fbonard

Granada at night is quiet, empty. We build our bicycles on a sidewalk, in the very central passeo de la Bomba, eat a kebab and set off. It is just before 4 in the morning, a long day ahead, yet we feel the excitement of the departure, energy is released when a long-awaited moment finally arrives. The climb begins a stone's throw from the Alhambra, in a scented forest that leads onto the paths of Dehesa del Generalife Park.

Cycling at night on an unfamiliar road triggers primitive sensory mechanisms. Sight, smell, hearing perceive signals in a more precise, punctual, almost surprising way. The road climbs leaving the city lights behind, the temperature drops, the slope increases. Past the villages of Sudar and Quentar, the road surface becomes rougher and rougher, and the road climbs steeply and mercilessly. At times one is forced to get off the bike and push.

Dawn arrives at the end of the first major climb of the day. We come to a very white quarry that reflects the first rays of light, and we finally get to see the landscape around us. We have climbed to an altitude of 1400 meters above sea level, still have not passed anyone since we started, and in that moment we perhaps realize where we are and what we are doing. The light allows us to look each other in the face, exchange a nod as if to say "this is it, no turning back."

Nicola had been thinking about this trip for a long time. The idea of trying the bikepacking experience was in the back of his head. It was a hazy idea, born out of a desire to take a bike trip and document it, film it, photograph it. In the last two years we have been fortunate to work on a lot projects related to cycling, but we needed this idea to turn things around and, as is often the case, do something new.

And so one day we decided. We marked a date on the calendar and promised ourselves that we would be leaving on that day. No more words, but actions: putting ourselves in a new situation, learning how to handle it, and enjoying the unexpected, building new habits.

Habit in thinking outside the comfort zone. Habit in finding a solution. Habit in forcing oneself not to stop, to keep going, not to enjoy suffering but to prove to oneself that it can be done.

And so after the highway - the parking lot - the plane - the overnight transfer - the sidewalk - the scented forest - the rough path, here we go. The sun rises on day one of four, riding a bicycle, with all our belongings loaded into bags. A feeling of autonomy, of possibility, of freedom pervades us. And so the first real descent is a liberation, after nearly five hours of only positive elevation gain. The sun still low filters through the tree branches, the dusty ground kicks up as we pass, the brakes whistle.

I find a spot to photograph Nicola. He comes, brakes, and in an explosion of dust, falls. I know immediately that something is wrong. He stands silently in the center of the roadway, then stands up holding his left knee. 

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes."

The impact with a rock hidden under the dust has opened a deep wound in his leg. We try to keep calm and disinfect Nicola's battered knee, but it is clear that our rudimentary solutions are not sufficient. We make it downhill to the village of Purullena, and from there to the hospital in Guadix. 7 stitches and a recommendation to rest do not stop Nicola from continuing to our destination.

Very different and surprising landscapes follow one another. At first the road is white, surrounded by gullies and arid valleys; then in a few kilometers the terrain changes so that it feels like being on on a Kenyan safari, red mud and small shrubs all around; finally the last stretch unfolds into an open valley, with rolling hills lining the side. I turn back and Nicola struggles along, slowed by pain, but by now it is only a short distance to Gorafe. 

The village welcomes us in the form of a lady who is crossing the main road to throw out her garbage.

"Madam is this hotel yours?"

"Yes." 

"Is it open?"

"No."

"Is there any way to sleep somewhere here in the village?"

"If you stay just one night, that's fine."

Lying on the bed I watch Nicola dress his wound. I can see him aching from the pain and the thought that maybe it is better to stop, to accept the fact that it is not possible to continue this way. What do I do though, do I continue on my own? Do we modify the tour and shorten it drastically, maybe leaving a rest day?

We decide that the choices will be made tomorrow, over breakfast. That now, after 111 kilometers and 2400 meters of positive elevation gain, we do not have the strength and lucidity to do so. 

I open my eyes and immediately realize that Nicola is not ready to give up. He has arranged all his things on the bed and is putting them in the bags, a clue that lets me know our journey will not end today. We wait for the village cafe to open and have breakfast, admiring the mountains colored by the sunlight. The sky is clear blue.

The first kilometer is very hard, especially if you have just started, especially if you have just had breakfast. And, in Nicola's case, even harder, with a battered knee and 7 stitches that have yet to adjust to pedaling. One first reaches a small plateau dotted with fruit trees and then the mirador, from where one finally understands the extent and beauty of the Gorafe Desert.

The view is grand, breathtaking. Before us opens a maze of gullies, canyons and ravines, earth sculptures shaped by the erosive activity of water.

We waste time looking around, amazed, with the same feeling as when looking at a snowfall, or the sea. 

The desert makes you feel small, a tiny witness to an unchanged and immanent greatness.

And at the same time the desert makes you feel big, fills you with a new, primordial energy. In this swirling stillness unexplored sensations and instincts surface; ideas and insights that should not belong to us, or perhaps have always belonged to us. A sudden surge, a push. 

And then there is a long, gentle descent down a road that makes no sense to be, to exist in such a remote place. You are forced to look at the terrain but constantly want to distract yourself to admire the scenery. You end up in a narrow gorge, traversing a trail that follows the footprints of a prehistoric river. Looking back now, it was perhaps the most beautiful and scenic segment of the entire tour.

We leave so early that it is still dark, the air is crisp to say the least, and the miles from the previous days are making themselves felt this morning. I have on all the layers I can and it still doesn't seem to be enough, but I know that as soon as we leave the village we will find the climb that will take us into the heart of the Sierra de Baza Natural Park. With the nimblest gear I have at my disposal I tackle the first few hairpin bends, break my breath, and begin to raise my head. The birch forest gives way to a pine forest, and then, suddenly, after a bend, the sun. The previously white road has turned red, dusty. At an altitude of 2000 meters above sea level is the pass that divides Granada from Almeria, the mountain from the sea, the start from the finish. We celebrate the goal with a picnic breakfast prepared the night before, tostada with oil and jamon serrano, and then launch headlong downhill. 20 kilometers of asphalt, 1000 meters of negative elevation gain, and a road that seems designed for you to never brake. All in one breath and only one stop to see, at the end of it, the sea. 

We pass Escullar and join the A-92 highway at Dona Maria, skirt it for several kilometers and then keep to the right on a very long straight stretch that brings us to the village of Las Alcubillas, gateway to the Tabernas desert. There is a lone gentleman in the plaza, and somehow we realize that there are no cafés or restaurants open. Even the fountain is closed, replaced by a cistern parked under a large tree, which functions as drinking water supply for the inhabitants of this tiny village. We quickly finish the tostada we began at breakfast, and decide to face the desert head-on, without wasting time, as if we were to challenge it. Reverential fear and a desire to prove ourselves. 

We leave Fuente Santa behind, and take a single trail that climbs up the hill. The trail is narrow and in some sections very steep, and we proceed uncertain, unconvinced. To be honest, probably too tired to tackle it in the right mood, the one who is unconvinced is me, while Nicola, who created the route, maintains his convictions and proceeds stubbornly. After a few spots too steep, and others too technical, the trail softens and the desert changes shape: soft hills of white earth and shrubs surround us. We get off our bikes to take photos and enjoy such a beauty. The ground under our shoes is soft and crisp at the same time, a dry white soil from which shrubs inexplicably grow. The last short climb brings us to a pass from which we can admire the view. We are shaking our heads for the umpteenth time at a landscape that leaves us speechless.

The last day is a strange cocktail of emotions and sensations, and a lot of paved road which allows us to think, to retrace. Without stopping pedaling I think back to the night in Granada, the fear of not being able to embark on such a journey, and at the same time how simple it was to get here. The final flag is Cabo de Gata and then the sea. We ride right up to the beach, so as to clear any doubts. I think back to every single meter, every curve, and every hairpin bend, so clearly imprinted on my mind, probably because they have been experienced more intensely, they have been earned. The unusual situations we voluntarily decide to put ourselves in, like pedaling at night, remain imprinted on our minds. And those pure moments of total harmony with the road, when we feel free because we focus on the simplest, most elementary things.