Gran Guanche
Cycling the Gran Guanche route had been a dream of ours for years. The idea of hopping between volcanic islands, tackling steep climbs, and chasing the endless Atlantic horizon had a magnetic pull. It wasn’t just about the stats—500 km, 10,000 meters of climbing—but the promise of adventure, camaraderie, and a bit of suffering in paradise. So in the spring of 2024, the three of us— Andy (The Peruvian Crab), Philipp (The Irish Junk), and me—loaded up our bikes, packed our bags, and set off from Lanzarote with equal parts excitement and trepidation.
Lanzarote: The Furnace Awakens
We kicked things off on Lanzarote, a land of lava fields and a sun so intense it felt like being in an oven set to broil. The roads wound through surreal landscapes that seemed plucked from a sci-fi novel. Every climb came with a view worth stopping for—craggy black terrain meeting the turquoise Atlantic, whitewashed villages dotting the horizon. But stopping wasn’t easy when the wind was determined to push you back to the airport. By midday, we were drenched in sweat and already fantasizing about the beers waiting for us at the ferry terminal.
Fuerteventura: Sand in Every Crevice
If Lanzarote felt like cycling on the moon, Fuerteventura was the Sahara with better roads. The crosswinds hit us like a brick wall, and the sand got...everywhere. Our bikes creaked with every pedal stroke, the fine grains grinding into chains and cassettes like microscopic saboteurs. We laughed at first. By hour six, not so much.
The climbs were long and relentless, the descents terrifyingly fast, with gusts threatening to blow us off the road. But the island had its rewards: the rolling waves of sand dunes, the smell of salty air, and the occasional roadside café with papas arrugadas (wrinkled potatoes) and mojo sauce that made every struggle worthwhile.
Gran Canaria: The Wall
By the time we hit Gran Canaria, the sand between our butt cheeks had gone from mildly irritating to outright abrasive. We joked that we were being slowly polished into marble statues by the end of the trip. Gran Canaria, though, didn’t give us much time to dwell on discomfort. It came at us hard and fast with «The Wall»—a climb so steep it felt like the devil himself had designed it.
Switchbacks snaked up the mountainside, each turn revealing another layer of pain. The gradient hovered somewhere between «are you kidding me?» and «just push the bike.» The Irish Junk actually did—throwing in the towel halfway up to walk for a bit, but then Andy shouted something about Cerveza!, and we all found our second wind.
The descent into the valley was our prize, a rollercoaster of sweeping curves with views that stole your breath even faster than the 60 km/h speeds. By the time we rolled into the coastal town of Agaete, our legs were trembling, but our spirits soared. There’s a peculiar kind of joy in being utterly wrecked and knowing you’ve earned every bite of the meal waiting for you.
Tenerife: The Mission Abandoned
By the time we reached the end of Gran Canaria, the dream of Tenerife began to crumble. Philipp’s knee, which had been bothering him since Fuerteventura, finally gave out. Every pedal stroke had become agony, and no amount of ibuprofen or pep talks could keep him going. Meanwhile, Andy’s bike was in even worse shape. A shredded rear tire had left him stranded, and after hours of searching small-town bike shops, we accepted the harsh reality—no one had the right replacement.
Sitting in the ferry terminal, the three of us silently grappled with what felt like failure. We had come so far, fought through winds, sandstorms, and climbs that left our legs screaming. But Tenerife’s towering peaks would remain unconquered. The Gran Guanche, at least for us, was over.
Instead of cycling into the sunset, we piled into a bus bound for the airport, our bikes awkwardly crammed into the cargo hold like wounded soldiers. The silence during the ride was heavy, punctuated only by Philipp muttering an apology that none of us needed to hear. By then, we knew it wasn’t about finishing. The adventure itself—the laughs, the struggles, and the shared insanity—was the real reward.
The End of the Road
The final descent into Tenerife’s bustling streets felt bittersweet. After days of isolation, grueling climbs, and endless views, the noise of civilization was almost jarring. We rolled into the harbor, our bikes covered in dust and sand, our legs like jelly, but our hearts full.
That evening, over far too many cervezas and a heaping plate of gofio escaldado, we swapped stories about near-crashes, unexpected kindnesses from locals, and the sheer ridiculousness of cycling through a sandstorm. The Gran Guanche had tested us in every way—physically, mentally, and yes, hygienically—but it also gave us something few adventures can: a reminder that sometimes the best way to see the world is on two wheels, with friends, a lot of grit, and maybe a bit too much sand.
Would we do it again? Absolutely. But maybe next time, we’ll pack more chamois cream.
