A SHARED ADVENTURE, BY SERGIO JENSEN
A shared adventure, by Sergio Jensen
I usually go on these trips solo — it’s a way for me to disconnect from the breakneck pace of the city I live in, to be entirely alone for a few days. But now and again, it’s great to share the experiences that I cherish so much with some mates. It’s a different kind of trip when you have someone next to you for 5 days. This time I was joined by my pal Edwin, who was carrying two years worth of stories from cycling Alaska to Argentina.
After nearly missing our flight, we just about made it to Tenerife and spent a quiet night at a mountain B&B before heading into the mountains.
Day one was brutally simple: climb. Just climb. Fully loaded bikes meant we were reduced to crawling, Edwin remembering tales from his continental adventure, while I mostly kept my mouth shut, enjoying the stories. The punishment of steep grades is the price you pay for the good stuff waiting above.
We climbed through thick fog with sunlight breaking through in patches, and gradually the mist started losing its grip. The higher we went, the clearer it became, until we popped out at 2000 meters into sunshine. Below us stretched a sea of white clouds that my brain kept insisting looked like snow waves. I knew they were clouds, but the view from above scrambled my usual references.
We camped in the pines that night, cooked dinner as the light faded, and I mentally filed it away as one of the most beautiful spots I'd ever slept in.
Day two brought us our first glimpse of Teide volcano and a gorgeous 40-minute descent—pure wind-in-the-ears bliss. Annoyingly, we were running low on food and had to drop all the way back to sea level to resupply. Which meant climbing everything back up again. 22% gradients with loaded bikes meant walking and swearing in equal measure, shoulders burning from pushing the weight up walls of tarmac.
The landscape kept shifting around us—Tenerife's microclimates are wild. We went from dry pine forests to tropical jungle humidity in hours. "Reminds me of Colombia," Edwin said, and I could see it: everything green and pressing in.
The next few days delivered what we came for: flowing trails that picked you up and carried you down perfect descents, forest single-track, dusty mountain paths. Until we accidentally wandered into an active hunting zone. Only found out when some hunters in jeeps stopped us, looking concerned. I glanced at Edwin—his tan gear made him basically invisible against the landscape. Add the thickest fog I'd ever ridden through, and it felt mildly sketchy. But with no way back, we pushed on and hoped for the best.
We cooked most meals ourselves over camp stoves, except for one gem in La Esperanza—a proper local bar packed with Spanish builders and terrible loud music. You knew it was the real deal.
We finished in Vilaflor, a small mountain village where we grabbed coffee from a lovely woman who told us about moving from South America to run her little shop.
There's something calming about heading into the mountains with everything you need strapped to your bike. Your mind empties of the usual noise and focuses on simple things: the next pedal stroke, where to stop for photos, conversations with locals, camping spots. It’s immensely liberating. You always come back physically tired but mentally reset, seeing things slightly differently than when you left.
