It's 12.42pm and I am currently sat on the balcony with my legs outstretched in front of me. I have a cold glass of chocolate milk (old habits die hard) on a small table to my left, and I can feel the warmth of the midday sun seeping into my bones, spreading a slow, soothing heat throughout my body. If I look up, I can see the hazy silhouette of mountains, and three paragliders circling their peaks, their bright white sails stark against the rich azure of the sky. To my right is a sparkling view of the sea framed between the narrow streets of Adeje, the town in which I've rented an apartment for the next three weeks.
For as long as I can remember I've loathed winter. The constant dreary grey, and the perpetual threat of drizzle. Every year I would tell myself to get out. To go overseas. To escape to warmer climates. And every year I would do nothing. I can't tell you why; perhaps a fear of the unknown, not knowing how to do it, how to make it work logistically or financially, or just generally being me and procrastinating on the things I really want to do in favour of those that I really don't.
But last year, everything changed. Part of me wants to believe it was the result of a year spent achieving the impossible and discovering a newfound belief in myself and the confidence to just do the thing. The other, more rational, part of me thinks it was probably just down to surviving yet another year around the sun; there's something pretty motivating about getting older that really helps kick your ass into gear.
So I did it. I found an Airbnb in Tenerife, booked my flights, packed my bike, my bikini, and my laptop, and spent three glorious weeks in the Spanish sunshine topping up my (overwhelming deficit of) vitamin D. Cerveza was drank, beaches were sat on, and mountains were climbed—and I was beaming the entire time.
And this year I decided to do it all again. In exactly the same month, in exactly the same town, in exactly the same Airbnb, and with exactly the same packing list. And you know what? Even though there’s excitement in novelty, there’s still delight in the familiar. There’s something comforting and reassuring and warm about returning to somewhere you already know. You don’t need to spend the time getting to grips with all of its quirks and nuances—the dog on the opposite balcony that barks at night, or the glacier pace of the supermarket cashier.
Instead, you can jump right in and start living it.
Día Uno
After approximately 8 hours of boozing (I wish I was joking), we touched down in Tenerife and joined the queue for a taxi. For those of you who haven’t been to Tenerife before, I would wholeheartedly recommend it as a winter destination, with or without a bike. As a part of the Canary Islands, located off the northwest coast of Africa, the island receives strong, direct sunlight all year-round, making it a fantastic place to enjoy temperatures in the mid-20s during the harshest (and darkest) months back home. It’s also bloody fantastic for riding a bike.
Although, a word of warning. It’s almost impossible to leave your accommodation without climbing a mountain (or two). It is exceptionally hilly. Which, I suppose, is to be expected when the entire island is practically a volcano. This was a humbling experience last year and a doubly humbling experience this year having taken a two-month hiatus from the bike. Everything is hard. There is no such thing as zone two. Flat doesn’t exist. You will always be out of breath. You will always be sweaty.
I am speaking from personal experience, of course. There are a bunch of people who are much fitter and stronger than I who can spin up 9% climbs whilst chatting about what they’re having for tea, but I am not one of them. Oh no. Me? I will be in my granny gear within seconds of leaving the front door, head down, breathing laboured. I will be the “rude Brit” who doesn’t respond to your polite questioning about my name or the weather or how long I’m staying here because I will be too busy fighting for my life.
This is pretty much what happened on day one when we decided to rebuild our bikes and head out towards Tamaimo. Which, by the way, includes a category 2 climb covering a distance of 5.8km with an average gradient of 7%. I think that’s what they call baptism by fire.
“Ok” I thought, as I powered up and over the first bump. It was a short kick that required a few hard turns on the pedals. I looked down at my Garmin. 350 watts. “Not too shabby“ I thought, thinking back to last year when it took at least two weeks of riding to put out the same numbers. “Maybe I’m going to be ok”.
News flash. I was not ok. As soon as the road kicked up and demanded any kind of continuous effort, I was floored. My breathing was all over the place and my heart rate was through the roof. How was I going to get through 5.8km of this? Every hairpin raised the gradient, and every downward stroke sent my lungs screaming for air. In return, all they were offered was a few wafts of warm breeze, which didn’t help with the rising temperature of my skin.
“You ok?” Sean called back from about 50 metres in front. He seemed to be cruising. All I could think about was how much breath I was going to need to use in order to reply. Instead I chose to stay silent, grinding the cranks and keeping my eyes focussed forwards. I may not be the strongest cyclist, but if there’s anything I can do it’s keep going.
And keep going I did. I pedalled and pushed and breathed and wheezed and after what felt like an inhumane amount of time, I finally glimpsed a road sign for Tamaimo. This meant that the climb was almost over and the sanctuary of a roadside cafe was within touching distance. Finally, the torture would end.
As is customary, as soon as coffees are ordered and calories are consumed, the plight of the climb is all but forgotten. The sun is shining, your legs are bare, and the faint smell of victory lingers. You can barely remember the fact that minutes earlier you were struggling to survive.
“How’d you find that?” comes the next question from Sean.
I take a bite of bruschetta and smile. “I’ve felt worse”.
Día Dos
It’s a Monday and for once I don’t hate it. Waking up to the sun cresting the mountains and the promise of another day of warmth is apparently all I need to stay sane. Whilst Sean heads out for another big day on the bike, I position my laptop in front of the window, take a sip of coffee, and log on to work. Sometimes something as simple as a change of environment can do wonders for your productivity. If that environment also comes with blue sky and a sea view, then all the better.
The day passes quickly in a blur of meetings and Slack messages. But I don’t feel stressed. Things that feel urgent and important and life-threatening back home don’t seem to phase me here. It’s a job. I’m doing it well. That’s all there is to it. I don’t need to carry the weight of the company’s success (or failure) on my shoulders.
I close my laptop at 5.30pm sharp and don’t give work a second thought. I’ve done my stint. Now it’s time for me. Pulling on my bibs, I flick through the route we have planned for this evening—a measly 20km with a monstrous 570m of elevation—and take a deep breath. This is probably going to hurt.
Thankfully, the route starts with a meaty chunk of downhill. This is refreshing, considering my earlier statements. I enjoy the breeze against my face as I freewheel down pristine tarmac roads and watch, mesmerised, as the sun slowly makes its way towards the ocean. Only a few more kilometres until the climb begins. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…
And then it’s go time.
This one is shorter and shallower, so I’m excited to see what I can do. I remember managing to hold about 170 watts on this same route last year (which is very good for me) so was faintly hopeful that I could do the same, or better.
I didn’t. Once again, up goes the heart rate, up goes the breathing, and down goes the confidence. “Why am I finding this so hard?” I kept repeating over and over and over and over. It’s times like this where I find it increasingly difficult to quieten the noise.
“I’ve just cycled 4,000km to the end of the world” I brood. “And now I can’t even climb a hill”. Spirals of self-doubt engulf me as I withdraw further and further inside my head. It’s hard to focus on the external beauty of the sunset when your internal world is caving in.
This something I still struggle with. Something I’m yet to figure out how to navigate. The battle between the person I think I should be and the person I actually am. I cycle ultras. I write about cycling ultras. I should be better at cycling.
And then the road flattens and my heart rate slows and the endorphins kick in and I am a badass.
Día tres
We start the morning a little differently. A local cafe, a round of cappuccinos, and two of the finest pastries you’ll ever see. I’m content to sit still as the world awakens and moves around me: the kids across the road boarding the bus to the local college, the group of policemen at the table opposite enjoying their last injection of caffeine before their shift begins, the growing humdrum of a town starting their day.
Another day at the laptop unfolds. More meetings. More slack messages. More breaks on the balcony to soak up the sunshine.
And finally, the chance to move.
My legs are tired, but I want nothing more than to be outside, breathing in the warm evening air as I watch another amber sun fall beneath the horizon.
This time it’s different. I have no expectations. No goals. No opinions. No shoulds.
I just want to ride.
The route we pick is 23km with over 800m of elevation. A beast. A monster.
It’s long, it’s challenging, it’s hard.
But I do it.
I reach the top and gaze out at the setting sun.
The air is still and the quiet is deafening.
“This” I think “is who I am”.
“This” I think “is who I should be”.
The girl that finds it hard but does it anyway. The girl who isn’t afraid to speak her truth. The girl who keeps going. The girl who chases adventure, even when it scares her. The girl who embraces the highs and the lows. The girl who knows that strength isn’t just about power, but resilience. The girl who rides not to prove anything to anyone, but because it makes her feel alive.
This isn’t the newsletter I planned to write, but it’s the one that happened. I obviously had a lot of big feelings that needed processing, and sometimes putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) is the best way for me to make sense of it all. Words have a way of revealing what we didn’t even realise we needed to say. So, here it is—raw, unfiltered, and honest.
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I love this and resonate with it so much! Winter is tough and escaping to somewhere warm to slice it up is heavenly!
Still haven't taken the bike to the Canary Islands but it's high up on my to-do list. Thanks for the good inspo.
We did Granguanche (not the race) last year and we loved every second of it. The weather is lovely and the ever changing scenery, incl El Teide, were just breathtaking.
Really enjoyed reading your story and I can’t wait to go back to the Canaries one day!