Rocky Mountain Cycling Club
The Club for People Who Love to Ride!

Spring Break  
Mike Dallas

Rich Gangl and a friend, Bill Girton, have been attending a British bike racing, training camp in Mallorca the past five years.  Held the last two weeks of April each year, a neighbor, Eric Perryman, and I were finally convinced to go to Eastern Sun Camp.  The price was certainly right, about $900 for two weeks of food and accommodations.

What is a 63-year-old rider doing attending a cycling training camp?  Well, Bill is more than a decade older than I, and Rich and Eric more than a decade younger.  They argued that I might fit in. Our Colorado contingent consisted of six Gangl and one Moots road bikes.  The Yanks are coming.

We were met in Palma, Mallorca, by Stan Turner, the organizer of Eastern Sun Camp, a UCI official, and a legend in 24-hour time trialing.   What I was to find out was that everyone at this camp is a legend or about to become one; well, everyone but one.  We stayed at the Hobby Club apartments at Purerto Pollenca, the northeast corner of Mallorca across the street from the Mediterranean.  It is the part of the island where the Brits hang out.  The Germans are five miles down the road.

One selects the group that is appropriate for him: 1A, 1B, 2A or 2B.  There is also a touring group of riders and non-riders who have no interest in racing but want to see the countryside, go into some of the old churches, take pictures and have coffee.  Eric Perryman and I began with the 2A's.  Si Katz, who was to stun everyone with his 64-year-old ability to ride with the 1A's, was 1A from the start.  Our first day was a leisurely -- right, mate -- 89 miles.  Eric is a racer and fit; I am not.  After two days of being dropped, I moved down to 2B; Eric moved up.  1A included Rich Gangl, training for the world championships, and John in his Northern Ireland jersey, three time national time trial champion.  They daily ranged the mountain tops and passes, continuously challenging the riders of their group by breaking away when a tired rider finally had bridged.  The city limit sign of Pollenca was enough cause every day for a sprint finish to their ride.  The 2B looked up to find me joining them on the third morning. I told them that I had decided to join the aged, the wise and the financially secure. They were curious to have a Yank join them who was riding one of those Gangl bikes.

Our daily routine was always the same.  Meet ready to go at 9:30 every morning, ride in two pacelines three to four hours, stop in a plaza of a village for lunch or coffee, then ride home a different way.  We never stopped to visit a church, take a photograph or talk to people.  Each day there were 14 to17 riders in the group.  The group contained a few younger riders but mostly those whose ages were 55 to 74.  The mistake was to think that these blokes could not keep up. Many of them were past national champions, Milk Race riders, Tour of Britain competitors, a few who had competed for world championships.  Our doctor, who won the chainless race, had been the medical person for the Milk Race for many years. Many had been riding bicycles for over fifty years. It took me the better part of a week to become fit enough to ride with them.

Brits ride differently from Colorado people.  They never shift out of their small chain ring.  They reach the top of a hill, then coast.  The few times I was dropped, I used the downhills to catch up. But the pace is relentless; they go on and on and on.  But they know all the back roads, the lanes walled on both sides, barely a car wide, the back roads to the villages. Siesta begins at 1 p.m. in most places and lasts until 4:30.  At villages one rides between shuttered buildings, seeing few people on the street.  Coming down from a mountain monastery where all the groups had met for lunch, I noticed that all but one of the Colorado riders had shifted to large chain rings, had ridden hard and fast down a Lookout Mountain type road.  None of the Brits had.

Semantics is a problem.  When I said, "Car up!" they turned to look behind.  Several corrected me by saying, "Car down." When someone yelled, "Car up!" we moved to the right and let the car pass us from the rear.  The Yanks finally compared notes and came up with car DOWN your throat or car UP your ars*.  But then someone would yell "Oy-yo!"  My mates explained to me that several in the group were from Essex and couldn't help themselves.  Essex people are actually Londoners who live east of London. No one lives in London, yet everyone was born in London at one time or another. Many were from Yorkshire but one then had to proclaim for North Yorkshire or South Yorkshire.  But to say "Oy-yo" might mean oil, that there was a road hazard and one should take care.  But cars are "oy-yo's" too.  Essex lads made demeaning remarks about people from Yorkshire: their lineage, their mannerisms and whether their parents had known each other when their children were conceived.  When asked why the six Gangl bikes never rode together, I explained, "Easy. We ride in different groups so that if terrorists strike, they will never be able to get all the Gangls."  Somehow, all of us survived the two weeks, despite the many oy-yo's.

The stories were endless.  One rider commented how in the 60's, he was riding on a Belgium team and was the only rider not to receive daily injections.  They never asked him because they thought he would say no.  At the world championships he was offered money by the favorites on every lap but the final one, to lose the race to them.  He finished second after refusing.  To eat dinner with the entire group at the hotel, one heard amazing stories about international cycling.  The group was much aware of the European scene and the prospects for this year.  

National pride was quietly in evidence.  I noticed that several riders in my group appeared not to like me to ride in front of them.  When we rode through the port city of Alcudia, invariably there were German riders coming out of what the Brits call the Swiss Embassy.  In their red and black outfits, they were easy to see, waiting at the red light to turn onto the road we were traveling.  Our pace gently accelerated one day when a group of thirty-five or so got in front of us.  Not until they were well behind us did our road pace return.  Yet no one had said a word.

Three time trials are part of the program.  Every Wednesday morning at 7:15 was a seven-mile time trial to Alcudia and back along the sea.  One went around the roundabout and returned.  Each time I was last in my age group and my overall placement went down several more spots because at 63, I was one of the young riders.  A two-person team time trial was the third.  I tried unsuccessfully to find a rider with my time to ride it with me.  Then I realized that only the best riders of my group were doing any of the time trials.  They already had their mates picked.

Is it worthwhile to spend about $2,300 to go ride with the Brits for two weeks? Sure.  One gets to see a little of Mallorca. The food was excellent, with many choices on the menu.  None of the Yanks tried the breakfast favorite of beans on toast, however.  Many of the friendships are lasting.  Those who attend every year look forward immensely to being once again with their mates.  Most of the Brits belong to cycling clubs and ride or race weekly.  All of them are friendly and want to see you again next year.  Charlie Henderson, Colorado's most durable rider, rode by himself much of the time.  While the pace was too fast for him, he frequently rode more miles than the 1A's. At day's end most were glad to get off their bikes. Charlie could have kept going for another thirty-six hours or so.  Rich, Si and Eric rode with aplomb.  Mike and Cynthia Raber may have done it the best way.  Mike rode with different groups and sometimes alone.  He and his wife then might rent a car for a day and get off their bikes.  Bill and I had a great time.