Triblog

“Sa Calobra” – “The Snake”, in Catalan

Spain is a very young country, with a long and tortuous history. Two millennia ago, the Roman Empire consolidated the Iberian Peninsula, building an extensive road network, many of their famous amphitheaters, and leaving behind various iterations of Latin in the modern day languages of Catalan, Majorcan, Castilian, and Portuguese. Vandals from North Africa (a real people) picked at the carcass as the Empire disintegrated, only to give way to a Muslim invasion (the Moors) as the Prophet Mohammed’s warriors swept up from the Magreb.

Christians went into hiding. Many converted, but the Church of Rome kept its candles burning, and, in the early 13th century, 20-year old James I began the re-conquest of Spain, which took over 200 years to complete.

Throughout all the back and forth, the idyllic Balearic Islands in the eastern Mediterranean, southeast to Barcelona, remained part of the Spanish domain. Mallorca (aka Majorca, the biggest, or “major” island), was the last part of Spain to come under the fascist rule of Francisco Franco. Along with the rest of Spain, the islands emerged as a modern democracy only after Franco’s death, in 1975.

After World War II, Northern Europeans – British, Low Countries, Germans, Nordic – discovered the joys of travel, especially to escape the dreariness of early Spring. As a limestone upthrust island (not volcanic), the terrain is varied and striking. Numerous bays enclose placid turquoise Mediterranean waters. Rugged mountains define the entire north coast, rising to 4700’, enough to create their own weather. The central plains, with a year-round growing season, are ideal for agriculture, especially olive trees.

Mallorca is not as large as, say, Sicily, Sardinia, or Corsica. It is about the size of Rhode Island (if Narragansett Bay is included), while its population is a touch smaller. In contrast, Hawaii’s Big Island is nearly three times as large, with 1/5th the population. But, given its status as a prime playground for the EU, its airport is bustling, with multiple terminals and crowds around the taxi stands.

That airport lies just outside the main town of Palma, where half the population lives. A modern freeway heads north; 45 minutes away are the resorts of Pollença and Alcüdia. Recently, professional cycling teams discovered the joys of training on the quiet north and eastern Mallorcan roads, which include some serious (steep and long) mountain climbs, as well as trade winds to fight. Sensing an opportunity to expand the tourist season into the “shoulder” months of April, May, September, and October, the local government invested in road quality and encouraged hotels and cafes to develop cycling support infrastructure.

Road cyclists  love a smooth surface under their wheels even more than long-haul truckers. So the Island Fathers decreed there shall be asphalt everywhere – farm tracks were turned into one-lane back roads, graveled gnarly mountain jeep paths became narrow winding stairways to heaven. So much so that now, in mid and late April, tens of thousands of Europeans descend en masse to bike in groups, occupying the landscape, spilling out over the road shoulders, and overwhelming what used to be goat paths and sleepy village cafes. At least during these weeks, on those roads, bikes are king, out-numbering cars on the most popular cycling routes.

This year, Endurance Nation finally saw the light, and sent a delegation, from April 14-21. While not hard-core roadies, we nonetheless know how to cycle en masse, and descended on Port De Pollença, ready to roll.

After two days to acclimate – rides of 56 miles/3.5 hours and 28/2.5 miles – our guides deemed us ready for Sa Calobra, the feared and legendary route from the Tramuntana crest to the sea. This road probably started life as a Roman goat track. Descending 687 meters (2,280’) in 9.6 km (6 miles), it rivals the climbs of cycling’s Grand Tours in length and steepness. In fact, on the unofficial website, “Top ten Craziest Switchback Cycle Climbs in the World”, it ranks #7, just ahead  of the Stelvio in Italy’s Giro, and Alpe d’Huez in France’s Tour. The grade averages over 7%, hitting 14+% in many places. 

The route begins at what seems to be old Roman arch. The road immediately starts a sinuous descent through a 270-degree turn back underneath the arch, and doesn’t let up from there.

Unlike modern road builders, the originators of this route simply took the terrain as they found it. Instead of cutting into the hill, they built up the roadbed with stone walls on the outside. It courses down a rocky canyon, treeless in its top half, one lane wide the whole way. This time of year, the few tourists in rental cars are vastly overwhelmed by a continuous stream of bikes. And those bikes can easily outpace the motor vehicles, scooting by through hairpin corners, hoping to avoid the bikes and cars coming back up  the hill.

Fifteen to twenty minutes of coasting and braking is all it takes to reach the sea, passing from the cool breezes of 55-60 F at the top to the balmy 68-70 at the shore. About five miles down, the road makes its one concession to the terrain. A cooling cavern has been carved through the limestone bedrock, barely wide enough for the tourist buses which start coming down after noon each day.

The seaside village is Euro-quaint, all stone and cobbles, with a tiny beach sheltered in the cliffs which define the small settlement. Some of our gang, seemingly proud of the descent they’d survived, posed for a group photo – and then the REAL fun began.

Starting back up the beast, the road immediately hits 10%, and more. At least the first two miles afford some shade via the sheer rock walks and gnarly pinion pines. Arriving at the tunnel, I found a car backing out towards me. I had to stop, of course, which I knew would be problematic. At this gradient, with my wonky right knee, it might be a little tricky to get going again while remaining upright.

I quickly saw the problem – the first tourist bus of the day descending. Of course, there was no way through the crevice for both vehicles – the bus driver had to be very skilled just to keep from clipping the outboard rearview mirrors. I remounted, skirted around the still descending car, and shot through the tunnel just as the bus exited.

Behind him were scores  of cyclists, half of them cursing in at least a half dozen languages, and several cars, all going at the bus’ speed, as there was no room for anyone to pass. Uphill riders had it a bit easier, as we were perforce going a bit slower, and thus took up less lateral space.

This scene repeated itself maybe twenty times more during the hour it took me to ascend The Snake. While it might have seemed scary to have those monster busses aimed right at me, I quickly realised the drivers were pros – they did this every day, and their livelihood depended on not hitting me. As long as I stayed on the fog line far right, I had, oh, maybe a foot or so of safe space between me and the meter-high wheels.

It was a grind all the way to the top. While the power numbers on my bike computer would say otherwise, it seemed like the hardest sustained mountain climb I could remember doing. For sure, it was the steadiest – my “variability index” was 1.0, meaning I was working at the same effort level for each and every pedal stroke – never a chance to ease back and rest (if I slowed my cadence, I might not start again!), and never a surge (if I tried that, I wouldn’t have enough gas to make it all the way back up).

Returning to the arch, I stopped to take in the scene. I silently vowed to return next year, with 4 more teeth on my biggest rear cog, and make it up that damned Snake in under an hour!

“1492 was a very important year here in Spain, no?” I asked.

Michael stroked his ragged, blondish-white beard. “Well, yes. The Moors finally were defeated, the Jews were dispersed, and that Italian fellow set off to the Eastern edge of the sea.

“But, really, what happened before was much more important, at least to this little town we’re going to. See, after the Romans were routed by the Visigoths, around 400 CE, the civilization started to go downhill. By the 600s, the Muslims, the Moors, were able to cross the Strait, and started conquering southern Spain. The Christians were told they had to convert, or die. A lot of them did convert, thinking it was just a temporary thing, the Moors would go away soon. But they had to hid all their icons, like little statues of the Virgin Mary. They buried them in out of the way places, hoping to dig them up again when the coast cleared.

“But it never did, and people forgot about all those statues and other ornaments from the early days of Christianity. Every now and them, one would be discovered, and it was thought to be a miracle. Here in El Rocîo, a small Virgin Mary was found hidden in a dead tree stump.

“Right away the place became a destination for pilgrims. People started coming from all over the area, every year, in early May, to celebrate the event. Eventually, each little town or neighborhood formed a ‘brotherhood’ which organized the trek. They would come with supplies for weeks, in ox-drawn carts, kind of like covered wagons.”

We were entering El Rocîo now. The road turned from faded asphalt to rutted sand.

“They still come the same old way; that’s why the streets are dirt, for the horses and oxen. See, there are posts everywhere to tie them up.”

He pointed at a wooden railing, the kind you’d see in a Western movie, where the cowboy who’s just hopped off his horse would casually throw the bridle reins once around to keep his mount from running away.

One side of the town butted up against a placid lake, fringed by reeds, and flecked with waterfowl, dipping and winging across its surface.

“Look, there are some wild horses!” Three mustangs clopped through the ten centimeter water at shoreline, one of them reluctant to take any steps at all, seeming to be held firm by the suction of the mud beneath. “Those horses are kind of like the ones roaming free in the Western US. Left behind by the Spaniards, never tamed by the Indians. These are the same breed, descendants of ones from Arabia, way back when the Moors were here.”

We drove all around the town, which mostly consisted of one-story white lodges named for the various brotherhoods. Michael continued, “People come here for the week. Maybe a million or more, the biggest gathering in all of Spain. They sleep maybe 40 or 80 people in each of these  casitas. Some of them take a week to get here, stopping along the way at designated water troughs.”

At the center of town, the highest structure was, of course, the local church. This one was blindingly white-washed, with bells crowding archways in the steeple, and iron railings along the second floor windows. 

“Look inside, you can see the Virgin they carry around at the festival. The guys compete to hold her, sometimes for hours at a time. Here at the steps, the ox carts form a long line snaking out of town. One at a time, they come up and pay their respects, then the oxen don’t turn around, they back up out of the plaza, and go to their casita. It’s really something to see.”

El Rocîo, even just a few weeks ahead of the grand event, was still basically a ghost town. A few cafeteria were open, and we parked ourselves under one’s umbrella, loading up on tapas and the local beverage.

Here at the southwest edge of Spain, the April sun was fierce. A brief walk along the lake shore drenched me in sweat, and forced Julana to bring out her fan. The bird watching hut we’d aimed for was closed, but just behind it, under the shade of ancient oaks, was a dirt arena. A sign, translated into English, read “Place for training horse”. And, indeed, a bored caballero was slowly turning in a circle, holding a leather rein extending out to a smartly groomed black mare prancing around him in endless circles.

Wild olive trees, one with a split trunk nearly two feet in diameter, loomed outside a shuttered restaurant. It was hard to imagine a scene as crowded as Mecca during the Hajj was only three weeks away.