The Cycling Tourist — Mallorca’s most prolific, brightly colored invader. Part Tour de France hopeful, part traffic hazard, this Lycra-clad velociraptor floods the island’s roads every spring and autumn, heralding a season of slow-moving pelotons and the sound of overpriced bike tires squealing around hairpin bends. If you’re lucky, you’ll only encounter them in passing. If you’re unlucky, you’ll be stuck behind them for hours, watching them straining up a hill like an underpowered lawnmower with a human attached.
Appearance:
The Cycling Tourist is easy to spot. Dressed head-to-toe in Lycra so tight it looks like their internal organs are being gently vacuum-sealed, they are a blur of neon yellow, retina-searing pink, and the kind of lurid greens you normally associate with emergency road signs and which are visible from space. Their cycling jersey is plastered with sponsors’ logos — despite the fact that no one is sponsoring them unless you count their significant other who, back home, is enjoying their two-week absence with quiet bliss.
On their heads, they wear sleek, aerodynamic helmets that give them the appearance of someone who’s both safety-conscious and determined to slice through the air like a human bullet — albeit one that’s moving at roughly the speed of a distracted pedestrian. Every visible bit of their body hair has been shaved to reduce “drag” (as if shaving your legs could shave five minutes off your uphill time — newsflash, it won’t). And, of course, there’s the bike itself: a carbon-fiber monstrosity that costs more than a small family car, weighed and measured down to the last gram for peak performance, but which will inevitably be abandoned in a ditch when they discover they’ve taken a wrong turn up a Sóller mountain.
Habits:
Cycling Tourists have one singular mission in life: conquer every hill, slope, and bump Mallorca can throw at them, all while pretending to enjoy it. They talk about “taking in the scenery,” but let’s be real — most of them only notice the breathtaking views when they stop to double-check their pulse or frantically search for the next water stop because they’ve underestimated just how long it takes to cycle 50 kilometers uphill in the Spanish sun.
Their day begins at dawn — because, apparently, they haven’t come all this way to sleep in a comfortable bed. Instead, they spring out of their hotel, or more likely, an Airbnb where they’ve successfully annoyed the host by wheeling a bike through the living room. Their first task is to obsessively check the weather forecast, as if the climate here is going to do anything more than offer sunshine, light breezes, or that one random day of torrential downpour which will only give them bragging rights later on.
By mid-morning, they’ve hit the road. Their natural habitat: the island’s most winding, narrow mountain roads, where they’ll proceed to form long, frustratingly impenetrable clusters known as “pelotons.” These groups move with the terrifying cohesion of a school of fish, making it impossible for any car to pass without risking a tragic headline in the local paper. You’ll watch them slowly snake their way up to Lluc Monastery or struggle across the Tramuntana Range, their faces contorted in an expression that hovers somewhere between agony and transcendental joy. Cycling Tourists like to call this “the burn.” Everyone else calls it “stupid.”
Behavioral Traits:
The Cycling Tourist is a fervent believer in “the rules” of cycling. They will lecture anyone—fellow riders, locals, random passersby — about the importance of hydration, proper pacing, and post-ride recovery. They are walking, talking encyclopedias of bike trivia, able to tell you the difference between a derailleur and a bottom bracket with the kind of obsessive precision you usually find in conspiracy theorists.
They’re also supremely confident in their ability to handle any terrain Mallorca throws at them, even if they’ve only been cycling for six months and live in a flat part of Surrey. “It’s all about pacing yourself,” they’ll say to anyone who will listen, right before they collapse in a heap halfway up the Puig Major, clutching their knees and wondering where their lungs went.
And don’t get them started on Strava. Every cycling route is carefully mapped, logged, and dissected like a war campaign. They live for those precious digital badges, more eager to post their ride data online than to stop and enjoy that gorgeous Mediterranean sunset they’ve supposedly come here for. God forbid they return to the UK without a “Queen of the Mountains” title or whatever self-congratulatory badge Strava doles out for cycling up a hill slightly faster than everyone else.
Interactions with Locals:
When it comes to interacting with the local population, the Cycling Tourist is split into two camps. One group genuinely believes they’re cultural ambassadors, trying out their awkward Spanish at every café while ordering massive plates of “tumbet” they’ll never finish. The second group, however, couldn’t care less about integrating — they’re here to ride, not to soak in the culture. They’ll breeze through picturesque villages with the same sense of detachment you might reserve for reading a flight safety manual.
Mallorcans, for their part, have developed a kind of bemused tolerance for them. Local drivers are seasoned pros at handling the swarms of cyclists, their expressions a mix of resignation and mild irritation as they patiently follow a peloton moving at snail’s pace. Café owners, on the other hand, love them. After all, cyclists will happily pay €10 for a bottle of water and a slice of lemon cake after they’ve convinced themselves they’ve “earned” it by cycling 100 kilometers uphill in the sun.
Social Media Presence:
Post-ride, they upload their stats religiously — average speed, elevation gain, and calories burned. Instagram is filled with filtered photos of them silhouetted against sunsets, or snapshots of their Garmin screens proudly displaying their metrics, often tagged with #EpicRide and #CyclingLife.
Conclusion:
The Cycling Tourist is a dedicated, if slightly delusional, breed. They come to Mallorca with dreams of conquering mountains and posting smug Instagram selfies, all while ignoring the fact that they’ve clogged up the roads and irritated half the island. But at least they’re having fun —right? Well, they’re sweating buckets, wheezing, and one pothole away from needing a chiropractor, but in their minds, they’re living the dream.
