Grab a granny night in Fuengirola, and there we were.
Mark and myself, four days without a wash, a shave, or even a change of clothes.
We’d stumbled upon this rather swanky looking Spanish nitespot on our
way back from a big tour to Morocco. Suits and evening gowns were the order
of the day for the ageing clientele. Dusty SPD shoes and dirty shorts were
our answer to the same dress code.We were jumping around like hyper jelly
beans, trying desperately to blend our 70’s style disco dancing in with
the traditional Spanish music which was blurting from the DJ’s turn tables.
One more day; we’d somehow mustered a spare day at the end of the trip.
Mark was determined to make the most of the trip, and fancied something a
little more exciting than a full English breakfast on the trendy Costa sea
front. " What about El Chorro? " He quizzed? What on earth he was
on about I didn’t know, and in my intoxicated state I didn’t care
that much either; " Yeah, what ever ... "
The trip was on.
As a special treat we still managed the full English
breakfast, but then the serious business of finding El Chorro was on. It turned
out Mark didn’t even know where the place was, he’s just seen these
insane pictures of people dangling on ropes off the side of some sod off gorge.
That was how we’d decided to take on the challenge of El Chorro, even
though we had no ropes or harnesses. But, we did have our bikes! Uhhm I smelt
disaster straight away. But the sun was shining, so I ignored it.
Our map was so detailed and precise that we were able to find El Chorro and
Brighton on the same page, without even closing the page for the previous
day’s Moroccan trip. After a couple of hours we finally drew up in El
Chorro, which was like something from a TV ad. It had two buildings, one bar,
and a railway station. And this was supposed to be the adrenaline hell we
were in search of. "Must be the wrong place" I stated. Even so we
decided to check things out.
The car was dumped and we were pedalling our way hotly up some deserted rock
strewn lane. All very pleasant, but then "Grrrrggg" All of a sudden
there was a terrible roar and a piercing scream. We both nearly fell from
our bikes in terror. My heart was pounding. I feared the worse, an earthquake.
Nah, it was just the 9.15 train from Malaga to Seville. It just happened that
it was roaring some 50 meters above us, directly above us. The huge rock pillars
that towered besides us were in fact the supporting pillars for the local
railway, which traversed an amazing gorge, this was El Chorro.
So
we really were in the right place after all, but where was this rope swinging
catwalk we’d seen in the pics? Just a few short meters later we rounded
a corner, and low and behold there it was. Gulp, gulp again and then gasp.
Yeah, that was it alright. Ha, no way, I’m not going anywhere near that
thing I thought aloud to myself, and to Mark.
Curiosity obviously got the better of us, so we just had to make a closer
inspection of this ridiculous sight. That closer inspection just confirmed
my fears; This really was a decaying old concrete and rusty iron 18"
wide path, vaguely pinned to the side of a Grand Canyon style gorge. And not
only was it severely lacking in railings, it had great big gaping holes in
it too, like, people size, big people size.
Oh the catwalk, yeah ...
I’ve
done a few things in my time, and my insane singletrack ridges have be well
documented in psychiatric pages. But this thing, huh, something else. One
man made super single track from hell. It is literally a narrow concrete catwalk
clinging against decay to the most dramatic of gorges. They recommend ropes,
harnesses and carabinas to traverse it. I say recommend; that is to say they
recommend these basic safety precautions if you’re stupid enough to attempt
it in the first place. And here we were on bikes, without so much as my trusted
washing line between us. The lure was just too strong. We had to at least
take a peep at the thing.
Doomfully, a rusty old sign swung loosely from the gorge side at the beginning
of the path.The first section was all of 18" wide, and had a sporadic
railing of 18" high
attached to it. Oh my god, I was so scared, the side drop was around 100 meters,
straight down to the hurling waters bellow. One false move, one clipped bar
against the rock face, and that was it. Hasta la vista baby! It was so scary
riding that very first section, clipping my left foot in was unthinkable.
And this was only the warm up. After around 100 meters we turned 90 degrees
right and entered the gorge proper. V, v, v, vertigo, big time. The railings
fell away, and a great empty hole appeared, When I say hole I actually mean
no catwalk, just great big air, 100 meters deep of the stuff. My heart was
pumping like crazy, another two meters and it would have been my first ever
fall from a catwalk.
Gingerly we clambered our way across the hole, then
passed the bikes across. What the hell had we started? Huddled in a recess
just past the hole were a couple of Spanish trekkers. They were quivering
like two geriatric porn stars. The hole had shaken them some, despite their
rucksacks full of safety devices. And even though it had pretty much the same
effect on the pair of us this really meant that we had reached the point of
no return. The honour and repute of mountain bikers world wide was now in
our hands, what a responsibility. It was forwards and onwards.
Rounding the next crevice the cause of their tremblings became blatantly apparent;
There was no track at all, however there was a pipeline bridge crossing the
gorge about fifty meters further on. A rusty gurder was all that remained
of the tracks foundations. The adjacent rock face was decorated in harness
points for carabinas. A sagging safety wire loomed menacingly above us. We
looked in horror at each other, then proceeded to tight rope walk across the
rusting death trap. Every step across being a step closer and further towards
the blindingly ridiculous. If it hadn’t have been for the trembling walkers
I think we’d have taken up residence in that self same crevice by now.
But there was too much at stake. Plus, if I didn’t get the pictures,
then I wouldn’t get paid
for the feature, so it just had to happen, what ever the consequences. The
poor bemused couple looked on in total astonishment as we rode and hopped
back
and forth taking pictures of the insane act, clinging desperately to our bikes
and swaying from side to side in a bid to prevent ourselves and our beloved
machines from face planting in the raging torrent way bellow us.
A shimmy across the following pipe bridge lead us deeper and deeper still
in to the gorge. Each and every blind corner provided a new horizon, and yet
another narrowing challenge for us. The track which had seemed so scary in
those first few steps of the catwalk now seemed like a great super highway,
lined with padded safety rails and bounded by a cotton wool drop to it’s
side. This was true progression, and it made every single glance backwards
something of a reassurance.
By now return was not a feasible option, we had to go all of the way. And
that was some seven kilometres of knifes edge single tracking, the kind you
don’t get anywhere else on earth. Until that was we reached the other
end of the catwalk.
Then it dawned on us that the only way back was by the same way we’d
arrived, the Camino Del Rey, the catwalk from hell. At least the bar was still
open when we finally quivered back to El Chorro, although the locals simply
didn’t believe that we’d biked the gorge, thankfully!
Do not attempt to ride along the track ! It is a silly idea. The Camino Del Rey, as it’s known, is a decaying old catwalk built in the twenties to transport equipment when building the hydro dam further along the gorge. It is truly spectacular, but totally insane and highly dangerous. To even walk the route you do need ropes, a harness, and carabinas. Many sections are totally exposed, and flaky to say the least. If you don’t have the gear then you can hire it, with a guide for around £25 from the bar at the rail station, where you can also leave your bikes.
The classic film Von Ryan’s Express (Which was
set in Italy ) was filmed in and around El Chorro. In the last ten minutes
of the film you get some pretty impressive views of the gorge as they desperately
try to avoid Nazi capture and make off with the gold.
Unfortunately the explosions you see in those closing minutes were the very
cause of the great big holes in the Camino Del Rey, which so nearly wiped
us out.
