The Balearic Cycling Edition

On Spain, riding, and mountains

James Jung (JJ) is a content director and strategist in the web3 space. His fiction appears in Narrative and The Southern Review, and he’s previously written for WITI about the wonky joys of cyclocross. He lives in Manhattan. 

James here. I recently returned from a two-week family holiday on Mallorca, the largest of Spain’s Balearic Islands, and now—at least for us New Yorkers—it's the most accessible thanks to a direct flight on United that leaves Newark twice a week. Beaches were graced, pools cannonballed, gazpacho and sangria slurped with equal abandon, and sinuous mountain roads traversed in our Peugeot rental with both boys dozing in the backseat. All of this amounted to a grand time, not least for the two aforementioned boys (ages four and 23 months), who quickly cottoned to the charms of a lazy Spanish summer on the Mediterranean. And it would’ve been a painless one as well had I not broken my collarbone on day two of the trip, the result of crashing my bike in a hairpin turn during a spirited descent of the Col de Soller—a classic climb made famous by its 50 alpine-like switchbacks. 

Why is this interesting? 

Majorca is a great many things to a great many people. German, British and Scandinavian families flock to the broad beaches and affordable hotels flanking the island’s somewhat tacky southern coast. The glitterati decamp for Deia, a mountain enclave nestled above the rocky coves barbing the north (where the vibe is decidedly more rustic and less yacht-infested than other Mediterranean ports of call, but there’s still a Belmond for those unwilling to give up certain creature comforts). In recent years, lovers have come in the form of hard-bodied contestants on ITV’s Love Island reality show, and the capital city of Palma—though hardly as hedonistic as neighboring Ibiza—serves up plenty of clubbing opportunities.

But if there’s a type of tourist that transcends these disparate groups, it has to be the cyclist. As I sat on the side of Soller in a daze, shorts ripped, helmet crumpled, right shoulder sloping loosely at my side, countless riders stopped to see if I was ok, and an American ex-pat by way of LA waited with me as my wife drove to my rescue. While we chatted, he told me that no place he’d ever ridden offered quite the appeal of Mallorca. Chalk that one up to a mix of topography and tarmac. Europe, and especially Spain, is lousy with cycling routes steeped in romance, yet few places possess such a concentrated abundance of roads, climbs, and races than does Majorca.

To the north lie the island’s mountains, some dramatic as the Dolomites, and passes snake up nearly all of them. Riders wend through orange groves and olive trees and toward the lunar-like, lake-spotted summits, with standouts like Puig Major and Sa Colabra  belonging to the bucket list of any self-respecting cyclist. (The latter lays claim to more switchbacks than France’s mythic Alpe d’Huez, including a 270-degree engineering marvel of a hairpin turn.) The south remains far tamer, with gentle roads crisscrossing the island, and there always seems to be a coffee stop beckoning your business, or a high-end retailer from the likes of Rapha, Cafe du Cyclist, or Pas Normal Studios. The roads themselves are nothing short of pristine, almost glassy (with the exception being the bend that did me in on Soller), while deferential local drivers are prone to giving packs of riders wide berths. All of this amounts to a cycling paradise, an IRL version of Zwift’s Watopia if you will.

In addition to not crashing your bike, I also advise avoiding Mallorca in the summer if riding is on your agenda. The preferred seasons are late winter and spring, when you can tune up for the summer ahead alongside the legions of professional cyclists who flock here for training camps and a more temperate climate. Many hotels offer rentals (and even fitness tests and masseuses), or if you decide to stay off the beaten path, shops will deliver a bike—like the $6,000 BMC Roadmachine I rented and thankfully didn’t wreck—directly to your doorstep. Cycling remains a sport dictated by the pro peloton, and there is perhaps no better place on Earth to live out your Tour de France fantasies than this rocky gem belonging to the Balearic—collarbones be damned. (JJ)

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Thanks for reading,

Noah (NRB) & Colin (CJN) & James (JJ)

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