We think we’re still in the Province of Teruel. We’ve arrived at the intersection of our gravel trail, a paved minor road, and a two-lane regional road. The sign indicates Alcaniz is to the left on the regional road, which we confirm with the compass on our phone is northwest of us, where it should be.
Trouble is, the sign says it’s only six kilometers away. We’ve been riding our rented mountain bikes along rocky, washed-out trails for four hours since we left the Epsilon Alcaniz Hotel. Our GPS confirms we’ve already ridden almost triple that distance in a huge and convoluted circle to arrive at this intersection.
Uh-oh. This means we’ve still got at least 35 kms to go along the Via Verde Val de Zafan, if we can find it, to get to our hotel. Thanks to the recent hundred-year floods centered in Valencia, Spain, the trails are now bereft of directional signage, complicated by frequent washouts and mud slides.
The headlines recently shared on CBC, CNN and other media around the world sensationalized Valencia, where the staggering damage was accessible and easily photographed. They failed to mention that Teruel province, 200 deserted kilometers north, got clobbered too. Apparently the owner of the shop in Tortosa where we rented our bikes had watched the same news footage. When we emailed him a week before our trip, and asked if he was still operational and if the Via Verde was still passable, he responded, “Si, por aqui esta todo bien” – yes, everything is fine here.
We’ve never heard of the towns or villages identified on the sign pointing in the direction we need to ride. Google maps show tons of off-road biking and hiking trails, and numerous farm lanes everywhere scattered throughout the olive groves blanketing the arid hillsides, but none are identified. A plate of spaghetti dropped on a kitchen floor would have been equally informative.
All we know for certain is that we can’t ride on this main, shoulderless and guard-railed, twisting but immaculately paved, cycling-unfriendly road. We’d hired the bike shop owner’s father to transport us and our bikes up into the mountains surrounding Alcaniz from Tortosa, now our cycling destination back on the Mediterranean coast. He hit 144 kph on one short stretch of similar highway yesterday. Machismo inflamed to the boiling point—he’d lost his mind trying to catch a woman in a tiny Nissan sedan that had passed us and continued to pull away. The trucks and buses seemed content cruising at a modest 20 to 30 kph over the posted 90 kph limit.
The sun was dropping in the sky, promising darkness in two or three hours. Searching nervously up and down the highway for anything that might guide us or show us the way, barely visible in the distance was a sign pointing to a road headed east. Our phone appeared to confirm that there was indeed a tertiary road—paved or not was unclear but didn’t matter—which could take us seven kilometres to a village called Valdealgorfa. This was within a kilometre of the Via Verde we were searching for, and with a population of 662, might, just might, have a bus stop, café or casa for the night.
Attempting to ride the remaining distance to our pre-booked hotel in the daylight remaining was a non-starter. Losing the money we had prepaid was much less important than the risk of spending the cold and lonely night somewhere in Spain’s equivalent of the Australian Outback shivering next to our bikes.
A modestly terraced and poorly maintained olive grove bordered the highway from where we stood to the road sign. It was no Niagara peach or apple orchard, but we could make our way through its weeds and thistles to the sign without risking obliteration on the highway. With a glimmer of hope and half a plan, and backpacks bulging with everything needed for four days, my wife and I began to push our bikes through the olive trees.
The side road was seriously potholed but traffic free, at least for the first kilometre, which is where my back tire hissed itself flat.
This November cycling trip to the mountains and seashore of north-eastern Spain seemed like a wonderful idea when we put it together at home in September. Daily high temperatures of 18-20C would be absolutely perfect for cycling. Likewise, southern Catalonia had a historic average of just 4-6 days of rain in November.
We’re do-it-yourself travelers: plan our own routes in some detail with a dash of figure-it-out-when-we- get-there, book our own accommodation if we know where we’ll be each night, wing it if we don’t (a dependable advantage of avoiding mainstream tourist areas and being way, way off-season), and a healthy dose of “It always works out” attitude.
It would be an off-road, rail trail experience cycling Spain’s Via Verdes, or green streets. Most of the 135 of them scattered throughout Spain are resurfaced railway beds of fine gravel or occasional rough pavement. They are all at railway grade, meaning maximum two or three per cent climbs and descents as they wind through traditional and often authentic, tourist-free Spanish towns and villages.
Via Verde Val de Zafan was originally a railway designed to ship mining extracts and agricultural produce from the mountains and plateaus to the coast of Spain along the Ebro River valley. Our four-day ride on it through canyons and fertile valleys would essentially be downhill all the way. All in favour?
Oh, wait – where did I pack the tire patches and pump?
Part 1 of 4. Next week: In Valdealgorfa, three women from Newfoundland on e-bikes show us how to party on Via Verde Terra Alta, and we accidentally discover Diego’s outdoor bar on techno night, lighting up tiny Benifallet.