Nerja. If you travel with goats

“Drive along the coast, they said. It’s flat there.” The sentence still echoes in my head as the road tilts upwards shortly after Nerja – not much, just enough to understand that this is no Sunday stroll.

To the right, the sea, glittering, enticingly flat. To the left, the hills, looking like they have something to prove. And right in the middle, you, the idiot on the bike.

The road stretches on and on. It could elegantly follow the coastline, but it doesn't. Instead, it winds through olive groves, over windswept slopes, up to villages that look as if they're afraid of the sea. Every now and then you think: Now it's going downhill. And then comes another "short, sharp" section. A beautiful, sun-baked torture device made of asphalt.

At some point you stop fighting against the road. You roll along, panting, laughing. The air smells of salt, of dust, of something meaningful. And when your legs are burning and your mind finally quiets down, you realize that the coastline might not be flat – but it is honest.

In the end: 40 kilometers, 590 meters of elevation gain, a touch of megalomania. And the sea, still glittering below, as if it had known nothing of it all.

Conclusion: The coast lies. But it does so charmingly.