On The Road Again

Arguably, there are no two groups less well liked - among the Brits anyway - than cyclists and the Germans. Which is doubly unfortunate given the fact that most cyclists are Germans. All along the main road they pedal, barking out orders and holding conversations at enormous volume. But this is unfair. Many of my best friends ride bikes, and some of them are even German. However, despite British success on the Olympic cycle track, the British have never really had an affinity with the bike in quite the same way as the Germans have and do. And it shows; shows in terms of the relative numbers of cyclists on Mallorca's spring roads. Locally, these roads are dominated by two-wheeled tourists from Thüringen, invited here by cycling tourism providers such as Max Hürzeler. Springtime for Hürzeler and Germany (and Switzerland).

I was enjoying my morning coffee, flicking through the several pages of the Mallorca Top Gear Rally in "The Bulletin". I beg your pardon, that should be the Mallorca Classic Car Rally: I'd forgotten that there are drivers other than Clarkson, May and Hammond taking part; silly me. I was enjoying that coffee and overhearing a conversation about cyclists and the havoc they create. That's havoc on the roads. Cycling tourists tend not to cause mayhem in bars and late at night, which is part of the problem; cyclists don't go out and spend panniers full of euros on many a pint of foaming ale and vast plates of high cholesterol and chips. They reserve their vandalism, their shocking and anti-social behaviour for the open and not always open road - the latter usually the case in March and April when the stop-go road-work boys are out for a day or several with their signs. These cyclists are tormentors - tarmac tourist terrorists - and economy-class, to boot, which some would like to do.

But this is not me speaking. This is not me saying that these terrorists take the piss. This is not me saying that the road between Puerto Alcúdia and Can Picafort is littered with the dashed hopes of trying to overtake a cyclist and the twisted frames of bikes smashed into by the irrationally irate. No, no, this is not me. Since they lowered the speed limit and built all those obstacles along that road, driving has been turned back several decades. One can take to the wheel and pootle along at a pleasant 30 an hour. Here comes a cyclist. Please, kind sir or madam, do have right of way, do please occupy both lanes of this fine stretch of road, do please cut across my fellow driver and force him to brake suddenly, so that I may shunt him up the arse, so to speak.

I repeat, though, none of this is me speaking. It is someone else. They are someones else. They are the demons of two or four wheels. Every spring. Completely without reason. They shout and they curse. They scream and they bawl.

What the hell does it matter? Relax, and enjoy the ride.


And Jee-ez, Ireland. Triple Crown, Championship and Slam. Was that exciting. Hugo McNeill, professional Irishman, says that sport can sometimes "take you to a different place". Must have meant Gavin's bar. Except of course, Wales didn't win.


QUIZ
Yesterday's title - Tears For Fears. Today's title - high tinned temperature.

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