Not to show off, but I'm on holiday. I'm staying in an apartment that belonged to my girlfriend's grandfather. It's located between Fuengirola and Marbella in one of those myriad British enclaves that line this stretch of coast; a maze of developments burrowed like ants' nests into the scrubby foothills of the sierras where, backs to the wall, ex-pat retirees gaze out across the thrumming Autovía del Mediterráneo to the hazy sea and north Africa.
This is my third visit, but it's the first time I've brought a bicycle - and, if ever proof was needed of the transformative, liberating power that a bicycle can bestow then these last few days in Spain have provided it. On past visits I'd prowl the reservation: quiet roads and cul de sacs, high gates, well-tended gardens, empty pools, golf courses, the same handful of bars promising Premier League football, and always the natural border of the A7 and its manic torrent of traffic, without so much as a footpath either side to allow exploration east or west. It was a strange sun-bleached world, about as Spanish as a spam sandwich; both foreign and familiar, and somehow unsatisfactory.
But this time, with a bike, things are different. It still takes a little planning of course, to break free of the maze, but that's where sites like Strava and ridewithGPS - or even grandad's old map, although it's missing a motorway or two - come into their own. Just a mile away, I discover, a road cuts north out of the small seaside town of La Cala de Mijas and heads straight for the hills. I decide to follow suit.
Travelling with a bike is not, of course, without attendant worries. There's packing the thing, for a start, and even worse is the moment of unpacking to discover what damage, if any, has been inflicted in transit. A review of the padded bag that I travelled with this time will follow after I get home, but for now I can report that I recovered the bag at Malaga airport and both it and the bike were unscathed. On Saturday I rebuilt my bike, and the next day I set out at twenty past three for the hills and for Mijas, with a promise to be home in time to make dinner.
The first 10km out of La Cala are relatively straightforward. A wide two-lane road, almost empty of traffic on a Sunday afternoon, leads due north through a scrubby landscape towards the mountains looming in the distance. It's warm and humid. I soon get used to riding on the right-hand side of the road, although heading anticlockwise on a roundabout is a thrill that apparently never fades.
Travel truly broadens the mind, and there is opportunity along the way to pick up a bit of Spanish vocabulary from road signs. "Polígono industrial" is an industrial estate - a nugget which may come in handy next time you're trying to chat up a long-haul trucker.
There's a pleasing lack of truckers on the road, but I'm starting to steam gently in the muggy afternoon heat as the road starts to climb. The gradient touches 12% as the highway lifts up out of the river valley along a ridge; after a brief downhill swoop it's up again, and I brace myself for this upward trend to continue as I turn right off the main road and up once again onto the A387 that leads east.
I'm pleasantly surprised though: the next section of road is barely uphill at all, instead it hugs the mountainside for 10km, winding towards Mijas. There are ups and downs but barely any elevation gain, which leaves the cyclist free to enjoy the beautiful views to the right.
A couple of tour buses rumble past on the road to Mijas and I'm curious to have a look for myself. I stop just before the town to catch my breath and grab a photo of white-walled houses and the sea in the distance; inland, mountain ranges are layered in shaded silhouette as far as the eye can see. It's a spectacular location, but I decide to skirt the town for now and continue on. Just a few hundred metres on the other side of town I turn off to the left, and this is where the true climb begins.
Over the next 5.4km, a singletrack road winds up the mountain gaining 500m at an average gradient of 9%. I have come looking for a hill, and I've found one. Pine trees line the lower reaches and their herbal perfume wafts on the warm air. A lone mountain biker whizzes past me downhill with a nod. Although I don't know it, I'm lost: I had planned a loop back around Mijas and rejoining the road to the coast, but the track I'm on now leads to one destination only: Mijas Antenna, a communications mast perched on a rocky outcrop some 900m above the sea.
I'm breathing deeply as I climb, savouring the heat, the scenery, the scent on the air and sound of the cicadas. The curve of the road and even the ache in my calves, it's all perfect. This, at last, is cycling! I wonder if my brief moment of euphoria signals hypoxia, a lack of oxygen, then remind myself that I'm still less than 1000m up... and there's no sign of the summit yet.
The heat and the exertion are taking their toll the higher I get, but although I can see the antenna ahead I have no idea that it represents the finish line. Finally, and with the giant structure almost in reach, I stop at the side of the road for a break and yet another photo. If only I knew how close I was to the top, I might find the reserves to push on. As it is, I empty my water bottle and remount the bike...only to find that 5 minutes later, just past the antenna and the squat bunker it's perched atop, I've literally run out of road. What is it with this place and dead ends?
Still though, the view... To the left and below the clouds, as though from an aeroplane window, Benalmádena and, further north, Torremolinos sprawl out along the coastline. Seeing the countryside laid out like this gets me thinking; in the past 2 hours on my bike I've seen more of the local area, and got a better sense of the geography, than in all the weeks I've spent here in years past. Look at those tiny cars below, so insignificant, oblivious...
It turns out altitude gives me a superiority complex; before things gets out of hand I clip in again and fly back down the road. No time to smell the pines on this descent, I'm clutching desperately at the brakes and leaning into the sharp bends, grateful for the absence of traffic.
In Mijas I come off the main road and proceed adagio through the streets. It's early evening now, the picturebook cobbled lanes are busy with tourists. I'd love to linger, but the scents of cooking from the restaurants put me in mind to head for home.
The road back through the foothills to La Cala is both longer and lumpier than I remembered from the way up, and as the shadows lengthen on the road ahead of me for once I'm grateful to have an energy gel in my back pocket.
Back at the flat, I park the bike in the hallway and struggle to convey what feels like a major personal discovery. How do you explain a bike ride to someone who wasn't there, anyway? But the point is that this place - the humdrum old Costa del Sol, with its English pubs, insane motorways, geriatric golfers and sleepy swimming pools... this place is amazing for cycling!
3 Comments