That Was Painful

God that was painful. Just over 300 miles and should take 5 hrs, which I did in about 7 but Amy managed in much less. 

She assumed I’d get wherever we were going faster than she, as bikes are just quicker.

Watching Messrs McGregor and Boorman, biking all over the world, you'd be forgiven for thinking riding is quick and effortless, but even they took 4 days to ride the length of the country (780 mile). One could argue they stopped many times to film their exploits, but in my defence, I stopped many times to rub my arse, get the fluff from my scarf out of my mouth or tuck in my flapping garments etc...my fidgeting is relentless.

Long journeys on bikes are often slower than 4, 6 or 8 wheels, especially riding without a fairing, as it's just much bloody colder and so much more physically exhausting. Cruising at 90mph below 10c is like being in a freezer wind tunnel, after 20 mins most bits are frozen and battered. Wearing thermals, snoods, balaclavas, fleece, leather jacket, heated gloves, handlebar muffs, leather jeans, ski jacket and leggings together, you’d think Nice n toasty! But at speed, all the layers and air pockets get compressed flat by the wind, so it’s then like pulling a giant plate through the air, which is physically draining and means you literally have to hang on to the bars for dear life or you’ll watch the bike speeding off on its own while the road gobbles up what’s left of your arse. 

This just goes on and on for hours and hours. 


To compound the misery, my coccyx starts throbbing after about an hour on the bike, so the need to stop and rest my pulsating butt becomes more and more demanding, to the point when getting back on after a 10 min break, I often hear myself yelp in pain sitting back in the saddle. 

Sounds really whiny I know, but that’s why I love traveling by boat...it’s just so much more comfortable and that’s why Amy can arrive at our shared destination both early and relatively refreshed.

That said though, I didn't have to bring the bike on this trip to Mallorca, I knew how butt and wrist wrenching it would be, but I did secretly panic in bucketloads when Jack Lilley were trying to fix it so I could actually ride down here.

However uncomfortable, monotonous or cold it can get, there is simply nothing I know of on this planet that provides such a prolonged and acute tsunami of the senses, as blasting oneself across a country like Spain on a bike. 

Boring Pic, but was too busy stopping for other reasons than to take shots

The irritation of the Barcelona traffic is nothing compared to my aches and pains downstairs. The only consolation on that debilitating run, was the dramatic landscapes of northern Spain, the frigid, frosted mountains to the sunny plains of vast flat desert expanses, and strangely, the belt from my jacket being constantly flapped by the wind, jiggling enthusiastically over my groin.....kept a hint of a smile on my face anyway.

Amy already settled on 16th floor of Barcelona hotel and swapped rooms for one with a bath (thanks) and no hint of pee smell. 



Headed off to little plaza for tapas, but found the dirty unpleasant waitress too wrapped up in her fight for Catalonian independence to tolerate a couple of indifferent tourists. 

Aha, unrecognisable menu....not gonna get fooled again! Before we could fire up Google translate, Miss Piggy came to take orders. The disdain!...when Amy asked in Spanish what something on the menu was, Piggy said in good English: ‘this is a Catalan menu, you need a Spanish menu (though we were all now speaking English), we don’t have Spanish menu, just Catalan...this is a Catalan bar!’

There were more demonstrations at the weekend and I was just understanding their depth of resentment towards their Madrid masters, a bit like the Scots to London..oh, and the Welsh, the Cornish, N/Irish, and of course Brexiteers to Brussels.

Three very different languages.

But I have learnt that the Catalan fight for independence is separate from the Basque independence movement, which is now pretty much defunct.

English: Will you please let go of my chorizo

Spanish: Por favor, suelta mi chorizo

Basque: Txorizoa joango zara

Catalan: Et permetrà alliberar el meu xoriço

Can’t wait to get to Mallorca to practice my English.

We ended up with burnt black pudding croquettes, more Iberian Secret and a quick exit without tip. 

The pizza house next to hotel was far more my thing.

Amy washed her smalls and hung them out to dry