Our first full day in the Disneycycleland of Mallorca was magical. The cold drizzle of the day before had given way to a pounding, freezing deluge. Wracked by a headache, jet lag, and the nausea resulting from going to bed the night before with a stomach filled with sperm (whale), I staggered from the love cabana through the mud and driving rain at 4:00 AM to get a cup of coffee and escape from Ol’ Grizzles’s snore-farts.
The giant oaken door was bolted but after a bit of pounding, crying, and begging, Brian came down to let me in. I was soaked to the skin but relentless in my pursuit of coffee. Rafael had given me detailed instructions regarding parking, garbage recycling, trash collection days, proper use of the breakers, and an explicit prohibition on tampons in the toilet (advice intended for Ol’ Grizzles) but the only thing I had paid attention to were the three industrial coffee machines in the kitchen.
None of them worked.
One by one the hungover riders awoke coffee, and the look of desperation on their faces when I announced “No coffee, fuckers!” was so awesome that I resolved to make that the standard morning greeting.
As the day wore on and the rain intensified, people became increasingly depressed at the thought that we would be cooped up in a historic villa with a world-class chef, delicious provisions, hard liquor and farts. Rafael had stocked the fridge with a four-foot long pastry filled with custard, whipped cream, honey, berries, and chocolate topping. Worst of all, the kitchen knives were too dull to slit our wrists after being overcome with guilt at the 5,000-calorie breakfast, so instead we glumly watched while Steve and Leiv began preparing a slow-cook tomato sauce for tomorrow’s dinner.
By 4:30 the split-pea soup and fresh salmon sashimi were ready, so we ate some more until Shit in the Lane threw down his fourth helping of whipped cream log and said, “Fuck it, I’m riding.”
We all made fun of him because even though the rain had lessened it was overcast and cold. “You will get soaked and frozen to shit.”
“I didn’t come to Mallorca to sit on the couch with you idiots,” he said.
He kind of had a point so Bruce, Munch, Brian, Ol’ Grizzles and I kitted up and rolled out. It was still spitting rain and none of us had rain jackets and O.G. was complaining about his rental bike like a teenage girl trying on jeans. “This stem is too short and the top tube is too short which is preventing my thighs from engaging properly and the bars are 38’s which are constricting my lungs and the gear ratios are all wrong plus my cranks are 165mm on the left side and 175mm on the right and the saddle is putting too much pressure on my … ”
“Shut the fuck up, we’re not even out of the driveway,” we said and the ride began.
We immediately hit a small climb and Shit in the Lane got dropped and then Bruce’s lungs fell off and Brian realized he needed his 3-foot torque wrench and O.G. gave up and Munch went backwards and we rode some more and the rain stopped and the sun came out and we were whipping down the lanes next to ancient stone walls as birds flitted overhead and Mallorca lifted her skirt a few inches and really began showing her charms.
After a couple of hours we got back, hungry and psyched and happy to deride our so-called friends who had opted to stay at the villa and plow a few more feet through the whipped cream log. Since we only had two cars we decided to ride en masse into the town of Lloseta for dinner.
“There is a very nice restaurant there listed in the Guide Michelin,” our chef, Spermy Leiv advised.
“Fuck that,” said Shit in the Lane. “I don’t want to eat at no place recommended by a tire catalog.” We tried to explain that it wasn’t a tire catalog but rather a restaurant guide but he thought it was a trick so we gave up, like when you try to convince a 3-year-old to eat beets.
We got there and requested a table for eleven and they laughed. “Our next vacancy is in October.”
Now it was late and we were really hungry so we went to a restaurant that had a big sign saying “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone,” and they took one look at us and immediately exercised the right. So then we went to a pizza place and Shit in the Lane drank another gallon of vodka and we all had performance ice cream and brownies except for Stigosaurus who swung by after finishing his 300km ride.
“You want dinner?” we asked him.
Stig’s craggy face, expressive as a gorilla’s butt, shook his head. “I eated da dinner already.”
“What did you eat? You been riding all day in the fucking rain,” said Ol’ Grizzles.
“I had da cup uff oatmeal and salt,” he said. “Stig have full stomach. Stig have balls of iron.”
We all agreed and left Munch with the bill. Now it was pitch black and we pedaled through the dark streets almost crashing each other out until we got back home. The sky had cleared and the stars were brilliant. Tomorrow was going to be an epic day.