A Beginner Cyclist's First Gran Fondo: 92km of Heat, Hills, and Heart

Mexico's wild coastlines, jungle climbs, and personal breakthroughs at the Gran Fondo Riviera Nayarit

Yesterday, I did something that terrified and thrilled me in equal parts: I rode my first Gran Fondo — 92 km of jungle climbs, glorious descents, coastal towns, tunnels, heat, mechanical hiccups, and final-stretch headwinds.

I signed up as a personal milestone after cycling every day through March (daily ride blog linked here). The route? A 92 km loop starting from Nuevo Vallarta (near the better-known Puerto Vallarta), heading up the Pacific coast past surfer towns like Sayulita and San Pancho, inland through the Sierra de Vallejo jungle, and returning via tunnels and bridges to the finish line in Puerto Vallarta. Coastline, jungle, mountains, and heat — all in one ride.

There’s a lot I want to share: logistics, prep, nutrition, and how not to leave your timing chip behind. But for this first "First Gran Fondo" write-up, I want to focus purely on what the ride felt like — especially through the lens of a beginner cyclist.

So here's a 10 km-by-10 km breakdown of the ride, mostly so I don’t forget the feeling, the scenery, and the vibes — and maybe to inspire someone else to ride, to risk it, and to know for sure: you won’t regret it.

Before the deep-dive, here’s a quick “how-to” on reading these cycling maps so you can follow along:

Start/End point: The big red pin at Nuevo Nayarit.
Green pins mark every 10 km on the way to the turnaround point.
Blue pins mark every 10 km on the way back.
Elevation is marked in metres (y-axis) along the 92 km distance (x-axis).

Check out the interactive map here.

0–10 km: The Start Line and City Warm-Up

About 500 cyclists rolled in at sunrise for a 6:45 am start for the first-ever cycling event like this in this region of Mexico - Gran Fondo Riviera Nayarit. The sea breeze was cool, the energy electric. Some folks looked so ready to go, while some were still yawning, probably questioning their life choices. I found my gang — Cathy and I had shared our locations on Find My Friends, which was clutch in the crowd of 500 lycra-clad humans.

After some fist bumps and smiling at familiar faces, we rolled out. A slow, non-competitive rollout through resort roads with speed bumps that kept us slow and oscillating in waves. It felt more like a fun parade than a race, at least in those first couple of kilometres. I stuck with my more experienced buddies as we rode out of the resort and into the town of Nuevo Vallarta toward Bucerias, before they sped along at their pace and I eased into mine.

10–20 km: Bucerias to the Jungle Climb

Bucerias is a charming surfer town where I’d picked up my rental bike — and where I’d have to return it post-ride. So, potentially my first 100 km day. Yay?

We passed the turn-off to Bucerias and began heading toward the Sierra de Vallejo reserve. The city sounds, sights, and chaos faded. Suddenly, we were in it: the greenery, the incline, and the beginning of the mental test.

A sign let us know we were entering the first QOM/KOM (Queen/King of the Mountain, basically a timed hill-climb segment): 300 m of climbing over 6.3 km. I geared down and started spinning. It wasn’t too steep — just relentless. Shops with colourful signs advertising chilled Coca-Cola and coconut water made me want to stop and spend my pesos (stored in a Ziploc bag in my jersey pocket like a pro, to keep them from getting gross from sweat). But I kept climbing.

I didn’t stop. That felt good. I’d usually pull over for a breather, but I managed to keep it steady all the way to the top. At the peak, I stopped, smiled, and took a minute to recover — and to soak it all in. The most I’d climbed in a single ride in Calgary the month before this was about 131 metres — and I just did about 300m.

20–30 km: A Jungle Descent to Remember

This was probably my favourite section.

The descent felt earned. And I’m not afraid to go fast — as long as I'm not being a complete idiot, I like using downhills to make up for lost time on the climbs.

This one? Jungle, ocean glimpses, bridges, breeze, and that rare combo of being relaxed and exhilarated. The group of 500 had thinned out, so it was just a few of us, scattered, flying.

Locals cheered. Bus passengers yelled "¡Vámonos!" out the windows. Village shopkeepers waved. You really feel like you’re part of something big, fun, and energetic.

We flew past animal-crossing signs I probably didn’t notice while struggling up the climb: iguanas, snakes, and wild cats like ocelots and jaguarundis. A volunteer at the next aid station told me these wild cats (not the ‘you’re-gonna-die’ kind, apparently) were lucky charms if you spotted them. I didn’t see any, but knowing they were out there was pretty cool.

30–40 km: Sayulita Traffic and Urban Climbing

Coming down into Sayulita, it got messy. More people. More cars. More “oh right, this is a functioning tourist town” energy.

This section felt more like a group commute than a ride. Stop-go, watch that car, hold space with other cyclists, hope the guy on your left doesn't swerve. The police support was as solid as could be, and the event organizers made sure not to track chip time here, so no one felt pressured to ride fast and be reckless.

Not too tense, but also not my favourite stretch.

40–50 km: Reuniting and Refueling

Somewhere in that post-Sayulita mess (or perhaps before it?), I think I missed the first hydration station. Not really an issue since I likely wouldn’t have stopped anyway — I had enough snacks on me and my two bottles (one water, one electrolytes), so I was fine.

But this next stop? I was definitely ready for a break. The high-density traffic area happened to be on a sneaky hill. You didn’t really notice it, but my legs knew there was definitely some climbing involved. So I stopped at the party support tent. Orange slices, tomato wedges (a surprisingly delightful race snack, who knew?), some chicharrones for a kick of salt, and a delicious banana.

Even better: I found Cassie (not to be mistaken for Cathy)! Unfortunately, she’d had bike issues and had to quit, but was there at the station, still cheering folks on. She handed me some gummy chews for the next climb and urged me to get going, well aware (as an experienced cyclist) that the more time you spend off the bike in these situations, the harder it is to get back on and keep those legs rolling. She was probably also concerned that, as a newbie cyclist, I may not make the time cut-off!

50–60 km: Inland and Up

After the town of Chula Vista, the route forked. Those of us doing the 92 km route turned right, while the hardcore 130 km folks kept going.

Our return, past the halfway mark, had begun. We were entering the big climb zone, on a route parallel to the one we’d just taken. This section was a series of climbs — 40 m, then 110 m, then 190 m, and finally 110 m again, to peak at about 307 m. Above is the route image again, to help follow along.

The jungle gave way to sun-exposed hills and open rock. It was hot. I popped Cassie’s gummies, squirted cold water on my neck to reduce my body temperature, and got into climb mode. This was a mental game more than anything else.

60–70 km: The Longest Distance I’ve Ever Ridden

This was uncharted territory for me. I'd never ridden this far before. My body let me know.

Left shoulder? Sore. Right foot? Weird burning pain on the side of my foot from my pinky toe to my heel. Back? Wanted to stretch every five minutes. I had to keep changing my hand positioning often to avoid fatigue and that pins-and-needles feeling.

At 64 km, we hit another climb. Chain dropped. Again. I also had a couple of what I call "phantom gear switches" — I clicked, but nothing happened. Clicked again. Still nothing. Third time's the charm?

Had to pull over, fix it, spin the pedals, and get back on a couple of times.

Saw a guy ditching his full water bottle — he said it was to save weight. I respect the hustle, but personally? I’d keep the hydration under the heat. Heat management > marginal gains, in situations like this one. But I guess everyone figures out what works best for them. This climb was hot. I just kept looking at the ground in front of me, though there were beautiful vistas over the tops of trees — looking out at rolling hills. It’s hard to take in all that beauty during a climb though.

At the top: one of the two tunnels. The perfect treat — dark, cool, shaded, flat. So good.

70–80 km: The Last Climb

Another 3.4 km of climbing. From 197 m to 307 m. The last boss battle.

The sun was doing its thing. The road was winding. The views were epic. And somehow, knowing this was the final climb gave me a new surge of energy.

At the tunnel entrance, a volunteer poured cold water into my bottles. I wiped the salt-sunscreen-mud off my face with a tiny towel I carry in my jersey pocket (pro tip: this is a lifesaver to help keep that mix of sweat and sunscreen out of your eyes).

And then... the top. Final climb done. All that was left? A glorious, sketchy descent.

80–92 km: The Finish

I met Ragini and Nick from Seattle at the top. We shared a quick chat, shared plans to potentially do the RBC Gran Fondo Whistler and maybe another ride between Seattle and Vancouver, and then rolled into the descent. Obviously, we’re Strava Friends now.

The descent, however, wasn’t as glorious as I’d hoped. It was a bit... uncomfortable. My body was toast. My shoulder was wrecked. My back was tight. My foot was just being dramatic.

There were also speed bumps, volunteers waving warning flags to slow us and regular traffic down. I took it easy. Didn’t want to risk anything or let the funny niggles get to me this close to the end.

At the last aid station, I checked my phone — my Find My Friends location had glitched. My crew thought I was already at the finish line. Got a little message of support that boosted me through the city highway.

Final 10 km. Urban roads. Headwinds. Traffic. Every speed bump felt like a personal attack. But then...

I heard party music. Saw the banners. Felt that surge of adrenaline. And saw Cathy and Ron ready with the phone cameras out to shoot me crossing the finish line of my first-ever Gran Fondo.

The Afterglow

There’s something magical about finishing your first Gran Fondo.
Not because of the medal. Not because of the Strava kudos.

But because somewhere between kilometre 60 and kilometre 92, I discovered something deeper: that I can keep going — even when I’m sore, overheated, frustrated, or unsure. That kindness — in the form of cheers from strangers, snacks from friends, and volunteers handing out water in the heat — is the best kind of fuel.

Most of all, I realized that I love this. The challenge. The community. The chaos.

I showed up. I finished. And I’ll do it again.

Next Up: RBC GranFondo Whistler

✅ RBC Gran Fondo Medio – 55 km, 835 m
✅ Gran Fondo Riviera Nayarit – 92 km, 980 m
🗓️ RBC Gran Fondo Whistler – 122 km, 2,300 m on Sept 6, 2025

Follow along on my Daily Riding Blog to see what training for Whistler looks like!