For the most part, Puerto Pollensa doesn’t fulfil this Spanish holiday stereotype. There are still English bars and a few larger louts, but that’s to be expected – it is Spain, after all. However, the North of the island is peaceful and picturesque, and attracts an older, more serene generation of holiday goers – think floral dresses, slacks and bingo.

What I didn’t know until I took up cycling is that during the off-season, Mallorca is a cyclist’s paradise. With it’s warmer weather, mountain ranges, cheap accommodation and far, far superior roads, it is the destination of Pro Tour teams for their annual pre-season training camps. Every year, thousands of cyclists from all over Europe descend on the island and use it for a training base. With a good winter of turbo training behind us, and with no sign of any dry weather until June, Kerry and decided to pack our clipless flip flops, grab a seat on the Easyjet express, and find a spot in the sun for a week.

The whole trip was very much a last minute deal. We looked online for a cheap package deal, hired some bikes on the recommendation of friends, exchanged some Euros, and a couple of weeks later we were on our way. It’s true you get what you pay for, but we were pleasantly surprised with the Easyjet flight. Granted, and I suppose in a way it’s to be expected, there was a group of drunk (10:30am) Newcastle United fans taking up 3 or 4 rows of seats in front of us. For some reason they found it acceptable to be necking cans of Stella, chanting “Toon Toon Black and White Army”, shouting at each other down the plane, and generally just acting as you’d expect a bunch of football fans to behave. Wankers.

The Pollensa Park Hotel and Spa was also better than expected (except the luke warm buffet food – you know it’s bad if even I won’t eat it). I’d heard mixed reviews of the hotel, but was reassured that it was acceptable as a base, but to not expect anything from the food. This review was spot on.

If the prospect of an Easyjet flight and a Spanish hotel wasn’t scary enough, we were also hiring bikes. There are a few bike hire places in Pollensa, and we chose 2GoCycling. I say “choose” – ProCycle Hire didn’t have anything in Kerry’s size, and everything in my size had a double chain set. I might time trial on a 53/39, but I’m not climbing any mountain ranges on one. 2GoCycling offer 2 road bikes – a Planet X Pro Carbon equipped with either SRAM Red or SRAM Force, or a Specialized Allez Comp equipped with 105. The fact I won’t ride a bike with Shimano on it meant I’d be plodding around on a Planet X, and Kerry (who has an eternal fear of getting used to anything different on a bike) opted for the Allez so she could stick with the 105 she is used to at home.

The first thing I noticed about the Planet X is the weight. It’s no lightweight. Planet X claim the Pro Carbon weighs just over 1100g, but this must be th XS with no paint. Equipped with it’s own brand wheels, bars, stem, seat post and finishing kit, the SRAM Force bike felt slightly heavier than Kerry’s aluminium Allez. Once out on the road though, the weight isn’t so much of an issue (especially when you consider how much I weigh). It’s no TCR Advanced, it’s not even in the same league, but once you get over the slightly dull ride characteristics, it becomes a comfortable and competent cruiser. I wouldn’t say I’d buy one, even at the £299 asking price, but it would do for a week of training. Similarly, Kerry was finding her Allez to be a good choice, but not up to the standard of her Giant Avail back home in Blighty.

Sunday – A pootle to Petra
We had been advised to ease ourselves in – get used to the bikes, become acclimatised to the weather and riding on the wrong/right side of the road, and get some miles in our legs before tackling the hillier stuff. We forced down the buffet breakfast (seriously, how CAN you get All Bran wrong?) and set off from Puerto Pollensa towards Alcudia.

The first thing you notice is how better the bikes roll on the Mallorcan roads. I don’t know if it’s the Tarmac, the temperature, or how they maintain the roads, but compared to the roads back home, it was cycling bliss.

The second thing you notice is just how much courtesy is extended towards cyclists. In England, you really do feel like you’re seen as a nuisance (on the airport shuttle I overheard an Alcudia-bound skin head Newcastle United shirt wearing lager lout say to his peroxide partner, “I hate cyclists, they shouldn’t be allowed on the f*cking road”), whereas in Mallorca, you’re an accepted and encouraged part of everyday life.

The ride out to Petra is mostly flat. From Port de Pollensa, we headed to Alcudia and Port de Alcudia, before turning inland towards Can Picafort and onto the country roads to Petra. The ride out was surprisingly difficult, comprising several false flats and a demoralising, tiring headwind.

As we entered the countryside, I got my first taste of the true Mallorca. The roads out to Petra are long and dusty, surrounded on both sides by agriculture, villages, churches, and villas. In the distance, you can see the Tramuntana mountain range – a telling reminder that the flat ride was only a warm up and that we were here for far more serious stuff.

Once in Petra, we were treated to a taste of old Spain – how the country might have looked all over had it not been for millions of Manchester United and Chelsea shirts flocking to her shores every year. Petra is made up of quaint back streets, traditional buildings, and small, independent cafe-bars, all of them seemingly there to only serve locals and cyclists. You could well imagine Antonia Banderas stalking the backstreets carrying his guitar case with him – or maybe the 3 Amigos rocking up. The main square was a different story – a sea of Lycra surrounded on all sides by rows of Centurion and Cube road bikes (the offering of the large cycle holiday provider). I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be a local – would I be pleased with the visitors? With a tuna salad in our bellies, we headed back along the same route we’d come, and quickly discovered we’d struggled coming out because of a head wind, and we were soon zipping along with the aid of the tale wind.

In the last few miles from Alcudia to Port de Pollensa, we both had an overwhelming feeling of surreality. There we were, pedalling on smooth roads, in a custom built cycle lane the width of a British car lane, with blue skies, mountain ranges, and the sea lapping the shore to the right of us. It felt a million miles away from the grind of Rothley Crags or the Gibbet Road whilst being driven far too close by an idiot in a Range Rover on a blustery, miserably wet Saturday lunchtime in April.

The Planet X had been unobtrusively capable – almost neutral. The initial dullness had worn off, and it’s lack of front-end twitch meant the long, flat ride had been pleasurable. I’ve always said if you don’t notice the bike, it must be doing a good job – and I hadn’t noticed it all day.

A post ride diet coke around the pool with an SiS REGO recovery, um… “shake” and my new favourite thing – a Maxibon ice cream (the top half is like Feast but with Cookies and Cream ice cream, and the bottom half is an ice cream sandwich but with soft, Orea style biscuit – a truly inspired piece of food design) followed by seafood paella at a quaint, family-run restaurant was called for, followed by an early night. The Grill Asador, on the quieter part of the seafront, had been recommended to us by the owner of the Palms Bar opposite our luxurious Pollensa Park hotel. We’d asked him for somewhere that prepared authentic Spanish cuisine (rather than the OAP Brit mush buffet in the hotel or pizza and chips at a British bar) and Asador really did fit the bill.

After our meal, we wandered down the sea front towards the harbour, and stopped for a drink in a bar called Tolo’s. Unbeknown to us, the owner is well know in the sport of cycling, and is good friends with many members of British Cycling, including Bradley Wiggins. It’s here that we discovered our dream of a cycling holiday without drunken British idiots would be shattered, ironically by cyclists. Sat out front was what I believe are referred to as MAMILs – or Middle Aged Men in Lycra. Once found on the golf course, it tends to be successful middle aged men buying extremely high end stuff (think Pinarellos, Colnagos – anything Italian and expensivve) and dressing head to toe in Assos, Rapha, Castelli, SIDIs and Oakley. This group of MAMILs were completely hammered, knocking back the beers like they were going out fashion, letting everyone know they were there, and generally spoiling everyone else’s evening. Looking around the tables you could see the looks of couples trying to enjoy their evening meal, and because of their behaviour I was once again embarrassed to be British.

Apart from the drunken idiots, this had been a good day.

Monday – a short, but sharp introduction to mountains

Until Monday, the closest either of us had come to cycling up a mountain was watching Le Tour de France on TV, or riding the Vag’s Mountain Time Trial. Of course, the MTT doesn’t take in anything I’d call a mountain, just some seriously steep hills and lots of climbing in a short space of time. A proper mountain, to me at least, should have hairpin bends and several miles of constant climbing. I wouldn’t be disappointed.

The ride from Port de Pollensa to Mallorca’s most northerly point, Cap de Formentor, has just that. The 13.5km road, designed by Italian engineer Antonio Paretti, snakes it’s way through the rugged mountains and cliffs with stunning effect. Even from Port de Pollensa’s beach front you can see the first part of the climb, and at night time you can see car head and tail lights seemingly float and disappear into the night sky.

To begin with, we wondered how we would be able to sustain the effort required to climb the mountains. Within minutes, breathing was laboured and our legs were begging for mercy. Soon, however, we were in a rhythm, and climbing became normal. We peaked the first climb and began the technical descent to the foot of the second climb. The most exciting part was riding the type of roads we’d only seen on TV until now – the switchbacks and the sharp twists and turns gauged into the rock face made us feel like Pro Tour riders, albeit a lot slower.

The second climb was harder. Gone was the near perfect road surface, replaced with the type of potholed, uneven surface we’re used to, with the added joy of gravel and loose rock. The twists and turns were taking their toll on 2 riders looking to discover a little hill fitness, and when the lighthouse at the Cap came into view, we were both slightly relieved.

What we had noticed was, despite the large number of cyclists on the road, no one was over taking us. For myself, the opposite was true – I’d caught and dropped several riders on the way up. It was encouraging, at least. I’m not saying I’m suddenly Marco Pantani, but I certainly wasn’t being shown up.

The view from the Cap, as expected, was glorious. All around was deep ocean, dramatic cliff tops and rock formations, glorious greenery, and spectacular winding roads. Capped off with the blue sky and wispy white clouds, it looked like a perfect picture postcard.

We enjoyed cake and coffee at the lighthouse (which as we were warned, wasn’t cheap) and set about returning to the Port. The initial climb from the Cap was a killer – our legs had seized up from sitting around, and it wasn’t the most friendly of departures. I’m convinced I’d make a fortune with a row of turbo trainers lined up at the foot of the climb.

We had noticed on the way out to the Cap that the descent from the first climb was long and steep, and knew it would be a test going back up it. As it happens, it was probably the most enjoyable climb of the day, with Tour de France style switchbacks and plenty of opportunity to test the legs against other climbers. At the top, I presented Kerry with a gift – a small piece of rock that naturally had the shape of a mountain, as a momento of her first mountain climb. It now sits proudly on the window sill in the training room!

The cycling over, we again retired to the pool where I enjoyed another Maxibon. They should put a photo of a Maxibon on money. I’d probably eat that too.

Tuesday -rain stops play

I always criticise other “sports” such as cricket and tennis for their inability to be played during inclement weather. For the most part, cycling continues even through bad weather. Grand Tours have been known to go through snow, sleet, rain, thunder, baking heat and strong winds. I wouldn’t consider us to be fair weather cyclists either, but we have both become very cautious in the wet.

When we woke up, the weather was glorious. The iPhone weather app indicated sunshine all day, as did the Tourias Mallorca app. Certainly, as we set off on the first leg of what was meant to be several different locations, the weather was perfect. We headed out along the MA2200 to Campanet, and were once again transfixed by the stunning mountainous backdrop, vast expanses of agricultural land, orchards and vineyards, and the bluest of blue skies you could ever wish for.

Campanet didn’t disappoint, and the cafe at the Coves served to amuse us both. There must have been 10 cats taking up customer chairs, catnapping and sunbathing in the midday sun. We ordered our usual – “dos Coke Light, un cafe con leche, y un cafe por favor”. It doesn’t matter how hard we attempt to stumble through their convoluted language, their English is always better than my Spanish.

We also couldn’t help but laugh at 2 different sets of cyclists also sat on the cafe terrace. One set was German, the other from Belgium. Both rocked up in the full ensemble – Lycra, Sidis, Laser helmets, Rudys – the works. They all proceeded to drink lots of beer and light up cigarettes! Apparently, that’s just how the Euros roll. Not for me.

Leaving Campanet, there was an ominous black cloud in the distance. It had puffed and rolled up, and it’s a cloud formation I recognise from holidays in Florida, where there is a thunder storm practically every afternoon in the Summer months, which clears within minutes to be replaced by baking heat again. We stood at the roadside watching for a short while, as the every expanding storm cloud was in the very direction we intended to go. As we watched, it became darker and more purposeful, and eventually horizon and cloud became one. We opted to turn back on ourselves, head back to Pollensa, have lunch, and see where we were after. We could always go back out. We escaped – almost. With 2 miles to go, the heavens opened, the roads became like sheets of glass, and the sky was alive with thunder and lightning. With trepidation we completed the last couple of miles, had lunch, and changed into dry Lycra. The weather apps and Tourias app still said sunny, and indeed the local forecasters had missed the storm altogether. Good work there, everybody! By the time it was safe to go back out, the day was almost over, so we used the short time left to ride to the Max Hurzeler shop in Playa del Mura. Cheap Assos style clothing all round then…

We still hadn’t got in anywhere near the miles we wanted, and by the time we got back to the hotel the sun was falling, the pool was empty, and worst of a.l, the bar was shut – so no Maxibon for me today! Truly disappointing.

Wednesday – the Orient Express(ish)

Having been scalded by Lucy for not putting enough miles in so far, she prepared us a route and texted it to us. We traced it on our Mallorcan map and Tourias app, and set off for the town of Bunyola. The ride would be about 80 miles and was described by Lucy as “hilly out” and “flat in”. I pray Lucy never gets a job in a travel agent’s, as we would have described it as “mountainous out” and “hilly with false flats back”.

From Port de Pollensa, we rode out to Campanet as on Tuesday, and on to the stunning villages of Moscari, Selva and Lloseta, all seemingly untouched by tourism. I felt sorry for all the holiday makers spending their entire week in Alcudia or Magaluf who would completely miss this side of Mallorca. You can get pissed anywhere, you can’t see what we saw just anywhere though. From Lloseta, we began the “hilly” part of ride, and took a right turn onto the MA2100 – my new favourite stretch of road. The near perfect surface split the two glacier formed Puig d’Alaro and Puig de s’Alcadena, taking us to the foot of the Coll d’Orient – an alpine-esque climb that would use switchbacks to ascend us through lush greenery and jagged rock formations and present us with breathtaking views of valleys, mountains and pastures. In all honesty, the views would be reward enough, but with the sun splitting the stones and such amazing roads to climb, this was cycling heaven.

Kerry and I, as with the climbs to Cap de Formentor, had agreed I would be allowed to go at my own pace, and come back and ride up the remainder with her. A group of cyclists could be seen in the distance, so I set my sights on them, and went for it. I had caught the first couple before the first switchback, and could see from the fragmenting that they were a group of various abilities. A group of 3 or 4 had dropped the rest, with a lone rider out in front. By the halfway mark I had caught all but the lone rider in front, but by the peak I had got his back wheel. I was pleased – mainly because climbing isn’t a strong point for me, and I had out climbed several road cyclists who appeared to be struggling on the climb. I descended back for Kerry who had made it about 3/4 of the way up with a fantastic effort. I didn’t know how she would get on with the climbing, but she’d taken to it just fine. We climbed the remainder together, both in awe of the climb, the road and the scenery. Even as the air began to thin and the legs started to burn, we both continued to relish every second, and as we reached the summit of the climb we both excited and disappointed that it was over.

The disappointment would be short lived. There would be more climbing, as it happens.

We stopped in Orient for refreshment, and amidst looks that seemed to say, “how did the portly gentleman climb the mountain quicker than us”, I enjoyed the world’s largest slice of non-descript cake. It was amazing, but I couldn’t tell you what it was meant to be. It was just sweet, with no discernible flavour. With rain clouds threatening to spoil the party, we departed Orient for Bunyola. Our second Coll of the day awaiting, the Coll d’Honour.

Honour was an altogether different animal to Orient – with sharper, steeper switchbacks, and shorter ramps between. I enjoyed the climb, being more suited to putting power down in bursts rather than a long, steady effort. Towards the top I could feel each ramp hurting more and more, and my concern now was what climbing would face us for the remainder of the ride. With Honour peaked, we descended into yet another flawlessly picturesque town – Bunyola. The rain clouds had now gone, and Bunyola was the archetypical Spanish township, the only hint that it is popular with cycle tourists being a row of top end carbon bikes propped up a cafe wall in the main square and a lone rider dressed head to toe in Livestrong kit with a Madone.

As luck would have it, the ride from Bunyola onwards would be relatively flat, with a long, perfect road out for several miles allowing some rouleur riding by the two of us. Buzzing with excitement and energy, and spun with a feverishly high cadence into the countryside, into Santa Maria del Cami and on to the back roads to Sencelles, yet another pretty town. By the time we left Sencelles, we were starting to get hungry. We’d only had cake in Orient, and hadn’t really had lunch as Bunyola wasn’t serving food.

Next stop: Sineu. The warning signs were there on the outskirts – whereas every town sign and council sign announcing the local town had been flawlessly clean and modern, Sineu’s was rusty and dirty. The roads seemed to crumbled around us, and despite looking nice from a distance, the building in the town were run down and falling apart. Sineu appeared void of life, except for 2 small bars. One had a drunk woman shouting obscenities at passer-bys, the other had an ice cream sign outside. Guess which one we went to?

With a belly full of ice cream and coke (that’s literally all they had) we left Sineu. Or at least, we tried to. Lucy and Craig call it “town trapped”, and that’s a pretty good description. Rather like trying to leave Amble via a cycle route on Coast and Castles, getting out of Sineu seemed impossible, and I suddenly felt like I was in the film, “U-Turn”. Eventually, after several neater misses with unsympathetic local drivers and several wrong turns, we finally headed away from the desolate wasteland that is Sineu.

The riding conditions has worsened due to the wind, and the 2 Colls and lack of proper food had taken their toll. The ride to Sa Pobla via Llubi was tough. As we left Sa Pobla, we could have been forgiven for thinking we were in Holland. Just as the mountains had given way to rolling hills and false flats, they had given way to perfectly flat farmland and wind mills. Very picturesque – but very hard work. At Sa Pobla was decided to ride back to the Port via Can Picafort, and eventually reached Playa del Muro where we stopped to look around the Max Hurzeler shop and have a coke.

The final tally was 80 miles, and 2 Colls. We were pleased and proud, but tired. We celebrated in fine style with another meal at the Grill Asador, where I devoured the local delicacy of roast suckling pig, whilst Kerry looked on in envy from behind a vertically dangling king prawn skewer.

And no, I’d not got a Maxibon. This was getting slightly frustrating.

Thursday – Lluc-ing for Pro Tour cyclists…

Thursday was to be an easy day before the final day venture to Sa Calobra. We once again turned to our virtual holiday guide Lucy, who suggested a trip to Lluc via Selva. Looking at the map, I decided it would be easier (and shorter) to head straight there, rather than the more convoluted Campanet/Selva route that Lucy had given us, and besides, we’d seen those towns already. I now wanted to see as much of this beautiful island as possible.

There was probably a good reason she had sent us via Selva. My route went straight up the side of Coll de Femenia – 515 metres of climb over about 5km. It was tough. Our legs had anticipated a slightly easier day, so the climbs were a shock to the system. We agreed that I would once again go on ahead and leave Kerry to climb at her own pace, but today my legs were not responding. There were no cyclists for me to chase down, and plenty were catching and dropping me. 3/4 of the way up, the road flattened for a short while, and I U-turned here to descend and collect Kerry. She’d found her climbing legs as the week had progressed, and was only a couple of straights behind, having caught another woman herself. We climbed together to the summit of Femenia, took the customary photo, and descended to the stunning monastery at Lluc. I was flagging.

As we sat with espressos, Cokes and cake (I had a Maxibon, finally) we toyed with the idea of carrying on to Sa Calobra, rather than Friday. Eventually, tired legs said no, and we headed back down from Lluc, Pollensa-bound.

Approximately a quarter of the way down Femenia, a flash of white, red and blue caught my eye. It was a rider in a full Team Sky kit, wearing a white Kask helmet (with ginger hair hanging out the back), a British champion jersey, riding a white, red and blue Pinarello Dogma. I joked with Kerry that it was Bradley Wiggins, but thought it more likely to be an avid fan with too much spare cash. Kerry urged me to give chase anyway, and I obliged.

I’ve never descender like that before. Turn after turn, breaking into the corner, accelerating out of the apex, on the drops, giving it everything I had. I was passing cars and getting looks of approval from climbing cyclists. I felt like I was in a breakaway, closing in on my closest rival on GC, scuppering my foe’s vain attempt to gain valuable seconds on me. In reality of course, I was a below average club cyclist, performing a mediocre descent of an average mountain, watching the Wiggins-imposter get smaller and smaller in the distance. If he wasn’t Wiggins, he was a downhill god amongst men.

At the foot of Femenia, I pulled over, exhausted from my “race”. I hadn’t gained enough time to claim the yellow jersey, nor had I won a stage. I waited for Kerry, who soon pulled up grinning ear-to-ear. She had started to get the hang of this descending lark, and was keen to hear if I had caught Wiggins-imposter. The talk from Femenia to Port de Pollensa was of Wiggins-imposter, what races he might be doing, where he might be, etc. At the first available opportunity, we even tweeted the Sky rider, asking of his whereabouts. kerry also managed to get herself in a race with another woman on the way back, and promptly dropped her like a bad habit. It was quite amusing.

Back at the hotel, Kerry got herself settled for an afternoon of recovery around the pool, whilst I was sent on a mission to Playa del Muro to buy bargain cycle clothing from Max Hurzeler. I took the opportunity to put in some speed work, and also test the Pro Carbon’s credentials as a race bike. The 8 mile effort confirmed what I’d found in the hills – if you get out of e saddle, the entire front end flexes, and the bottom bracket doesn’t appear to transfer the power in the same way my TCR does. However, as expected, remain seated and tap out a high cadence, and the bike zips along happily and confidently. It’s not a bike for the heavy handed, or the “rouleur”. It’s a bike that requires good technique and a etiquette. I reached Playa del Muro in 21 minutes – not bad for a post Coll ride with strong winds and no aero bars, I thought. With a haul of Assos-style clothing tucked in my jersey pockets, I 3/4 paced it back to the Port – too late for a Maxibon but in time to “enjoy” another buffet supper in the Pollensa Park’s OAP dining room.

I wonder what the Wiggins-imposter was eating…?

Friday – Last day disappointments and the imposter unmasked!

The final day loomed like a storm cloud – for 2 reasons. Firstly, BECAUSE it was our last day and we had no desire to leave this stunning island and return to dull, grey UK weather, and secondly, because we’d chosen to leave it until the last day to attempt Sa Calobra. Designed by the same engineer who designed the road to Cap de Formentor, the road to Sa Calobra is a climb that is almost as well respected as climbs such as Alp d’Huez, Mont Ventoux, Col du Tormalet and Passo del Stelvio. OK, not *as* famous, but for anyone visiting the island as a cyclist, Sa Calobra is a must. When building the roads to Sa Calobra and Cap de Formentor, Antonio Paretti took rock from one climb where it wasn’t needed, and used it on the other climb where it was. The road itself is 12.5km in length with 12 hairpin bends, and an average gradient of 8%. The masterpiece of the road is the “Nus de sa Calobra” or the knot – a 360 degree turn that forms a short tunnel underneath itself. It is a masterpiece, and we couldn’t wait.

Riding out towards Campanet on the M2200, we faced the mother of all headwinds. Our legs were already fatigued from the first 5 days and several Colls, and a headwind on what was meant to be the easy part of the ride was not what we asked for. By Campanet, Kerry had been stung 8 times and I was experiencing some horrid stomach cramps, probably from the hotel’s food. By Selva, I was ready to turn back for Pollensa. We stopped at a cafe in Selva and I made the decision to bail from our route. I was finding even false flats near impossible mountains, and couldn’t imagine even trying to climb another Coll. It was a disappointing feeling. One of our main aims was to climb Sa Calobra, and overhearing other cyclists in the hotel brag about their Sa Calobra climbs had filled us with excitement and dread. We made the decision to cut back inland and go to Petra again, via Inca and Sineu.

Inca was a disappointment – a town that was very reminiscent of somewhere like Torromolinos – dirty streets, impatient drivers, and the sort of hustle and bustle we’d not experienced anywhere else on the island so far. Along with Sineu, the desolate wasteland town we’d visited before, it is worth avoiding if possible.

Soon enough we were away from the towns and back into the stunning countryside we’d become accustomed to, rolling on smooth roads with a tail wind aiding us.

Petra was as beautiful and welcoming as it was on our first day, and the disappointment was beginning to lift. More traditional Spanish food and a spot a bike spotting, and it was time to finish our final cafe stop and head back to Port de Pollensa for the last time. It was fitting that our cycling holiday was ending where it started.

On our way back, we once again spotted the familiar British champion jersey on board a white, blue and red Dogma zipping along the Mallorcan roads at speeds most cyclists can’t reach. I joked that Bradley Wiggins had just passed us, although I was now convinced that Wiggins-imposter was actually an ardent fan we’d been spotting. I did found it quite sad that someone would go to that much effort, although I guess I’d be happy enough on a Livestrong Madone with all the Livestrong kit…

Back in Pollensa, we took our bikes back to 2Go Cycling. The Planet X Pro Carbon had served me well, and for the money (you can buy the frame for £299 and full bikes for less than a grand) it isn’t a bad choice if you want a budget carbon bike. However, it’s slightly dull ride characteristics and dislike of big standing efforts coupled with it’s heavy weight means it probably isn’t a bike that’s suitable for me and my riding style. The Pro Carbon has of course been replaced with lighter, stiffer frames, and would be interested in giving them a ride at some time. I know a friend has a Nanolight and loves it. Kerry was also pleased with her Allez’s performance, and called it a “good, solid bike” but again, it’s weight was it’s downfall.

Walking back from 2Go Cycling we once again spotted the mysterious white, red and blue Dogma, this time leaning against a lamppost outside Tolo’s Cafe on the promenade. A closer inspection revealed a few telling signs – an SRM power meter, a Pro Tour race number, oval chain rings, a Prologo saddle and most telling of all – a mod style scooter sticker on the saddle itself. This was indeed Bradley Wiggin’s bike, and behind us enjoying a post ride drink (non alcoholic I should point out) was the man himself. Fresh from winning the overall GC in the Tour of Romandie, Mr Wiggins had returned to Mallorca, a place locals insist is Bradley’s favourite place to be. Can’t say I blame him. I should point out that I rather preferred Cervelo S3 parked next to the Team Sky bike – but that’s just me. Such is cycling’s community that the a rider who is currently the favourite to win the Tour de France this year was sat in a cafe surrounded by cyclists. I can’t imagine a footballer doing the same.

The disappointment of Sa Calobra out of the way, it had turned into a good last day, the only improved with steak at Grill Asador and a goodbye drink at Palms. Well, it’s not every day you enjoy a refreshment at the same bar as the 2012 Tour de France favourite.

I’m currently sat typing this in a favourite cafe in Jesmond, looking out onto yet another wet, cold windswept day, in the middle of May. It’s currently 26 degrees and clear skies in Mallorca. That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

I have to be honest, Mallorca was an eye opener for me, and also a lesson to not disregard places just because of reputation. Mallorca does have a large tourism industry and for the most part that is driven by Britain’s booze culture on bargain booze holidays. And that’s a shame. Mallorca is one of the prettiest places on Earth, and deserves better. It’s people deserve better too. I feel sorry for them, that they should have to endure our alchohol and football fueled culture, when the island has so much more to offer than bars and beaches. Yes, this aspect of tourism provides a massive income for the island and is indeed the livelihood of many residents, but still, this island is worth so much more.

We fell in love with Mallorca. It’s stunning mountain ranges, winding roads, vast valleys and farmland – even if you are not a cyclist it is worth the visit to discover the real Mallorca.

Our bodies may be in Newcastle, but our hearts remain out in Mallorca, somewhere on the roads between Orient and Honour, amidst the sweet fragrance of jasmine an orange groves, surrounded by the sound of sheep bells and cockerels.

Back to reality, for now.

One of the things I’ve never done until the other night was take part in a chain gang. For some reason, in my head, a chain gang was a massive group of cyclists, usually from 1 club of anti-motoring thugs, riding in a massive group 4 abreast shooting motorists who dared to come near them, Mad Max style. Obviously, and slightly disappointingly, this just isn’t the case. There wasn’t a bad hairdo in sight. Actually, that’s not true.

For some odd reason all I could think of on the way down was early 80s metal band Skid Row’s “Livin’ on a Chain Gang” from the album “Slave to the Grind”.

This particular chain gang uses the business park at Newburn. Driving there it was already getting dark, and it was a cold, windy night. A great recipe for close contact riding then. To get into the business park you have to cross the river Tyne over a bridge that for some reason always reminds me of the Middle East – the kind of bridge you’d expect riders to ride over in the Tour of Oman. Except without the sunshine. Or heat. Or sand. Come to think of it…

For those who don’t know, a chain gang is essentially a group of riders riding in formation. Riders take it in turns at the front, with riders behind being protected from the wind, therefore putting in less effort. In a big group, you end up with 2 lines. The rider in the front of the group in the right line will take his share of the lead, and then peel off to the left and let the rest of the line come through, led by a new leader, from the right. As the rider on the left then hits the back they peel off onto the wheel of the last rider on the right and so on. Hence, “chain gang”.

Once parked up, Kerry and I spent half an hour being giving a few hints and tips from Bicycle Repair Man’s track god Chris Bush before being taken around in a small “slow” group by Derwentside CC’s David Donaldson. Soon enough I was dropped into the main chain gang in what can only be described as a baptism of fire, whilst Kerry went off to practice not falling off round roundabouts.

I was terrified. Utterly, utterly terrified.

I was surrounded by noise, spinning legs, heavy breathing, shouting of instructions and orders, and flashing LED lights. And there was a lot of skinny, fast-looking guys giving me that “who the hell are you” look.

Within a few laps I’d settled down. This was apparently the medium group I was in, so it was fairly easy to live with. And then we were caught my another chain gang and in the melee, I ended up in the faster group. I then spent the rest of the evening in this faster group. I know it was the faster group because we kept catching and overtaking the other groups.

At times it was really hard work as I battle to stay on the wheel of the guy in front of me (he wasn’t easing off when he came through) or chasing the back wheel of the last man (he wasn’t saying “last man” every time) but once in the rhythm I found it really good fun.

For me, it was a first test of fitness to see how I was doing. Judging by the number of people getting dropped or struggling to keep up, I was pleased enough. However, I don’t know who these riders are or what their fitness levels are, so it’s not that much of a marker.

The only blemish on an otherwise great experience was the Police. For some reason they felt the need to overtake one of the chaingangs and then slow down right in front of them. Quite irresponsible driving to be honest.

So, despite no one being in leather with eye patches chasing each other in Interceptor cars, I enjoyed the chain gang. I’ll be going back, at least until the TT season starts.