Marvellous Mallorca Part 1

The ship roared and wallowed as the dynamic positioning system fought to keep it in one place over the seabed, as the wind started to pick up. Sweat poured onto the deck of what used to be the cinema room, now converted into a cardio gym on the Dive Support Vessel Boka Atlantis.

I gritted my teeth as the movement of the ship made my predicament even harder. I was halfway up Sa Calobra in Mallorca, an iconic climb for cyclists apparently. The new Watt Bike Atom indoor training bike on board the Atlantis was reacting to every % of incline that this hill threw at me, and my heart felt like it was going to burst as my lungs screamed for air.

Desperate to pass an HSE diving medical, with the help of a friend, I had taken reluctantly to the exercise bike to shift some weight and deal with my fitness, both of which had downward spiralled out of control in the final years of a miserable relationship.

I needed something better, something more – and I needed to feel like me again. Not someone’s ‘other half’. I’m not half of anybody, never have been. I needed Christine the gritty, determined jockey back.

I punched my way up the hill and collapsed in a heap of sweat and whining.

Roll on two years later and N+1 was really taking hold (that’s the formula for how many bikes a cyclist should own…. however many you have – N – just add one….).

I had Orro gravel bike (with slick tyres, not doing any of that off road nonsense) and now Orro Venturi road bike with Di2 (posh electronic gear shifters) and the now redundant £400 Trek ladies road bike which had been relegated to my indoor Wahoo trainer. No regrets with that one, my first ever road bike, I rode that up Mont Semnoz blissfully unaware it was a category HC climb (really hard!)

I actually love climbing. But I’m so heavy that I’m painfully slow. Luckily Orro Venturi has better gears for climbing than my gravel bike, so I started to get brave and decided to take myself to Mallorca. It is, apparently, a mecca for cyclists.

Sun, turquoise blue seas, Spanish tapas, cold beers, and scenery to die for. And Sa Calobra. The real thing.

Booking with Jet2, who seem less likely to trash my bike than other airlines, I packed up Orro in pieces and set off to the island I had not visited since a family holiday when I was just 9 years old. I had spent most of it snorkelling and doing handstands in the pool with a new Spanish friend, while my mother and grandmother loafed by the pool doing absolutely nothing.

I was bored. I was happy to come back and at least see some of the island and get some proper miles in.

I settled into the hotel which was in the ‘German’ region, Alcudia, and the hotel was spotless, with fantastic food, wine, and ice-cold pool with bali beds to lounge on. I rented a car as I thought I’d need it to get me to the start of some of the mountain climbs, not quite being up for big hills in the middle of +100km rides just yet.

I built my bike in the on-site bike ‘garage’ where it would live all week and sorted out a route for the next day. I love Komoot and use it in conjunction with Strava to plan my routes.

Not wanting to stray too far on the first day, I lined up a nice little loop to Porto Pollensa, then down to Cala Sanc Vicenc and back round Pollensa to Alcudia where I had the most amazing lunch by the marina.

*Truffles, goats cheese and olives - all my favourite things!*

48km shakedown done, I was ready to have a go at Sa Calobra.

There had been a lot of rumblings about closed roads and access as one of the hairpin bends had collapsed in the winter storms. The road to Sa Calobra was indeed closed, but only between 8am and 4pm….

It was accessible via Puig Major, the hardest climb on the island…Not overly keen on that just yet, I went to bed ruminating and annoyed at having a potentially wasteful day ahead doing nothing until 4pm when the road finally opened. I’m not really an evening rider – I prefer to be in the restaurant and bar by 6pm!

For no reason at all, I woke at 4am. Irritated, and knowing there was no way I would get back to sleep, I got up.

*Clouds starting to clear at the start of the Sa Calobra route.*

Maybe it comes from riding racehorses, where you are not allowed to be scared or overthink, or maybe cave diving which is much the same – or maybe I just have this ability that allows me to do crazy things and remain totally focussed. I didn’t even think about anything – I just put my cycling gear on, check listed my bike and bag, filled my water, and walked out of the hotel to my car, much to the dismay of the night shift hotel staff on the desk.

It was dark and drizzling.

I put Orro in the back of the car and drove through the dark and rain for a solid hour, half of which was hair pin bends, to the viaduct where many cyclists meet and greet either at the start, end, or part way through their day.

I stopped at a garage that thankfully let me in at this ungodly hour and bought two packs of ham and cheese sandwiches, some juice, and a strong coffee to go. I ate one pack for breakfast – obviously the hotel had no intention of serving me breakfast in the middle of the night – and I kept one pack for after the ride.

I pulled into the parking spot. Not surprisingly, it was completely empty. The road works had not started.

I tried to sleep in the car until it started to get light but to no real avail. It kept raining but gradually started to ease off as daylight tried to break. Dark, heavy clouds ever so slowly began to break and lift but I wasn’t going to be treated to a glorious, sunny ride. The descent was going to be lethal on wet tarmac, but I didn’t care. I had my determined head on, and I was going to do this, no matter what.

Just as well really, as I had no idea about what manner of hell I was about to endure.

The beeps of large road maintenance vehicles and orange flashing lights approaching the viaduct was my cue to leave.

I hopped onto Orro and felt a little bit emotional as I rolled out of the car park, thinking about my friend who had helped me lose so much weight, get fit again and be myself again. I hoped he’d be proud of me, which was promptly followed by being glad he couldn’t see me as I struggled to clip into my pedals. I hadn’t been riding clipped in for very long and it was all still a bit hit and miss.

Sa Calobra is unique as you start by descending it first to a dead end by the sea, before climbing back up it.

As I swung away from the car park, I suddenly remembered my cycling mates telling me that it was the climb ‘up’ to the start of the descent that got most people. I wasn’t sure if they were talking about approaching it via Puig Major (not my problem today) or the sharp little switch back climb that I was soon confronted with on the way up to Coll dels Reis, where the descent starts proper.

I plodded on the wet road, storm clouds slightly lifted but not really giving in and was grateful at least that the Mallorcan sun wasn’t beating down on me.

Delighted to have reached Coll dels Reis, I knew this pinch point in the rocks would be the finish official point for the Sa Calobra climb.

I set off gently, taking in the stunning vistas and immediately had to stop to photograph the bizarre road which curves around in a complete loop and passes under itself beneath a beautiful archway.

Once past the famous landmarks, I began the descent.

Oh my word. Ok, I was going slowly as I knew the road was wet and with the road closed behind me, there was no traffic. No cyclists. Which meant no help if I was to crash.

I possibly have the record for the slowest descent of Sa Calobra and, even though I was slow, it didn’t half go in a bit.

I descended through the cliffs on the constantly winding and hair pinned road, first through mountain scrub, then becoming greener and finally through other worldly pine forest with huge boulders strewn among the trees. The distance played on my mind. If it was taking me this long to get down, how long would it take me to get back up?

I don’t remember taking much more than an hour on the watt bike on my ship at work. In fact, my personal best up Sa Calobra was 80 minutes. I started to doubt if I’d manage that today.

As I reached the small port at the sea front, I passed through the slightly ugly coach car park with barriers and speed bumps before rolling up to the sea front. It was quiet and the sun hadn’t quite made it.

Looking desperately for coffee and a loo, I spotted a hotelier half-heartedly dragging plastic chairs out onto the terrace. I asked if I could get a coffee and he pointed inside.

One strong coffee and loo visit later, I was ready to go. My sandwiches had worn off and I was left with a couple of Giant bars to get me up the hill.

The official segment starts just beyond the coach park, which is just as well as the first ramp out of the port was very steep.

The first part of the climb gains height quite quickly but fortunately mostly in the shade. It’s not long before you reach a clearing at the side of the road and can look down on the port and see how high you’ve climbed already. But there was still an awful long way to go.

Once through the famous pinch point in the rocks, fortunately no coaches here today, the route passes through pine forest strewn with huge boulders. The light started to stream through in rays split by the trees and it looked like something from a fantasy film.

I kept the pedals turning but began enjoying the scenery and relaxed into the ride. Bend after bend, ramp after ramp the climb continued winding up the valley in no real direction. I stared at the highest point I could see, wondering if that was the top, or not. It looked an awfully long way up and so, so far away. I kept moving.

Eventually, I caught sight of the collapsed part of the road and the brightly coloured cones and workmen starting their day. The end was in sight.

At just this moment, the sky went dark, and a cold wind howled up the valley. A deep, loud rumble of thunder echoed across the valley. “What on Earth….?”

I didn’t even have time to finish the sentence in my head when the heavens opened. It was as if someone had just turned on a fire hydrant and was pointing it right at me.

Water ran down my face, down my neck, into my eyes and saturated everything I was wearing in seconds. Luckily, I’d packed my gilet – which was as much use as a chocolate teapot, but at least it was another layer as I knew getting cold was going to be an issue now. I stopped to put it on, ate another soggy piece of flapjack and knew I had to keep moving to stay warm. In Mallorca.

As I turned the pedals, I started giggling.

What would Mark Julier say if he could see me now? He was the guy I was cycling with in Lanzarote when it snowed, and we had to bail out back to the hotel by taxi – bikes and all.

Then I saw another cyclist. A small French guy had begun his descent and got caught in the monsoon. He was off his bike and sheltering under the sagging leaf of a fern.

I asked if he was Ok in French, and he replied that his mate was coming to get him. Sure enough, as I crawled up the ever-steepening hair pins, a Berlingo van pulled up beside him and bundled the sodden rider and his bike inside.

No way on Earth was I going to try to blag a lift now – but they didn’t offer anyway! I was so close to the top.

I met another lady starting her descent, looking bewildered and she had stopped on a bend clearly wondering whether to continue. I hoped she wasn’t using me as a barometer of whether continuing was a good idea or not. I started giggling as I passed her and she started giggling as well at the ridiculousness of it all. I didn’t look back to see what decision she had made.

On the last little straight, I could see the archway where the road bizarrely passes under itself. I was absolutely drenched. Thinking I was almost at the top, I was slapped in the face yet again by a really quite steep ramp which is the final section of road before the narrowing in the rocks, which marks the top of the Coll des Reis.

I didn’t stop for another photo. The last bit of downhill was going to be greasy and cold. I descended carefully, shivering, back down to the car.

The clouds had broken and cyclists had started to arrive from having ascending Puig Major, taking in the two mountains in the same day. Good luck to them.

I stripped off all my wet gear and huddled into a towel, trying to eat a sandwich at the same time. Once my dry gear was on, I chucked the bike in the back of the car and grabbed a coffee from the little café just under the viaduct.

This was not how I wanted my first ascent of Sa Calobra to be. But in typical Christine style, I did it the hard way.

Mallorca Part 2 - The Pig.

Tri Cheddar

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