It’s Wednesday, six days in, and the only thing you need to know is “no coffee.”
The day before we rode from Lloseta to Cap Formentor, and a number of old man overuse injuries reared their ugly heads. Leiv’s Achilles tendon threw in the towel after five straight days of riding with his saddle so high that each buttock dropped an estimated two inches each pedal stroke relative to the other.
Hector’s cheap-ass Craigsbay Bontrager wheels delaminated prior to the ride, so we switched wheels with Trond’s bike, which was used to the weight-bearing loads of a cement factory.
David got three miles into the ride, pulled over, vomited his oatmeal, and went home.
Russell’s derailleur broke, Tore’s cassette broke, and Jimmy’s electronic drivetrain stopped working.
Everyone else rode with the enthusiasm of a RAAM participant reaching West Virginia.
The route from Lloseta to Cap Formentor was super pretty. We traveled on long country lanes with gorgeous mountain backdrops, no cars, and thousands of cyclists. The weather was again perfect, and we reached the coastal town of Pollenca in fine fettle, which turned to wretched fettle as we left town at the bottom of a huge climb.
From there to the cape lighthouse we experienced spectacular views along a twisting cliffside road that looked down onto coves and inlets with water so blue it resembled an industrial toilet bowl cleaner spill.
One of the reasons everyone was so tired, aside from general issues like weakness, old age, poor preparation, lack of resolve, and absence of talent, was Tore’s iron policy of Seven Hours.
Whether 7 miles or 70, Tore’s rides all last seven hours, minimum. And seven hours out in the sun, even when spent hunched over a beer stein, is exhausting. On the plus side, one by one the group got smaller until by Day 6 it was just like riding by yourself, which is the main reason for group riding with friends anyway.
Tuesday night we got back a thousand times more tired than when we had begun, and were rewarded with a catered meal of veal and potatoes and cheesecake drowned in cases of red wine and beer. Sometime after the fifth slab of cheesecake Hector announced his diet plan for 2018, which was met with howls of derision.
“I’m going to get down to 175,” he declared.
“Like fuck you are! How much do you weigh?”
“230. I’m gonna have veins everywhere, like little Jimmy here. Gonna have veins poppin on my forehead, gonna have ’em on my arse hole!”
The imagery overcame us as he revealed the details of his plan. “After I finish this cheesecake and that leftover steak and eggs for breakfast tomorrow I’m hitting the diet full fuggin’ gas!”
“Dude, you couldn’t lose five pounds if they amputated a leg. You’d eat it back by Thursday.”
Hector’s feelings were hurt, and he found solace by calving off another wall of the cheesecake glacier. “You cake boy fuckers will see,” he said. “Tomorrow.”