Gib – Milan Week 1: Finding my Feet

It’s a really really really strange feeling stepping off the plane in Gibraltar.

You’re on a runway bookended by two bodies of water (that took three shakey attempts for your pilot to land on), in the shadow of a vast imposing mountain (much bigger than you’d imagined), and watching crowds of people gather at two gates on each side of the runway waiting to cross (like a bizarre oversized train crossing).

It’s an even stranger feeling arriving alone, knowing that the next two months of planned cycling across Spain and France lie out ahead of you somewhat unknown, somewhat unprepared for, and impossible to properly anticipate or comprehend.

Fortunately this strange blend of trip anxiety and Gibraltan-UK-cosplay-oddness would be eased by some of the characters I’d meet. Those first days were definitely spent battling the stress and finding my feet, but they were also aided by some lovely people who helped me calm my soul and find the pedals.

One such character was Jorge, my neighbour by one seat during the 4hr flight over.

His introduction to me consisted of ordering a tomato juice and vodka from the attendants (huge vibe), keeping his feet shoe-free and comfortably close to me, talking to himself constantly by remarking on every minor thing that happened, and spraying a good amount of salvia through the gap in his denture-less teeth whilst he did.

Some might see a nightmare neighbour in that description but me this was a full bingo card of green lights. I knew that this man would have some tales to tell and probably needed very little to get him started…

I don’t remember how it began, but I spent a good chunk of that flight hearing how his life had been spent living around the world in various destinations, Scotland, New York, Miami etc, getting up to hijinks, sleeping in cinemas, and never staying put in one place.

All this mystery about his far flung life he enjoyed building up, nodding and smiling to my reactions only to go on to reveal that the he’d spent his years working as a butler for the wealthy and rich. Then, with a quiet wink and a tap on the shoulder he leaned in to whisper that he’d even worked for ‘her majesty’ at one point.

The saliva spraying, dry feet proximity, and mindless chattering didn’t seem like royal protocol to me but I still believe him on this. Truth or lie, it was a brilliant thing to say and I couldn’t stop smiling with Jorge for the rest of the flight.

After wishing me well in the passport queue and shaking my hand we had a brief second encounter urinating next to each other in the airport bathroom. He finished up first and then, recognising me whilst walking out, returning stall-ward to give me a mighty slap on the back whilst he chuckled to himself. They just don’t make them like that anymore!

The next day riding began… slowly.

Post flight I’d hastily assembled my bike wrong and found that I’d managed to double pack a few bulky items on an already over-stuffed bike.

This meant a delayed departure after a breakfast trip to Gibraltar’s Union Jack draped mega Morrisons’ and sweaty bike modding sesh at the hostel. Faff of faff done, I left to set off across Winston Churchill Avenue (🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧) at a hot and bothered 1pm, late and stressed.

The lady almost refused to take this picture – fist realisation that my Spanish was extremely limited

Stress was then elevated by my accidental attempt to illegally enter Spain and cycle straight through the boarder (missing the 3 or 4 stop signs). The guard called me back and then preceded to (quite fairly) ask me many questions in Spanish and broken English about my trip.

The bikers behind me seemed to grow impatient by the 4th or 5th minute of this, and after wondering whether I would actually get rejected on the basis on not having booked a return flight, he let me in. Great start.

First days on trips are always tetchy moments. Getting used the GPS again, finding that your gears are playing up, and wondering about your fitness when the first incline feels harder than you’d hoped.

Pushing through the brain noise, I arrived at my first milestone in Castillo de Castellar to see the island of Gibraltar far in the distance. Gorgeous, but oh my goodness, it’s hot. I was a drippy mess inhaling a magnum ice cream in the corner while tourists enjoyed the sophisticated hotel restaurants.

The descent down took me off the segregated cycleways and quiet roads I’d enjoyed onto the first true test of the bike – a very chunky gravel descent.

It was hairy but exhilarating. However, a few alterations had to be made to how I’d strapped down my luggage when I found my bike lock completely hanging off the back rubbing on my rear tyre… other than that minor issue, we were solid.

Sailing down the hill, I was joined by a Spanish Guardia civil 4×4 when I stopped for water. With them needing to slow right down for the dips and bumps of the road I overtook them between breaks, only to be caught up on the flat path at the bottom and honked by the driver.

I wasn’t in any trouble, but my back light had fallen off and they’d kindly spotted and brought it to me.

Enjoying the freedom of being off the road, I passed some Spanish mountain bikers with obligatory hand wave and ‘hola’, before spotting a different kind of rider clad in blue coming my way.

With a big smile across his face, Belgium Len slowed down as we approached and came to a stop, recognising similar bikes and assuming similar journeys.

Len asked if I was doing the Altravasur, an epic offroad route through southern spain which I’d taken from liberally on my own route planning.

Having come the other way and started in Valencia, Len was at the end of his month-long journey whilst mine had just begun.

His gear was worn by the road, he smelled equally road worn, and had an epic setup (Jones frame, fork and front bags; tyres that dwarfed mine, tailfin rear bags on a tumbleweed rack topped of with very sculpted brooks saddle – gosh gosh gosh). I felt like I was looking some future version of how I might come out the other end in a month’s time.

Talking about the route and his joys, Len’s love for all that he’d seen and done really helped set me at ease and reaffirm the reasons I’d decided to make this trip in the first place. A physical challenge yes, but also a way to see some spectacular parts of Spain, inaccessible by other means, and to do it on your own steam – the slow way.

We traded numbers, laughed and took some pictures before departing, where my route immediately turned to foul smelling mud and barbed undergrowth – not the kind of worldly pleasures Len had sold me on.

My final arrival Jimena de la frontera was epic. Castle on a rock, beautiful village below, it felt like a fantasy novel.

Being too tired to track back from my campsite down the road after a late arrival though, I settled in for a cold tinned Morrisons vegetable curry for dinner, auspicious first meal – 2/5.

The next few days would bring their own challenges. I won’t give them the same treatment as day one above, but each brought a little lesson or something new.

Crawling up a mountain pass, uncomfortably busy with traffic, late into the day 2 filled me with stress and cemented my desire to get away from cars, no matter how good the views.

Alternatively, the jaw dropping mountain pass via the Sierra de las Nieves the next day reminded me of exactly the kinds of road I was chasing. Car free, surrounded by nature, and (ideally) high up.

Learning to rest, not rush, and to take the journey in my own time saw me break some other days into smaller chunks, and take the odd day off – remembering that this is a holiday as well as a journey.

A nice reading spot under the bridge in Ronda

And I think somewhere between the fourth and fifth days on the bike (and between the painful saddle sores and sweat) I found the cycling slip into place and the legs feel strong. Glorious days of crossing hillsides and descrnding into villages for afternoon tapas became the routine for while and I loved it.