Port de Soller to Palma de Mallorca

 As I rode atop the award-winning Tramuntana mountain range again today marveling at scenery that looked like it came directly out of the Mallorca – Cycling Paradise brochure, I wondered to myself how it was possible that despite all of the time I spent last night looking at today’s route, I didn’t realize that I was going to have to ride over the damn mountains again. Granted, 3,000 feet is less taxing than 4,000 feet, but I really thought I was done with that. We’re not talking about riding up a gradual slope all day; it’s up a mountain. And don’t forget that I’m a senior citizen. Cycling paradise indeed.

Eventually I did make it back down to Palma. What a difference 3,000 feet makes.

Now that I’m at the end of my ride, I’m thankful that I was able to spend a week just living completely in the moment, not only because it’s emotionally healthy but also because it’s physically healthy when you’re sharing the road with tractors, buses, trucks and British people in rental cars who may be driving on the right side of the road for the first time.

On the subject of traffic, I have to say that the drivers here are incredibly courteous around bikers. They are also strict rule followers. When I was on a bike path anywhere and had to cross a road, I could just go. Semis screeched to a halt, cars in mid-shift slammed on their brakes and everyone waited for me to get across. Same on the roads where there was often a line of traffic behind me patiently waiting for a wider spot on the road where they could safely pass. But any biker who rides on the road when there’s a bike path available is risking their life.

Tomorrow I’m off to Cadiz, which may or may not be the oldest inhabited city in Europe and which, according to one website was, for about 200 years, England’s favorite city to attack. Who knew it had a favorite?

So I’m repacking all my stuff, a task made simpler by the fact that I’ve worn the same t-shirt for more than a week. Not to worry; I washed it once. But honestly, the sun here is so brutal that after ten minutes outside, it and I were soaked in sweat. So there didn’t really seem to be much benefit in washing it anymore. Same for showers. I’m not sure when my last shower was, nor am I typically that aware of what day of the week it is because it doesn’t matter.  Anybody want a hug?

Port de Pollença to Port de Soller

There’s an old Monty Python sketch where two announcers come on the air to describe the eclipse of the sun in real time as if it were a sports event. The eclipse takes so long that after a while they run out of things to say and have to continue to kill time, trying to find interesting things to say about the movement of the sun.

That’s how I felt this morning, when the Scottish woman whose musings about nothing on the beach yesterday sounded so melodic, sat next to me at breakfast and just started chatting to no one in particular about the sun. What the sunrise looked like, how bright the sun was, how fast it was moving through the sky, how it might be a wee bit hotter than yesterday. This was 7:30 in the morning so I really just wanted her to stop talking.

Because I was trying to focus on deciding how many cups of café con leche it would take to get me up and over the mountains on my ride today. I’ve known about today’s ride since before I left Maryland. Roughly 4,000 feet of climbing up to the Tramuntana mountain range, which is a UNESCO World Heritage site and which provides the scenic, curvy mountain roads that you see in Mallorca tourism brochures.

I had decided to head out early, both to avoid the heat of the day and to ensure that even if I went really slowly I’d make it to my destination, Porto de Soller. In the end, things went pretty well. All the way up the first ascent, bikers on racing bikes were passing me (as usual). 

When I got to the top, a bunch of them were stopped, taking pictures. I pulled off, took off my helmet and drank some water. One of the guys looked at me and said “We’ve been talking about you. For you to make it up here on that bike, you must be in great shape.” And at that moment, my clunky, heavy touring bike and I went from being a subject of derision to one of admiration.

In terms of both miles and climbing, I still had a long way to go. It's hard to capture in photos how beautiful the ride was.

About three-quarters of the way through the ride, I decided to deviate from the script and go down the world-famous “snake road” to Sa Calobra. This a road that essentially goes careening down a mountain to the port. Here are three descriptions of it, proving the whole “eye of the beholder” thing: 1) “it is one of the most dangerous and most difficult roads in Spain. At the same time one of the most spectacular ones, where lovers of curves will be very satisfied.” 2) “it is a masterpiece of engineering, yet it remains unclear why the road was built at all.” 3). “Cycling to and from Sa Colobra is considered to be one of the most iconic cycling routes in the world.”

I went up this road to get there

And then down this road.

While I was more than happy to coast the 8 or so miles down that road, there was zero chance I was going to ride back up, so I bought a ticket for a boat going to Port de Soller. . . 

. . . where I am now drinking a beer and writing this at an outdoor café.

Port de Pollença

 After declining an invitation to ride up and then back down a mountain just for fun, I ended up doing practically nothing all day; something I don’t think I’ve done since college.

Figuring that walking around smelling like hand soap was preferable to walking around smelling like four days’ worth of sweat, I took the opportunity to wash the t-shirt and shorts I’ve been wearing since last Friday. 

The Mallorca sun gives a new meaning to the phrase “watching clothes dry.” You kind of actually can watch clothes dry. After 20 minutes, my t-shirt was done and emanating heat. I pulled it inside to avoid any spontaneous combustion issues. These shorts were soaking wet 10 minutes ago. Imagine what that would do to your skin.

I don’t have to imagine because I have seen lots of formerly pasty Brits who didn’t put on enough sunscreen yesterday. I helps me understand why people at Mediterranean resorts wear so little in the way of clothes – it can hurt too much to get dressed.

Then I sat outside and read for a couple of hours, something I’ve been meaning to do for much of my adult life, half listening to the Scottish couples next to me discussing nothing meaningful, but doing it with the best accent ever.

And one thing occurred to me today, Mallorca is a magnet for people from all over Europe. So lest we judge too much by appearances, that means that almost every bun-haired, porkpie hat wearing, bearded hipster and every Middle Eastern or African immigrant here who works in a restaurant or bar is functionally literate in at least four languages – Spanish, English, French and German – plus whatever their native language is.

 

Bike Ride Day 4 - Cala Ratjada to Port de Pollença

This morning I headed to Port de Pollença after saying goodbye to Cala Ratjada and its perplexingly-named businesses, like “Mallorca Shooting” (a photo studio), “The Parking Box” (a fitness club), “The Toy Center – Not Just Toys” and “Platagonia.” And don't get me started on the steakhouse "Boy - Prime Meat." I feel creepy even writing that down.

I had a bag of peanuts for dinner last night after wandering around the town and being unable to find a restaurant that served anything other than bratwurst, sausage, steamed meat three ways, or at least didn’t have German technopop blaring through the speakers. 

Given my insatiable quest for knowledge, I did some extensive research this evening consisting of doing a Google search on the terms “Germans in Cala Ratjada” and found the following: “The latest invaders to the area are retired expat Germans, and in the summer swarms of young German sunseekers. There are so many Germans that the tourism brochures are printed in Spanish and German.  There are German schools, markets, and tours.” So there you go.

Today I’m in Port de Pollença (seen in the distance at left), which has a much more laid-back vibe, assuming someone in their 60s can still credibly use the phrase “laid-back vibe.” While Cala Ratjada was overrun with Germans and had a few British tourists, Port de Pollença is overrun with British people and has a few Germans. Which makes me wonder if people in different parts of Europe congregate in different parts of Mallorca, but I’m not curious enough to look it up.

My hotel is neither 4-star nor does it have a pool, but it’s about 50 feet from the ocean and has a
bustling outdoor café outside the front door, so I can go out the front door, walk through what sounds like ten simultaneous Monty Python skits and be in the water in about 45 seconds. It’s what I did this afternoon and, after some serious reflection, is what I’m going to do again tomorrow.

Today, for the first time, I realized that whenever I get to wherever I'm going is irrelevant. So I stopped and ate the apple I  swiped from the breakfast buffet this morning. And perhaps I dozed off for a moment at the picnic table.

No need for Google Translate here.

Bike Ride Day 3 - Porto Cristo to Cala Ratjada

 Someone must have sensed my disappointment last night at being at the top floor of a four-star hotel overlooking only the pool, because tonight I’m on the top floor of a four-star hotel overlooking both the pool and the ocean.

Which is where I went for a swim this afternoon to wash away the stresses of my bike ride. 

There is a middle-aged German couple who booked the same trip as mine, so we frequently run into each other along the routes and in the evenings. They have the same type of overloaded, heavy bike as I do, so every time I complained to myself about yet another hill, I thought of them. Every puddle of sweat that formed whenever I stopped was punctuated by the knowledge that they were going through the same thing I was, and that if they could do it, I could do it. I saw them at the hotel last night and started some small talk. “How did you like those hills today?,” I asked. The woman said “We hardly even noticed them. We have electric bikes.” 

And speaking of Germans, my day-one theory turned out to be correct. There are lots of Germans here; I guess it’s a popular spot for them. Some of the restaurants in Cala Rajada have menus on the sidewalk only in German, like they forgot that we’re in Spain. And I saw a guy walking around in a T-shirt today that just had two words on it “Dicke” and “Titten.” I’m not about to look those up in Google translate; I suspect that I know all I need to know.

Anyway, back to the ride. The good news was that it only involved one mountain. And imagine my glee when I started up that mountain and saw a side trail with a sign that said it was specifically made for bikers so that they wouldn’t have to ride through the tunnel. How thoughtful, right? So I took it and ended up riding over the mountain instead of through the tunnel. 

And one other note. I’m not going to be one of those Americans who goes around judging. But, fresh set of eyes here, if you want to scare people away with a warning about your dog, I’m wondering if this is really the image you want to project.

Bike Ride Day 2 - Colonia Sant Jordi to Porto Cristo

 From my vantage point on the top floor of the 4-star hotel in which I’m staying tonight (don’t be envious – it overlooks the pool rather than the ocean), I just have to say that the fatigue and sweat of a long, hilly bike ride can be so easily washed away with a dip in the Mediterranean. Really, everyone should just do that.

Logically, I know that any ride that starts and ends at sea level must have an equal amount of ascents and descents. But it didn’t feel that way. My ride today took me through many quaint port towns, each of which had a marina full of yachts and luxury sailboats (I often forget how much money there is in the world). And given that Mallorca is shaped more or less like a contact lens, which I guess every island is, that meant a day of riding down to each port and then back up to the road. As the day wore on, it felt like there was a lot more uphill than downhill. It probably didn’t help that I, on my heavy, thick-tired “touring" bike loaded down with water, food and other supplies, kept getting passed by young, fit riders on their fancy carbon fiber European road bikes. Whatever. Come back when you’re 66 and we’ll see how you do it.

This island is small but has contrasts. On my ride today I would pass parched scrub and dry unplanted farm fields but then would turn a corner and be in a charming town with designer clothes stores and coffee shops. Then a long descent to the yachts and back up to the scrub. 

These are some relaxing sheep. You should have seen the piglets, who were much cuter, but they ran
away when I walked up to the fence.

Oh, and one observation. I guess maybe because this is an island, there are lots of piles of small, bleached white snail shells along the side of the road. When I was dodging traffic on a mountain road during my ride today and my earbud (which was giving me the directions for the ride) fell out, bounced on the road and then into a field of white snail shells, I got about 20 minutes to contemplate how much an earbud looks like a snail shell. But I found it.

Bike Ride Day 1 - Ca'n Pastilla to Colonia de Saint Jordi

Today’s ride took me from Ca’n Pastilla to Colonia de Saint Jordi, a smaller and quieter town on the southern coast of Mallorca that is more my style. I learned a few things today, like that when you ride 40+ hilly miles in 90+ degree heat and no shade, no matter how much water you bring with you it’s not enough. 

But I saw lots of olive groves and coastline. I also stopped at Talaiot Capocorb Vell, a prehistoric site with a number of talaiots (round stone towers) on it. These towers only exist on Mallorca and Menorca and their purpose is not known for sure. After providing a few theories, the informational plaque at the site summarized the conclusion of scholars and academics, saying “We think that maybe its construction was to give a meaning to the Capocorb Vell people.” I don’t know, maybe something got lost in the translation.

A note on navigation. On all my pre-COVID rides out here, the industry standard was to provide written trip directions (like, “at mile 24.6, turn left at the gas station”) along with a Garmin. The Garmin was an electronic device about half the size of a phone, which had rudimentary maps that looked like they’d been drawn by a 5th grader along with a rudimentary ability to show where you are on the map. So depending on the accuracy of the map and the tracking (both of which could be a little sketchy) the Garmins could show you roughly where you were. This is why I always got so lost on my rides.

The post-COVID world is quite different. Everyone now uses Ride with GPS, a phone app that gives detailed, turn-by-turn directions on a Google map and tracks/shows your current location using your phone. So this year, if I was riding past a parking lot for example, I heard a woman’s voice coming through my earbuds saying “just after the parking lot, enter the traffic circle and take the third exit.” Or, “In 600 feet, turn left.” For the first time in all these rides, I did not get lost. On the other hand, every time I deviated from the route to check out a beach or a side street, the app went into panic mode – “OFF ROUTE! OFF ROUTE!” 

Anyway, after a long, tiring, sweaty bike ride, I went for a delightful dip in the Mediterranean.  Now today's biggest remaining task is to decide whether it would be preferable to wash my biking clothes in shampoo or bath gel.