Text: David Everett | Photography: Tim Bardsley-Smith

Over the past three months, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll have noticed that we’ve published a ten-part travel series covering pretty much every corner of the cheese-loving nation of Switzerland. We’ve roamed from the lakeside of Ticino to the peak of the Matterhorn on a variety of bikes, from our beloved road bikes right through to sit-up-and-beg style e-bikes.

Shot back in September, the ‘Discovering Switzerland’ project was to be our most significant and ambitious to date.  In partnership with Tourism Switzerland and their regional bodies, we were tasked with showcasing not just the well-known cycling destinations of the country — such as the Furka Pass or the cobbled climb of the Gotthard Pass — but also its lesser-known gems. This included some regions that those who like to ride wouldn’t usually consider venturing to. It would take a month of filming for our team of seven on the ground, followed by a bunch of post-production to bring the project to fruition.

Going into the project, we knew things were going to be different to how we’d usually approach a Roadtripping feature.  The sheer scale and extent of the production were far grander than we’d ever tackled.  Tourism Switzerland wanted something that would appeal not just to the usual CyclingTips reader but all branches of the cycling family tree — from mountain bike riders through to those who may just borrow a town hire bike. All the bases needed to be covered.

I can hear you now: you’re thinking “Wow! A month of riding your bike in Switzerland, lovely stuff!” — and I’m not going to say it wasn’t lovely, as that would be a downright lie.

Spending a month filming in dream cycling landscapes has to be appreciated for what it is —  a job that many would swiftly swap their normal day jobs for. Even when you factor in a tight itinerary, a client to keep happy, and no second chances to head back and do reshoots.

We’d be changing locations on a daily basis, dealing with whatever the weather would throw at us (and boy did we get some weather).  A full on adventure discovering places with huge miles in the legs it wouldn’t quite be — the ‘chamois time/ride time’ balance would fall heavily on the ‘chamois time’ side of the spectrum.  Instead, we’d be capturing the scenic highlights that the guides for each area would word us up on each morning or evening. Short stretches of road would be ridden and re-ridden, and camera angles changed. Clouds and wind would be patiently waited upon until the light was just right. Drones would be sent up — and on several occasions spectacularly and unhappily downed.

And then there was the food: quality local food… huge portions of local quality food… huge portions of local quality food with extra cheese on. Day after day, it would be forced upon us by welcoming local tourist guides. We’d not want to upset them or seem rude by telling them that cheese for the third time that day after three weeks just wasn’t quite what we desired at that moment. The cycling clothing soon started to feel that little tighter.

Yep, there were challenges — some expected, others not quite so.

As for the crew: it consisted of four guys from Sydney — Mikki, Mitch, Oli and Josh from My Media Sydney, a filming and production company. They were all young, keen and with the skills to capture the best of Switzerland and us, but also most certainly not from the cycling world. Then there was Tim Bardsley-Smith, a long-time CyclingTips collaborator; he’d be wielding his camera, snapping the stills in his impressively unique style and generally trying to keep the show on the road.  

The final two pieces of the jigsaw were Keir and me. Keir’s originally from Canada, but now resides in Holland. Wade had met and befriended Keir at last year’s Taiwan KOM and thought he was a perfect match for the project. He looked good on a bike, and could be away from home for a month. And then there was me. A Canadian and a bloke from the north of England, two accents perfectly fitted for an international presenting job! We’d both have plenty of opportunity to work on our ‘posh telephone voices’ over the month’s filming.

We feel the hard work paid off. There’s been a ton of grafting over the past three months to finally bring the project alive — not just hard work from the team that was on the ground, but from the local guides in Switzerland to Iain back in the Melbourne office who brought all the content together and produced the series.

We feel that it’s well worth spending some of your valuable time checking out. There are words (luckily from Keir, not me — I’m no wordsmith), moving images and photos… something for everyone.

And from behind the scenes, these are the warts and all vlogs — from an epic month of bikes, mountains, crashes, posh hotels and cheese. Oh, the copious, copious amounts of cheese!

Not seen the actual series? Visit the Discovering Switzerland landing page to catch up on all ten episodes.

This piece is brought to you in partnership with Scott and Oakley. Find out more about our sponsored content policies here.

Text: Dan Bonello | Photography: Tim Bardsley-Smith | Videography: Saint Street Video Production

The lawn at our AirBNB in Opotiki was the perfect teaser to just how green the North Island of New Zealand really is.

Where the tarmac ended and the gravel began on day one of our adventure.

Motu Road, a stretch famous for more than just cycling. Eurosport list Colin McRae’s 1991 victory of the Rally New Zealand as one of the top ten highlights of his driving career.

Most of the climbing on day one came in one solid stretch from sea level all the way up to 900m.

The clouds had loomed all day – and we had even ridden into them – before they eventually conspired to dump a huge amount of water on us.

Road porn.

Sometimes, it is hard to comprehend just how dense the forest is until you’re deep in it.

Does it get any more Kiwi than this? Kumera fries to accompany our fish and chips. 

Rolling through the rolling hills.

Almost as iconically New Zealand as the fish ‘n chips we just inhaled.

The sea cliffs to the west of Gisborne were a highlight of the stunning scenery we encountered on day one. 

The pine forests around Gisborne made for a distinct lack of autumnal tones. 

Our second day’s riding featured a jawdropping procession of rolling hills, impossibly green fields, and perfect sunshine. But that was nothing on what was awaiting us at the end.

Based on a small amount of personal research and a larger amount of anecdotal evidence from Marcus Enno and Simon James, Nick and I were expecting the scenic highlight of the trip to be served up to us when we reached Lake Waikaremoana at the end of day two. Our expectations were duly met. Although it may seem like a somewhat insignificant body of water when compared to Lake Taupo on a map, the ‘sea of rippling water’ (as its name translates from the Maori) offered not only stunning views but champagne riding conditions on a road that sees its fair share of rental cars.

While the gravel roads were what we were came to New Zealand in search of, the sealed roads didn’t ride much easier. 

This country makes for hardened riders.

We went looking for a place to recreate that Windows 1998 background. We found it.

Following the river usually indicates following an elevation line… more or less.

If you don’t yet have a gravel bike in your quiver, this adventure shows you why it’s something to consider.

Spoiler alert: more hills ahead.

There is so much moving water in New Zealand that it is never too far between bridges.

Dropping the hammer. 

Day two offered a seemingly endless procession of spectacular and lush farmland. 

Climbing into the haze of a perfect afternoon. 

The gravel roads are beautifully looked after here as they are frequented by local traffic.

As the sun rose on day three, we were treated to repeated glimpses of the lake as we traversed its perimeter for the first couple of hours of the day and up to the eventual highest elevation of the trip. Due to the lack of reception and wifi at our eco cabin on the shores of the lake, I was assuming a mostly downhill profile for the day. I was far from correct. Nick was polite to not remind me of this weak promise.

When sketching together the route for our trip, the finishing point had originally been set as the unfortunately scented town of Rotorua – one of the most popular tourist attractions for visitors to the North Island – but after realising that we could unclip from our pedals and immerse ourselves in the naturally warm waters of Kerosene Creek it was a no brainer to end an amazing three days of riding in this more rewarding fashion.

While we had to cover increasingly longer miles on each day of our adventure, it still feels like we just scratched the surface of the secluded and seductive riding that the North Island has to offer. One look at the map and my eyes still light up, drawn to the tantalising green stretches that I know hide kilometres on end of unforgettable riding. A revisit is only inevitable.

We started day three with a long gravel climb to be rewarded with views of Lake Waikaremoana.

Well worth the early alarm. 

Stunning, secluded bridge overlooking waterfall surrounded by lush rainforest? Not entirely uncommon in these parts.

82km of gravel roads for breakfast.

For our photographer’s purposes, some conveniently missing railings. 

It stubbornly refused to completely warm up on our third day, resigning us to leg warmers and long sleeves.

Here we go again…

Golden glow on the approach to Kerosene Creek.

Making mates with some cheeky locals.

Basking in the warmth of Kerosene Creek, and the accomplishment of three days gainfully spent.

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Text: James Huang | Photography: Caley Fretz | Video: Mat Barlow

Sometimes you just need to get away and ride your bike somewhere new.

Someplace you’ve never been.

Somewhere you’ve maybe heard about, but never visited before.

A region you’ve seen in pictures and always longed to see in person.

That was the mindset Caley and I had when we decided to step out of our usual comfort zone, and fly off (with bikes in tow) to the vast expanses of the Idaho countryside. It’s not that our home terrain isn’t worthy — Boulder, Colorado has its reputation as a cycling mecca for good reason — but both of us have lived here for quite a while, and even with road, gravel, and mountain bikes at our disposal, you eventually get to the point where you’ve ridden everything nearby enough times that even the extraordinary starts to feel a little mundane.

It was time to add a little bit of spark to our pedaling again.

Champion endurance mountain-bike racer and four-time Leadville 100 winner Rebecca Rusch started Rebecca’s Private Idaho in 2012, partly as a way to bring the cycling community together, but also as a way to showcase to the world the amazing place she calls home. Only about 3,000 people live year-round in Ketchum, Idaho, but it’s difficult to see why that figure isn’t a lot higher. Ironically, the town’s original name was Leadville when it was founded in 1880.

The surrounding area is even more sparsely populated, and criss-crossed with the sort of idyllic dirt roads you usually only see in postcards. Cattle and horses seem to outnumber people by ten-to-one, and the only things that seem to be in greater abundance are sunshine, blue skies, and roads we hadn’t ridden before.

In other words, it sounded like the recipe for a perfect weekend of riding.

And as it turns out, it was everything we had hoped it would be, and then some.

None of that would have happened had we just stayed home and rode the same roads and trails as usual, though. The total time away was barely two days, and while we came back from the somewhat frantic weekend physically tired, we were also mentally and emotionally recharged, our hearts and heads full from the days’ adventures, and ready to tackle our familiar terrain with renewed vigor and appreciation.

Home may be where the heart is, but the world is big and vast, and there’s no better way to see it than by bicycle.

“It seems that the more places I see and experience, the bigger I realize the world to be,” said the late Anthony Bourdain. “The more I become aware of, the more I realize how relatively little I know of it, how many places I have still to go, how much more there is to learn. Maybe that’s enlightenment enough — to know that there is no final resting place of the mind, no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom, at least for me, means realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.”

So, then, the question perhaps shouldn’t be, “Where are we going to ride today?”, but rather, “Where are we going to go to ride tomorrow?”

This piece is brought to you in partnership with Scott. Find out more about our sponsored content policies here.

Text: Dan Bonello | Photography: Tim Bardsley-Smith

Sydney can be an unforgiving place for everybody.

The Irish tourists get hammered by the sun, the taxi drivers get shafted by Uber and the party animals have been locked out of their favourite venues and left with a casino as entertainment.

However, even with all of this hardship, you could still make a convincing argument that it’s cyclists that have it the worst in Sydney. If a bike path is not getting torn up, ‘Operation Pedro’ is in effect and you feel like you are dodging a $700 fine for not having a bell on your ten speed. By the time you add traffic that feels like it could rival the world’s busiest cities, you soon enough have an environment that makes it feel like you are playing with fire every time you roll out of the driveway.

It is this daily exposure to Sydney’s mayhem that has forced me to open Google Maps and Bookings.com and plan ‘micro adventures’ to take in some truly enjoyable riding, on a shoe-string budget and without needing a huge amount of planning.

If you have a gravel bike, then that is fantastic: the options and locations are numerous. However, if you are wanting to stay on your road bike, things can be a little more limited. To the south, we have the Royal National Park and beyond. Some spectacular riding can be enjoyed in this area and will no doubt feature in the 2022 UCI Road World Championships, but you are always riding roads that connect towns of significant populations, so it’s never dead quiet. To the west and into the Blue Mountains, this pattern is repeated. You can too easily find yourself linking sublime sectors with country roads where the limit is 80km/h and the shoulder of the road looks hand-drawn at best.

Then we come around to the north and north-west of the city’s limits. It is in this area that you will find a geography and population density similar to that of the north-eastern reaches of Melbourne. Small towns are connected with scarcely used back roads. The terrain is rugged, so the farms in the area are small and the speed limits are low(er). For our overnight adventure we chose to add Sydney’s train system into the equation. An express train from Central Station soon delivered us to Berowra Station and onto the doorstep of 360km of champagne cycling, over two days.

We chose to break our journey in a small town called Broke. Broke is situated at the western end of the Hunter Valley, but bears little resemblance to the manicured green of New South Wales’ most prolific wine growing region. It is a modest little town with the exact right amount of options for both food and accomodation – one.

Even if you don’t face the daily struggles that a Sydney cyclist must face, I encourage you to crack open your laptop, spend some time on Google Maps and plan your next adventure. Your home roads are not going anywhere.

Unless your home roads are a bike path in Sydney.

To check out Dan and Nick’s route, see here.

Nick Norden

There’s a place where mountains topped with ghostly forests tumble down to impossibly green fields, where red dirt tracks weave through pine plantations, where crystal lakes reflect the stony peaks looming above them. An Australian cycling paradise? Pretty close.

Draped over this landscape is a network of roads that feel made for riding on. Dotted along those roads, towns that offer good coffee, great local beer and wine, and outstanding food. It’s a place that quickly makes you feel at home, or wish that home was more like it.

Last year, when we visited Victoria’s High Country for a few days’ riding, it was its usual stunning self. We tackled four out of the 7 Peaks, thoroughly cooked ourselves on Mount Hotham, got unceremoniously dropped by Marianne Vos on the climb to Falls Creek (OK, that was just me) and returned to Melbourne happily worn out.

Having experienced the unique pleasure and pain of those big climbs, we wanted to broaden our knowledge of the region. When the High Country reeled us back for a return visit, we arrived with a simple goal: stitch together new roads, see new places, kick up some dust and knock back some beers.

In the bottom right corner of mainland Australia, in Victoria’s north-east, the High Country region covers a lot of ground: from south of Mansfield up to the Murray River, from Benalla over into the wilds east of Bogong. The central pocket, comprising the mountains and towns scattered through the Kiewa and Ovens Valleys, has many of the region’s most iconic sights, but far from its only attractions.

Wangaratta, a cathedral city at the junction of the Ovens and King Rivers, is best known in some circles (…mine) as the childhood home of Nick Cave, Australian rock music’s Prince of Darkness. It also houses a pretty good brewery or two, a decent bike-themed cafe and was where our journey into lesser-known parts of the High Country would kick off.

The destination: Beechworth. The route? Made it up as we went.

Eldorado had an intriguing town name and was at the end of an alluringly wiggly white line called Woolshed Road that wormed its way up toward Beechworth. Just out of town, the road turned to gravel and dove into Chiltern-Mt Pilot National Park. Over river crossings and between rocky outcrops, it slowly revealed itself as 25km of the kind of riding that justifies a three hour drive from the big smoke.

We popped out at Woolshed Falls, which cascades 35m down a rock-face into a narrow gorge at its base. Appropriately awestruck and reeled in by a date with pizza and beer at Bridge Road Brewers, we powered through the final climb up to Beechworth, as the setting sun bathed us in dusty light.

Beechworth is a town that’s been part of some history over the years.

You’re reminded of it when you glimpse the asylum eerily perched on the hill overlooking the town; you’re reminded of it as you roll past the old courthouse and down Camp Street, flanked by buildings that have been there since the world was still sepia.

Beechworth hasn’t rested on its past glories, though. It’s home to an entrepreneurial younger generation who’ve started breweries, founded cafes and even opened tiny bike shops in the walls of the old Beechworth Jail. It makes for an appealing place for a visit, and with the right amount of Bling IPA downed and the right view off the plateau at the end of a long day, you may find yourself daydreaming about how to turn that visit into a more permanent stay. Or so I’ve heard.

Breaking from Beechworth’s spell with an early-morning coffee at Peddlar, we rolled out to Stanley, ever so gently uphill – all the better to enjoy the 10km long descent of Myrtleford-Stanley Road. The middle section in particular – which for 3km of its length drops at about 10% or so through pristine forest with jawdropping views of Mount Buffalo – is a giddy, life-affirming joy.

As the road flattened and we set a course for Mount Beauty, a pair of wedgetails performed lazy pirouettes over the plantations. It was that kind of a perfect day: good company and good weather, and filled with immaculate snapshots, like Carrolls Road – widescreen beauty on a grand scale – and Happy Valley Road, and Rosewhite Gap.

We took what is ordinarily a lesser-used back route to the Kiewa Valley, bypassing Bright and Tawonga Gap, but for a generation of Australian road cyclists it’s most familiar from Tour of Bright’s second stage. It dips and rolls under enormous skies until you begin the steady climb of Rosewhite Gap and speed down the silky, fast descent on the other side.

Mount Beauty, nestled at the end of the valley under Mount Bogong and Falls Creek, is tiny but punches above its weight on a number of important metrics. They are as follows: excellent bakery, outstanding MTB scene (complete with schoolkids commuting on trick duallies), friendly brewery, and lucrative meat raffle at the local pub.

That makes for a pretty compelling Friday evening for a gaggle of weary cyclists, no matter which way you dice it.

Tawonga Gap is something of a gateway drug to the joy of climbing. As a regular fixture of the Great Vic Bike Ride, countless schoolkids have pitted themselves against its slopes. I should know: half a lifetime ago, I was one of them.

It’s not a 30km bruiser like Falls Creek behind it or Hotham over it, but it’s consistent and picturesque and all the things that make for a nice climb. Tackled first thing, as the sun peeks its head over Bogong on the other side of the valley and casts your shadow as a giant on the road, Tawonga Gap is glorious. 

And Bright, at the base of Tawonga’s ripping descent, is just as magnificent, and then a little bit more. Excellent coffee, food, beer and wine is just the beginning of this beautiful town’s allure; the fact that it’s such a gracious and welcoming host to the cycling community underlines it. There are many highlights, but for some recommendations to kick you off: Tomahawks offers killer burgers, Ginger Baker is Bright’s best summer al-fresco experience overlooking the family waterpark on the banks of the Ovens River, and Bright Brewery is a key supporter of local cycling and a social hub of the town.

This time, however, we couldn’t tarry long, and after a coffee (and, OK, another one) at Sixpence, we made tracks for Myrtleford and beyond. You see, we’d spotted Lake Buffalo on a map, and from the topography and the surrounds figured it’d be worth a visit.

We were right. On a still day, with barely a ripple on the water, the lake is a mirror set amongst mountains.

Not done for the day, we took a moment to zoom in on Google Maps to try to find a way through the mysterious web of logging roads linking through to the King Valley. It was the perfect decision – as we bounced along, trying to pick the smoothest line through the rough gravel, we found the dusty moment of nirvana we’d come to the region craving.

Road bike appropriate? Nah, not always. Enough to make you fall in love with your bike all over again? Absolutely.

The King Valley’s a bit of a sleeper. Beneficiary of a wave of Italian migration after WW2, it was a major growing area first for tobacco, and then vineyards. With producers like Sam Miranda and Brown Brothers to the valley’s north and Dal Zotto and Pizzini to its south, the region has finally landed on the map for wine buffs.

On our last visit, we’d stopped by the King Valley for a brief spell, but had a hunch that there was plenty more to see. This time we were determined to broaden our view. After a beer or three at King River Brewing, a meal worth travelling for at Whitfield’s Mountain View Hotel and a dreamless sleep in Cheshunt, we rose early for the ride out to Lake William Hovell.

As dawn slowly poured over the ridge and washed the King Valley in gold, with the lake’s clear water gently lapping at our tyres, we paused for a moment and considered the journey we’d taken.

We’d punched out more than enough kilometres to be content, but we’d come away with more than just a few days of quality riding: our trip had reinforced the quality of the riding in the High Country.

For cyclists, it’s a region that’s inextricably linked to its most famous climbs, and while that alone makes it spectacular, it also does the region a massive disservice. In the King Valley, we found amazing hospitality and stunning car-free roads. In the Kiewa, enormous skies and tranquility. Just out of Beechworth, a dipping and dusty gravel road to a waterfall.

There’s plenty to love in the High Country. But after countless visits over the years, on this trip there was a more striking realisation: we’d barely scratched the surface.

This piece is brought to you in partnership with Costa Brava Tourism, Fuji and Mavic.
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Text: Dave Everett & Brodie Chapman | Video: Phil Golston | Photography: Brazo de Hierro

Over two trips in 2018, CyclingTips’ Roadtripping veteran Dave Everett took to the roads of Costa Brava, hoping to learn why this region has become a leading destination for cyclists worldwide and home for much of the pro peloton. For the first of those trips, he was accompanied by recently-arrived local/first year pro Brodie Chapman – a trip that was so inspiring that he went back again, this time with a videographer.

From lung-busting mountains to cafes created by and for the cycling fraternity, from coastlines to sunflower fields, our wide-eyed journey along these new roads meant nothing was taken for granted.

At last, we can confirm that the mythical city of cyclists – Girona – does indeed exist and is everything and more it’s cracked up to be.

The proudly Catalan township of Girona – located 99 kilometres north-east of Catalunya’s capital, Barcelona – has evolved into a ‘home base’ for much of the professional peloton. It’s easy to see why: for many non-European riders, the municipality is buzzing with a sense of community and comfort for the long season away from home.  

Part of Girona’s appeal for professionals and visitors alike is its proximity to a major international airport, Barcelona El Prat. For intra-European travel there is also the smaller Girona-Costa Brava airport just 10km from the town centre, serviced by major European airlines including RyanAir. And happily, staff here are well-accustomed to a steady stream of cyclists.

Logistics aside, the unique appeal of the area lies in the assortment of glorious riding available immediately from the centre of town.

Zoom out on your Google maps and step outside the Girona bubble and you will find roads that have been plucked off postcards ripe for the riding – curvy, flowy and doused in landscapes that look more at home on the glossy pages of a travel magazine.

Mid-year, the Spanish sun is unrelenting, with the shimmering heat of an Australian summer but twice the daylight hours. While you may be tempted to leave at the crack of dawn to avoid the warmth, remind yourself of two things. One: you are on holidays – sleep in. Two: you are in Spain, so the population doesn’t rise until late morning anyway. With most cafes opening at 9am, you can turn off the alarm and rest in the knowledge that you have a long afternoon of seemingly endless sunshine stretching ahead of you.

After a coffee or three at Federal Cafe, owned and run by UAE-Team Emirates professional cyclist Rory Sutherland, we set out for Camprodon, a town about 12km from the base of the climb to the ski resort of Vallter 2000. From there, we’d rest our tired legs in preparation for our ascent the following day.

Between us, we have ridden many roads in Europe, many in Australia, and a high-quality selection in North America. Even so, the winding, dipping, ragged GIV-5224 road out towards Camprodon was a highlight.

Before you write this off as an eye-rolling journalistic trope, consider why we loved it so much.

There is elevation, yes, but not the type where it’s just up and up and up until you feel like you might be going backwards. It is rolling, with smooth, well-banked corners and a varied enough road surface to keep things interesting.

Don’t believe us? Take a look:

First stop: Oix. We spent some time on the way debating its pronounciation (‘Osh’, apparently) and were welcomed by a little cathedral with a fresh spring tap (common in Spain, which helps make the place feel made for cyclists!).

The cafes may not be open, but your time won’t be wasted here. Take a little roll around the cobbles and you’ll get a sense of the history around this little fortification nestled amongst the paddocks, before you begin to ascend further into the mountains.

Second stop: Tucked just off the side of the GIV-5224 is a quaint little stone village called Beget, over a thousand years old. Unlike many towns as old as this, the march of time has been slowed and the town has been intricately preserved.

A 20 minute pause will leave you enamoured and inspired by the town’s aesthetic – although, cyclists take heed, the town’s cobbles are savage. Proceed gently or better still, walk your bike to avoid the risk of a pinch-flat.

It’s hard to believe when in the heart of Camprodon that just ‘up the road’ is what feels like a slice of Switzerland. The highest alpine road in Catalyuna, the 2000m ascent to Vallter 2000 averages a friendly but firm gradient of around 7%. The 12km climb is steady at first, and with each turn, more of the landscape unfolds in every direction – ragged rocky cliffs, snippets of snow lingering on the high parts of the mountain, the rooftops of the town below.

You can go as hard or as easy as you like, but with views like this there’s something to be said for a softer effort and a chat with the mountain cows by the roadside – the tinkling of their bells add an oddly nostalgic soundtrack to the climb.

There isn’t much at the top – just some hibernating winter businesses – but there’s a purity and simplicity to the summit of this mountain pass. Enjoy the fresh air, pause for a moment to take it all in, and reach into your pockets to extract that deflated breakfast croissant. Then prepare yourself for an absolutely ripping descent. 

The return to the bottom is eye-watering fast, the tarmac sticky, the corners at a perfect camber and if you’re there early enough, it’s empty enough to let you fly down it. It feels like you’re forever freewheeling – unadulterated exhilaration that reminds any cyclist of why they ride bikes. 

It’s hard to explain how incredibly varied the Costa Brava region is. Head an hour or so in any direction from Girona and you can find yourself dwarfed by snow-capped mountains, pedalling alongside the Mediterranean or surrounded by bucolic farmland.

This variety was reinforced on our second day’s riding when we ventured north-east of Girona, towards Figueres and the picturesque whitewashed town of Cadaques.  Figueres is most famous for being the birthplace of Salvador Dali, and we were keen to see the sights that had inspired his work. Cadaques, further east on the coast, is a small fishing village sometimes referred to as ‘The Pearl of Costa Brava’.

On our third day in the region, we were up and about early. We had a date, you see – a guided tour of Girona’s most famous stretches of tarmac with a certain local, Mr David Millar, who’s a man with a deep passion for the region.

Just moments from the city centre, you’re in quiet rolling hills. Some are kickers and some, as you get further from the city, have cemented themselves in cycling folklore. 

The big dog around these parts is the 12km climb of the Rocacorba, which has gained a great deal of notoriety in the past decade or so. For die-hard fans, it’s probably already on their bucket list. If it’s not on yours, add it.

For any climb to enter the pantheon of greats, there needs to be a special je ne sais quoi – not just a view, a gradient, a location. There needs to be some kind of mystique. The Rocacorba has that in the simple fact that it’s the ‘form’ guide for every pro in the region; the Strava KOM leaderboard is a who’s-who of the grimpeurs of the World Tour peloton.

The lower slopes wind through thick forest. The surface isn’t the smoothest, but combined with its wayward twists and turns, this adds to the climb’s feeling of remoteness. It builds slowly, but then a few early pinches kick up to around 12%, and the first strains on your legs show.

As the road levels out about halfway up, the trees part and the radio mast that stands at the climb’s summit comes into sight. A welcome sight awaits – the Rocacorba Food truck. This small blue 1980s caravan is fast becoming a key part of the cycling fabric of the region. It’s run by Matías, a local who grew up on the hillside and noticed the growth in the popularity of the climb – not just with cyclists, but horse riders and walkers as well. In an entrepreneurial moment, he decided to open a roaming coffee shop and now, most days, you can catch him on the climb.  It’s worth pulling over – he’s a friendly fellow with a wealth of insight and local knowledge about the climb and the hidden gravel routes up it. 

From the top of the climb there’s only one way down for a roadie – the way you came – but according to Millar and Matías the Rocacorba’s even better on a mountain bike or gravel bike, with numerous alternative off-road routes to explore.

Not that we needed the nudge, but that seems a pretty good excuse for returning to the region.

There’s something special about riding coastlines – like you’re balancing on the edge of the world, just you and your bike – and that makes the coastal road out of Tossa de Mar especially memorable. It’s a 20km ribbon of road skirting the water, forever dipping, curving and climbing in equal measures, leading you from one jawdropping vista to the next.

We ventured out to the coast road with a hint of scepticism, but found our doubts quickly washed away by the mind-melting brilliance of the ride.  Overlooking pristine beaches nestled at the bottom of cliff faces as you roll past, each entices you to descend the multiple steps, but the call of the road is stronger.

We were there at the magic time of 6pm, half-expecting a mad convoy of sun-drunk tourists, but the road was ours to enjoy, bathed in the golden light of the waning sun as it left its last rays on the cliff faces and hills flanking the roadside.

We carved corners at a pace that wouldn’t have been advisable during the day, sprinting up the countless little rises before hitting hairpin after hairpin and another blast of Irn-Bru sunshine in the face. All of the most amazing things an evening ride should be about.

These peaceful yet enthralling last kilometres, mixed with the sun quickly disappearing over the horizon, was a perfect finale to an astounding few days in Costa Brava. 

For such a compact region the riding is beyond diverse – one Roadtrip isn’t enough to cover even a fraction of the roads that are on offer. It’s understandable why so many riders struggle to pull themselves away from the region once they hang up their racing wheels. 

This piece is brought to you in partnership with Canyon and Met.
Find out more about our sponsored content policies here.

Text: Tom Owen | Photography: Matt Grayson

In the 1960s and ‘70s, the nation of Yugoslavia began an immense programme of monument-building – erecting huge, space-age structures up and down the country to commemorate military milestones in the Second World War. The word “spomenik” means “monument”, but is used outside of the countries that once made up Yugoslavia to specifically refer to these futuristic, brutalist war memorials. They were symbols of national pride, tangible objects around which the identity of a newly formed country stitching together numerous ethnic groups could coalesce.

To learn of the existence of these monuments is to be instantly fascinated. They exert a powerful pull on the mind, gigantic artefacts from a vanished world. There is something so beguilingly alien about them that we had to go and see them for real. 

Skopje, the capital city of North Macedonia, is said to be the most complete example of a brutalist city anywhere in the world – due mainly to the fact it was almost totally rebuilt in a short window of time, overseen by one Japanese architect. When we decided to plan a bikepacking trip to visit some brutalist spomeniks, it made sense to start in Skopje. Given North Macedonia (known as the Republic of Macedonia from 1991 to 2018) is a tiny country, just 213km across at its widest point, “why not do a lap?”, we thought.

“Lapedonia” was born. 

Some of the spomeniks in North Macedonia are easy to find. They have been added on Google Maps as places of interest. They are usually the better-maintained ones. Others don’t benefit from a digital pushpin, but can clearly be made out on Street View. Yet others have neither. One, as far as we found, simply does not exist any more. 

In our quest to hunt these spomeniks, we discovered awe-inspiring structures in remarkable settings and underwhelming piles of fallen-down stones. We ran away from a bear, got hit by a car, and pushed the definition of ‘road cycling’ to its screaming, tortured limit.  

North Macedonia is wild, there’s no other word for it.  

North Macedonia has wolves. Loads of them, in fact. More per square mile than any other country in Europe. Only the feckless or wilfully careless would knowingly camp in a secluded part of a vast national park away from human settlements in a country overflowing with wolves. It’s lucky then that we didn’t find out that statistic until after we got back. 

What we were worried about that night was the bear.

With the first day’s big climb into the Mavrovo National Park dispensed with, we looked for somewhere to eat dinner. We were pleased with our first day exertions and confident of rolling off and easily finding a spot to sleep. One big dinner and some Macedonian reds later, we were dismayed to find there was not much flat ground in the gorgeous park – and that our available daylight was quickly dwindling. Deciding that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, we picked a grassy, kinda-flat lay-by and decided to make camp. 

Until Matt, our photographer, said, while peering down into the epic gorge below: 

“Is that a bear?”

It was. A really big one. We panicked.

We had to keep going down, to try and put a few kilometres of distance between us. So trundle off we did, downhill in the deepening dark, trying hard to watch out for potholes.

Finally we found a deserted cafe, boarded up with a raised concrete patio in front. The patio had a small wooden fence around it with a gate. It would have to do. Sleep didn’t come very quickly that night.

Jagged mountains and winding roads. Dense green forests and vast blue lakes. Surly guard dogs, suicidal tortoises and surprise gravel climbs. North Macedonia has all the components for a stunning bikepacking adventure. And wolves. And bears.

The towns of North Macedonia are not up to much. Mostly they feel like border outposts, regardless of their position in the country. The dusty air of dozing insecurity. The palpable feeling of potential unrest. Everywhere on the outskirts of towns are these monolithic gutted buildings, wrecked relics of the nation’s Soviet-era past. 

For the three of us, all born on the same tiny island where real estate is at such a premium that a hulk like these left empty on our shores would immediately be turned into prestige living spaces, these booming abandoned mega-barns are an entrancing spectacle. Logging mills, power plants, train yards and grain stores – every one of them an urban explorer’s dreamscape – we ride past them all again and again. 

It all looks exactly like you’d imagine the outer limits of Leningrad do, if they had been uprooted from the snowy shores of the Baltic Sea and dumped into a Greek climate.

We also see a lot of shanty towns, physical reminders that this is one of the poorest nations in Europe. North Macedonia is not a member of the European Union. It has been declined entry based on concerns over its lack of proper democracy and limited press freedoms. It is poor and you can tell. Kids stare at us. Watch us eat lunch. Find it immeasurably amusing when we eat bread. They are white and we are white, but by looking at us they can immediately tell we are foreigners. Mostly they think we are American. The only words we know how to say are ‘na’ and ‘spomenik’.

A vocabulary like that only goes so far to bridging the culture gap.

The spomeniks are either urban or rural. The rural ones are neglected, but they feel more magical. In Gevgelija, an upturned egg-beater made of scorched steel juts into the sky. A frame now, it used to be plated with metal sheeting – but that was nicked for scrap long ago. In a lay-by on the way into Mavrovo, our first spomenik is perhaps the most underwhelming of the trip, a broad fresco set in concrete. In Prilep, a set of looming, pristine white chessmen – a memorial to the 700 from the city who died fighting throughout the Second World War. And in Kavadartsi a faux-wooden fort atop a hill, like something you’d find on the forest moon of Endor. 

They can be bizarre, imposing, depressing and exultant – some of them are all at the same time. The endlessly surprising thing is how little people actually seem to care about them one way or another. To the average North Macedonian, they are just there. 

Once, the Macedons ruled the universe. Or the part of it they knew existed. 

Alexander the Great set forth from Macedonia and conquered the known world, forging ever eastward, founding cities, only curtailing his conquest when his men refused to go any further. They were homesick and refused to fight any more, wander any longer. They had reached northern India. 

In certain moments, we get a sense of the country that must’ve exerted that empire-inhibiting pull upon them. To get from Kichevo to Krusevo we have two choices. To climb three peaks and drop down into the highest city in the Balkans, or take the ‘long’ way round and go on the main road. This means riding ‘past’ Krusevo to the north, then heading south, and climbing up to the town.

We opt for the three peaks. Trundle out of Kichevo after kebabs for lunch, turn off the small main road and almost immediately find that it’s gravel. The gravel goes all the way to the top of what becomes clear is a logging road. There is no up-traffic whatsoever and the only things coming down are two huge trucks off to the sawmill. The drivers roll their eyes, laugh at us, enquire about where exactly we think we’re going – but with nothing to say back but ‘no’ or ‘monument’, we just let them roll past. 

It takes an eternity to get up the mountain and as soon as we crest the ridge line, a pair of barking shepherd’s dogs chase us off their patch. It’s not till we’re about 500m down from the highest point that we pause, look across the valley we’ve just entered; an idyllic agrarian microcosm.

Wheat fields carpet the valley floor. Mountains rise up on every side. We cannot see a single settlement from where we stand. An Arcadian scene that – but for a single transmitter mast – could be unchanged since old Alex first wondered what was over that next hill. I laugh out loud at the fantastical beauty of it. Giddy euphoria and the certain knowledge that nobody else has ridden a bike over this today. One ragged descent later and we are rolling on the valley floor. Flat tarmac, a gentle tail wind. 

Buzzing, but parched, we luck out and find a tiny village shop. It has a payphone outside the door, possibly the only one in town. No frontage, no indication whatsoever of what it is beside a branded drinks fridge, just visible inside the doorway. We descend on it like bees round honey. We must get water!

Entering the dim and dusty room, all four sets of eyes inside settle on us. In the fridge, there is no water. No coke, or anything but yoghurt and beer. We choose beer and sit down at the same (sole) table as a man with the most remarkable mustachios I have ever seen not on the face of a silent-era movie villain. He must be 70, but his grip is like a demigod’s. He shakes us each by the hand and – seeing that we’ve bought two large beers between three – orders us a third one. 

The beers prove to be our undoing. There’s nothing of any nutritional value available in the shop. Empty stomachs and endurance capabilities dulled by alcohol, we trudge like weary footsoldiers over the next two climbs – leaving behind our little valley paradise. It is a wrench to leave it and so we understand how those Ancient Macedons must also have felt when they reached India. Why go on, when it’s so nice right here?

An oncoming truck fills the whole road so I get to one side and onto the verge. I overbalance, topple over into the grass. For a moment I think of sleeping just there.

If you hit a cyclist with your car in North Macedonia, the protocol – as far as I have observed in a real-world live test – is this.

1. Stop car. 
2. Remove it from whatever road furniture in which it has become embedded. 
3. Exit car.
4. Check cyclist is alive.
5. Get back in car.
6. Floor it. 

From here on, the order of play gets a bit more freeform. The blue-shirted cop will arrive and park directly on the roundabout, so as to create an obstacle around which all other road users must drive – slowing them down and allowing plenty of time to stare at the scene. A crowd of concerned onlookers will appear and hover, saying things mostly in Macedonian. The blue-shirted cop will harangue the traffic into some sort of order, while simultaneously taking three witness statements from people who didn’t see the crash.

Blue Shirt will call the station to send the One Guy Who Speaks English down to the roundabout. He needs the One Guy Who Speaks English to translate the questions he hurls in the direction of any of the cyclists, but Blue Shirt is the maestro in this situation, conducting the public like an orchestra leader, deflecting the useless salvos of information thrown his way with an irritated flick of his pen. The Stokowski of smash-ups. The Berlioz of broken bumpers.

The ambulance will arrive. Check the cyclist is ok. The cyclist will insist he is, so as to avoid losing valuable hours of cycling time in the Strumica hospital emergency room. Word will arrive on the radio that the driver has been caught. He will be fined. 

The crime scene photographer will arrive and photograph the bike. The skid marks on the road. The bike again. The shattered road furniture. He will say something to Blue Shirt and all of a sudden, it is over. 

“He says, ‘you can go’.”

The cyclists will say “thank you” profusely because, after all, they are British. One will make a joke and, despite insisting he does not speak English, Blue Shirt will laugh the loudest.

Surfing the elevation loss from the high mountains that make the border with Bulgaria, we are chased by a storm. It’s rolling down from Bansko, the cut-price ski resort, and heading inland. Into Macedonia. Exactly where we’re going. We have a spomenik to see outside Mitrasinci, it’s a concrete claw, reaching up to grab for the sky – like an inverted version of those arcade games where you can, with an investment of £20-£35, win a cuddly toy worth 56p. Whatever it might be reaching for, the thunderstorm is what’s coming into view. 

The spomenik is not in the tiny village, it’s up on the hill that overlooks it. The spomenik itself isn’t visible from the road; it’s screened by a copse of pine trees. On the back side of the hill, a way through the trunks has been made – brutal concrete slabs are employed as steps up to the monument. At the top are some useless concrete plinths off to the corners of the flat clearing and a huge radio antenna. Then central, the claw. 

As we stand there, a few fat drops hit our jackets. But not many. Most of the storm is rolling around to either side of the hill. We are in a freakish pocket of calm at the centre of the storm.

Like almost all the other ones – at least those in rural areas – this spomenik feels abandoned. No other tourists. No sign of human habitation or visitation. No plaques, nor anything indicating just what it is that we’re looking at. The 50th partisan brigade of Macedonia, the unit to which this spomenik is dedicated, was formed in 1944 when the tide was already inexorably turned in favour of the Allied forces.  

Facing back towards town, we watch the lightning storm travel away from us. Into the valley, then the next valley and the next. Huge tendrils of white light thrash down from sky into ridge line. 

I think about partisans, of empires, of German boys being sent to fight in these hills and being routed again and again by the hardened men who lived, hunted, and worked the land here all their lives. Men who were fighting for their home against lads who barely knew where they were. Boys from Berlin, Munich and the icy Baltic coast, thrust into a lush, green and sweltering landscape filled with snakes – barely understanding why they were there, nerves jangling with the effects of Pervitin. 

I think of Alexander and his Macedons, on the furthest-flung edge of the known world. A man full of ambition to go and see and conquer more than any other in history, held back by his men who were homesick and wanted to go home to their land of green valleys and honey so sweet it crosses your eyes. I think of the home they must have left and I can still see shimmers of it today. In the heat haze over the road, in the places not filled with nightmarish concrete hulks and ragged dogs. On the vines that grow in the east and the unthinkable vastness of Lake Ohrid in the south. In the rumbling gait of the bears in Mavrovo. 

As the lightning strikes again, I wonder if any of those boys had thunderbolts on their lapels.

I think lastly about my own country, tearing itself apart as it tries to come to terms with its own post-empire place in the world. Screaming its own importance as the world averts embarrassed eyes. Slamming a door closed and screaming, “And we’re never coming back…”

I think empires are stupid.

Invaluable support for this trip was provided by MET Helmets and Canyon Bicycles. The riders wore the Trenta 3K Carbon and rode the Endurace CF SLX Disc.

We also owe an enormous debt to the person or persons behind spomenikdatabase.org. Without their remarkable website, we wouldn’t have had the first idea about spomeniks or where to find them.

If you picture a dream cycling destination, what does it look like?

Chances are, you’re imagining a few key details – quiet roads, scenic surrounds and challenging climbs. Perhaps you just want to road ride, or maybe you want to dabble in a bit of gravel, or even some mountain biking as well. Off the bike, you’d want to feel welcome, and after all that hard riding you’d deserve a few creature comforts, like quality coffee, food and drink. 

It’s a high bar for any one place to clear. But Victoria’s High Country, tucked up in the state’s north east, ticks all those boxes and a few more. 

The High Country is best known for its long road climbs, which rise from lush valleys into the sky. At their summits are ski resorts that are winter wonderlands during the colder months, but embrace cyclists when the weather warms up. 

Mount Hotham, a 30km climb to the highest paved pass in Australia, unfolds into bird’s eye views of ridges and mountains rising like waves. The Falls Creek ascent winds up to above the treeline, to ghostly grey trunks and the village that hosts Peaks Challenge, one of Australia’s great gran fondos. Mount Buller, in the region’s south, is home to Australia’s first Epic mountain bike trail. 

In all, there are seven major peaks dotted throughout the region, comprising the 7 Peaks Challenge, which challenges cyclists to conquer the lot in a season. 

In 2017, CyclingTips visited the region to tackle four of those big climbs. We rode up Falls Creek with Marianne Vos, sweated up Mount Hotham and Mount Buffalo, got pummelled by a summer storm on Mount Buller, and left with an even greater affection for the region than we had when we arrived. 

In 2018, we were back again – this time not to ride the high mountains, but to discover the best bits in between. On gravel roads through pine plantations, and gentle climbs between valleys, we discovered a slower-paced but no less beguiling side to the High Country. 

The region is enthusiastic in its embrace of cycling, with businesses throwing their support behind two-wheeled visitors. You’re never far from great coffee or food in the High Country, with delicious local produce being one of the region’s great hallmarks. 

The High Country Brewery Trail – a collective of nine craft brewers scattered around the region, most of them passionate cyclists – is a shining example. From Whitfield to Wangaratta, Beechworth to Bright, these breweries serve up refreshing ales and offer MTB trail recommendations to their visitors.  

If wine’s more to your taste than beer, there’s plenty for you in the High Country. The King Valley in particular is one of Victoria’s great wine regions, with such big name producers as Brown Brothers and Sam Miranda hailing from the north of the Valley, with a cluster of phenomenal smaller producers around Whitfield.

The alpine resorts might get all the attention during winter, but the towns of the High Country have plenty to offer visitors too. The historical towns of Beechworth and Yackandandah had their first golden age during the mid-19th century gold rush, but are seeing a renaissance today as people make a tree-change from the city, or establish vibrant new businesses in the area. 

Bright, with its wide tree-lined boulevards, is widely loved by Victorians of all walks of life; larger towns like Mansfield and Wangaratta pair all the amenities of a city with the quieter pace of life the region is known for. They each make excellent bases for a training camp or a riding getaway. 

The High Country is famous for its road cycling and mountain biking, but it’s also richly endowed with rail trails. Running through the region are three major rail trails – separated paths meandering along the gentle inclines of former railway lines – which offer a more relaxed way of exploring the area. 

The Great Victorian Rail Trail (134km, from Tallarook to Mansfield), Murray to Mountains Rail Trail (116km, from Wangaratta to Bright, with an off-shoot to Beechworth) and High Country Rail Trail (80km, from Wodonga to Shelley) are rightfully loved by riders from across the spectrum. On those idyllic gravel paths, you can ride through a shifting landscape of mountains and farmland, entirely unbothered by the pressures of the outside world. 

Over the years, we’ve spent many happy hours with the tarmac and dirt of Victoria’s High Country rolling beneath our tyres. We’ve threaded our way along peaceful valleys, ambled along rail trails and lost ourselves in a maze of forest and gravel roads. At the end of our days of riding, we’ve quenched our thirsts with tasty beers, eaten delicious meals, and rested in hospitable surrounds. 

Perhaps it is these constant dopamine hits that keep drawing us back to explore new roads and revisit old ones; to drink in the High Country’s clean air, crest its mountains and speed back down again. 

CyclingTips’ top ten of the High Country:

What do you reckon of our suggestions? What are your highlights of the High Country?

The flight into Tucson took us low over the outskirts of town, close enough that I could clearly see the massive cacti and bushy scrub that dot the desert landscape. I could see the roads and gravel that wind through them, too, up and down over the land’s contours, and all I wanted to do was ride. 

Situated roughly 60 miles north of the Mexican border, Tucson’s temperate weather and quality riding draw cyclists looking to escape. Sonoran desert and mountain ranges in all directions feel quintessentially southwest. 

Desert Transition

Outside the airport, I reveled in the contrast. Warm, dry air — particularly compared to my origin, a chilly November day in Northern Montana.

A T-shirt was all I needed for the November evening air. I met up with long-time CyclingTips photographer, Tim Bradsley-Smith and the two of us loaded up a rental car and b-lined it to an outdoor cocina near downtown. Cold beers and Strava maps helped us lay plans for a few days of desert riding in one of the most varied, beautiful landscapes you’ll find anywhere.

The next day, we headed to the Mercado San Austin, a hip zone west of downtown. Cheap pastries, great coffee, and note-worthy tacos all in one place, it’s no wonder the Mercado is such a hub for the cycling community. Group rides regularly start and finish from the courtyard where riders like to hang out, drink coffee and enjoy something to eat. We sipped cortados and ate Mexican donuts in the late morning sunshine. Very nice.

Joining us was long-time local and former pro road racer, Gord Fraser. Gord’s knowledge of the area’s best routes and hidden spots comes from three decades of training throughout Southern Arizona. Well known as one of North American’s best sprinters, Gord is also central to the local riding community, regularly turning the screws on local pros at the weekly Shootout Ride. He’s seen the world from his bike and loves calling Tucson home.

Gord steered us toward a mellow first ride that took us west around Wasson Peak via Gates Pass which opens up to a vast, peak lined valley, a favorite for roadies looking to put in big, rolling miles.

Starting out with a steady climb of a few miles up and over Gates Pass, the city dropped out of view behind us. On the other side of the pass, Kitt Peak, with its iconic observatory, loomed in the distance. A popular alternative to the local favourite Mount Lemmon – which we’ll be dedicating an entire piece to in a couple of weeks – Kitt Peak is known as a classic big-day ride. I’ll have to check it out next time I visit.

The descent off the backside of Gates Pass drops you into a different world, away from bustling Tucson and into the desert. The roads back here roll up and down like an amusement park ride, following the contours of the desert.

Gord and I continued around to the north to check out Saguaro National Park, and steered off the tarmac. A sandy dirt climb through all kinds of cactus and hearty desert shrubbery led us to an old look out for views and snacks.

Legs sufficiently spun out for our first day, we retraced our steps back over Gates Pass to Tucson and enjoyed post ride refreshments at Westbound, an outdoor bar near a bike shop with a few different food options in beautiful modified shipping containers.

Visiting the Southwest in the winter months is popular for road cyclists for obvious reasons. While winter training clothing has come a long way, it’s pretty sweet to ride with bare arms and legs as temperatures dip back home.

The next day, we got a taste for the area’s dirt riding on Reddington Road, a favorite area for local gravel riders. Starting with a twisting climb east of town the road turns to dirt and winds its way up over the mountains to the backside of Mount Lemmon.

Until recently, the backside of Mount Lemmon was rarely ridden by cyclists. “It’s just sort of a gnarly, chucky dirt road,” says Lauren Hall who climbed it for the first time this fall at the Mount Lemmon Gravel Grinder. “You could ride it on a rigid bike but I was on my mountain bike,” Hall told me. Apparently people have climbed it on a road bike with 23mm tires. But just because you can…

In general, the tarmac around Tucson isn’t the smoothest. Of course, we’re experiencing a golden age of bicycle technology. Endurance style road bikes with room for larger tires or a gravel bike will reduce chip seal road vibrations and potential for thorny punctures. I was on a Niner RDO RLT with Donnelly Strada 32mm tires, which worked great for the mostly on-road riding we did. I’d certainly look for wider tires if we did any more off-road exploring.

During our stay, I met several cyclists who make the pilgrimage from colder climates to the Tucson area and they do it for more than the sunshine. It doesn’t take much to get them talking about their draw to place. “Besides year-round predictable sunny weather, a huge variety of riding options, and beautiful desert landscapes, it’s a gritty artistic town with lots of cool people,” said Owen Gue, founder of The Cycling House, a retreat for cyclists. Sounds good to me.

Gord invited us over to his house for a tour of his amazing bike collection. Then, we headed out on the town for dinner and drinks, each on one of his bikes. Gord guided us around the city via an ultra sweet bike path system that connects most of the metro area with car-free cruising. More than 130 miles of multi-use paths and dedicated bike lanes around the metro area makes getting around town on bikes a viable option.

Local professional off-road racer, Josh Berry, said his community shares a balance of work and play that’s less focused on the never ending corporate race. “I have a medical doctor friend who moved here and cut his work to 20 hours a week so he would have more time for experiences,” Berry told us. It’s a place with space. “You can go out in the desert or up a really big mountain and feel inspiration — no one’s going to tell you what to do.” That freedom of expression, runs infectiously through the veins of the city.

Tucson does not mess around when it comes to good food. That means it’s got much more than amazing tacos – although, it really does have amazing tacos. An ethnically diverse population means you can get great food from all around the world without paying big city prices. UNESCO named it an official ‘City of Gastronomy’ – the only place with such distinction in the United States. Check out Penca for food and drink inspired by Mexico City and Time Market, a one stop shop for quality ingredients.

The Shoot Out Ride

Started by Fair Wheel Bikes– a legendary local bike shop, the Shootout ride is a Tucson institution. Pro-level racers count on the weekly Shootout as a predictable staple for their winter training. It’s one of the oldest on-going rides in America and during the winter months, it’s one of the biggest and fastest. Between the three groups, upwards of 200 people come together for a false-flat battle of wills.

“It’s the gnarliest bike ride I’ve done anywhere. It’s harder than some UCI races in my opinion,” says local racer Dillon Caldwell, who admits “winning” the Shoot Out feels as gratifying as any road race win. “It’s just a basic course, nothing special. It’s the people who turn out and make it fast, there’s nothing like it, anywhere.”

The ride sets off from a Starbucks near the University of Arizona campus. The first 40 minutes are mostly relaxed while getting out of town. Then, past the city limits, the pace picks up. People start to shoot out both ends of the group as the attacks and subsequent drops begin. A battle for local roadie glory ensues.

“The South Mission is where it really heats up. It’s like 1-2% for 15 miles and that’s where it starts to separate,” says Caldwell. A crack in the road on the crest of a slight hill serves as a sprint line where regrouping happens before they’re back at it toward Helmet peak. The final meet-up, usually about three hours later, is at the Mercado for well earned refreshments and eats.

The Racing / Rides Scene

Southern Arizona has long been a popular destination for road races. Look to the area for a perfect example of the current shifts happening in the ever changing cycling landscape. 33 years of road racing tradition at the Tucson Bicycle Classic comes to an end in 2020. While many like Gord are saddened by the seeming end of an era, new events like Routa Del Jefe, Spirit World 100 and the Mount Lemmon Gravel Grinder show up on the scene; a more free-form style of riding takes shape and the show goes on.

As our time came to an end, sun kissed skin, tired legs and a new appreciation for the subtle beauty of desert landscapes had me beaming with joy. Tucson is a unique destination with a vibe of its own. I can’t wait to get back.

 Stay tuned for part two of our Tucson series, which will include some local knowledge to help you plan your visit.

This piece was brought to you in partnership with Visit Tucson. Find out more about the riding in Tucson on Instagram and Facebook. 

‘Sky Island’ is a term for an isolated mountain surrounded by a vastly different climate – in most cases, desert. The term originated in the American Southwest where 12-14,000 years ago, the climate warmed and dried the valley floors. Isolated mountains retained unique biodiversity especially in contrast to the desert floor below.

Just out of Tucson, Arizona, lies one of the iconic sky islands — the 9,159 feet (2,791m) Mount Lemmon.

On Mount Lemmon, you pass through four distinct life zones from cactus of Sonora Mexico, to alpine conifer found in Southern Canada.

A true island in the sky, it’s a refuge for plants, animals, and adventure seeking-humans.

Lemmon is a place for seekers. “Everyone is up there exploring something,” says former professional road racer, Lauren Hall, who spends part of the year in Tucson and rides the mountain often. “There’s no climb like it. Arizona Trail hikers, rock climbers, hunters, moto riders, and obviously, bike riders … It’s a thoroughfare for the curious.” Hall appreciates the wide bike lane on the paved climb and loves to get a cookie near the top in Summerhaven.

At 26 miles (41km) in length with 5,400 feet (1,645m) of vertical gain, Mount Lemmon is a marathon of a climb. Fortunately, the road is an ultra steady 4-5 percent grade with no shortage of views from bottom to top.

The vertical gain means you pass through several different climate zones, from sparse desert to tall pines, on your way to the aptly-named Summerhaven, a tiny mining town with fresh baked cookies and other supplies.

Apart from being a massive climb, Mount Lemmon is also the most iconic aspect of Tucson’s riding scene. It looms over the city and has come to define riding there. If you didn’t ride Lemmon, did you even go to Tucson?

There’s something on the mountain for everyone. Roadies, mountain bikers and, more recently, gravel riders (who use an unpaved route to the summit on the mountain’s north-east side) are seen in droves all over the mountain. Whether it’s a hard set of intervals, a long distance day, an evening cruise, or a lifetime achievement, Mount Lemmon is a mecca for cyclists.

Coaches and data driven cyclists love Mount Lemmon for its consistency. Former elite triathlete Ian Mallams used the mountain for intervals. “It’s 2-3 hours of climbing, the whole time. It’s so nice to know what you’re going to get, there’s no place to hide,” Mallams says.

But there’s something more to the mountain’s legacy than just being a popular training ground. “It’s an iconic place. Four rides in one,” he explains. “And some of the views around Windy Point are the best you’ll get anywhere.”

Mile markers throughout the climb make for an honest metric. The truth is, there really aren’t any other places in the continental U.S. where you can do a climb like this 12 months of the year.

The ride commences from the unofficially official start location, Le Buzz, a coffee shop at the gateway to Lemmon commonly filled with lycra wearing brethren. An unmistakable rosy, windblown glow clearly identifies riders stopping for a post-descent treat versus those yet to climb.

After a handful of miles, saguaro cactus gives way to pine forest and unique hoodoo rock formations. A large shoulder and smooth pavement make it possible to comfortably ride two abreast while chatting the miles away. Closer to the summit, riders are greeted to a new ecosystem of aspen trees and crisp mountain air. Across from the alpine ski area of Ski Valley is an old school, German style restaurant called The Iron Door with a menu perfectly suited to guilt-free indulgences.

After lunch, make a stop at the Mount Lemmon Cookie Cabin for a freshly baked dessert of their famous chocolate chip cookie. “Some people say it’s not the best cookie (and) it’s like eight bucks. But it’s the size of a plate, and I love it,” Lauren Hall told us. Based on our independent testing, we can confirm that it’s a winner.

Bellies and bottles full, drag your tired body back up the short but especially arduous climb out of Summerhaven.

From there, it’s a flowing, brake-free descent. Forty-five minutes of downhill bliss later, we hit the desert valley floor.

Cyclists explore the mountain in myriad ways. “Mount Lemmon is the reason I keep coming back to Tucson. It’s my happy place,” says Olympic mountain biker turned (self-proclaimed) soul rider, Sam Schultz. “It brings all forms of riding together, from super tech mountain bike trails, gravel roads, and pavement.”

Schultz used the slopes of Mount Lemmon to train for the highest level of mountain bike racing and now rides the mountain to escape and explore. “It’s the way I want to interact with my bike. You find a rhythm climbing up, then you point it down for a gravity assisted puzzle to be solved,” Schultz enthuses.

Mount Lemmon’s proximity to Tucson makes it a special backyard gem. A literal haven for wildlife, it’s also a haven for those of us who seek to explore, to challenge ourselves and to see from different views. I can’t wait to get back.

For more things to do, see, and eat in Tucson go to VisitTucson.org and remember to tag your photos with the hashtag #ridetucson.