They call this northern part of the country 'Green Spain', and when I look out of the window of the plane as it nears Asturias airport, I can see how it got its name. Verdant forests spread back from the coast, creating a dense strip of dark green that rises into wreaths of mist on the higher ground. In the distance I can make out the bald, white rock turrets of the Picos de Europa mountain range, and I know that hidden somewhere in this prehistoric-looking landscape are some of the most feared climbs in cycling. I imagine the organisers of the Vuelta a España, having arrived late to the Grand Tour party compared to their French and Italian counterparts, set out to make their race the toughest of the three, featuring the steepest, most notorious climbs. And when they went on the hunt for those climbs,
they found what they were looking for in Asturias. Our plan is to take on two of them in one ride. The first is a beautiful but little-ridden road that winds upwards between vertiginous walls of limestone to the village of Sotres; the second is a blockbuster climb - a regular of the Vuelta - that heads up to the picturesque lakes of Covadonga. All going well, in the course of 132km we'll rack up just over 3,000m of climbing.
they found what they were looking for in Asturias. Our plan is to take on two of them in one ride. The first is a beautiful but little-ridden road that winds upwards between vertiginous walls of limestone to the village of Sotres; the second is a blockbuster climb - a regular of the Vuelta - that heads up to the picturesque lakes of Covadonga. All going well, in the course of 132km we'll rack up just over 3,000m of climbing. Into the valley. We haven't turned a pedal yet and already I'm worried. My guide for today is local rider Joaquin Alfonso García Llaneza, who has expressed his concern that our attempt to double up on climbs might be taking on a bit too much - this after casually slipping into conversation that he averages more than 10,000km a year. I figure his disquiet is more for my benefit than his, so I wave away his concerns and try to look as though I eat HC climbs for breakfast. Our starting point is the town of Cangas de Onis, which sits close to the foot of the Lagos de Covadonga climb, but we're saving that one for later. We begin by heading eastwards along the valley on a wide road that follows the path
of the Río Güeña river. Along its banks, holidaymakers are emerging from tents and a few early risers are already out in canoes and kayaks. We pass through several pretty villages as the road rises gently but not yet in a way that requires me to break a sweat. The further we ride, the more the trees recede and the valley opens up, until after 30km at the town of Las Arenas we turn right off the valley floor and onto a narrower road that marks the beginning of the climb to Sotres. From here it's about 17km to the top. In between we'll ascend 910m at an average gradient of around 5%, but this figure doesn't tell the real story of the severity of the climb. The first 6km tracks the cleft cut by the Rio Cares as it runs down from the high ground, and although spectacular it gains us a mere 100m of height. It's only when we arrive at an abandoned hydroelectric plant at the junction with the Rio Duje that the road swings left, getting narrower again, and the climbing begins in earnest. Long road, high village The slopes come on strong, with gradients around
10% for the next 4km. Soon we're passing through a series of tunnels
blasted into the rock, before the route swings across the valley on a bridge over a waterfall and starts levering itself back up via a series of switchbacks. The gradient eases just enough to allow a moment to appreciate the scenery, with views far off into the high ground. From here the road proceeds balcony-like, clinging to the cliff edge and following the kinks and curves of the river below. From out of this maze of rock, the village of Sotres appears suddenly. First I notice a building perched high on a cliff, then we turn a corner to find a gaggle of houses and within moments we're pulling up outside the Restaurante Pena Castil. The road continues upwards for a while, but we decide that this is our summit point and reward ourselves with a lunch of tortos asturianos, a fried corn tortilla with eggs and ground pork seasoned with paprika. While we eat, I tally up the number of other riders we've seen on the way up. I think it was two and about as many cars. I also think about the one time that the Vuelta visited these parts.
blasted into the rock, before the route swings across the valley on a bridge over a waterfall and starts levering itself back up via a series of switchbacks. The gradient eases just enough to allow a moment to appreciate the scenery, with views far off into the high ground. From here the road proceeds balcony-like, clinging to the cliff edge and following the kinks and curves of the river below. From out of this maze of rock, the village of Sotres appears suddenly. First I notice a building perched high on a cliff, then we turn a corner to find a gaggle of houses and within moments we're pulling up outside the Restaurante Pena Castil. The road continues upwards for a while, but we decide that this is our summit point and reward ourselves with a lunch of tortos asturianos, a fried corn tortilla with eggs and ground pork seasoned with paprika. While we eat, I tally up the number of other riders we've seen on the way up. I think it was two and about as many cars. I also think about the one time that the Vuelta visited these parts.
It was in 2015 when the likes of Fabio Aru, Nairo Quintana, Tom Dumoulin and Joaquim Rodríguez were battling it out for GC honours on Stage 15, with just a handful of seconds between them. The stage ended here in Sotres, and after numerous attacks and counterattacks, Rodríguez managed to get the jump on his rivals on the final climb to finish 12 seconds ahead of second place Rafal Majka. Aru came in 15 seconds down, meaning he held onto his GC lead by just a single second over Rodríguez, but he would extend that out to almost a minute by the end of the tour to win the red jersey.
The rider's ride
Enve Fray
Utah-based Enve has gone from being a maker of very expensive wheels to producing equally covetable and equally wallet-eviscerating bikes. The Fray is its latest offering. It doesn't fit easily into pre-existing bike genres - at 7.5kg and equipped with a speed-focussed Shimano Dura-Ace groupset, the Fray could do duty as a fully-fledged race bike, but it also comes with chunky 35mm tyres and clearance to go up to a huge 40mm, should you so wish. Enve is calling the Fray an all-road bike, meaning you could adapt it for some light gravel, but really it's a road bike that is a bit less race-focussed than the company's Melee, as used by the TotalEnergies pro team. The geometry is a touch more relaxed, the handling a bit more reassuring and the comfort dialled up thanks to those big tyres. The price may be breathtaking, but for anyone with deep pockets the Fray is the perfect partner for long days, big climbs and fast descents. Perfect for a ride in Asturias, then.
Enve Fray
Utah-based Enve has gone from being a maker of very expensive wheels to producing equally covetable and equally wallet-eviscerating bikes. The Fray is its latest offering. It doesn't fit easily into pre-existing bike genres - at 7.5kg and equipped with a speed-focussed Shimano Dura-Ace groupset, the Fray could do duty as a fully-fledged race bike, but it also comes with chunky 35mm tyres and clearance to go up to a huge 40mm, should you so wish. Enve is calling the Fray an all-road bike, meaning you could adapt it for some light gravel, but really it's a road bike that is a bit less race-focussed than the company's Melee, as used by the TotalEnergies pro team. The geometry is a touch more relaxed, the handling a bit more reassuring and the comfort dialled up thanks to those big tyres. The price may be breathtaking, but for anyone with deep pockets the Fray is the perfect partner for long days, big climbs and fast descents. Perfect for a ride in Asturias, then.
How we did it
Travel
Asturias OVD is the region's only international airport. Vueling operates flights from London Gatwick, which start from around £160 return. Another option is a ferry from Portsmouth to Santander. It takes a day and half but means you can take a car, which will be vital as the hilly Asturian terrain means there's not much in the way of rail connections when you get there.
Accommodation
Cyclist stayed at the luxurious Narbasu hotel and restaurant (narbasu.com), which is situated handily close to Cangas de Onís, where we began our route. It not only provides excellent accommodation and superb food using ingredients grown on-ite, but has secure bike storage, a full workshop and a fleet of e-bikes for visitors.
Thanks
Many thanks to our supremely patient guide Joaquin and driver Guillermo. Excellent mechanical assistance was given by Juan at Carma Bike (carmabike.es) and our splendid itinerary was composed by Onofre at Turismo Asturias (turismoasturias.es)
Travel
Asturias OVD is the region's only international airport. Vueling operates flights from London Gatwick, which start from around £160 return. Another option is a ferry from Portsmouth to Santander. It takes a day and half but means you can take a car, which will be vital as the hilly Asturian terrain means there's not much in the way of rail connections when you get there.
Accommodation
Cyclist stayed at the luxurious Narbasu hotel and restaurant (narbasu.com), which is situated handily close to Cangas de Onís, where we began our route. It not only provides excellent accommodation and superb food using ingredients grown on-ite, but has secure bike storage, a full workshop and a fleet of e-bikes for visitors.
Thanks
Many thanks to our supremely patient guide Joaquin and driver Guillermo. Excellent mechanical assistance was given by Juan at Carma Bike (carmabike.es) and our splendid itinerary was composed by Onofre at Turismo Asturias (turismoasturias.es)
On the big hill
One climb down and I'm feeling uncharacteristically spritely. Turning around and
heading back the way we came means we've already reconnoitred all the corners, and with little traffic there's scant reason not to let off the brakes and enjoy the speed. As we ride back along the valley, Joaquin does his best to dampen my enthusiasm by explaining that the approaching climb to Covadonga is the twin of the Angliru, another Asturian climb that's widely regarded by many as the most difficult in professional cycling. An hour or so later we're back close to where we began, except with 90km and a category one climb in the legs. We take the turning towards Covadonga and are soon met by barriers and park rangers who ensure that the occasional tour bus is the only motorised traffic that can pass. The popularity of the Lagos de Covadonga as a tourist destination means that no private cars are allowed onto its slopes - something else to recommend it to cyclists. This isn't a climb that reveals itself from the start. There's no way of looking up to the summit, only of following the road into the folds of the surrounding landscape. As such, it's easy to underestimate the Covadonga's severity, but the reality is all there in the stats: more than 1,000m of vertical gain over 14km with an average gradient of 7.4% and slopes up to 16%. Even if the summit was more visible, we wouldn't be able to see it today as a thick bank of cloud has descended, and the higher we climb the more limited our visibility becomes. With little sense of our elevation, and the fields beside the road having a gentle, pastoral feel, it would be easy to believe we were on a climb in the UK, not Spain, except here the hills go on for hours, not minutes. After a few kilometres, the viewpoint at Mirador de Los Canónigos is the first landmark to pass, though on this day it does so unseen. Beyond it, and all too painfully visible, is the signpost cautioning ramps of 15%. The clanking of bells attached to cows somewhere in the gloom around us is the only accompaniment to my increasingly laboured breathing, and in my tired mind the climb takes on a surreal quality. Visibility is now down to a couple of bike lengths and measuring progress is all but
One climb down and I'm feeling uncharacteristically spritely. Turning around and
heading back the way we came means we've already reconnoitred all the corners, and with little traffic there's scant reason not to let off the brakes and enjoy the speed. As we ride back along the valley, Joaquin does his best to dampen my enthusiasm by explaining that the approaching climb to Covadonga is the twin of the Angliru, another Asturian climb that's widely regarded by many as the most difficult in professional cycling. An hour or so later we're back close to where we began, except with 90km and a category one climb in the legs. We take the turning towards Covadonga and are soon met by barriers and park rangers who ensure that the occasional tour bus is the only motorised traffic that can pass. The popularity of the Lagos de Covadonga as a tourist destination means that no private cars are allowed onto its slopes - something else to recommend it to cyclists. This isn't a climb that reveals itself from the start. There's no way of looking up to the summit, only of following the road into the folds of the surrounding landscape. As such, it's easy to underestimate the Covadonga's severity, but the reality is all there in the stats: more than 1,000m of vertical gain over 14km with an average gradient of 7.4% and slopes up to 16%. Even if the summit was more visible, we wouldn't be able to see it today as a thick bank of cloud has descended, and the higher we climb the more limited our visibility becomes. With little sense of our elevation, and the fields beside the road having a gentle, pastoral feel, it would be easy to believe we were on a climb in the UK, not Spain, except here the hills go on for hours, not minutes. After a few kilometres, the viewpoint at Mirador de Los Canónigos is the first landmark to pass, though on this day it does so unseen. Beyond it, and all too painfully visible, is the signpost cautioning ramps of 15%. The clanking of bells attached to cows somewhere in the gloom around us is the only accompaniment to my increasingly laboured breathing, and in my tired mind the climb takes on a surreal quality. Visibility is now down to a couple of bike lengths and measuring progress is all butimpossible.
The soupy conditions obliterate everything, dulling sound and
rendering the road in an eerily flat light. I have no sense of what lies beyond the edge of the tarmac, yet the sensation isn't unpleasant. My GPS means I'm unlikely to get lost and the soaking mist has a cooling effect. My mind drifts to races of the past, and I think about Thibaut Pinot and Demi Vollering, both of whom emerged from a similar mist to claim victory atop the Covadonga in recent years. I'm pulled from my reverie by the bellowing of an enormous bull, which rears from the gloom and watches indifferently as we tack past. I keep an eye out behind to ensure it's not about to come charging after us. About 7km from the top comes the toughest section, La Huesera, which rises at an average of 15% for 800m. Joaquin explains that it's the ideal springboard for attacks, and demonstrates as much by haring off into the mist. From here, the gradient won't drop below 10% for another 1,500m so I let him go and focus on simply turning the pedals. One facet of the Covadonga that adds to its star quality is the way its final three ramps are interspersed with short descents, requiring the exhausted rider to shift into the big ring and navigate several tricky corners at top speed. It's a profile that guarantees tension right until the line. The downward trajectory of my front wheel tells me I've reached the first of these, yet with the day's total ascent approaching 3,000m, I eschew any thought of heroics and concentrate on staying upright. I realise I'm now properly, mind-bogglingly tired. After each moment of respite comes a ramp of first 9% and then 12%. The poor visibility means I've been relying on my legs as much as my eyes to work out where I am on the mountain, and it's only as the last slope mellows that I realise I must be adjacent to the twin lakes of Enol and Ercina. I'm at the summit. A moment later I'm scrambling into the Bar Maria Rosa as fast as my cleats will allow me. Mercifully, Joaquin has already lined up a hot chocolate and a bun. When the Vuelta arrives this year, the riders' day will end here. I'm mid-way through my drink and reflecting on a grand day out in the Asturian mountains before the realisation hits me. I still have to ride back down.
rendering the road in an eerily flat light. I have no sense of what lies beyond the edge of the tarmac, yet the sensation isn't unpleasant. My GPS means I'm unlikely to get lost and the soaking mist has a cooling effect. My mind drifts to races of the past, and I think about Thibaut Pinot and Demi Vollering, both of whom emerged from a similar mist to claim victory atop the Covadonga in recent years. I'm pulled from my reverie by the bellowing of an enormous bull, which rears from the gloom and watches indifferently as we tack past. I keep an eye out behind to ensure it's not about to come charging after us. About 7km from the top comes the toughest section, La Huesera, which rises at an average of 15% for 800m. Joaquin explains that it's the ideal springboard for attacks, and demonstrates as much by haring off into the mist. From here, the gradient won't drop below 10% for another 1,500m so I let him go and focus on simply turning the pedals. One facet of the Covadonga that adds to its star quality is the way its final three ramps are interspersed with short descents, requiring the exhausted rider to shift into the big ring and navigate several tricky corners at top speed. It's a profile that guarantees tension right until the line. The downward trajectory of my front wheel tells me I've reached the first of these, yet with the day's total ascent approaching 3,000m, I eschew any thought of heroics and concentrate on staying upright. I realise I'm now properly, mind-bogglingly tired. After each moment of respite comes a ramp of first 9% and then 12%. The poor visibility means I've been relying on my legs as much as my eyes to work out where I am on the mountain, and it's only as the last slope mellows that I realise I must be adjacent to the twin lakes of Enol and Ercina. I'm at the summit. A moment later I'm scrambling into the Bar Maria Rosa as fast as my cleats will allow me. Mercifully, Joaquin has already lined up a hot chocolate and a bun. When the Vuelta arrives this year, the riders' day will end here. I'm mid-way through my drink and reflecting on a grand day out in the Asturian mountains before the realisation hits me. I still have to ride back down.