As cyclists, as we do in life, we all set goals, even if we don’t define them as such. My immediate goal was cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Málaga, but I didn’t expect an encounter with Torremolinos. In truth I hadn’t thought about the place much since I was a child. But it did drag up some unexpected emotions.
But my first obstacle cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Málaga was the border crossing, particularly after Day 1. The plane runway. Leaving of British territory. Spanish border guards.
Day 2: The Road North
The road northwards started off deserted. So did the promenade. I mounted my bike on the pavement and rode along, gazing across the empty beach. The few walkers and joggers about cast long shadows amid the haze.
Image by Graham Caldow
As I rode, constantly looking at the beach, I felt good. This is what I’d hoped for. Maybe it wasn’t a conscious goal, maybe it was a thought lurking somewhere at the back of my mind, but that’s what often our goals are. I don’t know about you, but I often have ideas or goals but without a proper plan they just drift.
Three Goals
With this ride I did frame in goals as I made my plans. It would’ve been foolish to ride all this way without make a token effort to raise some money as I went. And for me the obvious charity enterprise was Team Domenica, an organisation that supports young people with additional needs into paid work. They’d helped my daughter get her job at the Mercure Seafront Hotel. I feel hugely indebted to them. Why not set a target of raising £3,000?
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Like we do to justify things in our own minds, I tacked on a sub-goal to this – raise awareness of supported internships. To get her job my daughter went through a supported internship program, which are highly successful in supporting people with additional needs to get jobs because they give candidates on the job training to make the transition from school to employment easier. Hence my second goal was to raise awareness of supported internships among parents as an option for their children.
So I had two goals, which didn’t seem substantial enough. A bit like ordering two plates of tapas, not enough variety to make you feel you’ve ordered dinner. Three makes the meal more complete.
I needed another goal, a personal goal. Hence I tacked getting fitter onto the end to make a full plate of goals. One that everyone orders because I never hear people say they don’t want to be fitter or healthier. They just don’t always get around to ordering that from life’s menu.
For me, though, getting fitter was imperative. I’d announce my trip when I was in reasonable shape, but a gym shoulder injury had reduced my training to virtually zero. For three months I’d barely got on my bike and didn’t go down the gym, and I only got back on my bike in the month before I left. So I was worried about my fitness. The first day left me under no illusion about how much of a challenge this would be.
But while the sun was out and the beach was at my side, I put thoughts about goals aside. After about an hour the map warned me I was about to head away from the coast and towards a highway, so I did the only thing I could. Stop for coffee.
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The Main Road and My First Puncture
The main road was a two laner with a barrier in the middle, wide enough for fast moving car to get by and leave me in the wind drag of slower moving trucks on the inside lane. But I didn’t feel as unsafe. I noted Spanish drivers paid attention to cyclists that’s not often apparent in the UK.
After a while the traffic thinned out. I got into a rhythm. Then I hit my first hill of the day. It was one of those long hills that drags and drags. But at the top I get a magnificent view back of the Rock of Gibraltar in all its imposing glory, and across the arid countryside that extends all the way to Morocco.
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Then the fun part begans. Downhill. The speed. The rush of wind through the airholes of my helmet. But the downhill never lasts long enough and is replaced by the grind of the main road, the traffic works, and traffic.
I take the next opportunity exit towards a coastal town and a beach road. But my enthusiasm for my new route is soon tempered by my first puncture of the trip.
As I set about my repair, a Spanish cyclist stopped. He had no English. My Spanish was passable for ordering in a café or restaurant, asking for a room, but not general chit-chat. He offered me an inner tube, but his tires were way bigger than mine, with more durable tread. I began to think perhaps he knew something I didn’t. So, instead of help, he offered advice: work was bad for you, and you should spend your days cycling.
He left with a smile. And I watched with envy as he took his chunky tires off into the haze of the sun covered road.
Image by Graham Caldow
Riding Through Estepona
The road got a little busier as I approached Estepona. Once a small fishing village on the Costa del Sol, Estepona has evolved with the boom of the tourist industry.
Many people I spoke to before this ride expected me to be an experienced cyclist. I must admit I didn’t hide that from the publicity. But truth was, I’d never ridden with panniers before. I was not a tour cyclist. I was a seaside cyclist doing no more than an average commuter.
This was going to be my first real test of riding on the right hand-side of the road in a built-up area. Again, I approached with apprehension. But was saved by side roads that ran beside the main road through the town, making it easy.
This ease of getting through built up areas was turning into a pattern. I was beginning to wonder whether the streets of Spain were safer for cyclists than Britain. My confidence was certainly growing, even though I remained untested.
In an effort to stay near the coast, I tasted my first off-road cycling. A muddy track through scrub took me past parked camper vans who obviously didn’t want to pay for the amenities of a campsite. The vans had numberplates from all over northern Europe.
Once I hit the paved road again, it was an easy ride to Marbella, and the promenade guided me to the heart of the town.
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Rest Night in Marbella
As I cycled into Marbella, the impressions I got was of a more upmarket resort. Prices were slightly more expensive. The place was very clean. The beaches were golden (of course) and lined with boutiques. At the far end was a marina filled with yachts.
My reward was to look for Paella. My daughter and I cook a lot together, and if there’s one thing we love, it’s a good Paella. This was served Spanish style, in the large shallow pan it’d been cooked in, garnished with giant prawns, mussels and lemon. Way too large for one person to eat alone.
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My wife and my daughter had sorted out a place to stay for the night. I squeezed my bike into a small lift, and then took a long shower once in the apartment. This was a 53 mile day; it wouldn’t be my longest, it wouldn’t be my shortest. But it was far enough for me. My legs felt it.
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Day 3
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I arose before dawn. Porridge was on the breakfast menu for my cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Malaga. And as soon as it was light, I set off. The sun glared over the horizon, golden rays poked between the promenade and the underside of palm trees as I cycled along, blocked out intermittently by the trunks.
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Apart from the odd person taking in the beauty of the morning, I was alone. When the promenade ran out, wooden decking with side rails hovered a few feet above the beach, giving me glorious views as my wheels rattled over the boards like the sound of a train over rail sleepers.
The sun was still in my eyes. A scooter approach but I didn’t see it until late, and I swerved to the right-hand side of the decking – old habits of driving on the left die hard. I made a mental note.
I continued, taking in the silhouettes of palm trees. I felt happy to be alive. Genuinely happy, like I was forgetting myself in the moment. This was the Spain I really wanted to see, more than the real Spain. My illusion of what Spain should be.
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Pushing Through the Sand
The decking took a sharp twist. It headed for the sea. It ran out as it hit the sand.
My notions of easy riding for the morning woke up as I looked up the beach to how far I’d need to push my bike.
The sun was still low in the sky, casting a shimmering golden reflection on the sea from horizon to shore. Above it the sky was blue. It was hard to curse my luck, even as my bike wheels sank in the sand.
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I scrambled for the first road I saw. It took me to a main road before I found another exit to head towards the sea. I got very excited when I next found a path to another wooden walkway hovering over the beach.
My goal to avoid main roads and keep close to the sea led me to more stints of pushing my bike along the beach. Sometimes my effort led to dead ends and I had to push my bike back the way I’d come. But this seemed preferable to main roads.
I was resolute to not ride on something I could easily ride on at home. But my determination got me in trouble. I thought I’d be smart and walk along a raised concrete path, almost patting myself on the back for my ingenuity. But that came to an abrupt end. I was left 5 or 6 feet above the sand with a bike panniers packed. I jumped down and wrestled my bike down to push it across the sand again.
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Beach was interrupted by main roads. Main roads were broken by beach. Along the way I saw clusters of camper vans, not all from the UK, migrating southwards.
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The tussles continued for most of the day until I arrived at Torremolinos.
A Glance Back to a Childhood Memory
Torremolinos wasn’t Spain’s first resort, but in the 1950s it was first to cater for mass tourism. Northern Europeans wanting for sun, sea, and affordable vacations. It was the only place we, my sister and I, went abroad as kids. I think my mother got fed up with the lack of British summers.
My abiding memory of that holiday was first my mother getting sunstroke and fainting on a donkey excursion. Being proper British we used factor 7 because what was the point of factor 50+ if it meant you wouldn’t get burnt? Where would your suntan come from?
My second memory was my dad making sure my sister and I always got one proper meal each day. None of that “Spanish muck.” He used to take us up the beach to a cafe (as opposed to café) to get us egg and chips, though the tomato sauce was always a bit suspect.
Sometimes as we get older we are able to reflect. I don’t think I was ever grateful enough for my childhood. Certainly I didn’t say it enough to my parents. Gratitude for what I have, what I had, has never been in the forefront of my mind because of the goals and challenges I still face. And now my parents are no longer with me to say the things I feel I should’ve said more often, I feel a sense of regret. Unlike many people I did have a happy childhood.
After Torremolinos, the road hugged the coast.
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Málaga
The last bit of cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Málaga kept me mostly by the beach. I cruised into Málaga along the promenade, people hung around the beach, playing boom-boxes and volleyball on the sand.
Málaga has a long history, over 3,000 years. Originally founded by the Phoenicians, later ruled by the Romans and Moors. It’s home to the Moorish fortress of Alcazaba, a Roman Theatre, and the tallest Cathedral in Spain, at 87 metres.
Image by Graham Caldow
Where we stayed was cut off from the beach by the port. I got the impression Málaga is a regional commercial hub, with the likes of Google and Oracle contributing to the city’s reputation as a tech-forward economy. Certainly the city’s bars, cafés, and restaurants had a different feel to them, with a more sophisticated clientele mixing among the tourists.
We had a particularly memorable meal of espeto de sardinas, grilled sardines, Málaga’s dish. If I’m honest, we more enjoyed the berenjenas con miel de caña, eggplant with Honey Cane, a typically Andaluz dish.
Image by Graham Caldow
Pablo Picasso
I took a day off from cycling to see the sights of the city, in particular the Museo Picasso Málaga, birthplace of Pablo Picasso in 1881. Picasso has always been with me, metaphorically, since I was a boy with dreams of following in his footsteps. Maybe as I’ve learned more about him, I have a more tempered view of him as a man. But as an artist, I still have huge admiration.
He did what I never did – had a clear idea where his life was going. He had a clearly defined goal. He was more than just natural talent.
Incidentally Picasso’s full name is: Pablo, Diego, José, Francisco de Paula, Juan, Nepomuceno, Crispín, Crispiniano, María, Remedios de la Santísima, Trinidad, Ruiz, Picasso.
The multiple first and middle names were given in honour of various saints and relatives. “Ruiz” was his father’s surname. However, he chose to use “Picasso,” his mother’s surname, professionally because it was more distinctive and unusual.
The museum contains personal items, sketches, and early works, as well as family photos that give insight into his childhood and upbringing. It traces Picasso’s evolution as an artist, highlighting his mastery of multiple styles and media, from Cubism to Surrealism. But if I’m honest, having followed Picasso from museum to museum around the world, I wouldn’t say it was the most impressive display of his work.
Summary of Day
Days 2-3 cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Málaga saw 99 miles covered, leaving a mere 871 if I was to believe my own advertising.
Perhaps the thing was to get through this section and hope my fitness builds.
As I lay down on my pillow at the end of the weekend I thought about how great it was to have Debra and my daughter with me for the start. But my daughter’s holiday has come to an end. She has to go back to the Mercure Hotel to resume her breakfast shifts. From now onwards, for this challenge, I was going to be alone on this trip.
The real tests for my resilience on this ride from Tarifa to Bilbao was yet to come, and I’d face them without any support.
Please comment below or feel free to ask questions.
Read about how my journey becomes solo in Days 4-5.
Image by Graham Caldow: Cycling from the Rock of Gibraltar to Málaga
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