My idea, which had seemed so bright when I hatched it two months ago, was running out of steam faster than my mother. The plan was to take my parents on an adventure to celebrate their recent retirement, and, I hoped, to get to know them a little better, adult-to-adult. I decided that a common challenge would be the perfect way to do it, so off we went on a cycle ride along more than 160km (100 miles) of an old Moorish trade route between Granada and Córdoba in southern Spain.

“Are you sure your parents will cope?” asked Simon Proffitt, owner of Iberocycle, the company that organised our trip. “It’s rather hilly.”

If he’d said mountainous, I might have listened. But a glance at his route map told me that over our three days of cycling we’d be dropping from an altitude of 689m to 123m above sea level. I pictured one long downhill with a couple of hills along the way. And besides, we had decided that only two of us would ride at a time, with the third in a “support vehicle”, ever on hand to scrape weary bodies off the tarmac.

Our journey had begun at 10am just outside Granada in Fuente Vaqueros, the birthplace of Spain’s acclaimed poet Federico García Lorca. Today his home is a kind of Graceland of Spain, and although we would have liked to see it, we were eager to crack on. We’d calculated that we had more than 80km ahead of us, and at this early hour we were still under the delusion that gold was within our grasp.

“Good job they’re not racing bikes,” grinned my dad as they climbed aboard their two-wheeled steeds for the first leg.

“Why’s that?” “We’d go too fast. Wouldn’t see anything.”

I waved them off into the flat, fertile plains of the Guadalquivir valley, and as I trailed after them in the support vehicle, I was reassured to see that they weren’t the only cyclists about: three groups of speed demons decked out in luminous Lycra whizzed past us towards their breakfasts.

Shortly afterwards we stared up in amazement at the 45- degree hill that winds up out of the next town of Illora. “I don’t mind pushing,” panted my mother. “A bit of biking. A bit of hiking. It mixes it up.” But it didn’t take too much convincing to coax them into the support vehicle and drive on to the next town.

Crowned by the Castillo Arabe, the white village of Montefrío harks back to the 15th century when Roman Catholics marched on Andalusia to win back their kingdom from the Muslims. Today the only armies that can be seen from the fortress are the orderly ranks of olive trees.

As we left Montefrío the signpost to our next destination flapped in the breeze. Not noticing that it was not properly fixed, mum and dad headed straight on, thrilled to be greeted by every cyclist’s dream — a 10-mile downhill.

We’d come the wrong way. As we climbed back into the support vehicle, there was a tangible tension in the air. “What kind of nutter would think riding 50 miles in one day is a holiday?” I snarled. “You did”, said my father. Mum engineered a bid for peace with a guessing game: how many olive trees are there in all of Spain? Like I said, some things never change.

Back on the right road, Mum and Dad decided to make a bid for silver. I saw them off and cruised a mile or so behind them. It was beautiful, calm countryside. White farmhouses embedded in undulating hills. I started to feel relaxed. Until I saw my mother.

“How’s it going?” I asked with an encouraging smile, driving up beside her. “Are you trying to pay me back for your childhood?” she replied with an anguished look.

Thankfully, after a solid night’s rest, all was forgiven and we were back in good spirits. We had only 25km ahead of us today — what the bike company calls a rest day — and we were soon on the road, enjoying the scenery of the Sierra Subbéticas Natural Park.

By lunchtime we had reached Zuheros, a whitewashed mountain town known for its gastronomy. Rafael, the owner of the Meson Los Palancos, welcomed us with the news that the day’s special was an acorn-fed suckling pig, or if that didn’t appeal, there was young goat, rabbit and David Beckham’s favourites: “the langoustines, steak, goat’s cheese and rioja.”

A photo on the wall confirmed that the England captain dined there last winter. It all sounded good, though not as good as the cerveza that saw us off to an early bed.

There was 70km between us and Córdoba and since we were no longer the martyrs we were two days ago, we decided to drive much of the distance, and cycle the last 15km.

For the first time in days, there was not an olive tree in sight. Bronze corn covered the gentle slopes, and at the top of the next rise, there was the Great Mosque of Córdoba that has lured travellers since the 9th century.

“You know what,” my dad said, as we gazed down on the magnificent Moorish city. “I think I might do the Cape Argus” (South Africa’s toughest cycle race). Some things, it seems, do change.

Need to know

Iberocyle, a British-owned cycle company, organises independent and group cycling trips throughoutin Spain.

The next group trip covering the Route of the Caliphate runs from April 22-29 next year. The price is £550pp, including all cycling and support, and transfers from Málaga or Granada airport. Maximum group size is 24. Call Simon Proffitt (00 34 942 58 10 85; http://www.iberocycle.com/).

Page 2: More cycling ideas