The joy of Lycra, switchbacks and moving your body #113

Observations of a (very) mid-life woman

My Mallorcan vacation continues.

One of the reasons we come here is to cycle. As do many of the tourists here right now.

Made for cycling

Those canny Mallorcans realised some years ago there is a whole cycling market to cater for in the off-summer season. And cater they do, very well.

Velvety tarmacked roads, Hackney, and to be fair most of the UK, eat your pot-holed hearts out. Sweeping mountain switchbacks varying in length and gradient. Breathtaking coastal vistas. Evocative smells, oranges, lemons and spring blossoms.

Freshly brewed coffee, thirst-quenching orange juice and tasty tapas stops dotted along the way in beautiful hillside and port towns.

Respectful motorists, patiently waiting and giving distance as the cyclists climb up and down the hills.

Cycling meccas in villages such as Pollenca, built to cater to every velo whim.

Essentials

Kit and clothing are an essential part of the cycling experience. The precious metal bicycles with their whirring wheels, near-silent electric gear changers and efficient disc brakes. The essential clippy cleats, melding person and bicycle as one.

Then the gadgets. Beeping and buzzing as groups pull in for refuelling, monitoring every movement - heart rate, speed, metres climbed, distance travelled, cadence, calories consumed - all ready to upload to Strava to tell of the day’s highs and lows.

And then there is the Lycra. Clingy, crevice-and-bulge-hugging, encasing cyclists one and all, young and old. The adonis-like young men and women, not an ounce of fat between them, all sporting the muted pastels of the season; not colours for the faint-hearted. To be sure, there is also a fair mix of MAMILs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) among them, with a sparse but determined sprinkling of more-than-middle-aged, Lycra-clad women. We know who we are.

My rides and experiences

Our climb out of Port Soller over the Col de Soller — some 10km from sea level to peak, with an average gradient of 5.7%. Chuff, chuff, chuff, as we slowly make our way up the mountain. Thirty switchbacks in all. The toughness eased by my Spotify playlist of legendary artists: Katrina and the Waves bringing the sunshine, Kate Bush running me up that hill, Erasure demanding A Little Respect (fair enough), and those Four Non-Blondes asking What’s Going On?

The descents are dramatically less gruelling on the heart, lungs and legs, replaced instead with fear, concentration, and a constant inner monologue about loose stones and buses swinging just a little too wide around the next corner.

Some days a pleasant 40km, others a more gruelling 70km with 2,000 metres of climbing spread over seven peaks. Each of us riding our own pace. Some faster uphill, some like bullets downhill. Regrouping along the way, encouraging each other when it gets tough, and comforting ourselves with the entirely reasonable observation:

“How many other 62-year-old women have you seen out today?”

What joy. Exercise, sun, mountains, sea, friends. I can’t think of many better ways to spend a day.

Which leads me back, as I often do, to reflecting on and cherishing the life-enhancing, compunding benefits of being outside and moving my body. Counting myself supremely lucky that I can and do. Long may it continue.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. And I’m conscious I’ve lingered rather lovingly on my Mallorcan sojourn for three weeks now - normal service resumes on Sunday when I return to Blighty. My question to you is this: cyclist or not, what sporting or exercise culture do you belong to, whether as participant, spectator or fan? And what are the must-have kit, gadgets and clothing that go with it?

Pour yourself a protein shake and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember: you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. What one thing can you challenge yourself to do this week to raise your heart rate? I have no doubt you won’t regret it.

Until next week, my friends,

Ruth x

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