Mind over Montañas
I had put truly the bare minimum amount of planning into this 6 month adventure, and even less thought into the fact that I would be cycling across Spain. This much was all I knew: I had exactly 10 days to get across the country to Màlaga to meet my pals for my birthday and a final ‘holiday’ before I crossed to Morocco with my sights set on Cape Town. As it turned out, crossing Spain would be one of the most beautiful yet physically intense chapters of the entire journey to Cape Town.
I – Elizondo to Madrid
Arriving in Elizondo, my first stop south of the border after a thrilling 12km freewheel down the Baztan valley, I realised I had some planning to do: I had no idea what terrain or weather to expect, what my route would be, what I would be eating or where I would be sleeping.
After negotiating in my sub-par Spanish a safe corner for my bike inside the hostel, I finally settled with a beer in the glow of the late summer evening sun, half-heartedly doing ‘research’ on my phone. Overhearing me muttering to myself, a curious Spanish lady came over to see what this strange British man was up to.
It was my first proper conversation with a fellow human being since parting ways with Seb, and it was only as we were talking that I realised how quickly I had shrunk into my internal monologue. With no other voice apart from podcasters to keep me company as I pedalled all day alone, it was a relief to finally speak face to face with someone. Not unlike myself, Marina was a slightly disenchanted student in her mid-20s who’d come to the mountains for some soul-searching. It felt good to be able to externalise my thoughts with someone who was also looking for some direction in life. Realising her home in Logroño was roughly on my route South, she invited me to come stay with her family when I passed through.
I discovered that I was right next to the ancient Camino de Santiago pilgrim route. Thinking back to my conversation with Seb earlier about his own pilgrimage, I decided to join the route for a couple of days with the hope of meeting some pilgrims, and booked into a Camino Albergue the following night. In the pilgrims’ lodging I met people of all ages and from all walks of life travelling alone but alongside strangers, all searching for meaning. Some were there following the death of a loved one or the end of a toxic relationship. For others it was simply a way to escape the bubble of their normal life and do something different. While I was travelling on two wheels rather than two feet, I resonated with my fellow pilgrims. Same struggle, different journey.
I couldn’t help but laugh as I waved goodbye to my new friends the following morning – four South African pensioners wearing plastic ponchos and bin bags as rain protection. After poking around the stunning medieval town of Estella-Lizarra and the 12th century San Pedro de la Rùa church, I turned off the Camino and headed South towards Marina’s house in Logroño.
We dumped my bike in the basement flat and headed into the old town, Marina insisting that it was time for this clueless Brit to experience some true Northern Spanish culture: Pinchos.
I do not exaggerate when I say that this was one of the most mind-blowing culinary experiences of my life. Pinchos are not just a food, but a journey hopping from one crowded bar to the next. Each bar offers one specific ‘pincho’ (or pintxo in Basque), a small gourmet snack on a toothpick that lasts roughly two bites, each of which is served with a small chilled glass of Rioja.
While much of the evening is a blur, I vividly remember a particular mushroom pincho – two fried mushrooms, smothered in garlic butter and sandwiched between a shrimp and a slice of baguette. I must have had at least 6 and every time I was in disbelief at how delicious it was.
The glass of wine per small snack ratio was dangerous for a man craving carbs after a long day in the saddle, and safe to say I got a little carried away with the excitement of it all and woke up the following morning a little worse for wear.
After munching down a typical breakfast of tostadas (toasted bread with oil, tomatoes and salt), which became a morning ritual for the rest of my time in Spain, I waved goodbye to Marina and cycled out of Logroño, heading towards the Sierra de Cebollera National park.
As I was quickly discovering, Spain is full of mountains. This is a huge pro if you love being in nature, and a huge con if you’re carrying 50kg of luggage on a bicycle with a hangover. As a man who ticked both boxes, I was perfectly placed to appreciate both perspectives.
Regretting one or three too many glasses of Rioja the night before, I spent most of the day struggling up a relentless 60km climb along a deserted road into the northern Iberian mountains. However the breathtaking scenery with huge valleys and jagged rock formations more than made up for the struggle. Awe-struck at my incredible surroundings, I climbed onto a rocky outcrop and decided the drone needed a second outing – thankfully this time casualty-free.
Apart from the occasional cow or horse, I barely saw a sign of life as I rounded each hairpin of the abandoned road, climbing ever-deeper into the mountains. Finally reaching the col, my peaceful journey came to an abrupt end as I joined the busy main road, leaving the La Rioja region and dropping into Castile & León. Ignoring the ‘no cyclists’ sign, I entered a 4km-long tunnel as I couldn’t face the alternative detour of climbing up a high mountain pass. Whizzing through the tunnel, I immediately regretted this decision as the electronic boards in the tunnel started flashing, warning cars there was a cyclist in the tunnel and reduced the speed limit. Terrified that I would either get in trouble with the police or hit by a truck, I sprinted as fast as my heavy steed would allow to escape the other side.
After a long descent into the next valley, with no sign of police and my heart-rate back to a regular tempo, I stopped in Soria as nightfall approaced to sample the famous Torreznos (a bit like pork crackling but even better).
Steeling myself for another wild camp, I bounced along dirt roads in the dark towards a forest I had spotted on Google maps. Filled with fear as I passed barking dogs in farmhouses, I eventually settled on a secluded spot in the woods, setting up my tent for a second wild-camp of the journey.
After a humble dinner of instant noodles and lentils, I struggled to get to sleep, paranoid that the sound of barking dogs in the distance was getting louder.
The next morning I braced myself for a huge 150km day, knowing I had the offer of a shower and a bed from some lovely WarmShowers hosts Ana and Abel to reward my efforts. Already struggling with an overuse injury, I pushed my body across empty flat plains that couldn’t have been further from the lush mountain forests of the day before. For the first time since leaving London, it took serious willpower to force myself to keep moving forwards, my body desperate to rest and shelter from the baking sun. Properly suffering, around 80km in and well behind schedule, I drifted asleep on a bench during a snack break. Waking up nearly an hour later, panicked but feeling more alive, I ended the day with a beautiful climb up onto a plateau and a gorgeous descent as the sun set, reaching my hosts in Tortola de Henares filled with gratitude and relief at the prospect of a shower and a bed.
That 150km day completely broke me, leaving me barely capable of even short rides for the following two days. I guess that’s what happens when you do zero training and then expect your body to drag a two-wheeled home over the mountains day after day. It’s almost funny looking back at how physically unprepared I was, and how the first two months of cycling became the training for the rest of the journey. Fast forward 4 months and I would be cycling through far tougher conditions in the Congo rainforest and sandy gravel in the Namib desert doing 150km+ days back to back for over a week at a time.
Just a short ride away from Madrid, the next morning I very gently began pedalling towards the Spanish capital, drugged up but still aching. The meandering through grim industrial parks and rocky tracks, as my GPS struggled to find a route into Madrid avoiding the highways, was only made palatable by the prospect of a full rest day ahead with my friend Paula’s dad, the legendary Juliàn.
II – Madrid to Màlaga
Back in the saddle after a glorious rest day sampling the finest churros in Madrid and possibly the tastiest pork I have ever had, I spent most of the day weaving through the seemingly endless suburbs of the city.
As the sun approached the horizon I finally escaped the busy roads, a sandy descent through olive groves into the picturesque town of Toledo offering a moment of joy in an otherwise uninspiring day.
With the hostel options costing an arm and a leg, I reluctantly opted for another night wild camping. After a long search in the darkness for a hidden spot in bushes below a reservoir, well aware that camping was strictly prohibido and paranoid at the sight of torchlights in the distance, I eventually settled on a spot.
A restless night, not helped by a deflating sleeping mat and a heavy rain setting in overnight set the scene for another grim day on the bike. Packing up my soaking tent and punctured mat in the mud after a sleepless night was truly depressing, but knowing I had just 4 days to do nearly 500km to Màlaga, I couldn’t afford to tap out for another day. Slogging along flat roads into a strong headwind and relentless rain, I was already missing the steep climbing and baking heat of the previous days. Luckily for me, not that I knew it yet, but once I reached Morocco I would barely feel a drop of rain for 4 months. Soaking wet, I eventually reached my WarmShowers host in Ciudad Real, truly grateful to be avoiding another night outside in the rain.
The following morning my spirits were lifted as I peered out of Vincente’s apartment window to see the rain had cleared and the sun was back. Inspired with a fresh wave of motivation, I cycled south out of Ciudad Real under a blue sky, making strong progress with almost perfect conditions all day – sunny, moderately warm, and with almost no wind. Hitting the next mountain range, I spent the afternoon climbing through the Sierra Morena, home of the endangered Iberian Lynx. Exhausted but content, I stopped at the small hilltop village of Cardeña to resupply from the minimart and top up my water bottles before finding a spot to wild camp above the lake below. Sipping on a beer at the local bar and scouring Google maps for a promising camp spot, I got chatting to the intrigued bartender. Equally disbelieving and awestruck to hear about my journey, he refused to let me pay for my beers. Although I was only 3 weeks into this adventure I’d already felt the kindness of so many strangers in small and big ways.
With a contented buzz, I freewheeled down empty hairpins under a pink sky as the sun touched the horizon, descending through the mountains towards the Yeguas reservoir. There is a certain thrill that only comes with a freewheel descent in the cool evening air under a glowing sunset after a long day in the saddle. A rush of endorphins that, despite whatever may have happened that day and how tired, sunburnt or sick I felt, would remind me of just how incredibly lucky I was to be on this wild adventure.
Somewhat undermining my mild euphoria were a set of well-maintained fences on both sides of the road, sabotaging my Plan A to camp off the roadside. Increasingly concerned as I descended further and further, I decided to double back and suspiciously cycle down a dead-end farm track towards an olive grove, hoping the residents wouldn’t notice my presence.
Finally choosing a spot under an olive tree overlooking the lake, I settled into my increasingly familiar wild-camping routine: pitch tent, cook chorizo pasta, sleep.
Pleasantly surprised that the patching on my sleeping mat had just about held up overnight, I set off early from my camp spot the next morning in search of a nearby cafe, where I treated myself to another delicious breakfast of tostadas. The rest of the day was just a great big slog along quiet roads through hills upon hills of olive groves. Aside from passing one or two tiny towns, my only company all day, the olives, my internal monologue. The baking sun continued to brown my exposed skin, and my fingerless glove tan line had become quite the sight.
I woke up the following day in a cheap hotel room excited for the last big day of the first leg, knowing I had a few days off in Malaga with friends ahead. After putting in some serious shifts the previous days, I naively expected a fairly chill final 80km to the coast. Instead, I got a slap in the face by the final mountain range of the Spanish traverse, with the Montes de Màlaga providing brutal climb after brutal climb under almost 40º heat. Stopping for ice cream, chocolate bread and Fantas whenever I passed a village minimart, I was grateful for the fact that I was burning 5000 calories a day and could eat and drink as much junk as I liked without consequence.
Finally topping out the last 25% climb, I began my descent into Màlaga, my relief turning into fear as I realised that my brake pads had fully worn through and even fully clenching the levers, I could barely control my descent. Still completely clueless about the mechanics of the bike, rather than attempt to switch out the pads I found myself hopping on and off the bike, praying that cars wouldn’t arrive in the middle of an uncontrolled descent.
Finally reaching sea level, I traded one source of stress for another as I navigated rush hour through Malaga’s city centre with my fully laden steed. Relieved to make it to my hostel without knocking over any elderly tourists, I met up with my mate Etienne to see in my 24th birthday at midnight with a few local Alhambra beers and a disappointing 2am kebab.
With a bunch of friends flying in for the weekend, we checked into an AirBnB for a relaxing long weekend. While the legs enjoyed a few days off, the liver was put to the test as long days oscillating between the beach and pool were accompanied by generous quantities of tinnies and homemade sangria. After two weeks of navigating the road alone and out of my depth, it was a welcome relief to forget about the journey and be surrounded by close friends, playing cards and swimming in the ocean as if on a regular weekend escape from the normal 9-5.
III – Màlaga to Gibraltar
Hugging my friends goodbye, I realised that, if all goes to plan, I wouldn’t see any friends or family again until I had traversed the entire length of Africa in 6 months time – a truly daunting prospect. As much as I tried to ignore it, the thought that I might never see my friends again threatened to overwhelm my emotions. I couldn’t even begin to fathom the magnitude of what lay ahead – the entire continent of Africa – a journey filled with unknown unknowns even for the most meticulous planner. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the moment before Ι boarded the ferry in Newhaven, my mum quietly asking me if I’d written a will.
Nevertheless, despite my very real fears, I was itching to get back on the bike and embark on the next leg of the adventure through Morocco and into the Sahara.
Reaching Gibraltar itself was by far the sketchiest challenge of the journey so far. Departing Màlaga, I faced three options: 1) wind along the sandy beaches and walkways along the tourist-filled seafront; 2) climb back over the mountain range to approach Gibraltar from the North; or 3) or cycle along the A7 – a busy highway with almost no sections of hard shoulder and even fewer speed cameras. I later found out it is nicknamed the ‘road of death’, and one poll had it voted the 3rd most dangerous road in the whole of Spain. It genuinely astounds me that cyclists are technically allowed on this road.
Naively opting for the latter option, I joined the A7, wincing every time a car shot passed 50km/h above the speed limit. I had become more confident handling myself on busy roads, but after a few kilometers of feeling the brush of displaced air from vans overtaking mere inches away, I simply couldn’t hack this level of danger. Now safe, but moving at a snail’s pace, I wound though small residential roads and boardwalks by the beach, sometimes having to push my bike for several hundred metres at a time through the sand. As infuriating as this was, I would far rather be pushing my bike along the beach than splattered across the A7.
Darkness was falling by the time the famous Rock of Gibraltar came into view, and despite the toils of the day I couldn’t help but feel awestruck by the dark outline towering above the horizon. A wave of excitement hit me as Ι looked beyond, the glinting lights of Tangier peppering the far shore: Morocco was in sight.
My final host of the European leg was Henrique, living just on the Spanish side of the border with Gibraltar. Also a young bikepacker, we clicked immediately, chatting about bikes, adventures, and our dreams as he cooked up a mega pasta.
Given I was so close to Gibraltar itself and with an evening ferry booked from around the harbour in Algeciras, I thought it would be a shame not to hop over the border to bag another country.
Entering the British Overseas Territory was a truly jarring experience. With my passport stamped, I had to wait at a red light for a plane to take off before I could cross the border since the cycle path cut straight across the airport runway. Truly bizarre. As if in a fever dream, I experienced an unsettling jolt of strange familiarity, with all the streetsigns, bins, bollards, postboxes, traffic lights seemingly teleported straight out of London to the Mediterranean coast. It’s funny how such small things that we normally barely notice can be so disconcerting when in an unfamiliar place.
Having bought a fresh tire for my back wheel, which had barely lasted 2000km, I headed for the ferry port, filled with nervous excitement. After a three hour wait for the heavily delayed ferry, I finally pedalled up the ramp, my wheels leaving Europe tarmac for the final time.
Over two years on, I still have such a vivid memory of those moments on the ferry. My heart pounded as I gazed back at the Rock of Gibraltar disappearing behind me while the North African shore loomed larger and larger, a black mass against the glow of the setting sun. I simply couldn’t fathom just how huge this continent was, and how insane my dream to pedal all the way to the bottom where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans meet, a tiny speck on the map.
I had never felt so small.
I vowed that I would not think about the final destination as I started my tentative journey South, knowing that if I allowed myself to think about the incomprehensible magnitude of what lay ahead I was in danger of losing faith in myself and it all unravelling.
Things were about to get real.