Emilio scrutinises my waterproof shorts. His eyes narrow to slits, like one of those nasty raptor dinosaurs from Jurassic Park just before they attack. "Yeah, dude, you should have thought of that!" - Someone's about to get their arse wet - and it's not me! Together we look into the black wall of rain in front of us. "Maybe it'll pass," says Emilio, and I laugh out loud. Emilio, a self-confident Spaniard with thick hair, a full beard and the neck muscles of a competitive wrestler, never ceases to amaze me with his boundless optimism. You can't even see the Pico Comodoto anymore, which minutes ago was still stretching its 2300 metre peak into the sky in front of us. Now everything is as dark as a bruise. And the first gusts are already hitting us. Gusts of wind so strong that we have to brace ourselves with all our strength to avoid slipping off the ridge and rolling down the steep slope. At least I think there's a steep slope to our left, but I can't see anything because there's fog here too. That's fine by me, it masks the depth, because - I hardly dare say it - I'm not entirely free of a fear of heights. Ahead of us in this foggy soup, at the other end of the ridge, is the start of the 1000-metre descent, for which we have taken on all the drudgery here. The rain and fog may have surprised Emilio, but who plans for stormy rain in Spain - and in the middle of June? I was thinking more of dust, heat, sweat and frosty beer bottles that we would fantasise about on steep uphills. But another lesson learnt: you can't even rely on Spain, not even on summer - and the mountains have their very own laws. Now we can either tuck tail or follow the guiding principle: What doesn't kill you toughens you up. Well, I think we're somewhere in between. So we push the bikes on, brace ourselves against the gale force wind and hope that our shuttle driver will find us down there again.
Clay instead of dust, rain instead of sweat.
Rain pouring off our helmets - only the beer as a reward has worked according to plan so far. We drink Tronzadora, or chainsaw beer, because with every bottle sold, the local brewery donates a small amount of money to the guys who dig all these wonderful trails into the mountains here.
I had teamed up with Emilio Gracia and Rafa Molina from Madrid and our guide Pablo Irigoyan Claver. Together we wanted to explore the Pyrenees where many people left their villages after the Spanish Civil War. The starting point of our adventure is Ainsa, a medieval village that came to the attention of mountain bikers in 2015 when the Enduro World Series made a stop here. Overnight, this mountain village suddenly landed on the to-do list of many bikers, lured by an incredible 1200 kilometres (!) of trails. Now 20,000 bikers make the pilgrimage to Ainsa every year, whereas years ago there were perhaps only a few hundred. Irony of fate: for decades, even centuries, the nature around Ainsa was so harsh that people fled - and now this very wildness is attracting people - mountain bikers who are providing an economic boost. And here we are, sitting on the thousand-year-old stone walls of Ainsa, which in a few months' time will once again serve as the start of the EWS. But Ainsa is still quiet and sleepy on the slopes of the Pyrenees - and that's exactly how we wanted it.
Up here on the pass, the rain is still beating down on our membrane jackets. No matter. We tip the bikes into the fall line - carefully at first, then more and more determinedly - and let gravity pull us down into the mist below. After five minutes, we break through the band of cloud and whizz along a towel-wide path that cuts through a mountain meadow in wide lasso loops. Visibility is better here, and that's a good thing, because the switchbacks ahead require all our attention. I love switchbacks, because every single one is a duel. If you manage to master them elegantly, you've won. If you get stuck or grind roughly around the corner, she's the smiling winner and your freeride ego gets a kick up the arse. We slide, skid, lurch, while our eyes scan the ground in front of the tyres like a minesweeper to spot dangers immediately. The metres in altitude drop and at some point the trail suddenly flushes us into a cobbled alley that ends right at a café in the Cinca Valley. Precision landing! We are wet and dirty, but grinning. I'm still not sure if this is what I expected from Spain, but I'm not complaining!
Apparently Ainsa isn't sure what to expect either, but doesn't seem to be complaining. It probably doesn't know exactly how to deal with the sudden fame - like a pimple-faced boy band singer with a pack of TV reporters. There isn't even a bike hire shop in Ainsa, but the first guiding companies are offering their services, including Pablo from Altituderides.com. There are also trail builders who maintain the trails in the area under the name Zona Zero, from cross-country loops to tough downhill trails. However, Ainsa has become famous for its rocky trails, which swing through the mountain forest like rollercoasters and command the respect of even the hardened enduro pros of the EWS. Shuttle tours are very popular, but I still asked Pablo to put together a real adventure tour for us. It was to start on the glacier-covered flanks of Pico Anetos - the highest peak in the Pyrenees (3404 m) - and end far to the south-east near Huesca, where the landscape with its rock towers is reminiscent of Arizona. If we wanted to pedal everything under our own steam, this tour would take eight or nine days. But we only had four, enough time to get a good impression of the Aragon region, including a few surprises.
The rain forces me to slip into my waterproof shorts, while on the nearby Comodoto summit it is already flaking from the sky as snow. The next morning, all the mountains above 2300 metres are covered in white snow - so our plan to camp high up on the black scree slopes of the Sierra Negra is of course off. Instead, we take refuge in a hut made of granite blocks and have a chat. Even Alvaro Yaque, a cheerful, miserable chap with a hoarse voice and bad teeth, rubs his chin and stares into the snow flurries up there. He is our muleteer. His mules stand stoically beside him, ready to hump our camping gear and bikes wherever their boss wants them to go.
Then Alvaro throws away his hand-rolled cigarette and simply says: "Let's go!" The man is right - the procrastination has finally come to an end. It feels good and right to be on the road again. The mules amaze me with the ease with which they find their way through the boulders and quickly gain height with their thin legs, while I can barely keep up. Alvaro also prances over stones and rocky edges - despite his clumsy wellies - always with a cigarette between his broken teeth. Alvaro is a man of the mountains, as I realise within the first few metres. We climb 600 metres to the top, where Alvaro frees his mules from the strange load just below the summit. He lets out a whistle, the mules circle round and stalk down the mountainside. Alvaro follows them and lights his next cigarette as he walks.
Now we are alone. Silence around us.
Only the distant clatter of stones under the mules' hooves can be heard. The clouds break, the sun's rays flash, snowfields dazzle. "Down here!" says Pablo, pointing to nowhere. After half an hour of freeriding through snow-crusted stone fields, we reach black, fine gravel and surf down into the depths until we are swallowed up by green oak forest. From the snow to the valley floor, the descent measures 1300 metres in altitude and ends between the ski and climbing shops of Benasque. What a ride!
We set off on the next stage of our adventure in the minibus and turn the AC up to maximum. The snow and rain of the last stage now seem like something from another world, and yet the vagaries of the weather will continue to accompany us.
"I've got something very special for you today!" says Pablo, as if yesterday's amazing descent had just been so lirumlarum. Pablo is a kayaker and loves rocky white water just as much as the technical trails around Ainsa. My experience with kayakers tells me that "something special" means something like: You'll probably get yourself killed. But Pablo seems to have deciphered my sceptical look and we spend the afternoon freeriding in permanent grin mode. We start in the mountain village of Matidero, and the trail quickly tests the testosterone levels in our blood. Rocky edges, steep descents, hairpin bends on the slope, stone labyrinths - courage is constantly required. If I make it through these stumbling blocks, I'm jubilant with happiness and repeatedly hear "Yeah dude!" from my pursuer, who has observed my elegant choice of line. That's balm for my biker ego and the best reward in freeriding, right? I think so.
For two days, we wind our way through the Sierra y Cañones del Guara National Park. Yes, viva España - this is the Spain I had hoped for: blue skies and a piercing sun!
When Pablo immediately asks us: "How do you like Guara-Freeriding?", I want to hug him. I can hear the pride in his voice, as Pablo's grandfather comes from one of the abandoned villages between whose walls we spent last night. "Only a few people drive here," he adds, as if to apologise for the rough, uncouth character of the route. Because let's be honest: it was also a battle with our own resolve: do I dare or not?
And again we camp between old walls and tall, saffron-coloured grass. A fox sneaks up and looks so longingly that Pablo feeds it. As we eat, we discuss how these super trails could bring new life to the old villages. We look around us - it smells of herbs, a warm wind fans up from the valley, silence rings in our ears, and far above us the mountains push their predatory teeth into the evening sky - so much wild nature, the Alps can only dream of it! "The trail down to Huesca ...", says Pablo and we interrupt him, "... will be something very special again!" "That's right, amigos!" he confirms and is proved right once again.
Twelve hours later, we're rolling over 100 metres and a cliff edge on a trail called Salto del Roldàn, while vultures circle above us, waiting for us to choose the wrong line or lose our balance. Like the fox, the vultures know: you have to take your chances. This is axiomatic in the rugged Pyrenees - a principle that Ainsa knows all too well.
INFOS about AINSA
With its super trails and wild mountain landscape, Ainsa belongs on every freerider's bucket list. Ainsa is located in the Pyrenees. Around three hours' drive from Barcelona. Flights to Barcelona are available from as little as €40. Package deals with guiding are available from €1000 per week, for example.
INFO: blacktowntrails.com
