All riders in our group were U.S. citizens, except a couple from Australia. We were the only newbies on the trip. The other riders — couples and singles — had ridden in Northern Spain, France, Italy, Greece, Kazakhstan, Mexico and more. Though we are avid bikers in Ohio, we had never ridden with passports in our packs.

Our group spent 14 days on the road – 10 days riding and four days acting like tourists. On riding days, we traveled between three and six hours — about 100 to 200 miles per day — on twisting, mountainous terrain. If you stretched out the roads, our final tally was about 1,500 miles, about the distance between Cleveland and Key West.

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With the tour company, we lost no time to logistics. IMT Bike took control of our destiny, including mapping the routes and refueling stops, determining coffee and lunch stops, reserving hotels and choosing dinner restaurants. The plans included a few stops for castles, ocean viewing and other sites, as well as refueling. A control junkie, I thought letting go would be hard. Instead, it was a relief.

For a rare two weeks, I unplugged my work-brain and lived outside my comfort zone. As a motorcycle passenger, I was one with the driver — leaning, balancing, holding on. I watched other drivers and the road, making Gary aware of hazards or errant drivers. I used my mental “powers” to tell other drivers to stay put until we passed them.

We know how to ride together – him as driver, me as passenger. We thought we were badass riders, but we got more than we bargained for. As we rolled through a Mediterranean forest to the small coastal town of Nerja, our pack of eight bikes spaced out by experience. Four bikes zoomed ahead with the guide, while four followed in a second group. We were in the second group.

Nerja, known for its prehistoric cave with 42,000-year-old cave paintings, was a drive-by. We didn’t stop there or at many other attractions. Spain has so much history and we had a lot of miles to cover. This trip was first about riding. Everything else came second.

The back roads of Spain’s Andalusian Mountain region are seemingly endless twisties and switchbacks, climbing and descending. Occasionally we relaxed with some sweeping curves, but rarely did we see the equivalent of Ohio’s flat straightaways. All roads were paved and in good repair.

When the roads climbed steep mountainsides, the vistas were expansive, even breathtaking. Like seriously, I held my breath, and I looked at the stone cliff to my right, trying to not think about the lack of guardrails. When there were barriers, they were large cement blocks staggered along the roadside with gaps big enough to ride off the road. Just sayin’.

When I quelled my fear of heights, I took photos to record the best of our visual memories. We saw mountainsides and valleys dotted with olive groves, herds of sheep and cattle, ancient cities and churches and more. We saw crossing signs for cattle, deer, boar and, of all things, frogs.

To this foodie, the most interesting animals were the black pigs foraging acorns below the cork trees. The pigs are destined to become Iberico ham, a meat so sweet you’ll hardly notice pork flavor. These hams and others like them are sold for tapas or for sandwiches in shops and restaurants throughout Southern Spain.

I photographed fruiting trees – olives, citrus, quince, pomegranate, fig – growing both wild and cultivated. I saw “naked” cork trees stripped of their bark for wine closures and other commercial uses, waiting for the next bark coat to replace the previous.

Throughout the trip, there was no time to think about home or work. In the morning, we ate generous continental breakfast buffets, packed up and geared up for the day. After the ride, we unpacked in each new hotel, cleaned up and dined.

Some nights Gary and I texted photos to our respective adult children and posted updates on social media before falling into bed. Other nights, we simply drifted into sleep.

We were lucky travelers with a “support” van carrying our luggage to each of the 10 hotels on the route. It was difficult enough to squeeze in helmets, rainsuits and biking jackets into suitcases. We could never fit everything for two people into the BMW’s back and side cases. Even with a large suitcase, I couldn’t pack enough for a 14-day trip, and we never had time for public laundry facilities. Whatever the ick factor, I may have worn one pair of jeans for seven days, but I regularly washed undergarments in hotel sinks.

Despite the wonder of these places to my history-deprived American self, we didn’t have much time to explore every city we visited. There’s just too much to see. Our group traveled from Malaga to Granada, Antequera and Mazagon in Spain. We continued to coastal Lagos and Cascais in Portugal. Then Evora, also in Portugal. We returned to Spain at Seville, Arcos de la Frontera and Ronda. All totaled, we slept in 10 cities.

After a while, I couldn’t keep track of where I’d been. I left that sorting to a photo album when I returned home.

The hotels were far more than just beds. Most were historically significant, many had stunning views. For example, the Pousada Cidadela Cascais is a 5-star hotel with an on-site art district. Built in a 16th century fort, I felt like I was staying in a “Game of Thrones” wall.

Meanwhile, the Parador Arcos de la Frontera hotel rests on the gorge wall above the Guadalete River. Getting up the narrow, twisting cobblestone streets during the rain into the town was a challenge. Tourist busses could never make the trek.

The hotel sits next to the centuries old Basílica Menor de Santa María de la Asunción and the Convent of the Mercedarias (1692). Its lounge has a large picture window overlooking the valley about 600 feet below.

IMT Bike had selectively given us one-day breaks in Granada, Cascais and Seville in addition to our start/end dates in Malaga. Some days we arrived in other towns early enough for a walk and, perhaps, a little shopping. Other days, we had just enough time to prepare for dinner.

Southern Spain is known for its warm weather. It’s hot in summer, which is why we traveled in October’s more temperate climate. Alas, IMT can control everything but the weather. We hit two days of rain on our ride and during our day’s break in Seville.

While we were struggling through downpours in Seville, 400 miles away, Valencia was hit by a year’s rain in one day, killing more than 200 people. We encountered evidence of the region’s torrential rains when we hit mud-covered (and dangerously slippery) low-lying roadways near Malaga. It was so bad that sandy mud had been plowed from the roadways, much like we do with snow in Chardon. We took a detour as soon as we were able.

The final leg of our trip took us to Ronda, home of Plaza de Torosa, a nearly 300-year-old bullfighting ring. Ronda is also home to Puente Nuevo, the “new bridge,’’ completed, ironically, in 1793. It spans the Guadalevín River high above a 390-foot gorge. It likely inspired the scene in Ernest Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” where locals throw fascist sympathizers off a bridge.

From Ronda we rode back to Malaga, where we spent a final touristy day before our 17-hour return to Cleveland and real life.

Send dining, drinking and culture story ideas to Paris Wolfe at pwolfe@cleveland.com. Review her previous stories here. Follow Paris Wolfe on Instagram @pariswolfe.