When I last wrote I’d made it to my friend James in the Algarve, I started in spring of last year from home in Germany and crossed France, I left the bike in Catalonia and then made my way across the Pyrenees and down Portugal. Christmas was a local jaunt in Portugal and Easter this year was called off due to a funeral. The goal is to be in Scotland by the end of the summer. All TET, as far as possible. With only three days of school in the week I sneaked a cheeky extra week off to try and get the bike back up to the north of Spain before the summer heat comes.
I’ve had it lucky on this trip as my bike, newly repaired after a minor head on collision at Christmas time, was on a trailer waiting for me when I walked out of Faro airport. Together with James and his KTM we drove into Spain and stopped just shy of Seville to make a start the next morning. The short walk into town after setting up camp – him in the car, me in the hammock attached to the car – took longer than expected when we ran into a brass band. After a very fine meal out way back was blocked by a flock of fabulous flamenco dancers.
The night involved rampant rain. Thunder at danger close level and a hammock that was hung too low, such that I woke up at zero dark thirty with my ass in a newly formed river of rainwater. To try and save my sleeping back from a soaking I decided to get onto the car and promptly fell on my ass, into the river. Delightful start. Once the Noah+Ark level rain stopped we headed out on the trails, some TET, some not. All easy enough going until we crossed a river on a little ferry, after which came interesting preview of things to come. Tearing along laser straight trails that looked exactly like hard pack the bike started to get wiggly. James gave gas, I showed down. Different strokes. But the bike was feeling heavy. Chunks of grey flying off of the front wheel.
Once back on normal terrain James was kneeling by his bike, he wasn’t doing repairs – he was scraping thick concrete like mud off of the bike. I did the same. We’d found that famous Aragon mud and survived. More than survived, we barely noticed. Guess all those posts of people stuck on Facebook was much ado about nothing. Onwards we went, two freshly pressure washed conquering heroes. The Caesar and Mark Antony of Aragon. The Achilles and Patroclus of mud. The Batman and Robin of traction. Hold up. This brown coloured mud seems a little sticky as well.
At the bottom of a steep climb we stood, time for a little conference. If I’d have been there on my own I’d very probably have turned around before even getting that far. He’d probably have got there, then turned around at the bottom of the hill. But it seems that in reality we’re more Dumb and Dumber than any of the above. Up we went, which honestly wasn’t too bad. Not much grip, bike feeling heavy, but we made it up. Down the other side, however, was a different matter. The KTM was the first to get stuck, I think Poe has a little more space around the wheels. James just couldn’t move, even pointed down a steep hill with gravity on his side. Getting back up the hill would be impossible so the only way was forwards, stopping every so often to clear the wheels. The wheels, the chain, the suspension – I went so far as to remove my chain guard as it was producing sausage meat.
It turns out that, maybe, going solo has some advantages – neither one of us would find ourselves in this situation if we were on our own. But we had no real choice now, getting back up the hill to go the 3km back to the road was clearly impossible. The way ahead seemed to have no significant changes in elevation, so despite being twice as far it was clearly the better choice. Then there was a river, which somehow we had missed. If the base of this river was mud we would have major problems, James stepped in and it was rock. Riding through was shockingly easy, as it turned out – the mud dissolved on contact with the water. We immediately started to clog up again on the other side but keeping the momentum up we made our way quite swiftly to the road. We agreed two things – that we were proud of ourselves for dealing with it as well as we did and that we’d avoid any more such mud like the plague.
We found ourselves a beautiful place to sleep and got a good night’s kip. The next morning was mostly a very long coffee break, the rain was back in force. Once it stopped James went one way and I went the other, it was time to head out on my lonesome. Although I wasn’t on a Honda I made a run for Rhonda. I figured the mountains would have less mud, I wasn’t wrong. Once the rain was well and truly over and I was well and truly full of rotisserie chicken the trails were rather nice. Twin track, nothing challenging, gorgeous views, easy going. Exactly what a man in a hurry needs. I set up camp early, next to a red tractor, took a short ride into town, had a glorious dinner and after a little sunset photography settled in for the night. A flawless trail riding day.
The next day saw me continuing along sections 21 and 25, was still largely easy going. There was a fairly large section that ran along a riverbed, I joined it a few hundred meters later – after the rains there was quite a lot of water at the entry point. Rideable, but I was trying to keep my feet dry. Spectacular ride though, skipping along the stones, water and riverbank. I skipped a section so I could take a dip in the thermal pool, then kept on keeping on. My memory is a happy blur until after a coffee break in Javena. From here to the coast I was in for a treat, particularly gratifying with because I was considering joining the northern route. It’s flowing twin track, but not at all dull. You start out in mixed forest, then into open forestry, then it’s panoramic trails above the tree line with views of the Sierra Nevada. Theres one spot where you can see the route you’ve taken all around you, the sea breeze is starting to come in and you know the view over the water is just over the ridge line. It’s glorious.
As you come into the coast it turns to a rollercoaster, finishing a stones throw from the coast. Here I made a mistake. I decided to follow the southern route because, while longer, it was hillier – I assumed probably more enjoyable. The bit I did was extremely hilly, but just seemed to be access tracks to affluent holiday homes. Pretty, but not the epic isolation I do this for. An executive decision was made, I doubled back and pushed for Grenada. I figured I could get a cheap hotel and a morning visit to Alhambra. Wrong. That place was booked weeks ahead. So I went right through the city – I should fix my indicators before the next one – and after a mahousive meal of giant croquettes finally got to bed at midnight. Bloody long day.
After sleeping in I was on my way again, picking up section 24 at Quentar. One very steep, rutted downhill got my heart beating a little faster but that aside it was easy enjoyable going to Gorafe and it’s famous desert. There’s a road that seems an obvious short cut here, takes you directly to Villaneuva de las Torres. Do not take it. You will miss something special.
The Gorafe Desert, which is the stretch of section 23 from Gorafe to las Torres is truly stunning. It seems to mostly follow ridge lines, which affords it remarkable views of a unique area. It’s not like any desert I’ve been to before – it’s feels surprisingly alive. I would imagine it might get a little busy at other times of the year, but I met one Ford Ranger and two stressed cyclists pointing at the Ford Ranger as if I’d ride right into it if they didn’t communicate it’s location to me. Nice of them, I guess. It’s a fabulous, scenic ride that doesn’t challenge your riding skills but goes give you plenty to stop and take photos of.
After the Gorafe you’ve mixed riding that’s really quite satisfying, different surfaces, lots of altitude changes – but mostly quite pedestrian other than a few steep bits and a few blockages. This was the moment at which I realised just how high the Iberian Peninsula really is. I was rarely, if ever, dropping below 500 meters and the heat I was worried about never came – if anything I was often far too cold. Progress was fast, the trails easy. There are two exceptions, one fairly long section through a rocky riverbed north of Huescar, marked as “flood risk”. I wouldn’t want to do it on a big bike – although it was not terrible. There is another small section not long after, in the hills between Archivel and Moratalla, which is only a few hundred meters but serious terrain. Very narrow, washed out river sections and a couple of alarming balancing acts where dropping the bike could land you upside down. I definitely would not ride it on a big bike alone, a small bike alone was on the edge. It would be incredibly easy to bypass though.
Heading north I admit to skipping a few of the really flat “going through an olive grove just for the sake of it” sections in the Altiplano. Not all of them though, it is a worthwhile experience to fly along the flatlands in the sun on paths covered left right and center in wildflowers. It’s all easy going until the loop near Teruel. At one point the way was blocked by a landslide, easy enough to bypass though. Once I reached the loop it was time up for trail riding for me. I’ve already ridden in the area on a previous “rally-ish” event, so I know it’s beautiful and plan to go back to do the loop in a couple of days some other time. It was time to head on to Zaragoza.
Poe needed a new output shaft seal, by now it was leaking quite badly and he also needed a place to stay for the week of work that’s head of me back in Germany. My first stop in Zaragoza, Motortazo, was the right call. They spent a while looking for the right seal, but it seemed like the DR350 countershaft seal is the one size they didn’t have in stock. So Poe is chilling there, waiting for some fresh bits. I had a rough night in Barcelona, having assumed I could spontaneously nab a hostel bed I was shocked to find the cheapest – skankiest – hostel at 120eur for a bed. So I slept – surprisingly soundly – on the stone floor of Barcelona airport. A day playing tourist in the city, a long walk up the beach and a swim in the sea and a flight back to Zurich had me back home.
Looking back on Spain I was shocked how high altitude everything was, I knew it was hilly but I had no concept of just how much you’re up over 1000m of altitude. The riding is grand and the feeling of isolation is remarkable. I never had trouble finding a place to camp, there is just so much space and nobody out there. The typical riding pattern was a couple hours of wilderness – I rarely saw another soul and zero other riders – then a tumbledown village with a bar full of alcoholic old men for a coffee and some tapas. Then repeat. Which is quite a comfortable feeling – I had the full on isolation in the wilderness feeling I am looking for from trail riding alone, but knew that in (almost) every town I could at the very least grab a chunky bocadillo and a coffee. Spain is perfect trail riding territory, I am happy that there is still plenty of TET to do, a future clockwise loop is definitely in my future. Once the TET is exhausted there are enough other trails to last a lifetime.
Now, onwards to France!