Andalusia Memories

First times. They tend to carry a peculiar weight - a mix of anticipation, uncertainty, and quiet expectations. My first spring training trip to Spain brought the excitement of riding new roads, the allure of the unknown terrain, and, above all, the promise of the Southern sun. How little did I know of what awaited me.

The first climb lived up to my expectations: three hundred meters of steady ascent, a gentle six percent with a couple of short, steep ramps. I instantly fired up to test my legs. High cadence sent my heart racing, pumping blood to my legs with every beat and crank revolution. Smooth tarmac flowed beneath my wheels as I revelled in the landscape, Andalusian scenery unfolding turn by turn, I was feeling more and more ecstatic with every meter climbed. I was flying.

Later, the sleepy town of Almáchar greeted us with a cold drizzle. Although it wasn’t the first rain of the day, this time it came as a chilly send-off into the brutal Muro de Almáchar. The gradient pitched steeply into double digits. Mostly out of the saddle, I ground my way upward, disappearing into the cloud. Atop the col, the rain wasn’t heavy, just steady. The full overcast sky ensured there were no views.

On the descent, I followed Agata closely, while still giving myself more room than usual — with this much road spray, braking required very careful planning. At seven degrees Celsius, I was shivering uncontrollably every time I stopped pedalling. Spanish spring, it seemed, had decided to teach me a lesson, my expectations of warm Mediterranean spring rewritten by cold and rain. In the days to come, I would dress more carefully...

The climb was not difficult. The day was warm, the air soft, with blue skies stretching behind me over the sea. But ahead of me heavy, dark clouds loomed — exactly where I was headed. I was alone. In search of more volume and elevation, I had decided to leave the group for the day. My legs were not fresh, but not yet heavy either — that perfect middle ground for a day meant to empty the tank gently, one climb at a time.

When I neared the top, the first drops began to fall. With every minute, the rain intensified. I stopped to pull on overshoes, warmers, and my jacket. By the time I began the descent, the rain had turned to a downpour. The road was steep — around a 9% average — with water freely streaming across its entire surface. My brakes barely kept me from accelerating, carbon rims loudly protesting against the wet treatment, offering almost no stopping power. “I feel you,” I thought silently, sharing the rims’ resentment toward the endless water flooding me from both the sky and the road.

By the time I reached a small bus stop offering a sliver of shelter, my shoes were full of water despite the overshoes. Almáchar, it seemed, had once again sent me off with a cold farewell.

By the time I reached a small bus stop offering a sliver of shelter, my shoes were filled with water, despite the protective overshoes. Almáchar, it seemed, had once again sent me off with an unfriendly farewell. When the rain passed, I set out on the now-sunny road to El Borge and later toward Comares. At this point I didn't know that my socks would remain soaked for the rest of a six-hour ride, and that 40 kilometers later I would abandon my planned route entirely. But fate rewarded me for that surrender: a joyous, long and flowing, Alpine-line descent towards the sea.

Climbing out of Vélez-Málaga, I rolled unhurriedly, soaking in the soft warmth of the early afternoon sun. The road wound gently upward, each turn revealing a new patch of shimmering sea in the distance. I hopped between small groups that had naturally formed on the climb, joyfully chatting with everyone before drifting onward. This was the Spain we had all come for — and for which we had waited so long — sunlit, green, and generous. There was no rush, no pressure, only the simple, unguarded joy of cycling.

The descents were equally exhilarating: long, twisty, open. Flowing ribbons of tarmac carved deeply into clay-grey and olive-green slopes, they offered clear sightlines far down the road ahead, allowing to safely cutt the corners. The road invited speed, allowing to let off the brakes with effortless confidence, built by experience over the years.

Everything was perfect that day — the weather, the roads, the climbs, a the laughter. A café bombón and outrageously large waffles on the snow-white terrace of Frigiliana. Even the thirty kilometres of headwind on the way back from Nerja couldn’t dim the glow of the ride.

If only it hadn’t been the last day of the camp.