when we realised in 24 hours we’d be back in England.
The stats are in, we rode a total of 103.88 miles, ascended 7,830 feet and descended 26,938 feet. Artists talk about the golden ratio in composition, this is the golden ratio in mountain biking. Still enough climbing to feel as though you have earned the descents.
We are often asked about the cost of a trip to Sierra Cycling, this year’s price for a week of airport runs, accommodation, uplifts, bike hire, breakfasts, fridge full of beer and snacks was only marginally more expensive than when we first began visiting in 2017, £665 or €765 (Alan gives the best exchange rates in Spain) This price includes our 10% returners discount. The flights were a bit pricier than usual for some reason, trying to figure out airline pricing policy is like trying to understand quantum theory or something equally complex, so we just accepted it was costing us about £300 return. Jet2 does a flight from Newcastle at seven am which gets into Malaga at half eleven, straight in the van, on the trails a couple of hours later. Superb. Or you could save your pennies, stay in England, ride the same trails of cold, wet mud in the wind and rain week in, week out.
Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.
