Monday 10 April 2017

Spring training 7

Last day on the bike today, which was just as well because there was nothing left in the tank. Legs were hurting, bum was hurting, feet were hurting; so S has sourced some alternative beachwear for our day off tomorrow . . .


. . . Yes, you neard correctly, Greg has allowed us a day off the bike; like good children we have earned a 'non-velo' reward - it will be interesting to see how the other, neglected, muscles work. So, today was treated very much as an end of term 'leisure ride', with attendant novelty wear . . .

Buenas noches

Sunday 9 April 2017

Spring training 5 & 6

Two days, two climbs. Yesterday, Greg upped the pain on the two 'recovering' cyclists - me and S - and took us up the 8 km climb from Caimari to Lluc. My Spanish is very thin, but I now know that Lluc is pronounced Yook and, by extension and much more importantly, the beer Estrella is pronounced Estrooya. It's vital to get these nuances of communication correct. Anyhow, back to the story . . . having trained up for 4 solid days of 45 milers we upped the anti to a 62 miler with a solid 580 m continuous climb thrown in. This was S's first proper climb - you know what I mean, not up to Princetown or the Bwlch- so we were interested to see how she would fare. Well, she made it no problemo and even managed a celebration at the top amongst all the racing snakes and fancy-bike types (not a proper steel lugged frame in sight) . . .


The top of the climb is actually the Coll de sa Batalla and the monastery of Lluc is down below a few km - always a treat when you have to cycle up then down, knowing that you have to cycle back up again before you can go down. We returned the long way, and the lack of fitness certainly made itself felt, not to mention the lack of saddle hardening - Oh for my comfy Brooks saddle which is formed to the shape of my bum.

Today we set off along the coast to Cap Fermentor - another up-down-up sort of ride. The weather has been fantastic and we are in the pre-season before the 'Watneys Red Barrel' crowd turn some parts into Treco Bay on a an August bank holiday . . .

The ride to Cap Fermentor, a promentory in the northeastern tip of Mallorca, is spectacular . . .



But we did have to get there by bike, and S was wearing her camo' top again, so hard to spot her amongst the flora . . .

Buenas noches

Friday 7 April 2017

Spring training 4

It's easy to forget the day/time/century when on holiday. But we are in a catholic country and Easter is around the corner so, conditioned by school assembly and forced Sunday school attendance of yesteryear, we stopped in the local 15th century church for a look around - well, actually to use the toilets . . .

According to the brochure, the effigy of Jesus gets an outing once a year at Easter when he is transported to another loacal village and back again . . .


Thereafter, taking the back roads to Alcudia, the walled port on the north east of Mallorca, we once again came across another Jesus installed just inside the city gates, this time getting the 'wire brush and Dettol' treatment, presumably in preparation for another Easter outing around the town . . .


Initially I thought, as you probably do, that the bloke on the right was a sightseer. But no, he was actually there to hold the ladder - maybe this is one of those EU regulations that we are burdened by, to the detriment of all the entrepreneurial swashbuckling that British business will unleash in the near future . . .
. . . oh, yes, back to reality. The first real climb of the holiday took us up to the Mirador de la Victoria, on a headland near the port of Acludia where the views were magnificent. S even had a smile on her face at the top . . .


We returned via the beach, where things a starting to gear up now that the sunny weather is here . . .


Buenas noches

Thursday 6 April 2017

Spring training 3

Mountain biking is a variation of the sport of cycling which involves the use of specially reinforced frames with suspension forks, big tyres with nobbly bits, a helmet with a peak on the front; and in this case shaved legs are optional. However, Greg has invented a new variation whereby the carbon framed road bike with 23 mm tyres will do dual duty as a mountain bike - it is, after all, very light to carry. Road cleats? . . . no problem, they can be turned into makeshift crampons in extremis; and if you get a pinch flat while shuddering over the jumble of boulders and flinty rocks . . . well, those skinny tyres are easy to pump up again afterwards. So it was that we ventured forth, like Indiana Jones in search of the lost Arc, with Lou resplendent in her full camo' top . . .

. . . with spooky prescience from yesteday's post, if she had wandered too far from the trail we would never have found her. Alas, equipment failure curtailed our journey, but we did manage lunch amongst the gargantuan creatures that inhabit this forgotten realm, before starting the treacherous descent back to base camp. As you will have already concluded, dear reader, I survived to record our amazing adventure in what I can only describe as a 'Lost World'.

Back on the road then, to Artà and the Santuari Sant Salvador, a walled fortress high above the town, for a very windy café con leche . . .

Buenas Noches

Wednesday 5 April 2017

Spring training 2


Another day in the sun, another day on the bike, another day hanging off the back - now I know what Brian feels like . . .


Today we cycled up to the lovely cove of Cala Sant Vincenç where we stopped for a lazy repast of the filled buns robbed from the breakfast bar. Given the Germanic nature of breakfast this is better than it sounds, i.e. salami and cheese rolls. We are living up to the SBCC skinflintyness standard in this regard, or is it an over 50s national stereotype - votes on a postcard please. Talking of stereotypes we have found a great bar to go to tonight . . .


S has been feeling the strain, with persistent neck ache bordering on migraine. The chiropractor was meant to have sorted it out despite my misgivings along the lines of: "What are doing seeing those bloody quacks for, you need a proper physio who will put you into excruciating agony . . ." That will teach me to keep my mouth shut, because I have now acquired the role of S's personal soigneur, having to massage her knotted muscles at every stop and break - my thumbs have had a better workout than the legs . . . But at least S got to wear her new shirt for the first time - if she falls off her bike into a flower bed we will never find her.

Lou and Greg have been taking the group selfies - see alternative Facebook (other social media sites are available) posts for information. In a moment of philosphical musing on the nature of infinity, I took it upon myself to take a selfie of the selfie, much like holding up two mirrors in opposition to one another and wondering where it ends . . .

On that profound note I am signing off.


Buenas noches

Tuesday 4 April 2017

Spring training

Since getting back from Oz, both S and I have both been laid low by a series of recurrent virus type ailments. The upshot of this is that we have done practically ZERO cycling this year. So, it was with some misgivings that we set off to Mallorca for some Easter 'pre-season training', in company with Greg and Lou, both of whom have already reached peak fitness after spending a fortnight cycling around the island of Cyprus.

Things got off to an inauspicious start when the pilot informed us, on landing at Palma airport, that we couldn't use the rear exit because they were 'fixing the engine'. Now, I don't know about you, but fixing an aircraft jet engine seems to me to fall into an altogether more serious category of engine fixing than say, failing your MOT because the clutch has worn . . . In retrospect, it had occurred to me half way through the flight that he was gunning it in a bit low and steep from way out . . . Anyhow, we landed; on the runway, and via the wheels, and the right way up - can't ask for more than that I suppose.

As if to compensate, the transfer coach was waiting to whisk us, away from the temptations of Magaluf to Can Picafort on the north east of the island, where we were booked in to the 1* Hotel Galaxia on an all inclusive deal organised through a dodgy internet 'cheap package holiday' outfit . . . what could possibly go wrong with that . . .

On arrrival I checked us all in and was handed two room keys and, in one of those moments when destiny decides the fates, I handed '402' to Lou and kept '401' for ourselves. I leave you, the reader, to decide by applying simple spatial logic, to divine the consequences of the proximity of our room door (brown left) to the elevator door (white right) . . .


. . . and the internal room layout. . . .

So, I was up twice in the night to demand a change of room and, when this was not forthcoming because it was outside the job description of the lad on the desk, waiting at reception in the morning for the manager to arrive. Needless to say, S is pleased with the new room . . .


So, to the cycling.

Mallorca, it seems, has evloved into a microcosm of the EU (pre-Brexit I hasten too add) with the various resorts taking on the character of the predominant clientel. Clearly, Can Picafort in the spring is displaced Germany. Breakfast in the hotel is just like breakfast when ski-ing in the Tyrol (OK, I know its Austria but you get the idea), and the bike hire shop is German (or Austrian), I suspect originally hiring mountain bikes in Mayrhofen judging by the logo; and just like the super-efficient ski-hire places you get at that resort, except that they have a pneumatic inside-leg-measuring device for estimating frame size -maybe from Hamburg - which I will describe in a later post when the chidren are in bed.

Bikes hired, we set off on a Greg-led mystery tour. Now, it is a curious thing, but most of the time while cycling you constantly curse car drivers for being dangerous/too many/BW-owning, and so on. But here, there are so many cyclists on the road you end up cursing the bloody cyclists . . . Every 30 seconds a peleton of super-efficient, graphically attired, metronomes would swoosh past us (I am avoiding national sterotypes here you understand, on strict instructions fom S) and into the distance. At every junction there are clutches of lycra legends wating to cross; around every bend in the road there is the flash of bare behind from someopne pulling up their shorts after a visit to the bushes; and the inevitable gathering of concerned rapha be-clad Brits calling an ambulance for one of their pals who had overcooked the corner and met with the limestone wall. No matter, it didn't talke S long to realise that you have to fight for your roadspace over here, so she has dusted off the old Karate skills and meted out summary punishment for anyone overtaking her. Don't Mess with S . . .

Day 1 has been a struggle. 40 miles on the flat has not quite done us in but there is nothing left in the tank. Just as well we were hanging off the back of Greg's wheel for most of the ride - that is until he buggered off to follow one of the passing peletons of pedalling terminators . . . only to pip them at the 'Can Picafort' town sign.

Tonight we will take advantage of the 'all inclusive' to replensish our energy . . .