Prologue
Badlands presents itself as Europe’s wildest gravel ultra-cycling challenge: nearly 800km with 16,000 metres of elevation, held each early September across the cinematic desert landscapes of Granada and Almeria in Andalusia. It came onto my radar a few months after I finish treatment for prostate cancer, during a long recovery that keeps me off the bike for over nine months. I take on the challenge of rebuilding the fitness base I had before the COVID lockdowns, a time when, for one reason or another, my progress came to a near complete halt.

(A hand-drawn map of the route of Badlands 2024)
Initially, I turn to running, since no one prohibited that. I run several half-marathons until an IT band overuse injury derails my plans to run the Barcelona Marathon in spring 2023. By then, I am cleared to cycle again—gradually. Week by week, I make small improvements. But I need challenges to be able to quantify my progress. As I ease back onto the bike, I swap my running shoes for swimming goggles and set my sights on an Ironman 70.3 six months away. By the time I’m ready to ramp up my training, I’m able to swim, bike, and run without major issues.
After successfully completing the triathlon, I use my fitness to run the San Sebastián Marathon just two months later. Nothing hurt as much as those final two kilometers and 195 meters—especially the last handful of steps. Then, at the end of the year, I get the news I'd been hoping for: I win a spot in Badlands, marking my real return to my main competitive sport. This becomes my primary goal for 2024, as gran fondos no longer hold the same appeal.
Getting Ready: Me and the Bike
For the next nine months, everything revolves around cycling, just like in the past. The bike and I become inseparable. I make the bold decision to create my own training plan, knowing full well that disappointment is a possibility if things don’t go as planned. My goal is ambitious—especially since I’ve never done an ultra before—but I believe it’s achievable: finish within the cut-off time. Perhaps naively, I don’t consider any other option. Success is the only choice; failure is not, as they say.
I’ve completed an Ironman 70.3 without prior triathlon experience. I’ve run a marathon with half-distance triathlon fitness. I’ve done well in multiple gran fondos. I know I can do it. Maybe.
Slowly, I prepare my gravel bike—a Lauf Seigla with front suspension—upgrading it piece by piece for comfort and agility over ultra-long distances. By the time I'm done, it resembles a hybrid mountain bike more than a road bike. I also get an almost perfect bike fit and consult with a nutritionist, herself an ultra-marathon veteran, who fully understands the challenge ahead. I carefully focus on every aspect of event preparation, and I truly enjoy the process.
Like every amateur cyclist, I balance training with other aspects of life, yet I rigorously log my hours and maintain the disciplined lifestyle needed to meet the physical demands. That means early nights, healthy eating, and sticking to the plan, day in and day out. Of course, there are ups and downs, both mentally and physically, but I feel progress is being made—or so I think. I spend countless hours studying the route, overlaying it with maps of available accommodations and potential food stops. I also devote endless time to building, reviewing, and refining my gear list.
(Wondering what my bike setup looks like? Click here!)
The Arrival in Granada
I fly to Granada from Barcelona on a Friday, 48 hours before the scheduled departure, using flight credit I have—otherwise, I’d probably have driven to simplify the logistics. Living in Spain, there’s no need to worry about time zone changes or heat acclimation, although some areas of the Badlands region are certainly hotter than the Catalan coast where I live.

(Walking to the terminal at Granada Airport)
Arriving at the small Federico Garcia Lorca Airport, I decide to take the bus to the city center for less than 5 euros, instead of waiting for a taxi with a big enough trunk for my bike bag, which could have cost up to 70 euros. Sensing I speak Spanish fluently, the bus drivers ask me about the race and whether it’s true, as they’ve heard from other international athletes, that it covers an off-road route of 800km with 16,000 metres of elevation, crossing wild and inhospitable regions like the Gorafe and Tabernas deserts or the heights of the Sierra de Baza. They can hardly believe it!
An hour later, I reach the hotel and am relieved to find that I can keep my bike in my room. I’m not sure all hotels would allow it, but this one is recommended by the event organizers. My first priority, as always, is to check the bike and assemble it as soon as possible to make sure there are no problems. Although the organizers have announced there will be a mechanical service available at the registration building the following day, I don’t want to risk anything.
Wheels are fine, rear derailleur—often vulnerable during air travel—looks good, and the handlebars and shifters are in place...but then I notice the measuring marks on my carbon fiber seat post have rubbed off completely. A little disaster! The aesthetic damage isn’t the issue, but without those marks, it’s impossible to set my saddle height accurately, which makes my time and money spent on biomechanical sessions practically useless. I start to worry—an incorrect saddle height could lead to all sorts of back and knee pains.
Trying to calm myself, I remember the notes I made back home with the exact fitting measures. I call and ask for a clear photo of the measurements, but at this point I still need carbon paste to secure the seat post and, crucially, a measuring tape. Trying not to worry—I’ve dealt with worse bike problems—I realize Amazon can deliver a measuring tape by tomorrow, and I’m sure the mechanics at the event check-in center will have carbon paste. Just to be sure, I call them. Yes! Problem halfway solved. I rush to Decathlon to pick up some CO2 cartridges, as they can’t be brought on planes. I had pre-ordered them just in case they’d be hard to find, with all 300 participants possibly needing the same thing.
The Day Before
The following day, like the day before, I decide to skip the social rides. Why risk my legs so close to the event? Besides, I don’t want to encounter an arrogant rider who thinks he knows everything, possibly undermining my motivation or making me second-guess my preparation.
I arrive at the Palacio de Congresos half an hour before check-in opens at noon, eagerly waiting for the doors to open. The check-in process is smooth—number 55, a good number—and the area is well organized. I grab the goodies bag and another one from the nutrition sponsor. In less than five minutes, a long line forms behind me. It’s time to visit the mechanics for the carbon paste. With the pressing bike issue solved, I return to the hotel and find the parcel with the measuring tape already delivered. Perfect! I recreate my exact bike fit. Problem solved, bike ready!

(My race-proven gravel bike ready for its first monumental trip)
The next task is to unpack the goodie bag, and I’m impressed. Having done many cycling, running, and even Ironman races, this is by far the best goodie bag I’ve ever received. Inside:
A Buff cap with my race number
A Buff neck warmer, limited edition with Badlands design
A small first aid kit (though I’ll use my meticulously prepared one)
The GPS tracker
A cool participant tee
A high-quality print of the hand-drawn route map
Some stickers
Vinyl stickers to repair bag cuts
A wristband
The nutrition bag has gels and bars—some will be great, others less so, but I load them all onto the bike. I can sense I won’t regret having them with me.
I’m running late for the 16:00 English briefing, so I catch the 17:00 one in Spanish instead. No major updates compared to the briefing slides sent by email. The key point is the confirmation, according to the latest weather reports, that we’ll be using the original route. In case of rain, they would have switched to a safer track as it happened in 2023, an easier route planned to avoid the flash-flood-prone Gorafe and Tabernas deserts, and adding more asphalt. But the forecast calls for hot weather, except for cooler nights at higher altitudes, with a chance of storms over the Sierra de Baza between Monday and Tuesday.
Back at the hotel, I finalize packing my bike bags. I’ve been thinking about it non-stop for the past two weeks, and I finally decide to go with a minimalistic sleeping kit—an air mat and emergency blanket—since the weather isn’t likely to be freezing or rainy. The kit weighs around 600 grams and takes up a quarter of the saddlebag, in contrast to the bulkier 1.6kg setup I’d originally considered. This allows me to forgo the use of a handlebar bag, prioritizing agility, though it means I may have to prioritize hotels for sleeping when possible (as you’ll see, hotels aren’t always available).
With the route fully loaded on my GPS, after an early pizza (my standard pre-race meal for marathons, gran fondos, or triathlons), and everything ready, I decide to hit the sack.
The Grand Depart
The night feels endlessly long, and I can’t sleep more than 3-4 hours. I’m too excited. When I realize sleep won’t come back, I decide to have an early breakfast—always a good idea. All kitted up, I take my bike down to the hotel lobby, leave my bike bag in custody until my return, and head to the start area in front of the Palacio de Congresos.
I’m one of the first to arrive, but it doesn’t take long before the large square fills with veterans and first-timers alike. The air is so tense it could be cut with a knife. I meet Niccolò, another Italian I met the day before, and we chat a bit before slowly taking our positions. Time for one last bathroom stop before the start.

(Tense but ready for the Grand Depart)
The first 4 kilometers out of Granada are brutally steep, not ideal without proper warm-up. Being a lightweight climber by structure and body type, I manage the narrow ramps out of the city without problems, but—as I’ll later realize—I waste more energy than I should. Over such a distance, wasting energy in the opening part is completely unnecessary.
After 14 km, we enter the beautiful Sierra de Huétor. As announced, there’s no resupply point until km 20—at least, on paper. At km 20, a kiosk is supposed to be open, but it’s closed, and the next water point is at km 60. I briefly follow a small group of Spanish riders down to an Agentes Forestales station, where they refill their bottles. One of them is a distant relative of an agent stationed there, and when they realize I’m with them, they invite me to refill as well. I don’t really need it, but water security is critical at Badlands. I forgot to mention, my setup includes two 0.5-liter bottles on the frame, a 2.5-liter water bladder in my backpack, and two food pouches attached to the handlebar, which could carry up to an extra liter if needed. So, my water capacity ranges between 3.5 and 4.5 liters.
At the Collado de las Tablas (km 47), at 1,453 meters of altitude, the first real descent begins. Part of it, approaching La Peza, is on asphalt, so I use my aerobars, as the visibility allows, to make up for some lost time. At the end of the descent, I stop at a gasolinera to refuel: a soda, an isotonic drink, a big bottle of water, and a bocadillo con jamón y queso. The place is a hangout for hunters, all in military gear, but the service is good. The bocadillo is enormous, so I attach it to my saddlebag and decide to eat most of it later. At the town’s lavadero, I refresh myself and meet another Italian rider, Mirko, who I had met earlier when he was climbing back up a descent after losing his phone. Ouch. Mirko, from Emilia-Romagna like me, claims to be a slow rider but says he has the gift of never needing sleep. We’ll see about that.
Next comes an absolutely brutal steep ramp on concrete up to the Mirador del Fin del Mundo. I have no choice but to walk it. I’m at about 80 km and still have nearly 100 to go to meet my hypothetical day-one goal. I need to save my legs, especially on these short, punishing sections. After the ramp, a series of technical and tedious segments follow: a descent and ascent with a broken single-track and bushes with thorns on the sides. Certainly not ideal without an MTB! Then comes a long, narrow descent through sand, with dangerous turns that make losing control of the front wheel all too likely.

(A look back at the inglorious 25%+ ramp to the Mirador de Fin del Mundo)
After this difficult stretch, more suited to MTB than gravel, I reach the village of Purullena and its lavadero, where other riders are resting. I recognize some faces from brief chats on the road: Mirko, Guillermo and a Dutch veteran at its second attempt, having failed the first. I devour my bocadillo, refill my bottles, and wash my face and head to cool down, before waving goodbye.
Since leaving La Peza, we’ve entered the Granada Geopark, a stunning natural reserve where the mountainous landscape becomes progressively more extreme and arid, eventually transforming into desert as it leads to the Gorafe region later on. After Purullena, I make a mental commitment to push through the remaining 40 kilometers to the town of Gorafe, the gateway to the desert by the same name. I ride alone, experiencing the mental ups and downs typical of ultra-endurance events: one moment feeling strong and fast, the next feeling like my legs have turned to wood, while dark thoughts creep into my mind.
The huge cross of the beautiful Ermita de San Torcuato at km 97 reminds me there are still 30 km to Gorafe. The last half of this deceptively short distance is made miserable by dehydration and a headwind. I push the bike for a bit out of sheer frustration. Then, under unbearably hot sun, I stop to sit in the half-square-meter shade of a rock to avoid collapsing from the heat. Nearby, a Polish couple is dealing with a mechanical issue. After I finally leave the off-road trail, a paved road leads to Gorafe. Despite being only 5 km, it feels endless.

(The stunning Ermita de San Torcuato, with its monumental cross)
Gorafe, the Sunset, the Desert
Once I reach Gorafe, I recognize the Mesón El Mirador, an eating venue I had bookmarked for its location and one of those places that were presented as being fully geared to accommodate the Badlands crowd. While it’s probably not the only dining option in town, I’m far too exhausted to search for others. The sight of numerous Badlands bikes parked on the terrace is simply irresistible. Shockingly, despite my fluent Spanish, the restaurant has run out of most things, including pasta and bottled water. Only a couple of platos combinados are left, so I go for one with pork steak and fries.
Sunset is approaching fast, and I start thinking seriously about the rest of the day and, ideally, covering the remaining 60 or so kilometers left to meet my day-one target—no doubt overly ambitious. I reach out to one of the B&Bs I had shortlisted after weeks of scouring every inch of the route on Google Maps. It’s a casa cueva in a tiny village called Cortijo Nuevo, deep in the second part of the Gorafe Desert. With some luck, I get a response confirming that a bed is available, and—most importantly—the host will wait for me regardless of my arrival time. It’s one of those places that don’t appear on online booking platforms, so finding it took a lot of digging into local village listings.
The trail out of Gorafe, leading into the desert at sunset, is another impossible ramp, particularly with the sense of heaviness of the meal just eaten. From the top of the canyon, another trail passes by, where the route will loop back to Gor after completing the desert circuit. I’m in for a long, long night. The only relief is that, with the sun setting, the air is cooling down and becoming more pleasant.

(The sunset over the Gorafe desert, bringing an end to a long first day)
I befriend Rafael, a Venezuelan rider who has a similar plan and pace to mine. Neither of us has much night-riding experience, so we end up riding together. A very technical, steep descent forces us to walk briefly; with the darkness setting in, a crash would be too easy. Rafael doesn’t have any sleeping plan for the night, so I ask if he wants to split the casa cueva and share the cost. He agrees. We continue riding until we reach Villanueva de las Torres, where we stop at a roadside bar. It’s the same situation as before—no bottled water, no bocadillos. But they have 0.0% beer (I promise myself a real one once we reach the Mediterranean coast) and offer to make me a double square sandwich, which I don’t eat immediately but pack for later. Little do I know how crucial that sandwich will become in about 24 hours!
The rest of the night is filled with long, monotonous hours in the saddle. The only positives are the cool air and the novelty of riding with Rafael. At 02:55, worried that the B&B host might have given up waiting for us, we finally arrive. A frustrated man is waiting on the dimly lit terrace, clearly annoyed by the late hour but sympathetic to the effort we’ve made. Apparently, there’s another American rider staying there too. The host has even prepared dinner, though it’ll have to wait for breakfast—my stomach is closed for the night. After a quick shower and washing my bibs, I collapse into bed, wondering if I should aim for a shorter stage tomorrow, maybe stop at a hotel in Gor, a key town before the climb up the Sierra de Baza, and take the day to recover. Enough. I close my eyes and pass out.
The first day was a brutally exhausting stage that didn’t go as planned.
Day 2: The Climb to the Stars
I wake up three hours later, around 07:30. With daylight pouring in, I know it’s time to get moving. The host is already preparing breakfast for an American cyclist named Kay, who turns out to be in a U.S. military base in Cádiz. Her presence makes perfect sense, given the amount of map research it took me to bookmark this place. Since she arrived much earlier than us, she’s already on the road, leaving us time to eat dinner for breakfast—chicken steaks, roasted potatoes, hot coffee, and warm bread. Perfect!
As the host cooks, I take the opportunity to clean and re-lube my chain, then hang my still-wet bibs. The host turns out to be a really nice guy, though he seems disappointed that the race organizers didn’t involve him more, mostly using him as an emergency fixer. The day before, for instance, he was called to help a Badlands rider who had crashed and needed to get to a hospital.
We set off around 10:00—late, yes, but considering we probably didn’t fall asleep until 04:30, it makes sense. My bibs are still wet, hanging from the saddlebag as we start the last third of the Gorafe Desert, aiming for Gor, a strategic stop for rest and refuel. The final part of the desert is also the most beautiful, and we manage to keep a decent pace along the rambla until the climb up the canyon begins. We meet a couple of Spanish riders from Granada who know the route’s challenges. One of them only has half a bottle of water left and considers descending back to Gorafe to refill. We warn him not to unless it’s absolutely critical—it would mean a brutal climb back up to the ridge.

(The breathtaking view on the Gorafe desert)
By 11:30, the heat becomes unbearable, and we take shelter in a small patch of shade offered by a rocky wall. The extreme heat is slowly draining our energy and water supplies. After completing the desert loop, the route becomes easier, and we maintain a good pace. At one point, we come across a shepherd and ask for some well water to cool our heads. The last stretch before Gor is paved, slightly uphill, and seemingly endless.

(Cooling off from a well)
Finally, we spot an unmanned small table with a Badlands sign set up by local residents, loaded with sodas, water, fruit, and candies. Gratefully, we take the opportunity to hydrate—even though Gor is now in sight.
At 15:00, once again later than I thought, we reach Gor, by far the largest town we’ve passed through so far. The local authorities and residents have gone all out to support the riders. The Plaza de Toros was open for cyclists to bivvy on soft ground, complete with bathroom facilities. The Bar Hogar Pensionista rents rooms for just 10 euros. Unlike the supply challenges in previous towns, Gor is well-stocked. The local restaurant has everything we need, and the mini-market, which opens at 17:00, is also packed with supplies.
The highlight of every stop in Gor is the beautiful lavadero. I cool down my feet, calves, and quads in the refreshing water after the scorching desert sun. Then I refill my bottles with cool, drinkable water. We spend a good three hours in Gor, eating, resting, and resupplying. Lunch consists of a plato combinado with two fried eggs, pork steaks and fries, paired with two 0.0% beers. As we finish up, we decide to leave at 18:00 when the air is cooler, fully stocked for the next difficult 104 km stretch, where there will be a relentless climb to Calar Alto—an observatory and highest point on the route at 2,168 meters—and no water or food until Velefique.

(The pictoresque lavadero in Gor, a strategic spot to reful and cool down for all riders)
We depart in high spirits, and I power through the initial climbs out of Gor, maintaining a good pace. The air is refreshingly cool, much more pleasant than in the desert. The first part of the climb is actually nicer than expected, despite warnings from the Spanish couple we met earlier. They described it as "incredibly difficult," and a British rider in Gor seemed to agree. But let’s be clear: while the climb to Calar Alto is long and will eventually wear you down, it’s far from the most difficult section of the route. The previous day’s ascent to the Mirador de Fin del Mundo or the climb toward Gorafe was much worse in my opinion.
That said, the climb to Calar Alto is indeed long, and the road to the top is endless, with nothing in between. The darkness erases the landscape, but at least the cool air prevents us from needing too much water—a critical factor since this is a 104-km stretch without resupply points, nor vehicular traffic that could help if needed. Around 23:30, we stop at a deserted road crossing for dinner. I eat the sandwich I saved from Villanueva de las Torres, while Rafael’s bocadillo has gone bad, so I share some of my emergency rations.

(The sunset on the Sierra de Baza)
The final part of the climb is tough—not because of the incline, but because I’m utterly exhausted. The trail blends into the surrounding landscape, making it difficult to understand where I am. I remember reading that the final section leading up to Calar Alto resembles Mont Ventoux—wild and empty. Running on fumes, we finally reach the tarmac, where the last few kilometers are marked by Tour de France-style distance markers. On smooth pavement, these final kilometers are easy to climb, especially with the finish in sight.
By the time we reach the Calar Alto observatory, it’s 04:00, and the temperature has dropped to 10°C. We decide to bivvy here instead of risking a dangerous, cold descent to Velefique. We find a shallow concrete tank to shelter from the wind and settle in for the night. Two scientists from the observatory come over to check if we need help. In hindsight, we should have asked for a place indoors, but we’re already set up with our bivvy bags.
The night’s sleep is short and restless. While not freezing, my emergency bivvy becomes soaked with condensation, and I drift in and out of sleep in 20-minute intervals. Looking back, my premium hooped bivvy would’ve been a better choice, but it would’ve meant carrying extra weight. Still, there’s one silver lining—the glorious starry sky above. No wonder this place was chosen for an observatory!

(Bivvy camp at Calar Alto - photo taken at 04:00)

(Bivvy camp at Calar Alto - photo taken at 07:30)
Day 2 was another exhausting stage, compounded by the fatigue and depletion from the previous day.
Day 3: The Illusion of Recovery
At 07:30, I decide I’ve had enough. Rafael is already up, so I begin packing. My breakfast consists of my last emergency food ration and an Italy-made drinkable Pocket Coffee, which is a lifesaver for a coffee addict like me.
With the first very difficult part of the route behind us and the prospect of a long descent bringing us closer to the Mediterranean coast, we are highly motivated. Today, no matter what, we’ve decided we’ll sleep in a proper bed, in a hotel. In Badlands, accommodations are particularly scarce during the first part of the route, especially in the Gorafe Desert and the Sierra de Baza, but I know things will change as I head toward the coast.

(Pre-departure photo at Calar Alto)
A long descent brings us to Velefique, where we stop for a hearty breakfast of tostadas. One with an omelette and one with jamón. These turn out to be the best tostadas of the entire Badlands route, as eggs, oddly enough, become increasingly difficult to find along the way. The road that follows is a mix of short ascents and longer descents but also has some very technical sections that slow the pace down significantly. This is the critical challenge of Badlands—the sheer unpredictability of the terrain. What seems fast or easy on the screen often turns out to be slow and technical, making any attempt to forecast our pace frustratingly inaccurate.
After 26 kilometers, we arrive at Uleila del Campo and stop to eat. At a local restaurant—not even a bar!—a waitress tells me that pasta “is on the menu, but it would have to be prepared.”, implying it’d be too much work. I’m stunned. Of course it has to be prepared—what could be simpler than pasta? But I let it go and opt for another plato combinado with pork steak and fries. Boring but reliable.

(The only easy day, only on paper: there's climbing left before reaching the coast)
As we eat, we decide to cut the day short. Rather than pushing hard for a third consecutive day and trying to reach the coast by night, we choose to rest early and recover some energy in a proper hotel. We book a highway hotel in Venta del Pobre, 36 kilometers away, right along the route.
The ride there is smooth, rolling, and relatively fast. From the next village, Lucainena de las Torres, a gorgeous bike route called the Vía Verde begins. It’s a slight downhill, offering a peaceful ride free from traffic, and I ride fast in the aerobars, enjoying the quiet and beauty of the path.
When we finally reach Venta del Pobre, I quickly wash the bike, grab a burger, and drink two gazpachos at the hotel restaurant. During dinner, as always, I pull out the map and review the route for the next day. With a good night’s sleep ahead, I know the day after would need to be long and tough: I’ll reach the Mediterranean, cross the entire Cabo de Gata Natural Park, and make my way to Níjar. Pushing any further would be unrealistic. From Níjar, the big climb of Collado Colativí begins—a 1,000-meter ascent over less than 20 kilometers, probably the hardest climb of Badlands, on paper. Not something you’d want to be caught midway on with dead legs, fatigue, while struggling to keep your eyes open.
I call a motel there and book accommodation for the following night, sure that more distance would be impossible, and less unacceptable. With this plan in mind, we go back to the motel and settle in, going to sleep around 22:30.
Day 3 was easier, certainly less physically demanding, but it was still a day built on the exhausted, weak foundation of the past two grueling back-to-back stages.
Day 4: Have I Finally Found Physical Condition?
I wake up at 04:00 after a total of 4.5 hours of sleep (this would be the longest I sleep during the event). With everything packed and ready, I wait for Rafael in the hotel’s parking lot. Unfortunately, the fuel station is closed, spoiling my plans for a black coffee before we start.
There are only 25 kilometers to the sea, but clearly, not easy ones. After leaving Venta del Pobre, the road crosses what looks like a swamp before a short, sharp climb begins. At the top, with the sunrise on the horizon, we finally glimpse the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a welcome sight after the isolation and remoteness of the desert, as well as the long night-time riding of the previous days. I know the coast will bring more places to eat, resupply, and even sleep.

(The cinematic descent to sea level in the Cabo de Gata natural park)
A few kilometers later, we reach sea level as the sun rises, casting beautiful light over the landscape. The descent toward the coast is magnificent, right until we pass through Llano de Don Antonio, arguably the ugliest village along the entire route. Starving from miscalculating the fuel station’s closing hours the night before, we continue to Agua Amarga. There, we stop at a café where I devour two tostadas, one with tuna and one with jamón, along with a glass of orange juice.
Replenished, we resume the ride. But I quickly realize my breakfast came too late—after more than 4 hours of riding on just an energy bar and no caffeine, I bonked. I watch Rafael drift further and further away until he disappears. Desperate, I down a caffeine energy gel, and within minutes, I feel the sugar kicking in. My legs begin to move again, and soon, I catch up with Rafael as we approach the resupply town of Fernán Pérez for the usual, a soda and an isotonic drink.
We then hit a sublime flat gravel section, compacted red terrain with small bumps and monumental ruins along the way. My legs start to feel great, and I fly along the trail, which, I later discover, is still part of the Vía Verde that we rode the day before. The only downside is the heavy car traffic in the asphalt sectors. I’m probably too tired to be objective, but it feels like Almería’s coast has some of the worst traffic and driving standards in all of Spain.

(Riding the gorgeous Via Verde)
From El Cortijo del Fraile—a picturesque ruined farmhouse—to the old mining town of Rodalquilar, there’s a short, spectacular climb with an equally beautiful descent into an abandoned gold mine. A second short paved climb brings us to the Mirador de la Amatista, revealing gorgeous sea views.
In La Isleta del Moro, we do a brief stop at a minimarket to refuel, necessary due to the heat and the need to remain on top of calories consumption. With my legs feeling strong—finally, a familiar feeling that I hadn’t yet experienced in Badlands—we press on to San José and cross the iconic compacted beach trail of Playa de Mónsul. I remember hearing parts of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade were filmed here, and I try to recall which scenes.
Once the flat part ends, the brutal but glorious climb to the Torre de la Vela Blanca begins. I climb fast, confirming that today is my first good leg day since the start of Badlands. In hindsight, this is one of the highlights of the route—both in terms of landscape and performance.
At the top, I find a tiny patch of shade by the lighthouse to recover as I wait for Rafael. We then continue toward Cabo de Gata and the dreaded Playa de las Amoladeras, a tedious section of loose sand that feels like pure sadism on the organizers’ part. I unclip my left foot to help control the bike as I balance on the unstable surface. But it gets worse. We soon realize we need to cross the Rambla de Morales, a river with no bridge and no way around it.

(The beautiful climb up to the Torre de la Vela Blanca)

(A brief rest after the climb up to the Torre de la Vela Blanca)
I take off my shoes, hoist my bike onto my shoulders, and wade into the water. At first, it’s only up to my calves, but soon enough, it reaches my knees, then my hips. Before I know it, I’m up to my chest, stuck in quicksand-like mud. I shout for Rafael to stop, manage to climb up a bit, and slowly pull myself out. Frustrated, we vent about the route, wipe our feet dry, and continue to Retamar, where we plan to stop for a quick meal.
With a sense of accomplishment from finishing the Cabo de Gata region, we leave Retamar and begin our slow journey toward Níjar and the Sierra de Alhamilla, our stop for the day. But 25 kilometers out, the heat catches up with us, and we overheat, progressively slowing down as the 17:00 afternoon sun beats down. We find shelter in the small shade of a concrete hut and rest for half an hour. Maybe more.
Once cooled down, we’re back on our feet, resuming the march toward Níjar. Once there, we spot a pizzeria for dinner, while the motel owner warns us about the brutal toughness of the Collado Colativí awaiting us. But after witnessing the Badlands’ rugged terrain, I am not too worried about that specifically. I’ve already covered a significant part of the route, but with less than two days left (the cutoff time being 16:00 on Friday, the day after the next), and the entirety of the Tabernas Desert and Alpujarra Mountains still ahead, I begin to feel anxious. A lot can go wrong between here and Capileira. After a quick meeting where we agree to set off at 02:30, I crash at 23:00, getting in a solid three hours of sleep.

(The hottest hours of the day have slowly worn us out, making a stop unavoidable)
Day 4 was by far the day I’ve felt strongest—a day where I finally felt in control. But as the coming days would show, that was only an illusion. Sleep deprivation and accumulated fatigue are always lurking in the background.
Day 5: The Day I Gave It All
I leave the motel at 02:30, having eaten two yoghurts and chocolate croissants I bought the night before, along with an energy drink in lieu of coffee. The air is not cold—yet. The motel sits on a steep road (still paved at this point) that leads up to Collado Colativí, the brutal beast waiting ahead. Like the first day when we left Granada, there’s no time to warm up; a long climb starts right off the bat. But the Colativí is much tougher than the route out of Granada—20 km of largely unpaved trail, ascending from 330 m to 1,306 m.
The paved road is quiet and relatively warm, though humid, as it leaves Níjar. The first stop on the climb is the tiny village of Huebro. Despite its size, it seems important—it has a church and a large water reserve, the balsa. From there, the trail gets rougher, though not so bad that I wish for a mountain bike, as I had at many points earlier in the race. I keep climbing at a decent pace, chewing on a candy every 15 minutes. The air cools, and I pull out my windbreaker, only to remove it again as the gradient increases.
At the top, in absolute darkness, all I can see is a horizontal line of red lights—probably TV or telephone antennas. I put my jacket back on, bracing for a cold descent. With my hands increasingly sore from pulling the brake levers and the freezing air biting, I stop again to wear my down jacket. I proceed as fast as safety allows, hoping to reach lower and warmer altitudes quickly. I have a clear goal: to cross the Tabernas Desert, or at least most of it, before the hottest hours of the day.
It’s nearly sunrise when I reach the Rambla de los Molinos at the end of the descent, and the arid landscape of the Tabernas Desert reveals itself. Tabernas had been for years at the top of my list as one of Spain's most beautiful deserts, an iconic location chosen by many filmmakers, especially my fellow countryman Sergio Leone. It was also the last of Spain’s four main deserts I had yet to visit, having crossed the Monegros in Aragon and the Bardenas Reales in Navarra earlier in the year—and of course riding through the Gorafe Desert three days prior.

(The magnificence of the rolling views of the Tabernas desert)
The route flattens and becomes fast-rolling, with one pressing need: breakfast, after riding non-stop since 02:30. Fifteen kilometers later, I reach the town of Tabernas and stop at a café, ordering a black coffee, orange juice, and two tostadas—one with jamón and one with marmalade. After the all-salty breakfast in Agua Amarga the day before and the resulting struggle to get my legs spinning, I decide some sugar is needed. I devour the meal, refill my bottles (though not much water was needed thanks to the cool night), and set off for the desert.

(Refueling with a hearty breakfast at the town of Taberna)
The first two ramblas—the Rambla del Búho and Rambla de Tabernas (3 km and 9 km in length, respectively)—are fast-rolling, and I maintain a high average speed on the relatively compact surface. But I know the conditions would soon change as the ramblas climb and the terrain turns to loose sand, making the bike harder to control. After the village of Santa Fe de Mondújar, the 9-km Rambla de Gérgal starts as a good surface, and though the incline is positive, it’s far less challenging than expected. I continue with the good pace I’ve managed so far.
At the next town, Las Alcubillas, I refill my water at a fountain—only for an old man to warn me not to drink it. "Too much iron," he says, directing me to water from a nearby truck instead. Oops—too late. He apologizes for the town having run out of sodas and snacks after the previous part of the peloton had passed through but offers to cook us a tortilla in his home. He’s very kind, but I’m not hungry and eager to reach Alboloduy.
The next rambla, the Rambla del Campillo, is a tough one—rolling but with a loose sandy surface. At every turn, the sand makes it impossible to steer properly, and I lose a lot of time. During a long descent on a narrow single track, I realize my front brake is almost gone. The rotor creaks, certainly worn to below recommended thickness and possibly bent, and braking power is greatly reduced. From now on, this will be an ongoing problem, greatly limiting my downhill speed due to the risks involved. I replaced the brake pads before the trip, in preparation for a lot of stress, but although I have spares with me, I’m hesitant to replace them trailside in the 45C daytime temperatures in case the brake pistons don’t retract properly. I decide to rely on the rear brake instead.
Next is Alboloduy, a small town with architecture and vegetation more reminiscent of the southern Mediterranean than Spain. At the only open restaurant, I meet other riders we’ve crossed paths with since the Sierra de Baza. I eat my first plate of pasta in a week and wonder why it’s so hard for Spaniards to cook a decent tomato pasta. But I enjoy every gram of it. Nothing replenishes glycogen levels like pasta. Afterward, we take a collective power nap under the shade of the only tree in sight.

(Collective afternoon power nap in the only shade available in Alboloduy's main square)
One of the other riders snores loudly, and flies buzzing around my legs prevent me from sleeping more than 10 minutes. I wait for the afternoon heat to drop a couple of degrees—or at least stop rising—while sipping more liquids and refilling my bottles. I’ve been planning to bivvy outdoors one last night, minimizing wasted time with the looming 16:00 time limit the next day. The exact bivvy spot is a secondary concern.
I approach an old man and ask when he expects the temperatures to drop. “It already started,” he says. It really doesn’t feel like it. As we talk, a mute old man with a long beard, dirty clothes, and a wooden hiking stick approaches us. His skin is weathered from years of sun exposure, and he seems to be gesturing for critical instructions on the right direction to follow, unaware that Badlands participants must follow a fixed route. The first man dismisses him as loco, but I don’t believe it. The old timer reminds me of the old gold digger in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre—a man who knows these canyons and ramblas like the back of his hand. It’s a shame we live in a world dominated by GPS and online maps. I wish that was different.
The next two ramblas, de los Yesos and de Ragól (2 km and 4 km), are grueling, especially as the 40–45°C desert heat refuses to relent, making the uphill miles even harder. Finally, as the sun sets, we leave the desert behind and creep into the last natural ecosystem of Badlands: the infamous Alpujarra mountain range. It’s been described as the hardest section of the route. Can that really be true after all we’ve already endured?
The next kilometers are mentally the hardest of the whole journey. Long, seemingly endless climbs from Rágol to Instinción, and then to Fondón, push me to my limit. I walk many uphill sections as my legs refuse to work. My morale plummets. I seriously consider giving up and sneaking back to Granada without finishing, nor being seen in Capileira. I let the thoughts come and go instead of fighting them. I knew this journey would be a mental challenge as much as a physical one. I accepted that. I just keep going, one foot in front of the other. The bike feels so heavy, and the metallic creak from the front brake is unbearable. I remind myself that 150 of the 300 participants have already withdrawn, most in the first couple of days. I’ve made it this far—how could I not
continue?

(Descending a slope in the Tabernas desert, with temperatures reaching 45C)
It’s dark when we finally reach Fondón around 22:00. After riding through mountain peaks and desert since 02:30, my decision-making ability is nearly gone. The only restaurant open seems to be at a low-lying campsite. Desperately needing food, we order the dreaded—but necessary—plato combinado. We try to recover enough to think clearly. We are close to another very difficult climb, and pushing on now just to bivvy an hour later in the middle of a mountain slope on trailside seems pointless. So we decide to take a couple of hours at the campsite. I shower and get maybe an hour and a half of sleep. As I close my eyes, I lose all hope of reaching Capileira. I curse the terrain, the organization for not adequately warning us, and the impossible difficulty of it all. If I can’t wake up in two hours, so be it. I’ll sleep until my body forces me to rise.
Day 5 was without doubt the hardest, a day that depleted whatever was left in my body to give after four consecutive days when I had planned poorly my rest and recovery.
Day 6: Trust your legs, Trust your instinct
At 01:30, my alarm goes off without mercy. We climb down from the tree house we were given at the campsite the night before. After gulping down an energy drink and eating an energy bar, I load my bags on the bike. I dread the day ahead, especially with the uncertainty of making it to Capileira by 16:00. But most of all, I don't want to face the final big climb. The monster that would finally take us from 390 meters of altitude to above 1,100 meters in a village called Murtas—though not the last climb of this final day.
There’s roughly 30 kilometers of darkness between the campsite and Darrícal, where the climb begins. I’m so tired that I can’t fully register the landscape around me. I simply follow the light of my front wheel, placing one pedal in front of the other. As I descend, my unreliable brakes limit my speed. I tell Rafael not to wait for me at the bottom and just go—I’d rather ride alone on this day.
I try to disconnect my mind. Or rather, I let my thoughts and emotions come and go without dwelling on them. Darrícal, despite the hour and my fatigue, seems like a beautiful village. Narrow paths snake down the slope until the river below, where the 14-kilometer climb begins.
The unpaved path climbs steeply through a forest, crisscrossed by alternate routes. The mountain’s shape and thick tree cover disrupt the GPS and cell signals. The humidity near the river gives way to increasingly cold air, and I have to pull out my down jacket.
Before long, I realize I’m lost. The switchbacks are so close together that I miss a crucial turn and descend too far on a wrong one. There’s still no signal, so I descend even further to confirm I’m off-track. To make matters worse, my down jacket’s sleeve has become trapped in the rear brake calipers. After cutting it free with my pocket knife, I check the rear brake’s functionality. Despair creeps in. What else could go wrong? To keep panic at bay, I turn on my daughter’s music playlist. Slowly, I feel my spirits lift.
Once I’m back on the right path, almost an hour later, I make my way to Murtas, where I meet Colin—another rider I encountered back on the first night in the Gorafe desert. He got lost too. Colin opts to get some rest at a hotel, but I can't afford to stop. My last sleep is behind me now.
Pulling up the event’s live map, I’m surprised—though I shouldn’t be—to find that I’m on track to finish with 2 to 4 hours to spare. What a morale boost! I force down a stale bocadillo from the campsite—dry, flavorless, and difficult to swallow. Another rider, a German, arrives and calls the climb “fantastic.” We must have taken different paths, I think, because Murtas was one of the lowest points of my entire cycling career.
I press on, focused on maintaining my pace and keeping the ETA in check. A long descent follows. It’s still dark, and I balance between freezing air, dodgy brakes, and sore fingers from constant braking. Low on front light batteries, I stop to plug in a power bank. As I near Cádiar, the sun finally rises, filling me with euphoria. Night riding is over, and soon it’ll be warm again.
Crossing rural trails after Cádiar, I’m chased by two small, obnoxious dogs, their barking relentless. I shout and curse at them, too tired to think of more creative deterrents. Eventually, I outpace them, their barks fading behind me.
The next few villages pass uneventfully. I’m confident of reaching my goal unless something catastrophic happens. The last stop before the finish is the mountain town of Trevélez, only reachable after another 20 kilometers of steep climbing. My legs are screaming. In Trevélez, I check the live map again and calculate how much time I can afford to stop. Three hours or three minutes before the finish won’t make a difference to me after all. I notice on the live map that Rafael is close ahead, so I must have made good progress.

(One of the most useful parts of my gear: a laminated print-out, cut to fit, of the upcoming route's stops)
I enter the first restaurant I find, where I’m offered the usual tostadas. I devour one with fruit jam, hoping the sugar will fuel the final, decisive push. It’s far better than the dreadful bocadillo from the night before. The barman seems unfriendly at first, but warms up when he hears about my journey. He’s intrigued by the front suspension on my bike’s fork. “Only an hour and a half to Capileira,” he says, though I’m unsure if that’s by road or the brutal route awaiting me.
As I prepare to leave town and begin the final brutal climb, I spot a familiar face outside a mini market. It’s Guillermo, a Galician guy with a South American-style mustache and a stunning De Rosa bike, someone I’d chatted with several times along the route. He cheers me on as I pass, and I decide to take five extra minutes to refill my water bottles—though it didn’t feel necessary, given the relatively short distance left—and to say hello. He hands me some gummies I can’t refuse and offers me a half-full bottle of water he doesn’t need, saving me a trip into the shop.
I wave goodbye to him as I leave two minutes later. Less than ten minutes pass, and as I push hard on the pedals, starting the climb out of town, my tubeless front tire explodes. Staying calm, I walk the bike to the nearest patch of shade and remove the wheel to assess the damage. I'll decide what to do next once I've taken a look. I slide an inner tube in just as Guillermo rides past, shouting, 'Ma che cazzo!' in Italian. He tells me there’s plenty of time to fix it and still finish, asking if I need any spares. But I’ve got this. Less than seven minutes later, I’m packing up my tools and reinstalling the wheel.

(My bike with the exploded tire on the steep climb out of Trevélez)
I take my last energy gel, the one with caffeine—I had saved it specifically for this moment, knowing a final crisis might hit—and try to find my rhythm again, hoping the tire fix holds up (it should, but you never know). As I churn through hundreds of meters beyond the mechanical stop, my confidence grows. When the incline eases, I push harder. Nothing can stop me. Except the 'risky pass.'.
I hadn’t forgotten about that last challenge. The event organizers had devised one final subtle torture before reaching Capileira: about 100 meters of ravine that had to be climbed down and up on foot, carrying the bike by hand. But the 'risky pass' wouldn’t stop me. I focus on each step and make my way through. Now it’s truly 99.9% done—Capileira is next, and there’s nothing left between me and the finish. I push as hard as I can and begin the final 17-kilometer descent into town. I’ll finish it running carrying the tracker in my hand, leaving the bike behind if I have to. But as I catch sight of the arrival town, the full weight of the journey starts to sink in.

(The "risky pass": if you make it that far, its technical difficulty will be tantamout to a walk in the park)
At the finish, two comfortable hours before the cut-off time, I’m greeted by a small cheering crowd, many familiar faces. Dave, the organizer, steps forward to congratulate me and hands me my hard-earned medal. My front brake had nearly failed, forcing me to rely on the rear brake—also worn down—through the final stretch. My fingers had lost much of their sensitivity, and even a week later, I’d still feel the numbness slowly fading. I drank from questionable water sources more times than I’d care to count. I slept, at most, three hours on average—if I slept at all. I wasted precious race time by not fully adopting an 'ultra mindset' early on, understandable since this was my first ultra event. I endured long, freezing nights in silence, only to be hit with 45°C heat by midday. Yet, along the way, I met incredible people, especially those in the back of the peloton, with whom I shared stops, tips, and stories of struggle, connecting through our shared misery.
And somehow, I’d done it. An Ironman 70.3, a marathon, and now this brutal ultra gravel race—all less than two and a half years after being treated for prostate cancer. I was proud of what I had achieved.

(Celebrating the last meter of my ultra challenge, before a real meal and a beer)
(end)
NOTES:
If you enjoyed following my journey, please consider supporting my Movember fundraiser.
And don’t forget to subscribe to my YouTube channel, where you’ll find plenty more cycling adventure videos.
If you recognize yourself in this story and would prefer not to be mentioned, please feel free to reach out to me, and I’ll gladly make any adjustments.
Comentários