CYCLING THE AZORES Wheels on the volcanoes

BY MARTIN BISSIG

NINE VOLCANIC ISLANDS loom from the floor of the Atlantic Ocean 1,400 kilometres from the most western point of the European mainland. They’re the Azores. The smallest is barely 17 square kilometres, the largest is 750. Sounds like scuba diving, surfing and swimming to us. But biking?

Our plane lands in San Miguel on the largest island, Santa Maria. About 5,000 people live on this easy-tograsp little world. Two of them are Andre and Miguel, who welcome us at the airport with a Land Rover and a minivan. With us is Luis Melo, who grew up here and knows the island like no other, a passionate biker and our companion over the next few days.

On the way to the hotel, my travel partner Jenny and I learn there are more than 20 trails on the island, and that the Pico Alto is the highest, at 587 metres. Our informant, Andre, says we won’t have enough time to see everything. What? Not enough time in two days to take in a whole 97 square kilometres? We don’t have much time to wonder because we reach the hotel in minutes.

We assemble our bikes and head over to a small bar for breakfast where Luis introduces the mail man, Nuno Aguiar, who brought bringing biking to the island. Arriving from Sao Miguel a few years ago, he took pick and shovel and cleared old paths from sprawling vegetation to pursue his passion. He leaves us eager for our first trails.

We headed to the Pico Alto. The further we climb, the denser the vegetation. At the top, a quick push launches us into the jungle-like forest. Luis speeds ahead, familiar with every stone and corner. We’re slower, getting used to the soft surface laced with roots. Luis waits at every crossing so we don’t get lost. “Santa Barbara,” our trail to a town with the same name, zigzags through dense brush with sudden views of the whole green island.

One section is barely shoulder-wide, a three metre deep mini canyon strewn with wet stones. No fancy moves or mistakes allowed. We open our brakes and slip and slide into the fun. My handlebar touches the canyon wall twice before it spits me out into a meadow. We stop and breathe, noticing the first houses of Santa Barbara.

Their colourful windows are a stark contrast to their white facades, the colour formerly a sign of wealth. We wait in front of the impressive church in the town centre, taking in the rural charm until our shuttle arrives: back up the Pico Alto for our next run.

We’re impressed by the variety of the paths, maintained by hand with some passages groomed for biking. Banked curves, small drops, jumps, and short pedalling parts fit the surroundings and almost feel like they developed naturally. All trails have a name and most have a story. “Aeroplane” got its name from a 1989 plane crash on Pico Alto, where a plaque commemorates the terrible incident.

The next day passes much too fast. We bike along steep paths down to lonely bays and cross the Barreiro de Faneca, a soft and flowy landscape of red clay sediment known in English as the Red Desert. We take a noon break on the Praia Formosa, one of the most beautiful beaches on the island and the site of an annual music festival Mare de Agosto, a week of Azorean jazz, rock, and pop. It and the dreamy bay and colourful bars draw visitors from around the globe.

We have to say that Andre and Miguel were right as we say our goodbyes at the airport that evening: two days were much too short and the short flight back to San Miguel isn’t enough time to process our days here.

The next morning our starting point was high on a volcano above the Lagoa do Fogo, the Sea of Fire, which lies far below in a crater. We sheltered from howling wind to watch the red, glistening sun rise above the horizon, bathing the landscape in warm light. We chose this outlook not just for the sunrise but for the “Kathedral” trail. A fireworks of impressions explodes around us as we enjoy this longest trail on the island, and the views along the crater rim. Gulls scream and follow overhead until we dive into thick green forest silence all the way to the ocean and a late breakfast.

The most well-known enduro race on San Miguel is the Faial da Terra Enduro Fest, eight stages over two days. We’re not going to miss this, so we head to the town Faial Da Terra on the southeast coast. From our car, Luis counts umpteen trails and their combinations, many of them part of the Fest race.

We get out of the car beside a wooden sign that reads Pico Grande, with a pictogram of two mountain bikers. We pedal off in no rush, but the trail drops steep, a river appears, and Luis accelerates and whirls though the air. I don’t like jumping unfamiliar gaps, but I give it a go, and land softly after a few metres in the air. “Built perfectly,” I think with a smile. The fun en ds in Faial Da Terra. High five!

The “Pedra Torta,” a stony, natural path is on the program before noon, too. After a descent that brings more smiles, we sit on a mid-town patio and Luis Paulo Nazare, the mayor, wearing jeans and shirt. He’s enthusiastic about the development of biking in his region, to improve the sport and respect the environment, and the town’s local trail network.

The next morning’s stormy weather forces a break from wheels, so we walk the beach. Sun, rain, wind, and fog are standard fare on the Azores, situated as they are in midocean near the equator. There are no heat waves or cold snaps. Snow only falls on Pice, the highest mountain.

The shuttle arrives at 11 a.m. for a ride to the town of Furnas and its lake with the same name. Hot sulphur springs bubble from the ground, and the stench of rotten eggs drives us away to the completely fresh air of the “Sixteen Seconds Trail,” for downhill races. Banked curves, doubles, and tables are built into the compact ground. The 550 vertical metres through forest feel like a rollercoaster. We’re enthusiastic enough to ride it twice.

Our day ends at the Caldeira Velha thermal springs. A waterfall feeds the top pool and serves as a 34-degree shower. At a lower, smaller 38-degree pool we lie on our backs, look into the thick jungle and feel like we’re in a different world.

We are. •