The drive (up to Cap Formentor) is also famously scary.
A local legend has it that the parish priest and the local bus
driver arrived at the Pearly Gates and only the driver was admitted to heaven.
The reason?
He had led far more people to pray.
You can’t go to Mallorca without going to Formentor, I proclaimed. It’s like the quintessence of the whole thing, you get me? I continued.
Okay, Wiking replied.
So let’s go to Formentor! I cheered.
Okay, Wiking replied.
It’s gonna be a long ride, I threatened.
If it’s okay with you than it’s okay with me, Wiking replied.
One good thing about me is that I like to read old paper maps. One bad thing about me is that I don’t always read the maps right. And that I’m stubborn. And time optimistic as hell.
That is why it took us a while to get out of the labyrinthic Palma area.
Then finally, Wiking took out his mobile phone with GPS on and by a miracle, we were on the right roads.
Amazing roads.
I could not stop smiling at everyone, every bee, every single poppy flower.
Then, we stopped by a hospital in Inca to pee and to eat some snacks.
The ride was warm. The cold Coke in Port de Pollença had a touch of divinity in it. It always does. Coke, the drink of the Gods and us riders in the sun.
And then we got tired of watching normal people stroll on the boardwalk and the first climb began. It’s marvellous. You have to experience it. As you climb higher and higher, the sea changes its colour and glitters more and more.
And just like that, the first climb was done, and signs like that showed us how obviously dangerous life can become if you don’t hold your handlebars firmly.
Just as our life couldn’t can any more dangerous, the small battalions of goats started to appear. You may think these things are cute and fluffy – but you better think twice before you flat out in front of these! I almost collided with one of these on my way down from the Cap Formentor.
Besides the fluffy ungulates, there were cars who did everything to disturb my final sprint up to the Meeting Point of the Winds, as it is known by the Majorcans. I had to go off my bike a couple of times, but at least I could sprint the last twenty meters up to the cafeteria.
We celebrated our trip so far by having a pleasant San Miguel, espresso and croissant picnic.
And then headed down, back to the reality.
Here’s my silly ass, riding too fast, risking to collide with a goat.
Typically, the ride home offered both head-winds and sore seat bones. When riding in head-wind, I amused myself by wheelsucking and singing heartbreaking songs. I always sing heartbreaking songs when I wheelsuck. It gets easier that way.
The colour scheme changed as we started to approach the Palma area.
And just when we though it could not become any more sightly that that, the sky began to be filled with aircraft, huge machines that noiselessly lifted up towards other stories.
Pix by The Royal Wiking and me, Strava here