The road to Hoyo de Manzanares

I would never have known about this road if we hadn’t driven up it once as a short cut to a friend’s house. I remember it was Christmas and it was pitch dark, the car speeding along through unlit, nondescript countryside. Suddenly, we took a corner and were heading down a winding road to the bottom of a gorge. The way back up the other side twisted around the hillside in maze of hairpins, the car labouring in a low gear, its headlights swooping into the sky like searchlights every time we took a bend. Right then I knew I wanted to try this on a bike.

Last week I got a chance to ride it. The road runs between Colmenar Viejo and the village of Hoyo de Manzanares. Colmenar isn’t far from where we stay and a bike path runs the entire way to it.

It isn’t anything like the bike lanes we know in Ireland. Instead, this is like a small road, running alongside the dual carriageway. It’s wide enough to allow two groups of riders to pass eachother without having to get into single file. It’s only downside is that it isn’t cut out like the road beside it and instead follows the terrain. The steady drag up to Colmenar is thus punctuated by numerous short, sharp little hills.

A few kilometres outside Colmenar and I come to it. It’s exactly as I remember it. I fly down to the bottom, enjoying the breeze and the speed. A bridge crosses the bottom of the gorge and right beside it is an ancient older one, so narrow that it would be hard to get a horse and cart across.

On the other side I start the climb, one bend at a time. It’s one of those deceptive climbs that you think is shorter, but every time you round a bend there’s more. I had thought that once the hairpins ended, the climbing stopped, but I was wrong and it drags on upwards.

I’m crossing the Cuenca Alta del Manzanares. It’s a national park, the terrain dry but mostly wooded. The river I’ve just traversed is the Manzanares and it gives its name to a lot of places around here. It’s also the river that runs through Madrid. In reality it’s nothing more than a glorified stream, a source of amusement to some Madrileños when they compare their river to everyone else’s. ‘Cuenca’ means basin, so the park’s name means the high basin of the Manzanares.

The river also gives its name to the village I eventually reach, Hoyo de Manzanares. ‘Hoyo’ means hole, or in this case hollow. I stop on the main street and take a few swigs of water. If I keep going on this road I’ll hit a motorway. I’m sure that there’s a road I can take north to the town of Moralzarzal and do a loop to bring me home, but I hadn’t been able to find it on the map. Instead, I turn right around and go home the way I came.

Las Siete Revueltas

Just over two weeks from now this road will be closed for the penultimate stage of the Vuelta a España, a mountain time trial up the Puerto de Navacerrada. Chances are that Spain’s Alberto Contador will be stamping his authority on these slopes, climbing effortlessly to victory. Nothing illustrates the vast gulf between pro riders and Sunday morning cyclists like myself more than when you tackle the same terrain. I’m tentatively edging my way up this mountain. The thought of racing it is horrifying.

Straddling the road between Madrid and the ancient town of Segovia, the Navacerrada is the giant of the Sierra Guadarrama passes. The time trial will actually be the second occasion that this year’s Vuelta will pass over it. The preceding stage will see the race go over its southern side before heading on towards Segovia. I’d done that side before, on a freezing cold Stephen’s Day morning. The northern side is similar in terms of length and difficulty, but tends to be raced far more often because of its outstanding feature, Las Siete Revueltas (the seven switchbacks).

If you are based in Madrid, the northern side of the Navacerrada is tricky to get to. You either have to ride up the southern side first or take a very lengthy detour around. If I hadn’t had the opportunity to drive there, I doubt that I would have gotten around to it for a long time. The plan was that we load the bike in the car and drive to a forest park outside Segovia. While my family went off for a walk, I would tackle the Navacerrada and go on to the shorter Puerto de Cotos before heading back for a picnic.

Right from the start I feel terrible. I’ve had no chance to warm up. The lower slopes are fairly gentle and I try to spin in a low gear to get the legs going before I hit the steep sections. By the time the road rears up I’m still trying to get a rhythm going. My breathing is all off and it feels like I’m pedalling through mud. I hit the first switchback feeling very cranky, standing on the pedals, taking a right hand bend through its tightest angle. Around the corner and I sit down again, breath and spin. Only six more to go.

The next two are left hand bends, allowing me to take them on the outside of the road. I quickly realise the trick to this, stand and power through the bends, recover on the straight sections, which now don’t seem near as arduous as they appear.

For the stars of Spanish cycling, this is very much their home turf. Contador is from Pinto, a southern suburb of Madrid. This year’s Tour de France winner Carlos Sastre is from nearby Leganes. Both would have been riding up here long before the world ever heard of them. However, the rider I associate most with this mountain is Pedro Delgado, who is from Segovia. Any time Delgado would have trained in the mountains south of his home town, this is invariably the first climb he tackled.

I’m starting to enjoy myself now, particularly standing up through the right hand bends and seeing the road rear up above me. Every switchback brings you onto a another, higher platform, each tacked onto the mountainside like the steps of a stairs.

After the last one it is still another three kilometres to the top. It’s painted in huge letters in the middle of the road, another relic of recent races. The climb now seems tougher, but that is maybe because the road straightens out and you can see it stretching interminably out in front of you. I’m grinding away in my lowest gear, inching my way upwards.

“1KM 7,7%”. The markings indicate I’m on the final stretch, although I’m not sure if I really wanted to know that it would be another kilometre at that gradient. Another bend and I can see the cluster of buildings at the top. I flick up a gear and accelerate, shift up again and stand. At a roadside fountain a couple of hundred metres from the top another rider is filling his bottles and shouts something undistinguishable at me. And then the little brown sign appears, telling me that I’m here and I can stop pedalling.

There’s a ski station at the top. The last time I was here people were flying down the slopes. Today it is thirty degrees. I swing off to the left. For ten kilometres it’s a level stretch of road, then it falls downwards towards Rascafria. This is the Puerto de Cotos (Pass of the Hunting Grounds). I’m now going to do that most boring of exercises, ride down a pass just so I can ride up it again.

Wild horses graze beneath the ski slopes.

Hardly had I begun the descent, but the unbelievable happens. Thunder ricochets across the valley. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but the sky has begun to look very threatening. I’m going to have to cut this one short. Swinging around, I sprint up the short section I’d already descended and then fly along back to the Navacerrada. Just as I’m beginning the descent the rain starts.

I round a car that’s pulled in at the side of the road. A couple are frantically trying to get the hood up on their convertible. The fingers of my left hand are curled around the brake lever, constantly scrubbing out the speed. The fastest descent I’m going to ride this year and the road is like an ice rink.

Cars are edging cautiously past me. Ordinarily on a descent like this, you are the one passing traffic. A bike can take these corners far quicker than any car will. I’m taking no risks though. I’m paranoid that my back wheel will go out from beneath me on the sharp bends. I’m moving so slowly that I might as well stop to take photographs.

Down near the bottom the rain has stopped and the sun is back out. It’s only been raining for ten minutes, but I’m soaked to the skin and freezing cold. I pull into the park and my family have already started setting out the picnic. My father-in-law is making cocktails and I notice that he’s packed two different types of vermouth.

La Morcuera

Sweat from my brow is steadily dripping onto the road. Tiny lizards scamper across the cracked pavement into the parched bushes off the roadside. I look up again to the top of the pass, cut between two rocky outcrops and it appears no nearer. At least I think it’s the top. Experience has taught me never to make such assumptions. Unless you know the road, it’s always best to keep something in reserve just in case you round that corner and find another kilometre or two stretching up away from you. I shift down into a smaller cog and stand on the pedals, pushing myself on a bit to keep the pace up before shifting back again and resuming the long grinding slog up to the top of the Puerto de Morcuera.

Since I started riding in Spain, I had been hearing about the big passes in the Sierra Guadarrama mountains. Riding them quickly became an ambition. There’s nothing like them in Ireland. It took a while to work up the fitness and the nerve to tackle them. I eventually went up two of the big three at Christmas, the Puerto de Navacerrada and the Puerto de Canencia. I could have done the Morcuera too, but decided to save something for the summer.

Friday morning saw me set off to tackle it for the first time. To ride straight up and home again is a 90 kilometre affair but having done the ‘out and back’ thing at Christmas I wanted to push the boat out a bit and string together a couple of passes for a longer ride. I would start with the Morcuera, go on to the village of Rascafria on its other side and come home via the Canencia.

I manage to leave the house around half nine. I had planned on leaving earlier, but a late night put paid to that. On the road to Colmenar Viejo I’ve got that familiar tackiness in my mouth from last night’s festivities. I sip slowly from my bidons, hoping that this isn’t going to be a feature of the entire ride. After around 15 kilometres I swing off to the right for the road to Guadalix de la Sierra and the day’s first obstacle, the San Pedro pass. The first time I rode this pass, shortly after I took up cycling, I was totally fried. However, in the greater scheme of things it isn’t that tough . It drags up a bit at the start before evening out and then rising up again before the top.

With two monsters ahead of me it may seem a bit foolish to be throwing this one into the mix. However, it’s just a pimple on the profile of the ride and a good opportunity to shake out the legs and get the blood flowing before the main event.

From the top of the San Pedro, the viaduct for a new road stretches across the valley. Perched on the side of the mountains far beyond is Miraflores de la Sierra, which I’m going to be hitting before too long.

I’ve already decided not to push the pace too hard on this ride. With so much climbing to get through it doesn’t make sense to end up cooked on the side of a mountain somewhere for the sake of trying to achieve a fast time. Descents are the sole opportunity to make up a bit of time.

The drop down from the San Pedro is a great road, long well surfaced stretches combined with fast sweeping bends. I’m down in the drops, starting to pick up speed and then get spooked on the first corner. Something’s wrong. The front end of the bike is far twitchier than my own bike at home. I’m wondering why I haven’t noticed this till now. I got this bike at Christmas and rode it a lot then. Then again, there was snow on the high ground back then and I was taking it very easy on descents lest I come across a stray patch of ice. Although I’ve been out a few times on the bike since arriving here this time around, this is the first fast descent I’ve done. I ease back a bit. So much for flying down hills, at least until I’m used to the way this bike handles.

Further down hill and the road levels out a bit. I’m pushing a big gear and quickly roll into Guadalix de la Sierra, the first stop of the day. I drop into a small bar, get myself a can of coke, top up my bidons and then sit outside the town hall for a minute. Guadalix could be anywhere, an anonymous Castilian village. The town hall itself though provides a clue to its claim to fame. Anyone who has seen Berlanga’s classic comedy Bienvenido, Mr. Marshall will recognise the balcony from which the mayor of the fictional town of Villar del Río gives his speech.

Around a kilometre outside Guadalix the long climb up to the Morcuera starts. The gradients are gentle at first. Once you drop down into the small ring it’s possible to spin away in the middle cogs of the cassette.

Shortly after leaving Guadalix I take another look at the approaching mountains. High above Miraflores I spot it, the road cut into the side of the mountain. I do the mental calculations, recalling the maps I’d looked over before leaving. Yes, that must be it. That’s where I’m going.

The road gets steeper as you approach Miraflores but the pain doesn’t last too long. The final stretch is an incredibly steep hair pin wrapped around a plunging gorge, which really gets the blood going before you reach the village itself.

Although it’s only a few kilometres away from Guadalix, Miraflores is from a different world entirely. It’s a real mountain village. Steeply pitched roofs on the houses remind you that it gets the brunt of the winter snows. Every second person is driving a jeep.

The first time I rode up here was at Christmas, on my way up to the Canencia. I spent what seemed like an age, totally lost, trying to find my way through the warren of tiny streets. Eight months later and I know where the right road is.

Outside the town I settle into the rhythm of climbing again. The road rises up, the chain moves up the cogs until it settles into the biggest, which is where it is going to remain for most of the twelve remaining kilometres to the top.

While the Navacerrada is the higher of the big Sierra Guadarrama passes, the Morcuera has the reputation as the toughest. It features regularly on the Vuelta a España and is rated as a category one climb. The Navacerrada is nicely engineered road with long straight stretches and steady gradients. The Morcuera is a different beast. It twists and turns across the mountainside. The gradients kick up into the teens for long stretches, sapping your legs. It’s just steep enough that on the less severe stretches you don’t get much of a chance to recover without grinding to a halt.

Across the road, cyclists’ names are painted in huge white letters. There must have been a race here recently. Someone called Paco seems to have gotten the lion’s share of encouragement. When you see these kinds of markings from a car, you marvel at how great it is that Paco’s friends are giving him such encouragement. Seeing it from the bike makes you wonder how afraid Paco must have been of the Morcuera to need this, his name painted all over the road as if to ward off evil.

I hear the click of gears behind me. It’s another rider. The roads around Madrid are littered with cyclists, but higher up in the mountains you tend to see less. I’d already passed a guy further down the mountain, struggling away on a mountain bike. I didn’t envy him. This rider moves slowly past me, nodding in greeting. I’m half tempted to jump on his wheel, even though he’s about half the size of me, a real climber. I’m reminded of the Joker’s line in Batman. We cyclists are the same. We’re like dogs chasing cars.

The sweat drips on the road. Every time I look up to the top it doesn’t seem any nearer. The road deceives you. Turn a corner and you find yourself veering off in another direction. At least I think it’s the top.

And then it comes. I see that I’ve a clear run up to that spot I’ve been looking up at all day. No more bends. I stand up, shift up a gear and push the pace. It’s amazing the second wind you get when you know the end is near.

Wind blows through the gap at the top, instantly chilling me. My jersey was fully unzipped, but is nevertheless soaking wet. Down below, across the valley, you can pick out stretches of the road you’ve just come up.

The descent, the like climb before it, twists and turns. I find it hard to pick up any speed given the number of bends I’ve got to negotiate. The unfamiliar road and a twitchy bike mean I’m not taking any risks today. I notice the stillness. I’m plunging down into a valley that’s tucked between two big ridges of mountains. It’s got that feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world.

Unlike descents at home, which are over in a flash, this seems to go on for ever. I’m tucked into the drops, fingers curled around the brake levers and feeling slightly cramped from holding this position for so long. When the road levels out I gratefully move back onto the hoods and started spinning a big gear that drives me all the way into the picturesque village of Rascafria, the second stop of the day. I find a gas station outside the town, buy water and plenty of sugary treats, and sit in the shade. It’s easy to start feeling complacent, but I’m not even half way home yet.

The road from Rascafria is a beauty, a perfect black surface on which you simply glide along. I’m always amazed by this, how even the most remote roads in Spain are so well kept. If this were Wicklow they would be throwing loose chippings over it every few years to fill in the potholes.

Then the pain starts. I suffer with my feet, especially in the summer. Pain starts to shoot up from the bones beneath my toes. After experimenting with several pairs of shoes and different cleat positions I thought I’d managed to solve the problem for the most part. Today it is back with a vengeance.

The pain slows you down, tempting you to stop pedalling and freewheel off the inclines. As I breeze through Lozoya and past the Pinilla reservoir, I suddenly remember my gel insoles, which go a long way to alleviating the condition. I’d left them in Dublin, in another pair of shoes. No wonder I’m suffering so much.

Another twenty kilometres and its time to swing off to the right and take the road up to the day’s second big pass, the Puerto de Canencia. I’m starting to feel tired now, switching down into the smaller ring with a heavy heart. Even the lower slopes feel like a grind. About a third of the way up is the village of Canencia itself, another mountain town, but altogether quieter than Miraflores. Old men sit in the shade by the side of the street. Everyone stops talking and looks up at you as you pass. At least that’s what it feels like.

Outside Canencia the pass levels out and the road is nearly flat. I wasn’t expecting this and take the opportunity to make up some time, motoring along. The Canencia is a lovely pass to ride during the summer. It’s mostly wooded and you’re kept in the shade a lot of the time.

I’m flying and I know this is too good to be true. You can’t cheat a mountain. All the level ground here will be paid for later on. I round a hairpin and then it comes, a huge ramp upwards. Once again I dig in. Once again, names are painted across the road, warding off the evil.

This stretch is hard, twisting and turning, like a stairs up the side of the mountain. Eventually though, when I look up higher I can see the sky rather than more trees. The terrain begins to look familiar. I’d been up here at Christmas from the other side. I’m in a bigger gear now, standing on the pedals, going for the top. This is not the sprint for the line. This is the rush to make the pain end quicker.

From the top I’ve still got 35 kilometres to get home. The descent of the Canencia is faster than the Morcuera. A wider road and less hairpins mean you can sweep downhill at speed. The bends are just right, allowing you to whip around them at a hair raising pace without having to brake.

Before long I’m flying through Miraflores for the second time today and heading towards the town of Soto del Real, down a climb called La Cuesta de los Pobres (the Climb of the Poor). It’s aptly named. I had ridden it for the first time the day before and it didn’t amount to much.

After Soto I’m on familiar ground, on roads I’ve ridden dozens of times before. My bike computer tells me it’s now 37 degrees, another incentive to keep the pace up and get something of a cooling breeze. You tick off the landmarks, the roundabout, the signpost, the train station, the flyover. My feet are killing me. I want to cry out with the pain. The underpass, the warehouse, another bridge, the abandoned house. Almost there now.

Ride Profile