The winter had been long and dry. We hadn’t seen such a bad snowpack since the fabled winter of ‘76-77, the one that inspired every western ski resort to invest in snowmaking systems. You could blame many things: Trump, karma, 2 new lifts at the local ski area, but the upshot was that I was riding mountain bikes in the nearby desert in December, January and February.
The desert soil had absolutely no moisture in it, and even the hard-packed trail centerline was breaking down, becoming increasingly narrower. Even with small forlorn piles of snow in shadowed pockets, the surface was disintegrating back into desert sand. It would take heavy rains, and lots of them, to bring it first back to gumbo, then to a good riding surface.
With the lack of storms, our workload at the airport had increased because flights actually landed, instead of diverting. We marveled at the heavy loads; clearly these people weren’t coming here to ski, but to be seen.
That’s the new ski tourist: they pose with rental gear and expensive coats, and if they actually go up the mountain, they download.
To a lifelong skier and resort local, the obvious mark of a poseur tourist is that they have neither well-worn Patagonia nor duct tape.
For only the second time since the winter of ’72-’73, I did not put on ski boots. During the summer discount pass sales, I decided that the new price (raised significantly to pay for the new lifts) wasn’t worth the effort, and I know enough instructors I can bum coupons from, so for the first time in decades I approached winter without a season pass. The last time I skipped a season, I was a stagehand in Boston and couldn’t afford a lift ticket to suffer on New English ice. This time, I either had a feeling, wash frugal, or was just experiencing deep apathy.
Further complications led to a torn rotator cuff, which was covered by worker’s comp. This completely capped the ski season, but due to the wonders of questionable physiology, I was able to mountain bike up until the week before surgery. I had last had shoulder surgery 16 years ago, and really wanted the same surgeon to take care of me, but as it turned out, he was helping an elderly lady who had injured herself seeking glory at the Olympics. Fortunately, second fiddle at the Steadman Clinic is still pretty damn good.
The upshot was that I had unwittingly selected the ideal winter to skip a pass and also have surgery. As a capper, my son decided my skiboots were a nice upgrade over his, and he absconded with them, thus bringing the-season-that-never-was to an abrupt close in February.
The few days post-surgery gave me the time to research a trip to Spain, this time to an area I had heard much about but had not yet visited. In a Tylenol-fueled haze, I researched and created routes single-handedly (the right, my left was in a sling). Before too long, I had sketched up a loop starting in Valencia, down the coast to Cartagena, then back north inland back to Valencia. All in, about 400 miles, but only 14,000’ of climbing.
Logistics were pretty easy. Tickets to Barcelona were priced very well, and the plan came together quickly. The only challenge was storing the bike cases. In Valencia the nice people at Tralli came through. They have excellent service, and collected the cases at the designated time, storing them until our return to the city.
Stage 1 Prologue
Travel to BCN was easy, connecting through Chicago. Despite a late departure due to ramp traffic, we arrived in Barcelona only 15 minutes late. I had been worried about the implementation of the new EES system, which had rolled out 2 weeks earlier. There were many tales of 3-hour waits to get through customs, but perhaps due to our mid-afternoon arrival, the lines were minimal. The new machines (naturally) didn’t work, so we ended up at a kiosk, where the bored officer scanned both my passport and his phone, before gesturing towards the scanner for a photo and fingerprints. As far as I could tell, he used up considerable energy by not only waving his hand generally at the scanner, but also by partially lifting a single eyebrow. Hopefully he wasn’t too taxed from the efforts. By the time we had gone through the border control line and picked up our bags, only an hour had passed since landing.
A quick taxi ride to Sants Estacio delivered us with ample time to catch a 4pm train to Valencia, but at the ticket window we were told the 6:15 was our only option, leaving us with a couple of hours to kill. Since we had actually miraculously slept on the flight, it wasn’t too bad of a wait, and the nearly 3-hour train journey was easy. A short cab ride to the hotel, and we climbed into bed, tired from a long, but easy day of international travel.
The next morning we set out to explore the city a bit. We started near the cathedral, reportedly the home of the Holy Grail, but given the line of the faithful outside, we opted out. Plus, I’ve seen the movie already. A long series of walks followed, as we made our way to the City of Arts & Sciences, a marvel of architecture.
There are clear influences from Gaudi, but modernized and designed for a future yet to arrive. The buildings fly overhead, dwarfing the great cathedrals, yet pulling inspiration from them for grandeur and light.
After walking well over 10 miles around the city, my feet made the executive decision to return to the hotel and assemble the bikes.
The Olympia Hotel & Spa is listed as a bike-friendly hotel, and that they are. There is a room in the garage with a workbench, stand, and wash space. I’ve built and un-built the bikes on countless hotel beds, and having an actual stand to use is a real pleasure. I had naturally picked up a beer for the building process, and was done with both bikes before I finished it. I’m either getting faster at assembling or slower at beering.
After that, it was time for supper, around the corner at a lovely neighborhood bar with excellent food. My mistake was ordering something that looked interesting, but in the end, was questionable. Apparently a Murcian specialty, what was delivered was a pile of potato chips with a few boquerones (marinated anchovies, not salted) and mussels, plus some sort of oily splash. I was hungry, so I dug in, which may have been a mistake, and one I won’t soon repeat.
I rectified the situation by ordering some sepia à la plancha (seared cuttlefish), which always makes me happy, chased it with a beer or two, then we were off to bed.
Stage 1 Valencia to Denia
Today’s stage was the longest, with the gps track showing 58 miles, but only 240’ of climbing. Basically, dead flat, with half the vertical our driveway gains in a scant ½ mile. The forecasted tailwind presented itself as we rolled out of Valencia, adding a gentle nudge as we headed southward along the coast. It would have been an easy and pleasant ride, except for the afore-mentioned mussels, which seemed to be lodged somewhere in my abdomen, seeking an exit.
Overnight, they had declared their presence and intentions, but perhaps they were swimming in enough beer that all they could accomplish was some general complaining. By the time we were on the bike, however, they were weighing their options for leaving the premesis. Due to their explorations of my digestive tract, I had no appetite whatsoever, so the only thing I managed to eat was a single slice of soggy avocado toast before we rolled out of the city.
As the miles passed, through endless orange groves, and down surprisingly busy tiny backroads, the mussels kept reminding me that they had a few choices they could exercise. While they thought they were essentially limited to 2 options, I had visions of a third direction; an Alien-inspired exit, complete with straw boater and cane, and requisite Michigan J. Frog impression. Hello my baby, indeed.
Any of these would have been an improvement.
By the time we rolled into Denia, I was in pretty bad shape, completely shelled by riding what turned out to be 64 miles and 550’ of climbing on one slice of slightly damp gluten-free bread, but also from my determined battles with the mollusks playing with my innards like hyperactive schoolchildren. I barely made it to dinner, managed to eat some salad and mild soup, then crept back to the hotel, leaving an unfinished beer on the table.
The partial beer, forlorn in its glass, watched me leave. Even Mrs. MAMIL was surprised, she’d never actually seen me abandon the last sips in decades of putting up with me.
We stayed at the Hotel MR, which was bike-friendly (not as far as having a bike room, but they didn’t bat an eye at taking the bikes to the room).
Stage 2 Denia to Benidorm
Today’s ride was shorter by nearly half, and after a solid night’s sleep, the mussels had been beaten into submission and defeated. I was still low on appetite, but a mild breakfast with excellent coffee helped get me moving.
As we headed south towards Calpe (Calp), the number of MAMILs on the road steadily increased. We also were passed by our second Movistar pro, who blew past us faster than many of the cars. The day before, one passed up like he had been shot out of a cannon, then he turned around, effort clearly completed. As he passed us in the opposite direction, he smiled and waved before sticking his tongue out in mock exhaustion.
We also saw a Jayco-AlUla rider heading in the opposite direction, and given the number of MAMIL packs, plus pros, this is obviously a good area for riding. The roads are clean and pretty smooth, and traffic, although fast, is respectful.
After a quick snack in Calpe, we climbed over the final saddle of the day and descended into Benidorm.
As we rolled into town, malls and car dealerships transitioned into apartment and hotel towers, then as we approached the waterline, we entered a bus mall with flying light rings overhead.
The crowds increased, and before long, we were off the bikes, navigating through inebriated stag party mobs. Given that it’s late April and still not high-season, it’s clear that this town can be an absolute madhouse.
The topography had changed, with large, craggy peaks to the west, towering over the skyline. In researching the area, there are many rides up into the foothills, and it’s obvious to see why so many pro teams use this as a winter training ground. The large number of go-kart tracks offer post-ride thrill seeking as well.
Our hotel, the Hotel Brasil, made no mention of rolling our bikes upstairs, thus earning a bike-friendly thumbs-up.
Stage 3 Benidorm to Alicante
The shortest ride of our route, we approached it with no urgency. Our southward journey continued, with the same friendly tailwind. Benidorm has some excellent bikeways, from along the coast to inland roads. They are well marked and have turtle-style barriers, and cover many miles through town. However, when they end, it’s abrupt- usually into a wall or hedge.
My impressions of the Costa Brava is that there’s no question it’s vacation party heaven, particularly if you’re British or German. The endless towers remind me of Playa Alcudia, an area I avoided during my visits to Mallorca. It lacks some of the small-town vibe I’ve found in Catalunya or the North Coast (although those areas certainly have their crazy beach scenes).
We asked the hotel bartender when off-season was, and with a resigned sigh, he said “never.” The high overcast days we had experienced had moved people off the beaches and indoors, but this weather was rare, even in April.
Riding into Alicante, we were on busy roads, but as usual, Spanish drivers were respectful and it wasn’t stressful. We have only been in country a few days and hadn’t yet switched our brains from cars-will-kill-you mode. Once we turned off the busier roads towards our hotel, we transitioned into quiet neighborhoods. The beach was about a kilometer away, and the area we entered was much quieter and more relaxed.
Mrs. MAMIL had a former co-worker living in Alicante, and we met him at a lovely bar under banyan trees in a small park. It became a typical Spanish session at a table, with a few drinks and some hours of conversation, while the staff brought us refills but otherwise left us alone. There was no American style rush to get done and leave, and it was wonderfully pleasant. Again, we have much to learn as a society.
Alicante had impressive street art, and a vast variety of restaurants. The bull ring is still active, but while bullfights still happen, it hosts concerts and motocross, as well as other events more often.
Our lodging for the night was an apartment, complete with laundry. Since check-in was by phone, no one was available to give us trouble with the bikes. The only bike-friendly negative was the 4-flight twisting staircase, but we persevered.
Stage 4 Alicante – Torrevieja
Another day blessed by Our Lady of the Tailwind, the miles rolled by easily. We were slowly leaving the towers behind, and rode through more large citrus and pomegranate groves. We again found wide bike lanes, in many instances carrying on for many miles before abruptly disappearing.
As we rolled into our destination town, the path re-appeared and led us directly to the waterfront. Tonight’s lodging was a small apartment in the marina. 
From our room we could see hundreds of masts slowly swaying in the evening breeze. We went to one of the restaurants on the quayside, and had a wonderful meal at Carnes y Vino, a restaurant that served, um, meat and wine. The menu is top notch, as well as their service. They even made gluten-free pintxos for Mrs MAMIL.
The sun slowly set behind the beachside towers, and the eastern sky lost its rich blue tones behind the masts. A quick glance at the marina info board showed nearly 1,000 boat slips here, and it seemed every one was full. Behind us, at a tiny British pub hidden in the marina, a singer belted out yacht rock on a karaoke machine, entertaining his friends as they ate their Sunday roast.
Tonight’s lodging at the Marina Apartments was not only affordable and had a great location, but won bike-friendly points for completely ignoring us after check-in.
Stage 5 Torrevieja – Cartagena
We awoke to clear skies, and once we had reassembled our kits, ate at a lovely bookstore-themed coffee shop. Then it was back on the road for another flat, tailwind-powered day of seeking the elusive bike paths along our route.
Between Alicante and Torrevieja, we found long (8 miles or more) stretches of paths, but today we found more segments than complete routes. These segments more or less followed our route, but with small side quests at each roundabout as the path diverted, crossed the road, then occasionally restarted on the other side of the roundabout. More than a few times, we diverted quite some distance from the defined route, and our bike computers yelled at us to get back on track, which we eventually did.
The main road from Torrevieja was a divided 2-lane highway with a very narrow shoulder, so even though we had uncountable deviations on the paths, they were better than the road itself. Eventually we found a signed bike route that generally headed in the right direction, and we followed it until the inevitable disappearance.
By then, the main route had become a local road, with broad shoulders, and we followed that the rest of the way to Cartagena.
Cartagena itself is very different than what we’d been seeing over the last several days. Gone were the gaudy tourist town towers, and we rode into what was clearly a place with an industrial past. Small mines dotted the eastern entry to the area, and we could see large cranes in the port from some distance away. Once settled into our apartment, we did a quick load of laundry and headed out. As I have noted elsewhere, careful planning of rentals that have a laundry machine can significantly lighten a load, and on this trip we had laundry available about every 2-3 days. Of course, laundromats are plentiful, but it is nice to have one in the unit. Don’t forget a clothesline, I have a 3-meter one that folds into a tiny pouch ans was very good to have along.
Cartagena dates back to its start as a Carthaginian port city, and boasts a history spanning 3 millennia. Up the hill from our place is the foundation of a castle, and on hillsides around the city there are ruins of fortress walls. None are well preserved like the Alhambra, but they still stand watch. We walked down to the waterfront, passing the bullring, deep in renovation.
The waterfront itself is beautiful and feels more like Malaga than Alicante, and the downtown core is updated in a style similar to Malaga. Marble tiles for the paving, endless tourist shops, restaurants, and ice cream stores, and well-restored facades make a very pretty city.
Cartagena doesn’t just fade away a few blocks from the waterfront. As we wandered after dinner, we went through a variety of neighborhoods, saw some excellent street art, and many 4-5 storey facades held in place with shoring as a new building was being constructed behind them.
There are definite signs of growth here, probably because of the overflowing tourism from up the coast, combined with the more charming and inviting feeling of the city itself.
We stayed at the Cartagena Flats apartment-hotel, which had remote check-in and spacious rooms, plus the laundry. Definitely bike-friendly.
Stage 6: Cartagena – Murcia
We stepped outside the apartment to hunt down some breakfast, and were surprised to find a steady, heavy drizzle greeting us. Sticking close to the buildings, we returned to the old city core and read several menus. None fit Mrs. MAMIL’s appetite, however, so she grabbed fresh fruit and went back to make a smoothie. She had bought a battery-powered Nutri-Bullet blender for the trip, and it was making some mornings much easier. The only challenge was that it required near constant charging whenever we got to our room for the night. We don’t know if the button was being pushed while it was packed or not.
The rain lifted slightly by the time we got on our bikes and headed northwest towards Murcia, but not by much. However, after an hour or so, we rode out from under it and into the previous day’s tailwind, except this time it was decidedly not in our favor. Payback, as they say, is a bitch.
After about 15 miles of flat, industrialized cropland on each side of the road, we finally started climbing a small ridge, topping out at our highest altitude of the trip – about 1100’. While the climb had been an easy, straight road at 3-4%, the descent was twisting and steep through a small canyon. After days of flat countryside with little visual interest, this was a welcome change, and we descended all the way into Murcia.
Our hotel was directly behind the Royal Casino.
Only a block away, the cathedral was open for a quick spin through.
We toured both and wandered the city core, finding a gluten-free bakery and stocking up on cake slices and rolls for Mrs. MAMIL’s breakfast and on-ride snacks. While having food intolerances is a challenge everywhere, we are finding methodology in Europe, and in many ways it’s easier than in the US. Over the last few years, we have also seen a noted uptick in gluten-friendly restaurants. This may be due to more being available as well as our improved understanding of how to seek them out.
At the hotel, as we rolled the bikes inside, we were told we could park them in a locked room in the basement. We went to our room with every intention of doing just that, but somehow never got it done. I think this qualifies the Hotel Cetina as bike-friendly.
Stage 7 Murcia to Novelda
Today’s ride was closer to the foothills and more interesting compared to the endless flats we had ridden along the beach cities. Much more interesting. Not that we were short on small backroads through industrial areas, mind you, but the geology and topography had changed.
We rolled along, and things were going along swimmingly until Mrs. MAMIL took a bee to the chest. She came to a quick and complete stop, skipping the warning, and I came close to moving her rear wheel to the front. The bee had got her smack in the sternum, and all that was left was a stinger. Fortunately, a short distance later, we stopped at a gas station that had a minimart, which in turn, had a 1kg bag of sodium bicarbonate.
Because really, what’s a gas station quickie-mart that doesn’t have baking soda by the pound sitting on the shelves? Honestly, if your local one doesn’t have this, you need a better gas station. She made a little slurry with water, applied it, had a snack, drank a Fanta, and we were back on the road. Nothing stops our rides, dammit.
Novelda is a town of about 30,000 people, and is quiet. Like really quiet. They roll the sidewalks up pretty early, and as far as I can tell, once morning rolls around, no one rolls them back out.
It does have a couple of interesting historical/archeological features, though, so we dutifully checked them out. And, truth be known, they were pretty cool. They include a church built with obvious Gaudi influences, and a 12th century triangular tower.
Our lodging for the night was a small apartment near the city center, but despite lots of WhatsApp messages, once we checked in online, there was no info on how to get the key. We stood outside, texting, looking around, and generally acting like confused tourists, until someone from the adjacent tourism office came out and asked if she could help. In fact, she definitely could, and not only let us in, but also stored our bikes in the office. So, bike friendly? Kinda. Sorta, not really but yeah. Also, this city is on the El Camino del Cid, (a project on my list) so there’s no shortage of people on bikes coming through, but in this case, the communication for the apartment definitely counted as sub-par.
Stage 8 Novelda – Alcoi
This was the hardest stage of the trip, with 40 miles and 3000’ of climbing. While Stage 1 was longer and flatter, it was hampered by mussels, and this one, by contrast, just had more climbing. Still, in spite of that, it was also much more scenic and interesting than the vast majority of the days leading up to it.
It was also bright and sunny, and since most of the days so far had been overcast, we got a chance to feel the heat a bit more. That said, however, it was still late April, and “heat” meant low ‘70s (F). So all things considered, pleasant temps for a ride.
We climbed up quickly, with an 1100’ ramp as a warmup, then rolled along a valley, still gaining at anywhere from 2-6%.The tailwinds were not with us as much as previous days, and in some sections of road, were an angry full crosswind. Eventually, however, we began a slight descent off the plateau.
The route we followed took a sharp turn to the right, and looped around to an old rail grade. The surface was like many Vias Verdes I’ve ridden, sort of a crushed granite sand, which is easily navigable on road tires. This carried for a hundred yards or so, straight into the entrance of a tunnel. The placard on the wall noted the tunnel was over 1,000m long, and it also descended at between 2-3 percent. 
As such, the kilometer went by quickly, and once we emerged, we had another section 900m long.
That too went by fast, as well as another 325m section. In short order, we had descended off the plateau and ridden 2.3km in these clean, well-lit, and cool tunnels. Our route swung off to the right, but had we continued, 8 more tunnels were along this Via Verde.
Dropping the last little bit into Alcoi, we were descending into a pretty valley with high cliff faces above. A deep riverbed ran though the center, with alternating park spaces and light industrial areas. A myriad of bridges crossed the river, and we headed west on one, then south along the main street of the Eixample district, before turning right towards another bridge and arriving at the hotel.
Alcoi is a bustling city of about 30,000 people, and it had just completed its spring festival commemorating the Christians pummeling the Moors. A bit of scenery and bleachers still remained, as well as more than a few hangovers. We wandered around the town, taking in some sights, and seeking dinner.
A quick bit of research (I really should do this ahead of time instead of after dinner in whatever city I’m in), I learned there are 2 national parks nearby, both with excellent riding. If we had more time, it would have been great to spend a few days in the city and explore the cycling. Since it didn’t happen this time, I have a convenient excuse to return.
Our hotel offered a meeting room off the lobby for our bikes, and locked them inside. Our room had a massive vestibule, and would have fit them easily, but I wasn’t going to argue with the front desk. I’d give this hotel a score of bike-friendly-ish.
Stage 9 Alcoi – Xativia
Mrs. MAMIL, prior to hauling herself out of bed, announced to me that the forecast was for heavy rain and flash floods. Pish-posh, I pished, selecting a different forecast that suited me better. The great thing about the internet is that you can always find something to substantiate your argument, regardless of how spurious it may be.
Still, though, the thought of 30 miles in the rain didn’t instill a great desire to hop right on the bike, so I dawdled, pretending to study the weather. Eventually I found a site that said we faced a 40% chance of rain. I also researched other options, including a local train which would take us to Xativia in a bit over 1-½ hours and for six bucks each.
I explained the options to her, bought the tickets, sought out a cafe con leche, and settled in to kill some time before we would ride the 10 minutes to the train station. At some point, however, I looked outside and saw the pavement was drying. “Fuck it,” I thought, “It’s clearing up enough we should just ride it.” I managed to rally Mrs. MAMIL and we both suited up before heading downstairs to collect the bikes from a small conference room off the lobby.
Before long, we were rolling out of town, on our way to the Muro of Alcoi. The computers showed this as an 1100’ climb, and it started easy enough at 4% for several hundred yards. After a while, of course, it steepened in a subtle way. Much like the frog slowly boiling, this climb became progressively steeper without obvious ramps.
The route paralleled the freeway until the crest, when it took a sudden and sharp turn to the left. The road surface degraded to crushed granite, then narrowed into singletrack. We were far enough in that neither of us wanted to argue with the bike computers, so we pushed forward. Looking at the map as well as Google Maps, it looked like the frontage road followed the general direction we wanted, dipping down into the valley before climbing straight back up to where we were.
So, onto a gravel track we headed. It’s not like either of us is a stranger to gravel, we’ve ridden loads of it and we are also avid mountain bikers. What we’re not used to is singletrack with loaded bikes, but we persevered for a quarter mile or so before hitting a long ramp of corrugated Spanish concrete. 
This stuff is feared, not because of its texture or substance, but because it signals the steepest roads available. Crosshatched like a boat ramp, when you find this surface, it will be a grindy climb. sure enough, up we went, at about 15%. Eventually we topped out, then had a few miles of descent on 2-track, which finally reconnected to actual pavement.
From here, it was a mere 20 miles to the next town, Xativa. As it turned out, today was May 1, a holiday, so traffic everywhere was light. So was availability of bathrooms at gas stations, but we managed to sort it out. The rain, which had failed to materialize or provide flooding, suddenly appeared over the last few miles into town. We arrived at the lodgings, with about 20 minutes of light drizzle on us, looking like soggy (not yet drowned) rats. While squinting at the phone and the signs on the walls, a woman appeared and asked my name. With a quick smile and a gesture to the left, our consternation about access to the apartment disappeared.
We parked the bikes in the lobby then took our bags upstairs. She even helped carry a few bags and told us to remove our shoes so we didn’t slip on the marble treads of the stairs. Bike friendly? Sure. People friendly? Absolutely.
Given that it was May Day, we expected restaurants to be closed, but 2 blocks away from our place a restaurant town was absolutely hopping. We walked down a busy, narrow street packed with people, and tables color-coded by restaurant. By pure dumb luck we sat down at a place that had gluten-free options, and as it turned out, a fantastic menu.
Unlike most people in Spain, we wanted dinner at 5:30 or 6, mainly because we were hungry after a long ride. Sometimes it can be hard to find a place opena this time of day,but the restaurant, without hesitation, provided. We ate well, I had a few beers and caught up on this drivel, and we were happy. Tomorrow was our last day on the bike, and it promised to be an easy one.
Xatavia is a nice city, seems to have good riding in the surrounding area, and the old town has a ton of restaurants and bakeries. Oh, and that singletrack over the pass? I have no idea how I routed it, because when I revisited the regional heat maps, it seems that only a few idiots have ridden that route, and I’m one of them.
Stage 10 Xativa – Valencia
The morning was quiet, and it took a bit of searching to track down a coffee and chocolate breakfast. It seemed the town was slightly hungover from May Day, with the market square completely empty after last night’s crowds.
Our ride today was easy, a downhill drift to flat terrain. We rolled out under low clouds, but never felt a drop of rain over the 40 miles to Valencia. Our pace was pretty high, much above the average we had held over the last few days, and there may well have been a tailwind involved. Overall, we had been lucky on the weather for the trip, and even with yesterday’s threat of rain and flash floods, we barely felt a drop rolling back to the start of our journey.
Rolling back into a big city meant long miles with multiple stoplights as we crossed the suburbs, but before too long we arrived at our appointed lodgings for the night. The previous 10 days of bookings had been excellent, but this particular property was determined to be a curve-wrecker. I should have picked up on early hints: check-in time was 4pm, but no one could let us in until 6:30, repeated texts in WhatsApp ignored the fact I had already registered and paid the deposit, and the property seemed more interested in texting excuses instead of solutions.
It’s best to spare you, dear reader, the gory details, but essentially there was No. Fucking. Way. we were sleeping here. Mrs. MAMIL said the place was too sketchy for a pimp to bring his hookers; I declined to ask her frame of reference on that one and focused on packing the bikes.
Which I accomplished in record time and fewer than 4 beers. So that’s good. Once the bikes were securely in their cases, I made quick work of the duffel bag, packing the bike travel stuff in nice and tight. This would stay closed until we got home. Then it was a quick walk to a taxi stand, where we could catch a ride to a remarkably expensive hotel that I booked at almost 10pm. We left the sketchy place with a full report back to booking.com, including 27 eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with a paragraph on the back. Our new hotel cost nearly 3 times as much, and at this point, i was completely out of rat’s asses and had none left to give. After checking in, I went into a nearby neighborhood and soothed my irritation at a kebab shop. There are few things a Turkish Pizza can’t cure.
The next day we would catch a train to Alicante, a cab to the airport, a flight to Munich, and eventually, a flight from Munich home. Basically, another epic travel session under the heading of surfing the airline system.
Epilogue and lessons learned
First, despite always feeling that I’m bringing more shit than I need, I think this time I was pretty close to the ideal. With 2 sets of street clothes, 3 ride kits, multiple sheets of detergent, and relatively mild weather, I nailed the clothing aspect. At the last minute, I left a layer with our stuff in Valencia, and packed my ~200-weight merino wool longsleeve shirt. This proved to be all the insulation I needed: it could be worn under the Gore rain shell, and with lows in the mid-60s, was enough to ward off the evening chill. Clothing: bingo.
Likewise, with the 1oz steel flask (something from a trade show tabletop giveaway), plus my top-off bleed vessel, I had ample brake fluid. While I’ve had excellent luck with the Formula brake line quick connectors, it seems that the set on both bikes (which are the two with the most travel use) have developed some aspect of leaking. I’ve yet to find any fluid spilled on the bike or in the case, but one day Mrs. MAMIL complained of a spongy front brake. I dug out the tool kit, and in a few fast minutes, did a top bleed on her brake, which was fine for the next 200 miles. So, tool kit: bingo.
The Ortlieb fork packs also worked very well, each 4.5 liter bag fitting a small packing cube nicely. Where I fucked up was not testing them before leaving. With the location of the 3-pack bosses on my fork, suddenly my bars would only turn about 40 degrees in each direction before the bag hit the downtube.
I had brought along some Wolftooth B-Rads so we could attach bags under the down tubes of our bikes, but given the favorable weather forecast I left them with the cases. Had I seen the issue earlier, the B-Rads would have let me mount the packs lower on the fork, meaning they would have passed below the downtube. Mrs MAMIL has a Columbus fork, which has the triple-bosses mounted forward and at an angle on the fork blades. Her generic 5 liter packs fit fine and don’t hit the downtube. Lesson: check your shit before leaving.
Routing: I could have lived a long, healthy, productive, and positive life without riding through the dead straight, flat, industrial district roads between Calpe and Torreveijo. That said, if I look at the bright side, it was excellent zone 2 training. Next time I will catch a train to Valencia from either Barcelona (3 hours) or Madrid (2 hours), drop my case and travel stuff in Valencia with Tralli, and then either ride or catch a local train to Xativa, Alcoi, et al. Also, although I’m not sure the riding outside of Cartagena is all that good, but the city is nice enough I’d like to spend another couple of days.
I’d also be fine skipping Benidorm and Alicante, if for nothing else, I don’t find bright pink British and German people in diminutive swimwear all that appealing. While it may be possible to make a good living selling aloe to people who radiate pain, the appeal of ‘pink squashies’ is lost on me. Plus, I’m not impressed by people celebrating bachelor(ette) parties in matching t-shirts and hangovers.
Overall, while I think the quality of riding on the North Coast is far superior, there is a load of potential in the inland part of our route. Green Spain has associated rainstorms (hence the “green” part), while the Costa Blanca has much drier weather. It’s also much hotter, so I don’t want to visit in summer. That said, late April/early May gave us highs in the low- to mid-70s and lows in the 60s. So based on that alone, the temperature was perfect.
That said, based on the heat maps and fact that the pros like to train in this region in winter, there is clearly excellent cycling to be found. It’s just not quite as easy to tap into as Girona or the Basque Country, but that does not diminish the potential. It’s a matter of planning, not inventory, and I expect to re-visit the region before too long.
