Erstellt am: 5. 2. 2014 - 13:18 Uhr

The First Ride of the Year

Tired of the ice and mud? Time for a bit of winter escapism.

With the ski-runs crowded and the backcountry slopes rather avalanche-prone, I decided to escape the ice and mud for a small outpost of the European Union where it is always springtime.

On the forested slopes of Tenerife, home to Spain's highest mountain Teide, you can escape the winter blues in a feast of sunshine riding on an island where February temperatures average 19 degrees Celsius.

You can tell you are in volcanic country immediately.

In some patches the soil of the mountain bike tracks that criss-cross the mountain is so black that when the dust kicked back by my riding partner Sissi’s rear tire stuck to my sun cream plastered legs, it looked like I’d spent a long shift in the coal mines.

There were black boulders too, remnants of previous eruptions that you could see through the curtain of pine trees that flanked the mountain bike trails.

chris cummins

But everything else is exploding in colour. Clumps of yellow and purple flowers line the track.

The vibrancy is due to the giant Teide mountain which creates a natural barrier where the winds that come from the north meet with cold currents around the islands. After clear mornings, the peak is usually shrouded in mysterious clouds by afternoon. The resultant moisture runs down into natural reservoirs that feed an abundant biodiversity with hundreds of species of rare plants.

Chris Cummins

Single-trail addicts might grumble that much of the riding is on gravel fire-trails, but for early season riding these can be exhilarating enough. The tracks snake on a helter-skelter plunge to the coast, diving into dark shade of the woods and then, as you hit the fringes of the forest, they spit you out again into the incredible brightness of the afternoon with views over the see the white clusters of buildings in the coastal towns of Icod and Garachico far below.

Besides, there was a stunning stretch of single track leading back to the village of La Guancha. It was a hurtling, stomach-lurching, twisting, arm-jarring plunge over loose rocks through the pines.

Finally, we reached the relative safety of a mule track and around a sweeping curve lay the village, scattered over a terraced mountainside in pastel colours of pistachio, lemon and ochre.

There, at a little café owned by mountainbike aficionado Tonio, you can fuel up on caffeine and cake – a calorific hideaway from the gloom of midwinter.