Magical Mallorca cycling tour

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 27/03/2010 (5705 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

A cycle vacation doesn’t have to be a suffer-fest.

In Mallorca, Spain, refuelling means we make a village pit-stop at an outdoor cafe for a caf} con leche (espresso with steamed milk.) Perhaps a snack of bread, ham and tomato with olive oil is required.

For atmosphere, our road bikes and bright jerseys stand out against the ancient town square in the shadow of the ubiquitous church. Green-shuttered windows eye us from the surrounding stone buildings.

Tanks topped up and souls revived, it’s back to the bikes to bag yet another monastery ascent. And repeat as necessary.

It’s early April, and seven of us have left Ottawa’s rotting snow remnants for a nine-day encounter with cycling Fantasy Island.

Mallorca is the largest island in the Mediterranean Balearic chain. Shaped like a meat-cleaver, it is about 110 kilometres long by 75 kilometres wide — offering a huge variety of terrain in a manageable package. There are mountains, coastlines and farms with olive, almond and lemon groves.

People with boldface names have villas here. European cycling teams come to train. While some would claim it’s the peaceful rugged beauty of the place that attracts visitors, it’s clear to me that they come because they know that a town or village cafe with great cafe con leche is never far away.

Since 1997, Ottawans and former international racers John Large and Peter Metuzals have run variations of this trip through their company, International Cycling Adventures. I had signed on for the 1998 trip (think ill-fitting bike with vintage gears.) Despite the challenges, the experience taught me how to ride in a group without crashing, that I can put a crash behind me, and helped turn cycling into my favourite activity ever.

So in 2009, I’m back for more.

This time, we’re also joined by Peter’s partner, Lori, and their six-year-old daughter. Lori will cycle with us at times, and provides morning undo-the-cycling-damage yoga sessions overlooking the sea.

Our group divides nicely into two — let’s call us The Men and The Women. The Men race bikes and/or own gyms or bike shops in real life. They break out in sprints. A lot.

The Women are strong cycle commuters with lots of cycle touring under our collective jerseys. We’ve all opted to rent featherweight carbon fibre road bikes with mountain-taming triple chainrings, made by Stevens. (I wanted to sneak mine home in my luggage.)

While we go on many rides all together, there’s so much variety in the web of roads that it’s possible for, say, The Men to ride an extra 50 kilometres or so on the way home if they want. (Someone has to get back to save the tables for happy hour …)

Our base is Casa Esmarelda, a large resort complex in the east-coast town of Cala D’Or, populated mainly by holidaying Germans and their from-a-Benetton-ad children. We stay in small apartments with good balconies for drying clothes.

Breakfasts and dinners are included in the price are are overwhelming all-you-can-eat buffets, so we eat all we can.

In the evenings, we take in the sometimes hokey, often excellent, entertainment or sit under tall outdoor heaters (dubbed Canadian palm trees), drinking drinks that are decidedly not espresso-based.

The riding? There’s a bit of everything. Our coastal location allows us to take day trips ranging from 45 to 100 kilometres. On two days, we drive in vans to the west coast mountains and spice things up with vertigo-inducing heights overlooking the rough coastline and turquoise sea, descending into port towns where stone buildings cling to the mountainsides. (More technically, I guess you’d call it lactate-threshold interval training.) It’s rugged and stunning — and oh, is that a cafe over there?

Elsewhere, there are lots of rolling and gentle terrain punctuated by huge rock outcroppings with switchbacked climbs, inevitably leading to monasteries. I can handle the ascents. My most challenging times are when I must summon my Inner Descender and ride down these corkscrew roads on adrenalin and brake pads — when I really just want there to be a nice tram ride down. The other cyclists are polite and call out advice in assorted languages as they stream by me.

Traffic is considerate — the locals know that their bread is buttered by cyclists. We ride quiet backroads bracketed by rough stone walls containing fields of sheep. Poppies dot the roadsides — even the weeds are beautiful here.

When my group drops into a village ceramics store, the shopkeeper directs us to the farm where her husband makes the pottery and is kept company by his faithful donkey. (Eeeaah to you too, Pasquala.)

Another ride takes us by an ostrich farm where these bizarre birds pose for us. We eat cr pes made from ostrich eggs, and contemplate the end product — ostrich-leather handbags costing a mere 700 euros (about $1,000). We somehow resist.

After nine days in Mallorca, it’s a bit jarring to go home to Ottawa’s definitely non-Mediterranean cycling environment. I have to return the bike but, fortunately, I manage to take home a few items along with the olive oil and herbal liqueur in my duffel bag. They’re bits of take-away knowledge that’ll help me at home: always keep the outside foot down on the corkscrew descents and always stop and drink the cafe con leche.

— Canwest News Service