A WINTER RIDE IN SPAIN A motorcycle trip through Spain’s slightly untouched backcountry

By Ian Middleton

The winds were blowing savagely against my body as I fought to stay on the bike and maintain some control over its movements. It was the beginning of January and normally this time of year most people choose to leave their bikes tucked away in a dry garage. Normally, I would be no different, but I had decided to take my Maxim 650 and head for Spain's Mediterranean coast. I just hoped that I would make it there in one piece. With the weather the way it was, I was glad that I had been sensible enough to avoid going through France, and book passage on the ferry instead. It hadn't cost much. For about £100, I bought a one-way ticket for a P&O ferry, that included bike carriage and a cabin, to Bilbao. All I had to do was get to Portsmouth. That was easier said than done.

The worst part of the journey was the crossing from the motorway into Portsmouth. There was a vicious cross wind that slowed me to 25 mph and blew my bike into a forty-five degree angle. But I made it, and got safely onboard the ship. In the terminal I had befriended another biker who happened to have the same name as me. He had bought a brand new Honda for a trip to Pau, Southern France. Ian told me that he had ridden from Manchester that day. I had, up until that moment, felt quite proud of myself for battling the forces of nature for a distance of fifty miles. But after hearing about Ian's ride, I suddenly felt quite humble.

We passed the evening sipping ale in the ship's bar, listening to the worst cabaret duo I've ever heard, and ogling the barmaid as her ample breasts moved freely with the motion of the ship. Later that night, as the ship sailed on into the channel, I slept soundly unknowing that outside the winds were blowing at gale force 11. The next morning the ship was being tossed about on 30-foot waves, which made showering, or even walking, very difficult. I was constantly being slammed into the walls or thrown across the bathroom. I emerged looking more of a wreck than when I entered. Up above, people were queuing at the shop to buy travel sickness pills. Everything else was closed due to the fact that nothing would stay still. While all this was going on, I was worried about my bike ending up on the floor.

After three days bouncing about on the ocean, we finally arrived in Bilbao at midnight, a day late. We disembarked at 7.00 a.m. Thankfully, our bikes were still in one piece. Outside, it felt quite warm and the wind had dropped completely, so I didn't bother wrapping-up. I waved goodbye to Ian as he rode off towards France, and turned my bike southward. It was still dark and I had to find a petrol station.

As I got on the open-road, I started to shiver as the cold wind hit. At the petrol station I filled-up and then had to convince the attendant, in my best Spanish, that he had short-changed me. I got there in the end and continued onward, but not without additional clothing and thick socks. I wasn't properly kited-out for very cold weather. Basically because I couldn't afford it. I hoped that it wouldn't get much colder. I rode for three-hundred miles that day; through wide mountain passes and narrow twisty roads that seemed to have been designed for a motorbike. I also learnt that having a heavy backpack was not a good idea when riding on mountain roads. It helped me when I lent into the corners, but hindered when it came to straightening-up. It was infuriating.

I had taken the Autopista from Bilbao to Zaragoza and it cost me £20 to go a measly 150 miles. So I took the N232 from there onward. It wasn't that much slower, and was a lot more fun. The Autopista was long, straight and devoid of life. The only other people I saw were old English couples towing their caravans. I hit the Mediterranean coast at 3.00 p.m. and rode down to Peniscola where I spent the night. The town was lined with huge hotels that were all closed. I found a room in the only hotel that was open and had to pay £30. A lot of money on my budget. It was a nice room though, and I made sure that I got my money's worth by using every facility included.

I had this theory that the further south I rode, the warmer it would get. A stupid theory that proved to be wrong in the long run. I was now in the region of Valencia. The entire coastline was inundated with orange plantations. They lined each side of the road and I could have quite easily pulled over and pinched a few. Only I didn't fancy an irate Spaniard chasing me down the road with a shotgun. The view was perfect. To my left was the sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea, and to my right were the beautiful mountains that sheltered this part of the country, and were the main reason for the warm winter. Although, as soon as the sun went down, so did the temperature.

I rode for a further two days down the coastal road. The N340 runs virtually the entire length of the coast, stopping just short of Portugal. It breaks off at certain points, but for the most it stays by the coastline. With scenery like this I couldn't help but smile as I sped down the highway, passing all the slower traffic and generally feeling like the luckiest person alive. I headed for the Costa Blanca. Somehow I took a wrong turn and after about half an hour, realised I was going inland. I consulted the map and found a route back to the coast. I took the C320, which is the equivalent to our B-roads, only it was wider and in better condition. As I approached Denia, I rode through mile upon mile of high-rise hotels, and quite frankly it made me sick. After riding through such natural beauty, to see it ruined in this way was not something I wanted to look at. So I wound-up the throttle and continued southward to Calpe. This was a much nicer town. It had been commercialised, but no so much as the others.