Gran Canaria

On holiday last year in the fleshpots of Playa Del Ingles, I chanced across a shop offering daily MTB tours on the island. Free Motion run with Teutonic efficiency by some German bikers. Bikes, transport and bananas provided in with the price. I opted for one of the short rides, mainly because it was near the end of the holiday and my choice of days was limited. The brochure description:

Soria - Pto. de Mogan - Friday                        Level 2

40km, 450m up, 1,350m down.

A breathtaking ascent leads us from Soria upwards to the Embalse de Las Ninas - the artificial lake at the edge of the largest national park in Gran Canaria. A wonderful ride downhill towards the south coast will expect us. Afterward we will visit the idyllic harbour of Puerto de Mogan.

My description:

Going cycling in the morning so an early night is called for and possibly a little less alcohol than the preceding evenings. Staggered into bed at around 2 AM and rose six hours later to stuff myself with essential carbs (chocolate croissants and baguettes) and even more essential coffee. Strolled through practically deserted streets to the Free Motion office.

I sit at a table outside, sipping water in a desperate attempt to rehydrate myself, watching a bronzed, lycra-clad uberman, devoid of body hair, thighs like Lance Armstrong pottering about with some bikes. Despite my silent wishes to the contrary this Bronzed God turned out to be the guide. Our companions arrived in dribs and drabs; a German couple in their fifties on their own Cannondales, on their eighth consecutive tour - according to my calculations this meant they had already clocked up 400 km of riding; another Brit joined us; followed by a German lad - both a long way younger than me; en-route to Soria, we picked up Trevor, a keep-fit fanatic accountant from Northern Ireland.

We drove in the somewhat rickety minibus, chatting about bikes and cycling in general, in English of course. The Bronzed God asked, not a little facetiously, if foreign languages are ever taught in British schools. We arrived at the small, mountain village of Soria, 600m altitude and 600m closer to the blazing sun, and unloaded the bikes, German made Wheeler's, very similar to the Marin range of XC full sussers.

A few basic bike instructions, e.g. foreigners always have their brake levers the wrong way round and away we went, uphill on tarmac, us Brits leading the pack. The asphalt turned to rocky track, our guide took a group photo, then we all stood aside to let a jeep safari cover us in dust - this turned out to be a regular feature of the day. And on we went, up and up, riding 10km to gain 450m in height, the gradient wasn't too bad but the heat in the enclosed valley was torture, soon our pack became strung out with me doing a very good Blind Bob impersonation - red-faced, sweating and at the back. Eventually we had a banana stop, near the top of the climb, the Bronzed God exhorting everyone to put on their wind-stoppers because:

    "Ve vill all catch flu or something in the cold wind"

Cold? I guess he's never been on the Drove Road in February (or even August come to think of it). Needless to say us Brits eschewed his advice and let the sweat chill us as we hurtled along a road at roughly the same altitude as the summit of England's highest mountain. With no warning, the road changed from a regular tarmac highway, white line down the middle, road signs etc. to a dirt track, this did not deter the road traffic one little bit, cars continued down the dirt track regardless of the scraping bushes and rock strewn surface. Regrouping at a convenient viewpoint we had the first view of the remainder of our route. Awesome. Kilometers of hairpin bends all heading downward to Mogan, then tarmac along the valley bottom to Puerto De Mogan.

Gravity became my friend as we took off on our descent, I was a little cautious at first, some worryingly long drops at the side of the track and the flat pedals took some getting used to after 5 years of SPD's. Pedal, freewheel, brake, turn, pedal, freewheel, brake turn - would these hairpins ever stop? Made it unscathed unlike my Brit colleagues who both lost it in the tight bends, Trevor ending up in a prickly bush at one point. All too soon we rejoined tarmac, a bit of an anti-climax really, the descent had been fast but lacking any technical shenanigans to liven things up.

    "Ve stick together, make like peleton, save thirty percent of energy." said the Bronzed God, when we all arrived at the road junction. I figured if I stayed behind the six of them that would be 180% energy I would save. Head, down crank up the gears and pedal, pedal a bit harder, no, the peleton was definitely pulling away from me. Don't they know it's supposed to be a holiday? Embarrassingly they had to stop and wait for me to catch up.

    "Did you have a puncture, or something?" asked the Bronzed God innocently. He ought to try a fortnight on the lager and kebab diet. I managed to keep up with the peleton for the remainder of the ride, until we had to dismount and walk through the narrow, pedestrianised streets of the port, where we found a pleasant harbour-front restaurant for a spot of lunch. The Bronzed God recommended everyone drink alcohol-free lager shandy for the carbohydrates and minerals - yeah right. Uno grande cervezza por favor.

Puerto de Mogan is marketed as Gran Canaria's "Little Venice" and very picturesque it is too; canals, narrow cobbled streets, flower strewn balconies, hordes of tourists cramming the streets. We returned to the Free Motion office where the Bronzed God downloaded all the pictures he'd taken (often one-handed as he rode along beside us) into a computer for us to watch as a slide show. Who is that red-faced fat bloke at the back? Oh, it's me. The photo's were put onto CD's, along with numerous pictures from the other tours they run, for anyone who wanted to purchase them.

All in all it was a good day, the awful uphill grind at the beginning soon faded from memory, as they always do. Perhaps it could have been a little more technical but it is a holiday after all. The other tours all look worthwhile, it saves the hassle of taking your bike on a plane and then having to find routes in a strange area. I will certainly be giving them a look at if I return to Playa del Ingles, although probably earlier in the holiday before the drink and the late nights have a chance to take their toll.