A Winter Training Escape

I first unzipped my shoe covers and then removed my cycling shoes. Water poured from each shoe as they were pulled from my feet. I rolled down my socks until they fell to the floor with a splosh. Jacket, jersey and base-layer were next. Each one heavy with moisture, needing to be peeled off. Finally I rolled down my winter cycling leggings and stood naked and shivering in the bathroom. Another winter Irish cycle done, another step closer to hypothermia. I normally love training but this winter has got the better of me. Freezing temperatures and heavy rain have been a consistent presence every time I have ventured outdoors. Thankfully, on the 8th of March I was heading off on a “winter sun” training holiday with my neighbour, frequent training partner, and good friend Mark. 

We arrived in Malaga late on Friday evening and drove to our Airbnb in the town of Estepona. It was dark and raining when we finally located the third floor apartment that would be our base for the next five days. We ate pizza while assembling our bikes, keen to be ready to go the next morning. With our late arrival, we had no time to get food for breakfast or even water.  Our plan for the first morning of our trip was to cycle to the next town 10 kilometres away, have breakfast there, and tackle some small hills to ease into things. That plan did not come to fruition. 

It was cool and damp when we mounted our bikes for the first time on Saturday morning. We cycled along the promenade, following a google recommended route to the next town. After some short sea-front roads we were directed onto a dual-carriageway. It was a very busy road with no hard shoulder and we immediately felt uncomfortable as cars whizzed by at 100 kilometres an hour. At the first opportunity we exited the busy road and rechecked our route planning. It appeared there were two options to cycle along the coast, option one involved predominantly cycling on the dual-carriageway. Option two was along the seafront path, shared with dog-walkers, joggers, and assorted strollers. We chose option two, and it was slow going. The path was printed concrete, to give a cobble effect. Our bikes rattled along this surface made slippery by the increasing rain. Six kilometres after leaving our apartment, as we crossed a short wooden bridge, I heard a bang and turned to see Mark dismounting his bike. It was a flat tyre. To make matters worse, we had used all our CO2 canisters re-inflating our tyres and neither of us carried a pump. Our only plan of action was for me to cycle to the nearest bike shop to get CO2 and then return to Mark. I took off with gusto but the cycle was quickly reduced to a mental slog. I went on and off the seafront path avoiding road closures and dead ends. I passed derelict hotels and new hotels under construction, I weaved through residential areas that seem to have no logic to their roads. As I passed by the back of another derelict building my bike slipped and I hit the ground. As I peered up from my prone position on the ground, the scene around me resembled that of a zombie movie. The nearest building may have once been a vibrant shopping centre, but from my position on the ground all I could see was overgrown shrubbery and smashed windows. I eventually got moving again and finally located the bike shop, got the CO2 and began traversing my route. I cycled the wrong way down one way streets to get back, I no longer cared, it was raining heavily now and I still had not eaten or had anything to drink. I found Mark standing under the bamboo covered awning of a closed beach bar. He quickly got to work inflating his tyre but immediately a new problem was evident, the puncture had created a sizeable hole in the sidewall of the tyre. The inflated tube protruded from this hole. Mark needed a new tyre. I headed back out in the rain following the coastal path back to our apartment to get the car so I could collect Mark. I returned to the apartment as drenched as if I was winter cycling in Ireland. Thankfully Mark had managed to get a taxi and returned just after me.  Our first day was less than ideal. 

The trials and tribulations of the previous day forced us to rethink our route planning strategy, so for day two we decided to drive to Puerto Buenos and head inland and upwards from there. As soon as we set off we began climbing. We passed through a small town before turning on to the road that would bring us to our destination, Istan. With the sun now shining, the twisty, quiet road was exactly what we had hoped for on this trip. The road weaved left and right as it climbed upwards through hills bright green with vegetation. The gradients, ranging between 5% and 13%, forced us to keep working, keep spinning our legs. After 14 kilometres of climbing and 350 metres of elevation, the white painted town of Istan appeared. We rounded another bend and the gradients finally eased, allowing us to take in the beautiful site.  We continued on through the town, enjoying the cycling so much we wanted to keep going, keep climbing and see where the road would take us. We climbed out of the town via a 15% gradient ramp that briefly wiped the smile from our faces. For another five kilometres we continued climbing, following the road that then became a path. When the surface changed from concrete to gravel we accepted that we could go no further and turned back to enjoy the descent back to Puerto Buenos. By the time we loaded the bikes back in the car we had completed 60 kilometres and 928 metres of climbing. Like every good spin, we finished it off with a good coffee. As I drained the last sip of cappuccino from my cup and wiped the milk froth moustache from my face, I felt a strange sort of satisfaction. The cycle was a success and tomorrow would be epic.

One hour in, we had been climbing since we left the car and it was awesome. When gradients dropped to 7% we felt a sense of relief but it never lasted. Onwards and upwards we went curving around the mountain. The sky was a bright blue and as we reached the 1000 metre mark the air got slightly thinner, and a lot colder. The view to our left showed mountains all the way to Gibraltar. The trees that had shrouder our climb stopped and the grey stone mountain-peaks beared down on us. We continued to climb until all that was in front of us was sky. We reached the top after 32 kilometres, and two hours and twenty minutes of cycling.  40 minutes later we had descended to the town of Ronda. Tired and hungry we found the mainstreet of the busy small town and sat down outside a coffee shop.  I wolfed down a ham and cheese toastie without much thought, eager to get back on the bike and back on the gloriously hilly roads . We spotted a round wooden board being brought to a table nearby. Covering its entire surface was a spiral of Churro. Accompanying the Churro was a glass of thick hot chocolate. Maybe we could rest for a few more minutes! With sandwiches, churros and hot chocolate consumed, we cycled out of Ronda slightly heavier and a lot happier. 

The route out of Ronda was an eight kilometre long sharp climb. We could feel the heat of the sun as we spun our legs on the tough gradients. It was a busy road and for the first time I noticed sweat drip from my forehead. Nearing the top of the climb we turned off the main road onto a road just wide enough for us to squeeze past the small number of cars we encountered. It felt as if we had entered a different part of Spain, an old part not tampered with by tourists. That feeling was magnified when we entered the small village of Farajan. Running low on water we hoped to find a small shop or cafe but as we cycled through the small collection of white buildings there was nothing that resembled these conveniences. In the centre of the village was a small courtyard, where a woman pointed towards a tap in the wall and confirmed it was safe to drink. She walked off and left us alone in the shadow of a narrow, tall church. The place was silent in both a strange and beautiful way. We quietly filled our bottles and rejoined the quiet roads of our route. After a short climb, we began descending again. As I eased around a hairpin I spotted another village in the distance to my left. I stopped my bike and took out my phone to take a picture. All buildings in the village were painted a light blue, a remarkable sight. We cycled through the blue town of Juzcar and then began climbing back towards Ronda, rejoining the first climb of the day just at its peak. From there it was all downhill. As I free-wheeled around hairpin bends my thoughts were on the sights and experiences of the day, the long challenging first climb, the food and vibrance of Ronda, the quiet roads that brought us to Farajan and Juzcar, the colours and smells, the enormity of it all and at the same time how it all felt personal. When we reached the car we had been cycling for 6 hours and 15 minutes, and climbed 2,427 metres. It was definitely an epic cycle. 

The last day required one last cycle. With tired legs and sore bodies we set off for what we hoped would be an easy spin. Leaving our apartment in Estepona the plan was to cycle the 11.5 kilometres to a viewpoint, Mirador del Ciclista. We cycled through the busy town and then turned right, passing a large supermarket. The border of the town is marked by the motorway, crossing over the motorway we left the town and its traffic behind. Instantly the gradient went into double figures, and would remain there for a large part of the next hour. I grinded my way up the climb, sitting and standing, rocking from left to right. On a fresh day this would be a tough climb but with energy reserves already depleted following yesterday's epic spin, it felt impossible. A slight relief came in the middle of the climb with a short descent but it didn’t last long enough to allow for any recovery. Digging deep and pushing to the top I looked down at my bike computer to see it notched up to 17% gradient, ouch. Finally after rounding one last bend, a cycling monument appeared and just in front of it the viewpoint and more importantly benches. I sat down, removed my helmet and took in the scene below. The road we climbed up, the town of Estepona and the sea. All bathed in sunshine. In 11.5 kilometres and 1 hour and 17 minutes of cycling we had climbed 690 metres.  In 25 minutes we would be back at the apartment and ready to packing away our bikes. In 24 hours we would be back in Ireland, ready for the season ahead. 

Estepona - Our base for the trip

Ground - Best coffee of the trip

The Epic Ronda Cycling Route