The Fugly

Tsss-tssssss—tss-tssss—tsss-TSSS. Slick tyres hiss across glistening tarmac, volume modulated by each revolution of the salt encrusted cranks, cranks salvaged from a bike which long since succumbed to years of winter abuse. Will the Lemond be next to fail, to be sacrificed? The contented whirr of singlespeed chain over a single 52 tooth chainring suggests not. This bastard of a machine purrs in tune with rider and the Pennine moors which tonight are happy to give up their moonlight vistas to this traveller. Few venture this way in darkness, the nearby M62 is faster, straighter and lit by night leaving the old road to those who seek solitude.

I ride this way partly for pleasure and partly for duty, the pleasure of the moors by night and a duty to prepare for this year’s adventures. Those adventures may unfold a thousand miles from the peat bog and heather moorland of the south Pennines but without this preparation they’d be wasted on me. Climbing hairpins through wildflower meadows under limestone peaks to the random clatter of cowbells; it all starts here on my starlit January commute.

This bike is a true bastard, a secondhand cyclocross frame persuaded to singlespeed by a pair of £10 steel track dropouts welded to broken chainstays.  Wheels from a retired road bike, pannier rack from an old commuter and brown mudguards bought in a sale. The bastard is known as the Fugly, descriptive if uninspired. It’s the cheapest and simplest of the bikes in my shed and in winter I reach for it frequently. Rolling down Pennine valleys the steel 853 frame soaks up the ripples in the pock marked tarmac and on climbs it takes on a life of its own. Every pedal stroke distorts the frame inciting it to fight back until we reach a harmonic rhythm that’ll see us both up most gradients. 

Sometimes it’s necessary to employ a bit of mind control.  1-2, 1-2-3, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4-5, 1-2-3-4-5-6, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 I count; each revolution of those crusty Dura Ace cranks tallied until the top is reached. Sometimes I imagine a pair of legs doing the climbing, separated from my torso and suffering in isolation. The usual brain cluttering questions of gear choice, effort and cadence are satisfyingly absent. Hills are to be climbed, the Fugly’s 85 inch gear will dictate progress. I don’t question how, if, or why. I may be forced out of the leather saddle to keep those cranks turning, but I know that I will reach the top. 

Mallorcan Winter Miles

Jen and I escaped to Mallorca in late November in search of warmer air and dry roads. It was warmer but damp mountain roads kept speeds down through the twisties. We rode most days and what follows describes a couple of those rides.

Sunday

Trip to the lighthouse? Looks like a pleasant afternoon ride with Jen. Our first ride on hire bikes this week. The skies are grey, laden with winter rain but we are full of the optimism of Brits abroad and the weather is still better than back home. The road twists through 180 degrees enough times for me to lose track of which way is north. A few tourists emerge from hire cars at the lighthouse to point at the wild goats and peer through the mist  to see the waves breaking on the rocks below. We spin our way back to the calm of Port de Pollença to beat the setting sun.

Tuesday - 225 Day

I glimpse another flash of yellow on white stone at the road side, one less km to ride, one more completed on the tarmac rollercoaster that I’ve been tracing since 9am this morning.

Reaching marker stone 95 represents several hours of hard riding over the highest roads Mallorca has to offer, out past the top of the Sa Calobra climb then skirt a half empty reservoir to switchbacks under Puig Major’s summit culminating in a tunnel that spat me out to the best sea views I can remember. Views may warm your heart but they do nothing for frozen digits. Must get down to sea level, warm air and sunshine.

I  roll off down more than 15km of deserted descent to Soller. The corners are sweeping but polished and since loosing the front wheel of my hire bike on a left hander yesterday I’m cornering super cautiously. Bruce at cycle shop Pro Hire back in Port De Pollença warned me about these roads; 'like ice' when damp, and today they are damp and cold. 

From the village of Soller the MA 10 twists south west carving a tortuous path between mountain and sea, snaking inland to cross rivers and seaward to cling to cliff tops. I even pass the turn off to Shangri-la, pity I‘m short of time today, sounds intriguing. All the while those marker stones are counting progress, perhaps they should also tot up metres climbed; GPS app Komoot has me forewarned - nearly 4000m to do today. That’s going to hurt. Fortunately the views north over the Mediterranean are impressive enough to take your mind off mere mile ticking and the further south west the road winds, the quieter the road and the more dramatic the views. During the last twenty miles towards the southernmost tip of my route I only see two cars. This is where the M-10 is at its most dramatic; clinging to the side of a 45 degree slope that rushes away to my right to meet the sea several hundred metres below. Clumps of pampas grass shelter between the boulders on the hill above, dwarfed by the towering limestone peaks above.

Eventually the mountains make way for the road to turn south, it climbs switchback by switchback to a col that marks the halfway mark for today’s route. The long descent is my first opportunity to rest in over an hour but the respite is short lived. Two more cols beckon, neither large but still several hundred metres of climbing each. Waning spirits signal food is required, fortunately there's a shop open in the next village; fresh water, chocolate and a croissant return some enthusiasm to ‘La tête et les jambes’. 

The final col is slow going, tight switchbacks climbing through dense woodland. The road is singletrack, damp, slippery and green with lichen from lack of use. I'm starting to wonder whether I'm still on route, surely I should have left the mountains by now?

A few miles later the route does leave the mountains and I pick up a tail wind that I can surf all the way back to Port de Pollença. The sun is dropping low in the sky now, the Mediterranean landscape reflecting a thousand points of light following a rain shower. Verdant grass, purple flowers and deep blue sky, so much colour compared to November in Yorkshire. The north east coast of Mallorca is close as the sun drops under the horizon, the lights of Port de Pollença beckon, soon reached via the smooth cycle path from Alcudia.  

Ride Tenerife

Party Bus

Costa de Adeje

"C'mon, get on the party bus!", I must have missed that particular boarding call to the scousers at the Ryannair departure gate in Manchester but needless to say it wasn't the quietest of flights. Hen and stag parties vied for attention through the flight, the aircraft's entire supply of Heineken and JD shots had been consumed by the third hour, for the fourth hour I held my breath as the flatulence of my fellow travellers poisoned the air. I kept my head down but earphones are no defence against the relentless, rasping shouting.

The award for loudest person goes to the big guy with shaved head and tattoos who's been pretty quiet until now, midway through the descent in to Tenerife-Sur he stands up screaming "F**K! F**K! F**K!!!", turns out his sinuses hurt, I wouldn't want to be his dentist. We land at sunset, hassled from the flight and queues at the airport. First impressions of  Tenerife from the transfer bus are of warehouse outlets and tacky bars for the English, all day fry-ups and cheap lager. Our hotel is fortunately a couple of miles from all of this so we don't get woken by the return of early morning revellers, the downside is that you could be mistaken for thinking that you're on a Saga holiday at the breakfast buffet. Outside in the night air it's sixteen degrees C and I look up to see the same crescent moon that last night beamed from a chilly Yorkshire sky.

Recce Day

Mechanical problems delay our start the next day, I seem to be missing a chain ring bolt, fortunately local bike shop Bike Point have an old one that I can have, I fit it outside the shop and Jen and I get going up the climb to Mt Teide, today is a recce of the lower part of the climb to the highest road summit on the island.

We spin up into the cloud at 2000 feet and past vineyards to the town of Viaflor at 4500 feet - one of the highest in Spain. After a coffee there is an awesome twisty downhill on smooth sticky tarmac, cars are overtaken through the switchbacks, I crouch low in the drops and gun it for the apex on each hairpin. Dropping out underneath the cloud onto eucalyptus lined boulevards I feel the unfamiliar warmth of summer sun and memories of yesterday's flight are fading. Due to a missed turn there's more climbing on the way back but the views are good and the scent of rosemary reminds me of touring the Northern Mediterranean coast by motorbike, the final few miles are busy - it's a battle through Friday afternoon early finishers to the hotel.

Tour de Teide

Big Teide day, Strava predicts 20000 ft of climbing so pockets are stashed full of Soreen, figs and cashew bars. I climb familiar roads to Viaflor where I the road to Teide continues up beautifully graded switchbacks through pine woodland. Checking heart rate becomes a tic keeping progress throttled in a bid to conserve power for the climbs after Teide. I can't tell how far is left, I check the GPS trying to guess where the road goes but at this scale I'm no wiser. I pick off a few slower riders and the horizon starts to lower giving me hope that the summit is near. The sea looks a very long way down, up here it starts to feel like a parallel world hovering above normality down at sea level. The plants look different, the air becomes thinner and new scents fill the air; on Teide the rock is other worldly, I could be on another planet.

A break from climbing finally after 7000 ft, I coast stuck behind hire cars until the turn off to Teide proper. A long straight road flanked by cactus and scrub, the bike vibrates across ridges in the road which causes my eTrex GPS to jump from its mount and onto the road. This has happened before so I don't panic, simply pull up and walk back. It's not on the road so I start sorting through the scrub for the elusive black object. It's nowhere to be seen, I make three more passes of the roadside losing a shoe cleat cover in the process. After twenty minutes i call it a day, I've had enough and memories of random reboots and frozen screens are enough for me to consign it to experience. I ride on up a couple more climbs to reach the high point where a bizarre beach of rough volcanic stone lines the road. To one side is the immensity of Teide, to the other acres of lava field. Surprisingly there is no marker of this high point which I've climbed for hours to reach. Down onto the drops for the descent, the road quality varies from smooth to potholed and ridged so normal descending speeds are hedged for self preservation. Its a very long way down and I get cold, fingers stop working and I regret not putting arm warmers on. The route back from the base of the descent is frustrated by closed roads, a lack of signs make it very difficult to stay on track and at one point I ride round a town centre three times looking for the way out. More climbing is needed to clear the south western corner of the island, all the way back up to over 3000 feet on the busy TF82. Google maps routes me onto the TF1 autopista wasting time and climbing enthusiasm, I'm forced to retrace my steps down to the town of Tamaimo for a rapid descent to the coast at Los Gigantes. Only a few flattish miles from here and I'm fortunately back before dark.

Le Mode Touristique

Sunday is a steady day, a spin with Jen to see The cliffs of Los Gigantes up the western coast. The sun is out and traffic is light, perfect. Tourist mode means a recalibration with frequent breaks to look round the villages on our route. Los Gigantes are massive vertical cliffs dropping hundreds of feet into the Atlantic, they remind be of the Isle of Skye, I suspect the rock is similar to the volcanic gabbro of the black Cuillin. Up the hill from here Jen's freehub gives up, drive is lost and some re-planning is needed. Tapping the hub against a tree doesn't help so we look for a taxi but decide to freewheel down the road as it'll save taxi miles. Bizarrely the freehub starts to work again midway down the descent so she carries on riding half expecting cranks to spin pointlessly on every hill but the hub seems to have caught a pawl.
We make it back to the hotel relieved and her bike is packed away.

Teide North

Monday morning breakfast is big before another ride up Teide. Jen offers me sparkling grape juice from the breakfast buffet, it tastes a bit like champagne and on the way out we check the bottle to see that it is actually 11.5% champagne; not my usual start to the day, fortunately I've already laid out kit and the champagne buzz eases the warm up.
Out of town on quiet roads and on to the lower section of the Teide climb it's a relief to be riding past the Teide turnoff and contouring along its foothills. I take a left turn after a couple of miles up possibly the steepest road in Tenerife, the lane winds up between brightly coloured houses to cut off a few miles of the main road whilst climbing a few hundred feet and ignoring all the rules of road grading.

Back on the TF28 the traffic thins and I soon have the road to myself, sticky new tarmac winds along the side of the hill, switchbacks a plenty. To my right down the hill is the rocky coast, fields covered in poly-tunnels and the occasional wind farm of turbines turning in the headwind. After forty miles or so I round a bend to a big descent which drops into to the town of Güimar, a good place to refill both water bottles before the long climb up Teide, I'm reminded of the length of the climb by a sign on the way out of town; 48km uphill - I'd better get settled into this. The climb is well graded although the gradient does vary so I never get to use one gear for long. Progress is marked by posts every kilometre and the gradual change of scenery from bare earth and prickly pear cactii to grassy hillside and then pine forest. I can also hear changes as I climb, on the lower reaches lizards scuttle away to safety disturbing the undergrowth as I pass, further up the muffled whistle of the wind through the pine trees is drowned out by the occasional car or motorbike approaching. Looking up the hill through the forest it's difficult to work out where the road goes and how much climb remains, probably best to assume up lots more climbing. Even after I join the TF24 from the head of the island the climb continues, but now directly towards Mt Teide along the spine of the island. Climbing along this ridge rewards with views to both sides of the island although cloud banks obscure the coastline on both sides. I soon get my first view of Teide from the north, it looks a long way away and there will definitely be more climbing. Soon after my chain gets snagged up in the chainrings and I pull over to see that one of the chainring bolts has stripped its thread and fallen out. Four bolts remain, fingers crossed that they'll get me back - it's a long freewheel and walk from this point of the ride. The road now climbs out of the forest and into the volcanic zone, black earth and red rock everywhere, just the white observatory buildings high above on the hill to my left and Mt Teide far in the distance.

From the junction with the TF21 I'm retracing Saturday's ride in reverse for a few kilometres. The road surface deteriorates here, it's no place to dawdle as tourist buses overtake on the twisty final sections of climb, I spot the sandy hill where I stopped on Saturday and then the rocky stacks before the green rocks and the descent to volcanic desert. At the next junction I take the road to Guia de Isora, I've ridden smoother pavé; potholes and gravel everywhere. As the road starts to drop there are less potholes but still too many to avoid, the CAAD 10 's fork is getting a beating, I crouch above the saddle to avoid pinch punctures and dodge the biggest holes. The descent across the lava fields is straight and not steep, this looks like the gentlest route up Teide if you can put up with the bad surface. Pine trees start to appear as I rattle down the road, finally the surface improves and I can sit down to appreciate the beauty of the forest and the views of the west of the island. The descent continues from the town of Guia de Isora although my left pedal somehow seizes on its spindle and unscrews from the crank in a dark uphill tunnel which adds excitement, pedalling one legged uphill out of tunnel is a struggle. Pedal re-attached and I can coast nearly all the way back for a cold beer in the sunshine; a good day in the saddle.

Would I recommend Tenerife for cycling? Definitely, with a couple of caveats, a) plan routes carefully to avoid the motorway ring-road, and b) if you need good coffee mid-ride go to Italy instead.
There are plenty of people and companies offering a guided or fully supported cycling holiday in Tenerife if you'd rather avoid the hassle of planning it yourself. Escaping the British winter and riding some BIG climbs in shorts under clear sunny skies feels fantastic after months of cold, drizzly commutes. The temperature was between nineteen and twenty six degrees C during our stay, this dropped noticeably above 3000 feet which was handy on the way up, arm warmers needed on the way back down. All in all I'd definitely recommend it.