A rich history, strong cultural identity and natural splendour make Mallorca one the most visited tourist destinations in Europe. Simple pleasure seekers and more discerning travellers alike are able to find their thrills on this Balearic Island oozing with beach holiday resorts, breathtaking secluded coves and an endless cultural roundabout. Diversity is exemplified in almost every facet of daily life in Mallorca.
This diversity similarly extends to Mallorca's geographical make-up. Rugged limestone mountains define the wetter west coast of the island, while the interior and east is largely flat and dry. It is these conditions that attracts another large group of visitors to Mallorca. Long, flat coastal plains and their close proximity to rugged mountain passes result in almost perfect riding conditions for cyclists.
The island has therefore long-been a popular training destination for professional cyclists and their teams. Although Mallorca offers relatively short distances in cycling terms, the diverse geography of the island creates a perfectly compact environment closely mimicking riding conditions found in the national professional tours. One of Europe's most popular and fastest-growing individual sports consequently has cycling enthusiasts visiting Mallorca in their droves, all to experience the thrill of riding conditions very similar to their professional counterparts.
The Challenge
For any cycling fan, the lure and thrill of the open road on Mallorca is too much to ignore and consequently had yours truly piling on the miles and criss-crossing the island within days of arriving. The Mallorca experience is in a different league from mountain-biking through London's forests, parks and Thames paths, and the usual bone-aching cold, crotch-sodden, terrifying white-van-man cyclist-bashing conditions.
The idea of a cycle tour around Mallorca first surfaced while I was still in London, via my mate Rosco. A seasoned veteran in the saddle (in cycle terms, not age), Rosco had already cycled the likes of Corsica and Sardinia in his younger days, and saw Mallorca as the next challenge.
This of course, would turn out to be my challenge over the summer – getting back into shape after years of London life and it's compulsory late nights and loud music. My fitness levels when starting out were that of an occasional cricketer i.e. being very good at standing about and watching somebody else run.
So the scene was set: Rosco and Craig, two wily old DJ's swapping the spinning of two vinyls, with the spinning of two wheels, for a week in October.
With the enthusiasm of a broke televangelist I hit the road at the end of June with the intent of covering as many miles as possible during daylight hours. The fact that July and August are the the island's hottest month somehow did not deter my training regime, despite the cries of “crazy” from the Alaro's expats, and cries of “loco guiri” from the Mallorquines. (loco = mad, guiri = affectionate/or derogatory term for 'foreigner'). In all fairness, I was born on the edge of the Kalahari Desert, so how can a bit of 30 degree plus Mediterranean heat be that bad?
The Setback
Training in full swing, as the temperature rose, so did the mileage, and all was good. Nobody melted, and the bike didn't overheat; it is air-cooled. Come mid-September all was going according to plan. I had cycled enough circular routes in and out of Alaro to make me dizzy, zigzagging through the miles of vineyards in Mallorca's interior; and the odd jaunt up nearby mountain passes; all long-enough rides, but close enough to home-base should things go pear-shaped at short notice.
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| Looking West: Biniali, Consell, Binissalem and Alaro hidden between the peaks |
As anticipated, pear-shaped did come, in the form of a white Citroen Xsara at a very unglamorous roundabout in Palmanova.
This experience made me realise how the term “my life flashed before my eyes” was coined. The moment of realisation of the inevitability of being hit by this car filtering into the roundabout, made the incident feel like an eternity. Everything was in slow motion – the car entering my peripheral vision, hearing the knock against the bike, me crashing onto the bonnet and then flying several metres onto the tarmac. The skin missing from my hands, right elbow and shoulder seemed inconsequential compared to the force impact of my head on the road, so-much, it left a neat dent in my helmet, and thankfully, my skull intact.
The next few moments remain a blur. My first realisation was that I stayed clicked into the pedals, and very conscious of probably having broken something – too many years of following the Tour de France reminded me that collar bones, ribs and wrists are first to go in bike crashes. I would gladly have accepted one at this point. Fortunately my future brother-in-law Mark was riding ahead of me and was quick to the rescue. In 'man terms' I drew enormous comfort in his first assessment, “Don't worry mate, the bike is fine.”
The driver of the offending Citroen was of-course a taxi driver. In my worst Spanish and his worst English we managed to come to the agreement that I was fine, and by no means wanted to be taken to the hospital. Not in a taxi, and definitely not in a French-made car.
Mark and I sat on the pavement while I recouped my thoughts from this utterly surreal experience. For the rest of the day I felt like the central plot to an episode of the Mighty Boosh. We both agreed the only thing to do was to head to the beach, and have a beer.
Scab-laden, aching and white Citroens banished from my subconscious, I was back on the bike four days later once-again criss-crossing the wine lands of the interior, albeit a bit more careful and imagining Jeremy Clarkson to be behind the wheel of every car.
All Systems Go
Rosco arrived from London with eight another lads in tow, all in Palma for Saj's stag weekend. The plan was to hit the strip for the stag party, have a day of recovery, and then head for for hills on the bikes. Either way, this was not going to be easy, and after three days of laugh-a-minute shenanigans care of some of London's finest connoisseurs of premium lager.
Surviving the madness of the Paseo Maritimo, we headed for the serene surrounds of Alaro, my home village. Nestled between the two distinct and symmetric peaks on the eastern edge of the Serra Trumuntana mountains, Puig d'Alaro and Puig d'Alcadana, Alaro's location is visible from almost every point within Mallorca's interior, making it one of the most unique spots to be on the island. The shadow cast by the mountains over Alaro was our first reminder of the task we would soon face on the bikes.
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| View of Puig d'Alaro & Puig d'Alcadana from the front gate |
Packing for this impending adventure was quick and easy. Too eliminate carrying weight, we would take only a small backpack with bare essentials. Map, bicycle spares and tools, two sets of riding gear, a rain jacket and baggies, T- shirt and flip-flops for the evenings. No soap, no shampoo, and much to my disgust, no place for moisturiser. I knew this would be a rough week. Squeezing in a can of deodorant in protest, we were ready to hit the road.
Day 1
The route on the first day would take us from Alaro, via Binissalem and Inca, through the foothills of the mountains to Puerto Pollensa in the north, a distance of 45km. This would be a flat and easy ride as we followed a prescribed cycling route through the many villages en route. The first point of interest was a small detour to a favourite beach on the north coast, Cala Sant Vicenc, characterised by it's clear azure waters and steep rising cliffs.
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| Cala Sant Vicenz |
Cala Sant Vicenc provided the perfect stop for lunch, and the first of Rosco's punctures. While he repaired the blow-out, I enjoyed a cold drink and one of Mallorca' iconic panoramas. This would also be the perfect spot to introduce my riding companion to one of the delights of Mallorquine cuisine, P'amb Oli. This traditional dish consists of bread with olive oil, olives, tomato, cheeses and sobrasada, a pork sausage made from local porc negre ('black pig'), seasoned with paprika.
Rested, repaired and fed, the final stage was a short ride to Puerto Pollensa, our first stop-over point. Situated in the corner of a large bay protected by the mountains, Puerto Pollensa is largely a resort town with long sprawling beaches and a vibrant beach front and town centre focussed solely on the tourist trade. As we headed for a much needed night's sleep, and right on cue, a stark reminder of the town's purpose reverberated through the hotel. Tuesday nights at the adjacent British pub had the local Elvis impersonator strutting his stuff. All shook up and out of sleep, a little less conversation would have been nice, but we had no choice but to grin and bear it. Bloody tourists.
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| Puerto Pollensa |
The day had been easy in riding terms, but we both knew that the next stage and first-test was looming in the form of Cap de Formentor.
Day 2
Cap de Formentor is spectacular cape forming the northern tip of Mallorca. Locally it is known as The Meeting Point of the Winds. Carved by wind and water water over the millennia, Cap de Formentor offers cyclists a 36km coccyx-shattering ride of passes and descents. The rewards of this ride are however in the vistas, as 300m high cliffs fall away into the sea, and the beautiful and secluded Formentor beach offering respite from the rugged surrounds.
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| Formentor |
The road out of Puerto Pollensa immediately turns into a 4,5km climb up to the Mirador de Mal Pas, a stunning viewpoint looking down the length of Formentor, across the Mediterranean and back to Puerto Pollensa. A popular tourist spot, buses and cars are a continuous hazard to the hundreds of cyclists passing through this point simultaneously. A rapid descent down the narrow pass takes one to the beautiful Formentor beach nestled and protected in a corner of Pollensa Bay.
The road extends a further rugged 11km to a spectacularly situated lighthouse at the very tip of the cape. A tunnel on this route provides cyclists with another hazard and challenge. Unlit inside, entering the tunnel turns to pitch dark after only a few metres. Effectively this means that we were riding in absolute darkness, knowing only that there are half metre vertical drops off either side of the tarmac, and should there be anything lying in the road, we would certainly be the last to know. Advice is to take off your sunglasses before entering, grit your teeth and hope that nothing dropped off the cars ahead.
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| Formentor Beach |
Taking a well earned break in the sun, we fuelled up on bananas, chocolate, pecan nut and custard pastries. Energy food needed for doing the three steep climbs and tunnel all over again, and heading back up the cape and around Pollensa Bay to the the former Roman and Moor settlement of Alcudia.
A tour through the the medieval city walls of Alcudia provided a welcome respite from a long 50km in the saddle. Rosco announced that there was “definitely a party in my calves” which signalled a good enough reason to stop to refuel on P'amb Oli once again, sit back and enjoy the sites for a while. Our next stop would be a short roll down the hill to another resort town, Puerto Alcudia.
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| Alcudia |
Tourist information was good enough to provide two weary cyclists with an apartment for the night. Our insistence on a pool came to little as the weather had turned rather rapidly, making the water a touch too cold by the time we had checked in. This was of-course counteracted by making the absolute most of the last of the day's sunshine with a few well-earned beers on the lawn.
After a relax and a shower (still no soap), we headed into the town centre for another beach side beer and a very good three course 10 Euro meal, including a bottle of wine!
Our original intended route should have taken us east of Alcudia, down the coast via Porto Cristo and around to Palma in a clockwise direction. However, the weather had other ideas. It was apparent that rain would be on the way fro the next couple of days, and could potentially make our ride wet and uncomfortable. The weather forecast for the following day was therefore crucial.
In Puerto Alcudia, the potential Elvis impersonator was substituted by our German neighbours talking very loudly until the early hours of the morning. I lay awake and vengefully plotted a cunning plan to wake up a little earlier and remove all the towels that they had likely already placed to reserve the sun loungers around the pool.
Part 11 to follow...
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