‘The only thing higher is the stars’
For pure emotion, try getting lost in the hills of south-east Spain
BACK IN 2015, wife Sara and I took an Aprilia Caponord Rally to Valencia for the final round of the Motogp season. It was a truly epic experience — our best-ever on two wheels. But it’s what happened after the chequered flag we dine out on the most.
We were recommended Albarracín as an overnight stop — a small, ancient, remote town seemingly hewn straight from the rock. As was habit at the time, I’d planned a too-long ride to the hotel. It was only 150 miles, but so indirect it’d take us just over four hours. I’d figured with the race over by 3pm, we’d be there for a late dinner.
Leaving the circuit at the same time as 89,999 other fans in 35°C heat, the Capo’ cooked itself, boiling over by the side of the road. Bike cooled but now bodies overheating, the first stretch of CV-35 — well-surfaced, open and flowing through vast plains — is mercifully easy-breezy. At Aras de los Olmos, we take a right onto the CV-355 and CV-363 through the Puebla de San Miguel Natural Park, a tight, twisting ribbon of tarmac with breath-taking views and dead-drops to the valley floor.
A game of survival
Riding through central Spain’s spectacular scenery in the failing glow of the evening sun is biking heaven. However, now, piloting our 400kg-plus mass will become a game of survival.
We’re flagged over by a passing motorist who is clearly offering a warning but we don’t know what he’s saying and politely move on. Suddenly, we’re high in the mountains, the road has turned to dust and dirt, the light is gone and it’s very cold. We’re alone in the middle of nothing and nowhere, the fuel light comes on and the nearest garage is 30km in the wrong direction. We pray there’s another on route (there was and the owner was just locking up but took pity on us and reopened!).
Big hugs
When we reach Albarracín seven hours after leaving Valencia, we can’t find the hotel. Google Maps says we’ve arrived but we’re in a car park at the foot of a cliff. I wave our booking confirmation at a friendly but clearly drunk and dishevelled local who guides us up steep, narrow, cobbled paths in his Mondeo(!) to where I think he plans to rob us. We stumble over the broken path to a hidden courtyard and our secret hotel. The only thing higher up is the stars. I hug him and give him 10 euros for more beer. Emotions cascading, we collapse on the bed and pass out in our kit... What a ride. What a place.