March 16, 2012
Malaga to Mijas
Costa del Sol revisited
The vinyl floor on the lounge of the boat seems a better option that the seat, so that's where I sleep, getting at least a few hours of rest before the ferry docks in Malaga at 8:00 AM.
After pumping up the deflated back tyre, I set off to get some breakfast, knowing that an English one will be available in this Brit's home from home haven of Costa del Sol. Getting to enjoy one in Torremelinos, however, proves to be a bit of a tease as I end up on dirt tracks trying to stay off the highway as I ride east.
Maybe Brooks seats and me are just not meant to be; I had one snap on my while touring Burma. Well, about 10 km from Malaga, there's a ping and the leather sags under me. This time, instead of the metal rails, it's the tension bolt that has given way.
I keep going, zigzagging eastwards on back streets and dirt tracks, until reaching the resort. Along the way a cyclist tells me there's a bike shop along the sea front and I find it without a hitch. It's across the road from a café serving the full English breakfast that I've craved and that's what comes first - the full monty.
The bike shop turns out to be just a rental place and the real deal is up in town. When I got there the guy regrets to say he doesn't have any Brooks seats, telling me that shops in Ronda may have them in stock, before kindly giving me second-hand San Marco to keep me mobile. It looks a racy beast, painfully narrow and firm, but at no cost, I can't really complain.
A petrol station with the usual facilities doubles as a laundry and car wash, so I whack both tyres up to 5 bar, blast all the Moroccan grime and mud off the bike and then stuff my dirty clothes in a machine, using the laptop while they get washed nice and clean. When I leave, at about one, it's only me that needs some attention - I haven't had much more than a cat's lick since the gite near Imilchil, days and many dusty miles ago.
I hadn't noticed Hotel Yaramar, but that's where it is, right across street. It's taken me an hour or more to trace the coastal road and find the exact few-metre section of bike path where Debbie, Dave and myself had cycled some 10 years ago, at the end of a tour that had started up in Madrid. The snap I'd taken as we cruised along is in my bar-bag, Debbie smiling, looking back at me, camera in hand. The trees are slightly bigger now, as you'd expect, and the cars parked adjacent have changed, but the tall street lamps and pavilions haven't altered.
A step back or forward, while moving the camera position, finally nets the result I want. It feels a bit strange being here alone, but there's a sense of togetherness too.
Mijas is a steep climb away. Only 5 km, but so steep the incline has me walking a couple of them. The town's white buildings were visible from the very bottom, so I know what was in store. Cute, narrow alleys curve around the hillside and I soon find a nice hostel - Hostal Posada - along one of them (30 euros a room ) and immediately run the dinky bathtub with hot water.
Unless you've cycled over high passes, got soaked to your neck in fast-flowing rivers, slogged along dusty piste for a couple of weeks, then it's hard to imagine how good a cool beer really tastes. You've got to earn it....
Feeling clean and groomed for the first time in a few days, I stroll along the village's narrow street, find a bar, order a large beer and drink half of it in a few seconds. Oh yes
Today's ride: 54 km (34 miles)
Total: 357 km (222 miles)
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