GranGuanche: Two Friends Chasing Ferries

We pop out on top of a gravel ridge towering over the ocean and gazing down the coast at a road sweeping between the rocky cliffs towards a tiny town and ferry dock in the distance. We can already see the incoming ferry coming towards us, and way out across the water in the distance, we can make out the mammoth 3,715-metre peak of Mount Teide on Tenerife, poking above the clouds. I cock my head over my shoulder and shout to Jenny, “We’ve got an hour and 17 kilometres. I think we’ll make it!” A mantra follows you 24 hours a day in this race: Don’t miss the boat!

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The GranGuanche Audax Gravel is a self-supported, single-stage, fixed-route endurance cycling event across five of the Canary Islands. There’s no cut-off time and no prizes. It’s 700 kilometres of mixed terrain and 16,000 metres of climbing. Calling itself not a race but a collective cycling adventure, the GranGuanche encourages participants to ride and experience the challenging route together by connecting the islands via a network of ferries with somewhat limited schedules.

The idea of chasing tight deadlines by bike is far from new to me, having worked on and off as a bicycle courier for over 10 years. At work, I often describe my deadlines as me being a golden retriever and my dispatcher is throwing tennis balls. Sometimes, the balls go far/hours into the distance; every minute counts if you’re going to be on time. I love a good game of fetch on my bike, so the idea of chasing ferries was really what first attracted me to this event.

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The other reason I came was an opportunity to try racing this route with someone else. It was my ninth ultra event in the last three years, and I have only ever raced alone. I value having my own experience of pushing and managing my limits, but after meeting so many fascinating, fun, and inspiring people in the races I’ve participated in over the last few years, I’ve become more and more curious to try racing as a pair. In the right combination, I knew it would be just as unique an experience but potentially much more fun, too.

I met Jenny Tough the day before registration at the 2021 Silk Road Mountain Race, my first ultra. At the time, I was a Scotsman living in North America, and she was a North American living in Scotland, so our blend of identities had an immediate synergy to it. Jenny is a powerhouse of a human being. Almost as impressive as her arms-length list of incredible physical and adventurous achievements around the world is her ability to downplay them as perfectly normal. She’s as charming as she is humble, and she’s very funny. We immediately hit it off. Our senses of humour and laid-back temperaments in the face of challenge made us easy friends from the beginning. We’ve been good buddies ever since, but very seldomly live on the same continent, and aligning calendars to cross paths has always been a challenge. Towards the end of last year, I finally proposed the idea of picking an event in early spring and doing it together.

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Five months later, I’m hugging Jenny in the arrivals hall at Arrecife Airport in Lanzarote, and we’re soon giggling away together all the way up to the start line in the tiny village of Orzola.

Lanzarote

The name GranGuanche refers to the Indigenous population of the Canary Islands, the Guanche. They lived for thousands of years on these islands before being colonised by the Spanish in the 15th century. From the ocean, the volcanic islands rise sharply from the water, and on many islands, all you can see from a boat are rocky mountain cliffs. But hidden up on the plateaus above those first peaks are rich, lush grasslands, pinewood forests, volcanic rockfall, and expansive open space. Each island is unique and diverse. 

We rode north to the start line in a wild tailwind in the mid-afternoon. The start time of the race is 10 p.m. at a small church just outside of town. It’s equal parts quaint, picturesque, quiet, and desolate. Riders drift into the start to grab their registration packs, dump their transfer bag, and try to find somewhere to get a few more hours of rest before riding into the night. There’s a calm and nervous energy in the air. As always, it’s so cathartic.

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I dash around taking portraits and introducing myself to some riders here and there before finding a spot behind the church, relatively sheltered from the brisk wind and climbing into my sleeping bag for a few short hours, determined not to put on lycra until as late as possible, having no idea how long I have it on for. As night fell, we lined up in front of the quaint church, lycra-clad, bags packed, lights on, and set off into the night.

Though I remain adamant that each island we visited over the next 3.5 days was unique and individual, in the case of Lanzarote, I can only maintain that statement while seeing almost none of it, as we covered all of this part of the route before sunrise the next morning. Those first climbs were sharp in places but lots of fun with the charged energy of the pack and the excitement of finally getting going. I’d decided it was worth the space and battery capacities to pick up a speaker for Jenny and me to rock out to on the route, and I spent that first night serenading the crowd with golden oldies, rolling up on other riders playing Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” or Annie Lennox’s “Sweet Dreams,” earning a few good chuckles and sing-a-long moments with fellow racers. We were treated to sweeping views across the dark landscape and down to the ocean from the top of long ascents, illuminated only by the street lights of seaside towns below and, when the clouds parted, the moon’s reflection on the water.

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We pulled into the ferry port around 6 a.m. with two hours until the first ferry of the day, which most of the racers would comfortably make. We slept for an hour on the concrete right by the port entrance. I admit that for this race, I brought my most minimal sleep system to date. I only brought a 10°C (50°F) ultralight sleeping bag—no mat, no bivvy, no tent. It was only three or four days; at least if the sleep was terrible, it would be over quickly! But a bit of sleep happened, as we had already checked off our first island, and the spirits were high. We jostled with other racers in the ferry canteen for coffees and bolillos and slumped over the sofas, charging all our gear and gossiping about how we saw the day ahead.

Fuerteventura

There was a good energy getting off the boat in Fuerteventura. The front groups had reformed, people were getting ready to keep rolling, and we all knew it would be a long day if we were going to make it off Fuerteventura before the last ferry of the day 11 hours later. It had been a long night, but we had a big island ahead of us, and missing the ferry that day would be the difference between staying ahead or getting caught another 12 hours behind. The tennis ball had been thrown. FETCH!

If there’s one thing I felt characterised Fuerteventura and set it apart from the other islands, it would be its desert quality. Of all the islands, it’s the driest, and actually, it often reminded me of the times I’ve spent in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco in the last few years.

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The first part of the route hugs the coast and takes riders up onto remote clifftops towering over the sea. It’s isolated, rocky, and dramatic. There’s a richness to the orange and red tones across the landscape and its layers upon layers of mountainscape and desert. At some point, the route starts to leave the coast and yo-yos up and down the landscape, crossing dry riverbeds and passing through rural villages. 

After taking some good breaks to refill on water and ice creams, we scaled some longer road climbs with relative ease.

Jenny was so very much faster than me on downhills; being a highly experienced mountain biker, she appeared to have no fear at all, and as we started the long and technical descents from the tall peaks, I would find myself calling out the Jenny, “Okay, see ya laterrrr!” But, to my credit, I am, through and through, a true mountain goat and can happily trot my way up mountains for hours in virtually any weather conditions. The climbs are very much my favourite part of long rides.

These bigger road climbs opened out to spectacular views with more and more layers of landscape in all directions. We stopped at a supermarket 28 kilometres from the ferry port with two hours until the last ferry, all tarmac, and we were pretty relaxed about it. That was, however, until we checked the ferry tickets online and saw that the ferry to Gran Canaria was sold out—at least online. The panic was visibly rising in us both; after all the work we’d put in over the last 24 hours, we weren’t about to miss this boat. We hopped back on our bikes, and despite already having 270 kilometres in our legs for the day, we pumped out that last 28 kilometres in around an hour, tearing into the port, straight to the ticket office, and snagged some of the last tickets for the day.

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You can’t imagine the relief and elation, high-fiving and hugging and texting loved ones. We made it! Little did we know, the ferry we fought so hard to be on would be one of the worst rides of my life.

Gran Canaria

This ferry is now infamously known among the riders in this year’s event as “the vomit boat.”

Before we’d even left the port, the staff were moving around the deck and handing out seasickness bags, which suggested they were expecting a rocky ride. What we got was a violent and heavy rocking up and down as we went. With the sun just setting, there was no focusing on the horizon, and it was like this for the whole 2.5-hour crossing. I wasn’t lucky enough to be able to hold it, and I ended up throwing up pretty heavily in the bathrooms twice.

As I came out of the bathrooms a second time, I gazed around for a place to sit down and saw the empathetic face of Gala from Italy pop up between the chairs. She says to me, “Lie down on the floor. It makes it much more manageable.” I’m still so grateful for this advice, as it really worked and allowed me some rest from what was quite the ordeal.

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Some 2.5 rather gross and uncomfortable hours later, we gathered ourselves for Gran Canaria, everyone looking a little worn out by the crossing. Some people were going to keep moving, but many were calling it a day and replenishing their now-empty stomachs and getting a few hours of rest before starting again. We were very much part of that latter group. I felt so weak after throwing up, and I was walking around in a daze.

We picked up some ramen noodles and a cheap hotel, and it did wonders. We were back on the road by 3:30 a.m. and rolled out of Gran Canaria’s capital through quiet trails and backroads and into the eventual dawn.

We were promised minimal resupply and an impressive climb for this island. The climb would involve 1,500 metres up to the summit, including sections of steep dirt and disused roads through national parks to Pico las Nieves, the highest point of the island. 

We set off early from the last resupply point with an adequate supply of Haribo and chorizo and immediately started our ascent. We quickly noticed how much greener it was; it reminded me of parts of Colorado or even central Italy. As we climbed, the terrain kept changing. We found the most interesting collection of flowers at the side of the trail, walked some ridiculously steep sections, and eventually reached the cool temperatures of the higher altitudes, where we entered pinewood forest. Glorious! At some point, we even turned a corner and came through a meadow of bright yellow wildflowers. Here, the clouds started to hug the mountainside and engulfed us in certain sections, blocking almost all visibility.

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We took a nice lunch break at the top and congratulated ourselves on an amazing effort, hoping that with a lot of descent ahead of us, the most difficult stuff was out of the way for the day.

What followed were many kilometres of downhill, showing off some of the island’s spectacular central valleys. So many communities in the hills are well connected. It’s so green with such beautiful forests and peaceful nature. Much like the previous day, we were relaxed about time until we weren’t. My bike courier brain was trying not to look at the time too much, but when I did, and I did my series of calculations, I realised we needed to keep our feet well and truly on the gas if we were to make the 6 p.m. sailing to Tenerife, as we ideally needed to keep riding and take a healthy chunk out of what is a very challenging route across our penultimate island.

I pushed the pace a bit on the flats until Jenny, of course, took off down the descents, our happy game of cat and mouse. The last 10-15 kilometres of the Gran Canaria route were truly mind-blowing and felt like something from another world. The tall ridgeline of mountains extends almost exactly to the sea, then drops off sharply to the water, reminiscent of Jurassic Park or the islands of Hawaii. So much drama. We slid into the port at 5:25 p.m. with just two other racers on the same crossing and felt great about it.

Tenerife

Tenerife was where we might have had our toughest and best moments of the race. Either way, it was memorable. 

After a comparatively pleasant and restful ferry crossing, we got into Santa Cruz less than an hour before sunset and made a beeline for what would likely be our only resupply for the whole way across the island. From there, the route took us up a 22-kilometre climb into the darkness. Jenny and I were in a good mood; our plan was playing out exactly how we’d wanted—for now—and we spent much of that night swapping stories, giving advice, and sharing perspectives about many parts of our lives. At some point, another rider came past us as we had stopped to adjust some layers and eat more candy. We were so lost in conversation that I almost didn’t notice them. It made a late night so much easier to digest. I was barely thinking about it at all.

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By midnight, we were in La Laguna, our goal for the evening, and I was admittedly flagging and needed to get my head down and rest ASAP. We did the typical thing of picking a not very good spot to sleep, and likely would have found a much nicer one if we’d just been willing to ride all of 5-10 minutes more. But we (or rather I) didn’t want to, and we slept for an hour in a cold and damp field by the airport instead. The next morning, we woke up freezing and immediately put on almost all the clothes we’d brought to warm up.

It was arguably the most important day of the race because our last ferry before the finish line took us to the tiny and sparsely populated island of El Hierro, an island with such a low population that they have just one ferry a day. Miss this boat, and you lose 24 hours. Jenny had a flight booked for that Friday, so if we were going to make it over and around El Hierro and back to Tenerife for her flight home, we had to be on the boat on time. For that reason, we left way earlier than we needed to, giving ourselves as healthy a buffer as possible.

The main challenge started when we woke up: the climb to Mount Teide, the highest point of the race, which climbs 47 kilometres up to over 2,200 metres. We started so late in the night that we had to do many hours in the dark, which was a tough slog. We fiddled continuously with our layers, passing in and out of forests, and the temperature plummeted to just above freezing when we left the tree cover. We also had to fiddle with chargers and lights after so many hours of night riding without much time to recharge. We were, at times, a bit of a mess, but we kept moving into the dawn.

It’s so infrequent that you climb thousands of meters above sea level and can actually see the sea! So far down, the perspective is wild. We had climbed up through the pine trees once again and ended up clearing the tree line altogether into the volcanic highlands on the final ascent. It was long, but it was so beautiful. We were on top of the clouds, and it was (more or less) all downhill from here.

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We followed the most spectacular gravel trail along the ridge around Teide, one of my favourite sections of the whole race. We sat above the clouds for hours in the sunshine on this empty, peaceful, and stunning trail through the hills. It was so remote and so memorable. By this point, we knew we would be at least two hours early for the boat and took the time to truly soak it all in. This kind of riding felt truly world class, and a world away from the dark and wet winters we’d both just come from, so it felt important to savour it.

After some hours, we rejoined the tarmac for a very long descent to the sea, passing by innumerable roadies and pro teams that train on these islands, feeling a bit alien to be the dirty bikepackers falling out of the remote trails and back into some semblance of civilization. Arriving at the Ferry Port town of Los Cristianos felt like culture shock. We’d suddenly arrived in the Tenerife I knew of, the most stereotypical tacky and slightly trashy Euro holiday resort town. It felt a world away from where we had spent the last few days up in the hills. But holiday resorts also bring pizza and cheeseburgers and all kinds of other tasty offerings, so we filled up on great food and got ourselves ready for the last boat and the last big push.

El Hierro

El Hierro felt like the cherry on top of this fantastic ride—the one we had no expectations for, as neither of us had ever heard of it. It has a population of just 10,000 people, and the only daily ferry arrives at 8 p.m. when the few stores around the island are already closed. The route across El Hierro is just 110 kilometres, so GranGuanche riders face a choice: ride into the night and whack out the last bit and finish early in the morning but miss seeing any of the island or take a rest, wait for daylight, and pleasure-cruise your last day. We’d heard from the organisers that it’s a very beautiful island and a sad one to miss, so we knew we wanted to do more daytime. In the end, we rode the first 15 kilometres and initial big climb and took some hours to sleep.

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We broke up the ride and rode a bit in the dark and a bit in the day, still eating up some mileage early-ish but giving ourselves plenty of time to also take in the surroundings. It was a fantastic choice. The night section was warm and quiet with some very steep and winding descents to tiny fishing villages in the remote north. We managed to charge the speaker on the boat and were enjoying our last night together, blasting pop tunes and singing into the night (or at least I was singing).

We reached the base of the last big climb less than 30 minutes before sunrise. Perfect timing. As I made my rhythmic mountain goat trot up the hill, I watched flecks of light sparkle over the sea and tickle the hilltops with so many great colors and sweeping views up the mountain ahead of us. At some point, I took a few minutes looking out over the sea, and I felt tears well up. I felt such a profound sense of gratitude for being able to be here, to do this, for my life to bring me to a place like this, an experience so few people get. To have the physical and financial capacity to be able to have this experience and to get to share it with such a good friend. As I hear Jenny’s freewheel behind me, I look round to see her approaching me, and she’s crying as well. We shared a hug and mutual thoughts on gratitude, ate more candy, and kept moving.

The climb took us into a dense fog, lush green forests, and rocky outcrops with dramatic cliffs and stunning views down to the ocean. It was tough, but it was well worth it.

We reached the top of Malpaso, the highest peak on the island, from which you almost have a 360-degree panorama of the ocean and can observe the island from all sides. It was truly breathtaking. We felt the race fade away; time and distances and ferry stress were all gone. It was me, my bike, and my dear friend on top of the world.

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We finally reached the finish line a few hours later, and to our surprise, we made it in a not-too-shabby joint 22nd place in our collective cycling adventure, sunburnt and exhausted but brimming with joy for such a beautiful shared experience.

In the last few kilometres, Jenny asked me, “So, what do you think have been the big differences in riding as a pair instead of solo?”

Of course, there are many. Mostly, I felt as though I had much more fun. I think there is plenty of merit in having a hard experience on your own to learn those big life lessons of figuring things out on your own and learning who you are when faced with big challenges, but in a pair, it’s so nice to be able to share the experience—both the good times and the bad times.

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In those super memorable moments, you have someone to share them with and reminisce about later. The bad times just don’t feel as bad when you have a buddy to laugh about them with, someone to show you some sympathy and help you out to keep you moving. It’s so much easier not to get stuck in your head when you have someone else there.

In many ways, Jenny and I were an even better pair than I had predicted, and our time together was mostly spent making jokes, eating good and bad food, and making more jokes. I truly couldn’t have asked for a more enjoyable first pair experience in a more beautiful part of the world.

Further Reading

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