"I moved here for the roads," said Steve, owner of East Coast Rides motorcycle rentals in Caleta de Fuste, as I crossed the Ts on the hire paperwork for the Suzuki GS500F. "Never driven a car in my life, so as a through-and through biker, I just had to come here." Handing him my debit card, the same one I'd used that morning to scrape the ice from my car windscreen back home, I had to admit to being more impressed with the climate. At 23°C and breezy, it seemed the more appealing prospect. Only later did the weather become secondary to everything else Fuerte had to offer.

We headed west to Antigua, the island's interior awash with colour. Not the sandy, barren landscape I'd expected, but a terracotta terrain dotted with the organic blisters of distant volcanic mountains. Onwards, the perfect road stretched out, straight for now, but visibly winding upwards and into the sierra.

The elevation brought with it another complete change in landscape. Cactus and red rock morphed to palm tree and lush green hillsides. A tropical, prehistoric paradise which looked more like Sri Lanka or Caribbean than an Atlantic island. A charged imagination could have easily had pterodactyls swooping down from the ancient clifftops into the viridescent botany below.

Upwards to Betancuria, the road's tight corners distracted from the strange Mayan temple-like hillsides at either side. It was daunting at first. The senses became overloaded with the strange and wonderful views, leaving little brainpower to devote to the roads complexity, but as eyes grew inured to natures beauty and tyres gained their trust in the road, apprehension was soon replaced by elation. Every corner made the heart a little happier. Winter felt so very far away.

If God had a balcony, the view would be something like this: Fuerteventura, with all of its bizarre topography, stretched out for miles below. The view from the mirador Morro Velosa brought a new definition to the phrase "as far as the eye can see". Valleys, plains and pimple-like hillocks were sandwiched between the far-flung east and west coastlines. With the engine off, the only sound to the fierce Atlantic wind, as it ripped in unabated from the expanse of ocean. It's the fuerta ventura - the strong wind from which the island borrows its name.

The red and white barriers for the Mirador are closed Sundays and Mondays but on every other day this elevated vantage point, with its café and coin-operated telescopes, is well worth a visit.

  Dazzling white concrete blocks shield wandering wheels from a sheer drop, while crumbling cliffs seem to sit in the middle of the road, obscuring corners from view. The ride south through Vega de Palma is challenging but enthralling. Get into the groove and the bleached barriers and their guarded drop are soon forgotten. Perfect-parabola corners bathed in the warm midday heat invite unseasonal angles of lean. Flicking from left to right to left and squaring off corners racetrack-style might sound like a risky business, but with the road hugging the mountainside for as far as the eye could see, the odd bit of traffic was easy to spot in advance. The blend of road quality, fine weather and lack of traffic made this road a rare and precious biking treat.

As I dropped down from the mountains, the green started to frazzle into golden yellow. Despite still being midwinter, the subtropical sun had already begun its assault on the islands greenery. Down below a dried rivered led to red dust reservoir, its restraining dam now redundant. Up above, a pair of ravens circled. Steve at hire shop hat mentioned these friendly black birds, who´d made their home in the rocks above the dam, apparently tame enough to be fed by hand. I pulled over to try to tempt them down, rustling an old fuel receipt buried deep in my jacket pocket, but the birds were wise and chose instead to look quizzically at me from limestone wall. Distracted by the huge, dark birds and breathtaking views. I finally noticed an army of tiny chipmunks invading the lay-by, frantically and forwardly searching for the source of the food-like rustling, their gossamer tails riding the wisps of breeze rolling from the hillsides.

Just 37 miles of sea separates Fuerteventura from Morocco though, often, the architecture would have you believe it was less. The lighthouse at Faro la Entallada overlooks the distant African mainland, its red rubble stone construction and white mortar making it appear as if it had simply slipped from the Moroccan coastline and washed up here -like the chipmunks, an alien visitor to this tropical outpost of Spain. The small, unclassified track leading up to this out-of-place lighthouse cum weather station belies the rest of the islands impeccable road surfacing. It´s tight, narrow and sprinkled with loose chippings, but well worth a meander up to the cliff top to join the lighthouse in its silent gaze across the sea.

It´s only venturing north up the FV207 that Fueteventura starts to slip into its stereotype. The island´s interior is a bizarre, barren moonscape. Odd towers and bulges in the landscape rise up from the otherwise vertical plain to form alien cathedrals in the sky. For those who like it fast, the inland roads won't disappoint. Huge, empty straights and long, fast corners transform the second largest Canary Island into a little slice of Donington Park. Power up through La Oliva then onwards to Corralejo, then mourn as the once desolate roads start to swell with slightly scuffed hire cars and their sunburned drivers.

Corralejo is every inch the package holiday resort: multicoloured buildings and bustling streets, amusement arcades and water parks. Each pedestrian crossing had to be handled with care as badly parked cars obscured the view of the pavement, children dashed and sun-drunk adults wandered dozily into the street. At least I now knew where all of Fuerteventura´s traffic was hidden. But perseverance was rewarded. The island´s north eastern corner held surprises well worth the tourist gauntlet run.

Desert. Miles of desert. The island of many landscapes, it seems, has another ace up its sleeve. Acres of bleached white sand rise from the aquamarine blue sea to form huge rolling dunes. Wisps of sand blew across the FV1 coastal road to complete the final part of sand blew across the sea from the Western Sahara. The spectacle was truly staggering. Pulling to the side of the road, taking care to park on the underpinned coastal side and avoid the soft, desert side, I lifted my dark visor and was blinded by the full spectrum of the coast´s beauty. On the horizon, the island of Lanzarote loomed, partly shrouded in a cloak of sea spray. in the foreground, multicoloured surfers tamed the huge waves as they took advantage of the strong air, white sand. Fuerteventura had surprised on so many levels. We came here for its perfect climate - an antidote to winter's chill - but what we found was much more than just a bit of winter sun. We found an undiscovered biking paradise just four hours away.

Words Emma Franklin - Pictures Mark Manning

© Ride Magazine 2009