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.