It’s no surprise that Pauline and Laurent met on bikes. Both discovered the joy of bike touring a long time ago. Laurent, a writer and art director, even published a book on the subject in 2020. Pauline, who works in sustainable tourism and micro-adventures for a tourist office, can’t imagine travelling any other way. Since they met, they’ve loved setting off on adventures together, for one week or several, self-supported or not – and never without a camera slung across their shoulders.

This adventure actually began with a photograph, hanging on the wall of Eat Sleep Cycle café in Girona. Laurent had stopped in while working on his book Café Vélo. In the enigmatic black-and-white photo, a group of bikepackers could just be seen slipping into a deep, narrow canyon. It could have been the American West, or even Petra in Jordan. But the caption beneath the image simply read: Badlands, Spain. “Badlands... What’s so special about these ‘bad lands’? Why are we so drawn to them? Where does their spellbinding power come from? We dreamed of finding out.” The Badlands is first and foremost a gravel race: self-supported, about 800 kilometres long and with 16,000 metres of elevation gain, to be ridden at full tilt. But that wasn’t our aim. We wanted to soak up the landscapes, take the time to lose ourselves in the wilderness, to feel what it’s like to ride through the desert, to breathe in the scent of nature reawakening. We started poring over maps, refining our route and adjusting our gear. We had eight days ahead of us and enough supplies for three days of full autonomy. We’d start in Granada and end in Almería. Off we go!

We leave Granada like people quietly slipping out of a bedroom where others are still asleep, weaving through plazas and alleys toward the church of San Gil y Santa Ana, the official starting point of the route. Only a few city workers are up and about in what appears to be, judging by the number of bars and small venues, one of the strongholds of "zambra gitana" (Granada-style flamenco). The first pedal strokes are gentle, following the Darro beneath the imposing majesty of the Alhambra. But the gradient ramps up fast as we climb toward the Abadía del Sacromonte – the official race start – and say a final farewell to the city. We head into the Sierra de Huétor, a natural park filled with pine trees and oaks. On the horizon, the snowcapped Sierra Nevada peaks stand in stark contrast to the layered greens of the forest. The scent of resin tickles our noses as birdsong accompanies our journey. No doubt about it—spring is here. These landscapes remind us a bit of Provence. For now, it feels more like a scene from Pagnol than from Don Quixote. But that won’t last...

As we ride east, the vegetation begins to thin out. The famous “Mirador Fin Del Mundo” (End-of-the-World Viewpoint) in Beas de Guadix marks the shift from green to mineral. The lush forests give way to steep rocky walls between which we weave, signs of an impending desert... We reach Gorafe. This little village of houses carved into the rock also gives its name to the desert that rises above it. Access is via a high plateau, after a short (but brutal) 1-kilometre climb at a 12% gradient. Up top, no fine sand or golden dunes, but a sea of white, orange, and ochre rock that rolls to the horizon. Erosion and runoff have carved cliffs and ravines from clay and limestone, strangely reminiscent of the Grand Canyon. It’s this 100,000-year-old quirk of geology that gives the Badlands their name. Although nothing seems to grow in these bad lands, the scenery is all the more breathtaking. The sense of solitude here is absolute – and delicious. A silence reigns, broken only by the crunch of gravel under our tires. A bubble out of time. It feels like the end of the world… and yet it’s not so far from home.

As soon as we leave the desert, we’re back among pine forests and orchards in bloom. The sky is growing more threatening. Our inn for the night is a regular stop for bikepackers and Badlands racers. The owner, lovely and welcoming, serves us vermicelli soup cooked in meat fat, a tortilla, and custard for dessert. Quintessentially Spanish. On the wall: photos of a cousin who was a bullfighter, victorious. The next day brings with it a duel with the elements. A freezing wind has picked up, gusting forcefully along our trail. A thick layer of dark, threatening clouds blankets part of the sky. Once on the plateau, over 2,000 metres up, we’re granted a strange reprieve: the storm seems to have passed us by, leaving this vast space of windswept grass tufts untouched. Austere and stripped-back, it reminds us of both volcanic lands and the Siberian tundra. The night in a refuge is far from restful. Wind howls down the chimney of the concrete and metal hut thrown against the cliff wall. At times, smoke fills the room, forcing us to crack open the tiny window despite the biting cold. It’s truly freezing up here. Plumes of vapour rise with every breath.

The next morning we begin a long, winding descent, dropping more than 2,000 vertical metres. We leave the hut bundled in every layer we own (base layer, jersey, arm warmers, down jacket, windbreaker, rain jacket), and peel them off one by one as we fly downhill. The lower we go, the higher the temperature climbs. At the bottom, the sun is warm, and the plains are lined with cactus fields. The return of cactus signals the approach of a new desert: Tabernas. The iconic setting of the Westerns from our childhood. We can’t resist playing cowboys on our bikes, whistling Ennio Morricone tunes as we follow the course of a dry riverbed.

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For our final two days, we’ll follow the coastline via small paths and cliff roads, scattered with windmills and blooming cacti towering like forests! One last pedal stroke and we roll into Almería, ready for a well-earned ice cream break. This trip to the south of the Iberian Peninsula leaves us with a lasting feeling of vastness. 

Of all the Andalusian deserts, the unique Gorafe impressed us most, thanks to its cliffside singletrack and those endless undulating rock formations.