Tarifa – one of the other ends of Europe

One likes to imagine that the southernmost point of Europe is somewhere dramatically raging: the Atlantic to the left, the Mediterranean to the right, and a heroic cyclist in between. In reality, in Tarifa, it looks like this: 45 kilometers of gusty winds, 466 meters of elevation gain, and at the end, a gate.

The ride starts innocently enough: out of Tarifa, along this flat stretch where the road still pretends to be a coastal promenade. To the left, the water, which never really warms up; to the right, this dusty hinterland, which after just two minutes says: "It's not raining for you here." The wind is, of course, there. In Tarifa, the wind is always there. It rides along silently, takes its share without asking, and acts as if it's part of the group.

As soon as you head slightly inland, it gets more beautiful. Up there, the landscape takes on structure: low hills, scrubland, a few remnants of cork oak trees, interspersed with these white patches of development that look as if someone had decided: "This is where I live. End of story." From above, the bay of Tarifa looks like a poorly unrolled blanket. Down on the beach, the kites look from this height like candies nailed to the ground.

And then you drive south, because you want to go "all the way down." You can already see Isla de las Palomas, that narrow causeway that separates the two seas. You think: Yes. Awesome. Photo. Legendary spot. The map says: It's there. Your GPX says: Go there. Everything screams: Last corner of Europe!

And then there's just a locked gate.

No drama, no soldiers, no neon sign saying "End of the World." Just a gate. Metal, that's it. Spain beyond, you in front. The southernmost point isn't for romantic road cycling, but for border police, ports, military paraphernalia. You stand there, pulse slow, legs warm, the sea roars on two sides – and Europe says: "This far and wide."

This is the slightly disappointing moment of the tour. Not a big one, not tragic. More like, "Oh. So that's it." You turn around, roll back, now facing the wind (because it's always changing direction, but never in your favor), glance across the road again at Africa – Morocco is so close over there that you could almost look for a cycling route – and realize: the real beauty isn't at the end, but in the in-between.

These 45.8 kilometers are exactly that: an in-between place. Between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, between a surfing tourist town and a rugged hinterland, between "this could be a spot" and "no, it's closed off." Not a heroic tale. But an honest one.