Majorca Made Easy

When you think 'package holiday' sand, sangria and sunloungers spring to mind. To the list you can now add sports drinks, saddles and shaved legs.

Jet2's new cycling range not only provides a family holiday with a spot (or five) of riding, it also caters for the dedicated lycra type seeking some quality time alone with their bike.

From the choice of locations I'd picked Majorca. Year-round the island buzzes bright with cyclists but peak biking season tends to be during the cooler months. It's comparative, of course. The January average temperature of 15 degrees Celsius makes Majorca the go-to destination for Brits seeking some quality winter riding.

I'd arrived in summer season and camped at the Iberostar Playa de Muro, a four-star whose cycling facilities have been modelled on those offered to skiers at top European winter resorts.

Let's be brave

The SNP – I've been a member since the 80s – are the brave party (not Bravehearts, that's a nonsense slur opponents without a clue throw our way), prepared to make bold political decisions in order to force change for the better.

Last weekend I attended my first party conference. I was buoyed by the bold and positive talk — Scotland can and will be changed for the better. We just have to work hard to make it happen.

Then came the debate on cycling:

Whose Idea Was This?

Today's road ride went a bit 'Goonies do cyclocross'. A leisurely ride around the lanes of East Lothian got blown off course by a road closure at Longniddry.

"Just turn left here," I said with zero authority, "and we'll soon be back on the right road."

We weren't.

Over the level crossing, along a single-track road. Single-track road became dirt track. Dirt track became field. Field became mud track (not sure if that was an improvement). Mud track became giant puddles and then finally - we're saved! - back to dirt track, then single-track road, then proper road.

It was all good (muddy) fun and reminded me of Gavin, my friend from childhood. We used to do loads of off-road 'adventuring' on our 55lb Raleigh clunkers, following deer tracks to who knew where. Sometimes they would lead to exciting new rides, other times they would lead to being arse-deep in sheep shit or scrambling up a ravine dragging our beasts of burden, cursing and swearing in that colourful way only teenage boys can muster. On the rides that went wrong, just at the most-wrong point, Gavin was prone to stopping and asking,

"Whose idea was this?"

The gone-wrong rides were never Gavin's idea, only the good ones.

So I was channeling Gavin this morning. As we crested the rise in the field to see another rise and no sign of road I turned to Mike and asked,

"Whose idea was this?"

It was his, definitely his.

Riding Home

On Culfoldie

Last weekend I was back home and managed to sneak a bike ride in between various family 'duties'.

Back home for me is rural Moray in the north-east of Scotland. I was lucky to have grown up in such a spot but didn’t think my location fortuitous at the time (the adolescent me craved the bright lights, attractions and fellow indie kids I imagined the city held within).

Going home avec velo and I realise how great a place it was, and still is.

Compared to the roads around Edinburgh (where I now reside) those of home are in far better condition and are far quieter too. Many of my once regular routes lead onto single-track roads that barely see any motorised traffic. I can be lost in that escapist, peaceful bliss within minutes of home.

Raging at the wind

I love finding nuggets of cycling wisdom in unexpected places.

Neil M. Gunn was an a highly influential Scottish author. Born and bred in the far north of Scotland, his work was heavily influenced by the landscape that surrounded his Dunbeath home.

Caithness is a windswept part of the world, as any member of the Caithness C.C. will surely testify. Judging by his novel Highland River (which was based on the author's childhood) Gunn clearly knew a thing or two about the habits of wild salmon. The short extract below shows he also knew a thing or two about a cyclist's relationship with the wind:

And nothing can bring the spirit to breaking point more surely than the wind, which legend shows the northern folk have always feared and hated. For not only does it whirl the seas into tempest and wither the green shoot, but drains sea and land of colour and puts darkness upon them -- the shadow of the ancient nameless ones that rode the gale with shriek and howl, or moaned round gable ends at dead of night. Into a head wind the boys would bore, standing on their pedals, straining at their handlebars, their hearts bursting, until they could have given shriek for shriek and wept in mad rage.

There will no doubt be many an occasion this coming winter when I find myself leant over the handlebars, face contorted, vocally, (yet inaudible due to Mother Nature's howl) cursing the wind.

When that happens my thoughts will turn to this extract, to the coastal roads of Caithness, the teenage Gunn and his pals racing homewards, their hearts bursting, ready to weep in rage.

Tour o' the Borders

From stages of the Tour of Britain, the Seven Stanes mountain bike trails, to the hugely successful TweedLove festival, there's a regular reason for a two-wheeled Borders pilgrimage.

Next up is the Endura Tour o' the Borders, which starts and finishes in Peebles on Sunday 10^th of August. Heading into its third year, this cyclo-sportive is on the up (quite literally, more of which later): 2014 will be the first running on roads closed to cars.

Last year's edition was epic. Less than clement conditions resulted in semi-submerged roads and riders at risk of hypothermia. Moving from late spring to the height of summer might make heatstroke more of an issue. Whatever the weather, participants have two route options: 55 or 77 miles.

I’d headed down for a preview of the longer route, to be guided by Neil Dalgleish, Tour co-founder. Mindful of the miles and climbs to come, we settled into an easy pace, heading toward Innerleithen, before a turn through Cardrona. The undulating, rollercoaster road swooped us along the Tweed valley before another right and our first proper ascent: Paddy Slacks (a corruption of Pas des Lacs or Pass to the Lakes). After about 3 miles and 500 feet of climbing, the descent came as welcome respite. We raced downhill, rattled over the first of many cattle grids and on across the Yarrow Water.

From there we were back to climbing (the longer route packs in 4790 feet of ascent). Despite being almost 4 miles long, the Berrybush was less of an ordeal than expected, more a gradual rise, eased by a slight tailwind. By the time the Tour hits this road its 2000-strong peloton will be stretched down the verdant valley like a vast string of bunting.

Every up has it's down and the descent to Crosskeys was a cracker. We raced along at over 30mph, leaning into the sharp bends, adrenaline washing away fatigue.

Our day's first crossing of the Ettrick and we followed the Rankle Burn, heading toward Alemoor Reservoir. The latter is said to contain kelpies but all we saw were brightly coloured kayaks bobbing on the blue water. Borders country is beautiful, and full of history too: on the road to Askirk we passed a cairn built in memory of the poet Will H Ogilvie, born in nearby Kelso.

We seemed to have held onto the tailwind, were cruising well ahead of the 14kph minimum that Tour entrants will have to beat. Then came the Woll climb. Hedgerows obscured the scenery and our focus turned to the tilting tarmac. It took us a while to rise through the wooded patches and onto open farmland, the gradient around 5%, burgeoning fatigue suggesting otherwise.

Next came Ettrick Bridge, which will be home to one of the Tour's three feed zones. Entrants will be plied with food, (including wares from Glasgow’s Big Bear Bakery), fruit and energy drinks. With about half the distance to go, most will keenly take advantage.

The Witchey Knowe is one heck of a calorie cruncher, and the climb of the route: over 500 feet of ascent in just 1.5 miles of tarmac.

“Is that the road, up there?” I gasped, pointing aghast to a thin grey line slashed into the hillside.

With no spare puff for speech, the answer came as a grunt.

The views from the top were equally breathtaking, the Yarrow valley far below.

The descent was pure adrenaline: sinuous and somehow sticking to the hillside. The Tour’s closed roads will allow riders to let rip and take racing lines; we exercised a tad more caution.

At the bottom we took a right toward Selkirk, road following water, wheels spinning faster than the rapids' splash. I had twigged to the theme of the route: challenging climbs, rip-roaring descents, everything in between utterly entertaining.

We flew by the Waterwheel Café, no time to eat or watch the salmon leaping at Philiphaugh. We were now definitely riding into the wind but the hedgerows provided shelter and distraction came with the road's changes in pitch and direction.

Farewell to one river and we re-united with the Tweed, heading back along its valley. We had forsaken the busy Galashiels Road for one running parallel but high above. The native woodland to our right was green and specked with patches of silver lichen. I'd not have discovered a lane so beautiful in a hundred Sunday runs.

Yet another descent before a shortcut through the grounds of Traquair House (location for the Tour’s final feed zone). The 900-year-old building is Scotland's oldest inhabited house and given such beautiful surroundings it's easy to see why the place has remained occupied.

Shaking off thoughts of a siesta in the garden’s shade we returned to that rollercoaster road, passed Cardrona and back to Peebles.

“One more climb,” said Neil, as he's prone to when out riding in this part of the world.

“Only one more?” I sighed, tired but disappointed. I wanted at least another three, couldn't wait for the Tour o' the Borders to do it all over again.

Endura Tour o’ the Borders

http://tourotheborders.com/

10^th August 2014 (last date for entries: 3^rd August 2014)

Entry cost: £55

Cooked on the Casse Déserte

Stage 14 of the this year's Tour de France takes in a wee hill called the Col d'Izoard. Here's an extra from The Breakaway on the day that very climb very nearly claimed us:

 Our bodies weren't the only casualties of the heat; the road had succumbed too. Our tyres tacked to patches of molten tar, a palpable sense that the mountain would rather consume us than allow for another pedal-powered human to reach its peak. We were the victims of a conspiracy, the gradient, the weather and the road all combining to ensure defeat. The Izoard would glue us in place, hold us still whilst the sun cooked, until the ashes of our bikes and bodies could be scattered by the winds, adding sand to the Casse Déserte.

Where the road hadn't melted we'd often see yet more fans' graffiti left over from recent races. There were a few “Go Lance” and a countering couple of “Vai Pantani”, but the most common on this climb was “Udo & Jan”. There was a half-mile stretch where the couple's tribute had been painted in almost unbroken succession, as if that part of the road had been created in their honour, or that Udo & Jan was the brand name of the manufacturer. The Udo & Jan in question were of course the Germans, Udo Bölts and Jan Ullrich. I'd never before thought of those two as a couple, Jan was the team leader, the undoubted star of cycling, Udo was just his trusty domestique who did the work but rarely took the limelight. However, to this paint-happy fan or fans Bölts & Ullrich were obviously inseparable, made to go together like horse and carriage or love and marriage. And from there I began to imagine Udo and Jan as a proper, married couple, as if they were the glamour pairing of the peloton, like a German, cycling version of Posh and Becks — oh, those thoughts, those ridiculous thoughts and the ridiculous heat were killing me! (And killing Drew too because I felt compelled to share.)

In an attempt to distract from my delirium and worries about our imminent expiration, Drew began to recite the lyrics of the folk song, Flower O' Scotland. For some unknown reason, that unofficial Caledonian national anthem had popped up and then stuck inside his head, playing over and over on a hellish (if patriotic) loop. My attention was focussed on the less melodic sound of creaking that came from my battered and worn left pedal cleat. That noise, normally as welcome as the screech of fingernails on blackboard, was strangely comforting, aural evidence that I remained in motion and was therefore still alive. I settled in to the frequency of the creak, the rhythm of the consequent sound and action: the cleat's creak, the lungs' wheeze, the push on the pedals. Creak-wheeze-push. I was the bagpipe backing to Drew's anthem. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Just as with the metallic clink of swinging pendant striking jersey zip, it was another mind-clearing mantra to which I succumbed. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Everything else dissolved from the scene. Gone were the sticky tar and the baking sun. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Gone were my thirst and the sting of salty sweat. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Gone was Drew, his bike, my bike, even the mountain up which we struggled. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. No pain in legs or lungs, no me, no mountain. Just the creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push.

Somewhere around there I experienced what I can only describe as an epiphany. There was no vision, no figure of Christ or the Virgin Mary, just a moment where everything made perfect, joyous sense. An ice-cool breeze blew out of nowhere, rushed up the hill and clean through me. A subsequent shiver shot up my spine, rattled from the inside out, shaking me up before shooting its way on and into my brain. Although my pace hadn't quickened, it suddenly felt like I was flying, the bike but a featherweight beneath me, legs uncommonly supple and smooth. My gargoyle-on-the-toilet expression cracked with a giant smile, the man who had so recently hovered upon the edge of despair now buzzing with a blast of positive energy. In that brief moment I knew why: why I was riding the Izoard that day, why my life had followed a path I had no recollection of choosing. Like a drugged-up hippie staring at a Goan sunset, I was overwhelmed by understanding, unshakeably certain of my own existence, deliriously glad to be alive. I was also aware of just how privileged I was to be there, on that bike, on that road at that very moment. I could have been stuck behind a desk, staring out the window at the dogs and students who frequented the park adjacent to my office; instead I was free as a bird, soaring (albeit very slowly) toward the summit of a majestic mountain, challenging myself and responding accordingly.

Thoughts turned to my late father, to his life, his achievements and the love he had shown for all his family. Of course I missed him, did so incredibly and always would, but there on the Izoard I felt that he was riding shotgun, proving a more faithful wingman than Heras, Hamilton and Hincapie all rolled into one. He was with me, inside me, all around me, sharing the moment and proudly patting my back. Thoughts shifted to my girlfriend, to my love for her, a desire to have children of our own, so one day my son or daughter might ride the mountain with me, shoulder to shoulder, sharing in the love and wonder, the ardour and ecstasy. This, I thought, looking down at the spinning pedals, up at the road ahead, this is my church, out on a bike instead of sitting in a pew. This is where I feel close to whatever god might be. Churches are buildings designed to draw one's focus heavenward, architecture intended to inspire, and wasn't that what those great mountains had been doing? They drew our eyes, our bodies and minds upward. They lifted us from the daily grind, from the fog of our troubles and worries. Physically we climbed so that our spirits might soar.