Terra Trailblazers: More Andalucían Adventures

More Andalucían Adventures.

Four am, darkness, zero degrees C: eight hours later, noon, sunshine and twenty seven degrees. It can only mean one thing, Sierra Cycling, time for our annual sojourn to the Costa Del Sol, seven days of dust, loose rock, sweat and endless banter. Alan met us at the tabac shop as usual and whisked us to his base in Fuengirola where we were fed before being sized up for our hire bikes. Shortly afterwards we were at 'The BP', a petrol station with a great cafe often used as a mid-ride lunch stop. Our old amigo Shaun was tucking into his serranito when we pulled up, having arrived the day prior, sitting with Tom, promoted to head guide for this year, despite his aversion to keeping both wheels on the floor. From here we were riding back to Fuengirola on the Voltacado route, a dozen or so miles of loose rock, dried riverbed, dusty chutes and spiky bushes, a gentle reintroduction to Spanish riding. Eventually the riverbed gives way to a riverside path following sparse water to the beach at Fuengirola, adjacent to Pueblo Castillo, our home for the week. Once again we were in the Garden House, close to the pool, with a pleasant patio area to sit and drink gratis beers from the well stocked fridge and meet the other guests; two ladies from Lancashire. And Major Tom’s assistant, Corporal Casualty, Harry, a student from Fort William college, lucky enough to be in Spain for a few weeks’ work experience, whose experience of Spain has mostly been from ground level - sliding along it at high speed.

Unfortunately no Strava map for this route because my Garmin rebelled against being exposed to unaccustomed heat and corrupted the file.

Day 2 Thursday

Refreshed after a decent night's sleep following yesterday's twenty hour day, we walked around to the Breakfast House to be fed Sierra style, a cornucopia of fruit, cereal, cheese, yoghurt, fresh bread still warm from the local panaderia, as well as a selection of traditional British cooked breakfast delights. Our guide, Major Tom, arrived, bouncy and enthusiastic as a Tigger toy with fresh Duracells, the van was loaded and we set off for Ojen, a small village in the hills above Marbella. We rode a few short but sweet enduro tracks through the woods, with uplifts between each run to save our legs. Our last run was on a higher track, giving us around 5K of descent, rock drops at first, a little challenging for those of us on the verge of middle age, until the track mellowed to dried soil and embedded rocks. Safely back in the van, we were driven to Mijas for Fiesta's plato del día, which has been half chicken, chips and salad for as long as I can remember. For the bargain price of €6.90, tasty but a little too much food for me mid afternoon, particularly with another eight or nine miles to ride back to the coast. The San Anton descent is a regular Sierra return route, mainly downhill with a few exciting deviations for those more brave or foolhardy in the party. The high level start to San Anton is a rocky ridgeline through woods, leading to a dried riverbed. Stalling the bike between two rocks led to my first bloodshed of this trip - it wasn't to be the last. The remainder of the route is more open, ascending and descending across a golf course specifically for frisbees; who knew there was such a thing? We made our way gradually to Fuengirola's promenade, dusty, sweaty and bloodstained, us not the promenade, riding between normal people in their pristine holiday clothes. We stopped at the Tahiti Bar to compare grazes and scabs while enjoying a dust-slaking pint. Our first full day of riding over and it had been a belter. Hit The Ground Harry joined us for a pint and regaled us with tales of his international, skin-shredding, mountain biking experiences.

Day 3 Friday

We swapped two ladies for one Harry today, they chose to have a rest day. After breakfast we loaded up and headed for the infamous Helipad, a car park adjacent to a huge quarry above the village of Mijas. A start of such hideousness, it will always be embedded in the memory of anyone who has ever attempted it. Straight from the van onto 40 degree slope of loose rock and gravel, just as legs or lungs are about to give out, it becomes fire road at more amenable angle, lulling you into a false sense of security before rounding a bend to be confronted with another steep slope looser than a dysentery patient's bowels. A steady pedal after the incline ends at the tree, as it is known to one and all, a lone tree in the centre of a junction of tracks. From here you can go up or down, it goes without saying we went up. This area of the hillside has suffered a huge fire, swathes of burnt trees have been felled leaving acres of devastated soil. For a while it seemed the Helipad start might be in jeopardy but we couldn't be that lucky. After some discussion we decided to begin with a trail called Ashes To Ashes, the start of which is reached by a twenty minute hikeabike, ascending vertical rock steps, a start we had done a few times previously but a new one on Harry, who couldn't have been less impressed if he'd walked in to his bedroom to find a pair of monkeys fornicating on his Power Rangers duvet. A broad selection of Scottish profanity accompanied every step, interspersed with violent, bike-shaking as fire blackened branches attempted to wrestle his bike from his shoulders. Eventually we reached the ledge which marks the start of the route, putting our pads on with a magnificent vista across el campo to the sea. We are over 1000m above sea level and the only way is down, traversing the hillside on a narrow and exposed trail, loose rocks clattering against frames, always conscious one swerve in the wrong direction might result in Major Tom having to raid his stock of Little Mermaid plasters. The trail ends with a set of intimidating steps dropping to a fire road, still at a massive altitiude, leading straight into Johnny's Trail, my long time nemesis, I hate switchbacks and Johnny's manages to squeeze 29 of them into its length, although after many years of trying the number I can't get round is lessening. Not by much but there is improvement. Nobody could face another half chicken and chips in Mijas, so we bought some snacks from the Eroski supermarket. With a name like that it surely ought to be a sex shop? We ate our snacks at one of the viewpoints, looking over the valley so Braveheart Harry could have his picture taken on the donkey statue and Major Tom could channel his inner Danny MacAskill to impress the tourists.

Fun over, it was back to the grind, with a twenty minute tarmac climb to the lower SRAM test track. Surely not the place for someone of my mediocre skills? Although I might have done so much brake testing, I ought to be on the SRAM payroll, it turns out it's not too bad, there may have been a few hesitations and the odd refusal but the bottom was reached without injury. Another San Anton descent took us back to Fuengirola, again with the odd diversion to ride local test pieces, mainly rock slabs, almost vertical rock slabs. If it wasn’t for my duties as photographer, I’d have been up there with the lads. Never mind, there’s always next time. Pleasantly warm back at base, a couple of shandies and we were brave enough to go in the pool. Floating away the aches and pains.

Day 4 Saturday

Malaga bike park day today, always a favourite, tasty tracks and loads of uplifts plus a picnic lunch which saves us wasting a couple of hours in a packed cafe. It is a Bank Holiday weekend here and everywhere is rammed. Harry was replaced by Debby today, if only they both were present we would have had Debby Harry, although how good a septuagenarian, former pop singer would be on the trails is a matter for conjecture. And she would be no good as a guide, singing '"one way or another" at every junction. We did lots of trails and only one substantial climb. I'm a bit vague on the trail names but they were all fun, covering a variety of riding, loose dusty hillsides to woodland trails with jumps of varying difficulty. The starting trail is apparently known as Tom's Special Entrance, a thinly veiled reference to unproven rumours from his time living in the gay capital of mainland Europe, Torremolinos. After our picnic lunch, the van took us to the start of another trail, which weaves down through woods to the outskirts of Malaga city via a Roman aqueduct. One section of trail, narrow and exposed, a steep drop to the right hand side reminded me of parts of Whinlatter in the English Lake District. I was cruising along quite nicely until a bit of front wheel versus rock action sent me over the edge. A spiky bush stopped my slide into oblivion, I spent so long picking thorny branches from my body, Major Tom came back to look for me. Being a responsible guide, he refrained from laughing and taking pictures, (I would have done) and instead assisted me back up the slope. The aqueduct is completely empty today, unlike last year. The winter rain didn’t happen this year, the wet slop we are used to riding in at home is forgotten for this week, we relish the dust and heat like lizards on a spring day. The van is parked next to a bar at the bottom of the trail - it would have been unwise to bypass this chance for rehydration, after a day in the gruelling heat.

Day 5 Sunday

A one we’ve been looking forward to, what Sierra Cycling calls The Lakes, a day at El Chorro, an inland area with massive rock gorges, green lakes, a hydroelectric dam and trails of solid rock. Spain’s very own mini Moab (after the famous mountain biking area in Utah). We managed an almost full crew today, Major Tom, Hazardous Harry, me, Rod, Shaun, Debby and a Finnish day tripper called Aimo. Our first trail was named Mini Moab and it did include a lot of riding on bare rock, surprisingly grippy, once you dared to trust it. Mishap Harry, bringing up the rear, soon learnt the hard way, old blokes on bikes are like bin wagons, they have a tendency to stop suddenly. We rode numerous trails, repeating some of them, I can’t recall most of the names, except for The Hippo Trail, which had two memorable features; a hump of rock (The Hippo) which only Major Tom was brave enough to ride down, we were just ground control, the other feature is a steep, sandy gully which was enjoyed more than once. At some point High Risk Harry took a corner too fast and narrowly escaped tracheostomy by tree branch, climbing out of the tree with a few grazes and a ripped T shirt, spending the remainder of the ride looking like a post-Hulk David Banner. Another trail we rode later was called The Dambusters or Bobastro, which despite sounding like a 1970’s TV entertainer who would later be implicated by Operation Yewtree, is actually the site of some ancient ruins. This trail followed the huge dam at El Chorro, before dropping down a rough hiking trail to the village, a real arm pumper. Alan drove us to another area, where we shared our picnic lunch with giant ants prior to embarking on our ultimate trail, another long and varied track through a forest. This brought us out by the railway station in El Chorro, where we were given a choice, another uplift to repeat the previous trail or beer at the station bar. I amazed myself by eschewing some rehydrating cerveza, opting instead for another run on the trail.

Day 6 Monday

A much depleted crew for today’s adventure in elder abuse, just me, Rod and our gravity defying guide, Major Tom. The ladies have gone home, Shaun tweaked his ankle yesterday so decided to spend his last day making like a tourist, Harry The Hurt is letting his scabs heal. After some discussion over breakfast, we decided to ride The Mech Trail, a Sierra classic, discovered by Clive whilst looking for a shortcut after his mech bit the dust. Unfortunately it did mean another helipad start, not the ideal experience after our evening at la feria de los pueblos, where we got a bit carried away by the atmosphere (and maybe the super-strong Belgian beers) not reaching our beds until half two this morning. The Mech Trail begins steep and slippery, with a generous sprinkling of loose rock to make braking a cautious affair, especially when you add in the spiky bush cuddling potential of a trip over the edge. Soon it turns onto a dried riverbed which makes the previous challenges all worthwhile, a flowing track, taking in rock gardens and small jumps, gradually downhill until we reach Mijas. Crossing the road we embark on the San Anton trail for the third or fourth time this week, I’m losing track. Not that there are any complaints, it’s a superbly varied trail, with plenty of deviations for photo opportunities and skill testing. Does enjoying deviations make us deviants? Perhaps that psychiatrist was correct after all. Back on the seafront, Major Tom needed to be somewhere, he vanished into the distance like Chris Froome with ADHD; me and Rod resurrected one of the Nissan lads' post-ride traditions and hit the helados. A tub brimming with scoops of ice cream in assorted flavours, fighting a losing battle against the heat of the afternoon sun, the ice cream not us, we soaked up the sun like cold-blooded reptiles, unwilling to entertain the thought we would be back in the cold, grey grimness of a British spring in forty eight hours.

Day 7 Tuesday

The ultimate ride of this trip has finally arrived, just the dedicated trio of hardcore riders again, me, Rod and Major Tom. Shaun is travelling back to that there London today, hopefully he is going to visit us in the frozen North sometime this year and enjoy a bit of what we have to offer - if it ever dries up. Alexis drove us to the hills around the town of Alhaurin de la Torre so we could ride a few laps of Happy Days, an old favourite trail with a few amenable (ie suitable for people on the verge of middle-age) jumps and a start which looks like one of the lorries from the nearby quarry has shed a load of gravel down the hillside. We called at a small shop for snacks and drinks prior to being driven further up the road towards El Lobo; unfortunately not far enough up the road, leaving us with a few hundred feet to climb on what may well have been a road at some time in the past, now a sea of hardcore with the occasional island of tarmac sticking up like a sandbank. Rod gritted his teeth, girded his loins and ground his way up the beast, Major Tom and myself took a more relaxed approach, him because a great number of consecutive days’ of riding were taking a toll on his legs, me because I’m on holiday. Eventually we reached the statue of a wolf, EL Lobo, which marks the beginning of our route, a long excursion down a big mountain. It begins in the usual fashion, loose and exposed before entering woodland, featuring jumps and a phenomenal bermed section curving through trees. A push up a small hill unlocked a further trail through the forest, there is a variety of jumps, some so big even Airtime Tom gave them a swerve. Further trails led us into an industrial estate on the outskirts Torremolinos, this is Spain, naturally this industrial estate has a corner bar, so we can finish our last ride in the proper style - with pints of ice-cold Victoria.

Another week at Sierra Cycling over, seven days of sun, sweat, dust, grazes, blood and bruises. Beer, tapas, high-altitude picnics, continual banter. And we wouldn’t have it any other way. The stats are in, 92 miles ridden, 7,000 feet of climbing and 26,000 feet of descent; almost a 4:1 ratio of descent to ascent. Proper holiday riding.