A great article about a self guided Sardinia coast to coast mountain bike holiday that recently appeared in the Guardian plus a nice mini video too.

If you want to check out our trips to this lovely island then see :

Sardinia Mountain Biking Holiday

Sardinia Cycling Holiday

Sardinia Road Cycling Holiday

Sardinia Coast to Coast by John O’Mahoney

There was a point in our off-road cycling / mountain bike holiday across Sardinia when I wondered whether we might be the first ever slapstick double-act in the history of this most demanding of leisure activities. It came on our first full day away from the smooth security of tarmac. “At the Y-junction, take the trail to the right,” proclaimed my friend Tony, who had insisted on taking on the map-reading duties. Craning our necks to the right, we could see a terrifying trail soaring vertiginously up what seemed an almost sheer cliff, strewn with massive, looming boulders and punctuated by treacherous patches of loose scree. For one gruelling stretch, we had to claw our way upwards on our hands and knees while balancing our bikes precariously on our shoulders. Sweating and panting, we had almost reached the summit when I heard Tony consulting the maps again: “At the first Y-junction, take the trail to the left,” he yelled out. “I was reading the wrong bit. That should have been to the left . . .”Peering down, we could see the trail to the left easing down gently into the valley, a leisurely freewheel winding restfully into the forest. I can’t repeat exactly what was said as we clambered back down the cliff-face, except to confirm that the word “eejit”, prefixed by colourful adjectives, featured prominently. “Well, we did say that were looking for something more challenging this time,” Tony replied sheepishly. “Whatever you say about it, this is definitely challenging . . .” Yes, but not quite in the way that we had imagined.After our implausibly ambitious odyssey from Budapest to Krakow across the Tatra mountains of Slovakia the previous year, we were looking to step up the level of difficulty. On that occasion, there had been grave doubts about whether two podgy Irish blokes could possibly conquer some of the most gruelling cycling routes in the world. But with a lot of unflattering Lycra and a good deal of bluster, we had somehow managed to pull it off.

Taking the podgy cyclist show off-road seemed like the obvious next step. And Sardinia, with its gleaming coastline and rugged interior seemed like the perfect destination. The route, known as the Coast to Coast / C2C, would begin at the south-western extremity before rearing diagonally across the island, intersecting the formidable Gennargentu range, the mountainous backbone of Sardinia, and terminating almost 400km away just below the crass resorts of the Costa Smeralda.

Most of the journey would be on mule-tracks, mining trails and wilderness. For the first time, we would enjoy the luxury of luggage transfer, with our rucksacks shuttled by van to the next stop, as well as a guide to offer advice and support. But for the most part, would be on our own, battling the Sardinian elements in the cycling holiday of a lifetime.

We flew into Sardinia’s capital, Cagliari and were met by our guide, Renato, whose lithe physique, honed by mountain-trails, made us both instinctively suck in our bellies: “So, you’ve only ever been biking on tarmac?” he purred, as he whisked us off to the starting point, the seaside hamlet of Calasetta. “This should be very interesting . . .”

The hilltop hotel was packed with grizzled, leather-clad German bikers, with their chrome-spangled Harleys lined up outside. They glowered from the shadows as Renato handed over the maps and offered a few handy off-roading tips: “Hold on to the handlebars,” he said, without a flicker of humour, “And try not to fall off . . .”

In the morning, we discovered that the bikers had let the air out of our tyres. “Hell’s Angels sure ain’t what they used to be!” said Tony, pumping them back up furiously. Once re-inflated, we powered up the Gulf of Gonnesa with cliff-edge panoramas and rocky gobbets of islands spat into the bay. Then we meandered through the eerie, abandoned mining town of Ingurtosu and took up our positions at the beginning of our first test of off-road mettle.

The scene couldn’t have been more dramatic and primordial. On one side lay a fat, pot-bellied dune named Piscinas, looking like a wedge of burning gold thrust between shimmering sea and crisp blue sky. And sweeping away in front, like a tract of Martian landscape, was the extraordinary valley of the Rio Irvi. Stained an angry vermilion by the iron ore deposits in the surrounding hillsides, the river looked like a stream of red-hot lava flowing through the sand and gorse.

“Follow the trail down into the valley,” read Tony from the directions. “Start counting. You should cross the river 21 times . . .” Our initial attempts were disastrously timed, sending us lurching and heaving across the bubbling crimson. But soon we had worked out how to pick a racing line through the riverbed and were splashing and thrashing our way along, slicing up the stained water and throwing up a fiery spray in our wake. “Eighteen . . . 19 . . . 20 . . .” I could hear Tony counting down behind me, as we dunked into ever more treacherous channels. Then finally, an exultant “21 . . .” as we crossed the finish line, red from head to toe.

The next day would prove an even greater milestone: our first, full eight-hour shift on the trails. It all got off to a slapstick start with Tony’s catastrophic wrong turn, and our pointless scramble up and down the rock-face. Then I evened the score by leaving the maps behind in a ditch, forcing us to retrace our tracks through gorse and quagmires to retrieve them.

The route itself was almost as stunning as the day before, first along corkscrew channels curling through thick maquis. Soon we were carving up the Campidano plain, Sardinia’s famous saffron producing region, where the fields all round overflowed with purple crocus blossoms. However, at the end of a day of jolting, juddering and hauling the bikes across the pocked trails, we were wiped out.

Not even a dip in the effervescent waters in the Roman bath town of Sardara could revive us, and after another bone-crunching climb up to our agriturismo, in the sleepy enclave of Villanovaforru, we stumbled to our rooms like a pair of Lycra-clad zombies.

Next morning, as we sat silently gnawing our breakfasts, Renato came bounding along to check how we were doing. Genuinely shocked at our wan and withered state, he suggested multivitamins.

“Couldn’t we just eat a few more apples?” ventured Tony. Renato frowned at such naivety. “Apples are no use any more,” he pronounced sternly.

So after stuffing our day-packs with pills, we hit the trails again. If anything, the terrain was even more punishing than the day before, beginning with a headlong descent down a plummeting gulley. After wading through fields of neck-high grass and bramble, we arrived at the quaint town of Laconi, that night’s stopover, even more depleted, with every muscle trilling with fatigue. “I never thought I’d say this,” sighed Tony, “but I actually feel nostalgic for those ball-breaking Tatras . . .”

Though we didn’t know it at the time, this undeniable low was a turning point. Next morning was Sunday in Laconi and the only place open to stock up on supplies was a tiny pizzeria. So we filled our packs with miniature margaritas. “I’m not sure if Renato would approve . . .” I ventured.

“He said that apples are no use,” Tony replied. “He mentioned nothing about pizzas. . .”

This was the beginning of the most demanding section: the stupendous Gennargentu range. The trails soared inexorably upwards through dense forest of oak and fragrant eucalyptus before winding through farmland, with goats and pigs turning the tracks into a livestock obstacle course. As we swerved around the last hill, the view cracked open: on one side, slopes swathed with purple and yellow wildflowers - lavender, myrtle and broom - and on the other, a widescreen panorama of slate-grey mountains, jostling their way towards the horizon.

Maybe it was the inspirational landscape, or the thought of scoffing those pizzas, or perhaps our bodies were finally beginning to acclimatise, but it all seemed just a little easier. We arrived at that night’s agriturismo in the town of Seulo in buoyant mood and celebrated our resurgence with goat stew.

But Sardinia hadn’t quite finished with us yet. As soon as we had hit the trails next morning, the worst summer storm in living memory descended, stranding us in freezing rain and merciless wind-chill. With our core body temperatures dropping, we were left with only one shameful option: “Renatooooooo . . .” He responded to our SOS by sending a trail-chiselled warrior named Luca, who arrived in a 4×4 to scoop us ignominiously off the mountain and deposit us in the nearest hotel. A couple of days later when the squall had passed, he dropped us back at the exact same mountain clearing. The swirling black clouds had disappeared, replaced by blinding sunshine and devastating cobalt skies.

This, the last day of the trip, would prove the most exhilarating. First, we wove through the Supramonte massif, a vast, barren wilderness of glistening white limestone that looked like a cross between the Sierra Nevada and the surface of the moon. Then we hugged the mountains on a long-abandoned road, chewed and gored by landslides. Afterwards, it was all sweet, glorious downhill through forests of arthritic cork oak and bulbous prickly pears until suddenly the Mediterranean reared up in front of us, an explosion of azure. To no one’s greater surprise than our own, we had somehow conquered the “challenging” trails of Sardinia.

The remaining days, in the sparkling little village of Cala Gonone, were a big, long, lazy exhalation - chilling in the sea-front cafes, lolling on the pristine beaches and exploring Cala Gonone’s stunning cave system, huge encrusted chambers reaching kilometres beneath the hills we’d just cycled.

Sardinia had pushed us dangerously close to our limits. But the island had rewarded us with the white-knuckle adrenaline rush of off-roading, and the excitement and drama of the red river and the buzz of those hurtling descents are moments we’ll never forget.

Our plan is to return to the trails next year, perhaps a little more trim and toned. Yes, this could be the end of the road for the podgy cyclists. For anyone else, the advice is simple. Spend a few weeks in the gym, and stock up on multivitamins (pizzas are a recommended substitute only in extremis.) And, in the words of one great prophet of the trails: if you want to experience one of the true off-road mountain bike journeys, just hang on to those handlebars, and try not to fall off !

This superb desert biking adventure focuses on the deep south of Morocco, a land of big skies and stark mountain ranges where mud-brick kasbahs appear to rise up out of the desert, sitting in tranquil palm oases and framed by dramatic backdrops of snowcapped mountains. We ride along Morocco’s dirt roads, taking us from Marrakech to the Tichka Pass, the highest in the High Atlas, and then southward, descending along the Draa Valley to the fringes of the Sahara Desert.