Come Pain or Shine: photographs and introspections of cycling in Mallorca

VOL.01 p h o t o s a n d i n t r o s p e c t i o n s o n c y c l i n g i n M a

Come painor shine

a

zine

byKirstyLee&GrantMartin

FINDING BALANCE

Up until a couple of years ago, I had never travelled any significant distance by bike. I have always been a hobbyist-cyclist, a day dreamer, day seeker, picnic bike pack-up rider. My bike “career” had been led by days and hours on a bike, but never measured by miles or power. Its likely this is because I rode bikes I’d bought from bootfairs, pulled apart, and sprayed yellow on my mums washing line. I gave backies, packed lunches and used my bike solely as a mode of transport. But a few years ago came one of the greatest fortunes of my life. I was built a bike. I can’t deny it wasn’t built up with a little apprehension. I knew this new level of detail came with a new form of cycling, and a fear of relearning this new art crept over me as I acknowledged the clip-in pedals, the narrow seat and skinny wheels. I feared a little as to how I could trust myself on this new whip, lightweight clipped in with its cassettes, derailleur & drop bars. Before long I was on my way and the loops I only knew as "to the Oak

tree and back" became 10 mile rides

I'd do in my lunch hour instead of over a whole afternoon. I was no longer stuck in one gear, sat on a perished seat with the front brake rubbing. It was blue, shiny, and new. This bike moved faster.

I curiously opened a Strava account discovering an abundance of "progression led data", initially spurring me to review mph and power. But it wasn't long before I couldn't see much but the floor and the tarmac rolling beneath me. This data absorption became too analytical & my self-critic loved it.

Suddenly my outward looking hobby had developed into something very inward, and I'm not talking about the burst of feeling inside when riding alongside a Kestral or chasing a sunset but instead an inward kind of thinking led by the voice of my inner critic, the pundit tipping me over the edge with its advisory taunts, "you're holding all the cars up, why are you so slow, you were faster yesterday". I became nervous on the road, felt a fraud in Lycra, unworthy of this new bike I owned.

So last year I reverted back to some

gravel tyres & stripped my shiny blue bike down to the metal. It was time to weigh my bike down once again, with food, friends, or with my camera.

My gravel tyres became the source of my rebellion; the weight of my bike, the challenge. It took me offroad entirely onto ancient byways, woodlands, and dust trails. I became enclosed in nature & my eyes followed a more technical terrain crossing woodlands, farmland and heathlands back to the very place I learnt to ride a bike. I had an appetite for cycling again. I began to realise it wasn't the data I absorbed, or the pressure of performance on a new bike that made me fall out of love with it. It was my fear of losing the feeling of a good day adventuring. I didn't think I could do both on a road ride, but I am learning that I had been mistaken. This appetite for riding was further satisfied when my boyfriend and I flew out to Mallorca, to spend the last days of the year in the mountains. I was ready to use my bike interchangeably, to get back on the road and experience the wi-

nding dimensions of hill climbs, switch backs and coastal roads. This zine shares a series of photos from the trip, a journey of my own introspection, getting back into adventuring on the road, and the effort of long challenges taken by my boyfriend too. It is our collective spirit for the ride, our altered, sometimes different perspectives that reminds me of the versatility of the bike and the ways it can be uniquely loved.

Our altered perspectives on riding most likely resonate with many cyclists across the globe, from those who travel by bike to gather food, water, or an education to others racing stages of the Tour de France. Although there may be niche cultures in riding, there is no right or wrong as to how or why anyone should ride a bike.

I am no longer confused by my alterego of cycling, perplexed by the juxtaposition of data-led complexity & rolling steady simplicity. I am instead precisely fixed on the celebration of time spent rolling, not always measuring speed in distance or time, but knowing when riding I am opening the space in time.

I can't deny that I didn't feel intimidated by the thought of hard work on holiday. Regardless of pace, I know that to travel any kind of distance you have to use a bit of force. I wanted to see a large part of the infamous Serra de Tramuntana mountain ranges and I knew this kind of hard work would not come without its challenges. I wanted to experience it with longevity; to not see it as a physical labour, an aggressive short and sharp shift; clock watching till the end, but instead with a determination endured. There is no hiding in cycling, whether you're cruising along, or tucked up and locked in the resistance can feel real. I don't just mean the resistance of ground friction, but more so how we spin on a psychological stamina. Pushing through the thin and transparent

E X P O S U R E

on the road

air, while being encased in an inward theatre, with a villain playing to a mind at work with itself. This vulnerability is invisible to passers by, cars up your ass, passing close to your elbow and giving you a beep.

I knew my "hard work on holiday" would be as much mindful resilience as it would be physical strength, but with the kindness of tarmacked roads, the community of other cyclists it was easy to settle in and the hard work so became good work, riding some of the most scenic roads I have ever encountered.

Elevate-CapFormentor

It used to be my very intention to avoid every hill, or mountain I could when I started cycling, navigating a world that evades the suffering and struggle of riding uphill. But I soon realised this form of navigation was as good as choosing to only cycle in directions of a tail wind. To avoid a hill in Mallorca, would be to avoid the island almost entirely.

Recognised as one of the best 40km rides in Europe, Cap Formentor was primed as the leg opener, the first ride of our trip.

Knowing the climb undulated was reassuring, but I was fooled to think I could use the descents as a break. In fact, I quickly learned the importance of a sharp eye when going downhill, and although my physical energy was spared, I had to maintain a mental preparedness for the swift hair pins, the speed, and the sometimes oncoming traffic. There was no time here for admiring the scene, feeling at one with nature, one eye off the road and you were blindly dropped off the descent completely.

As I took in the ups and the downs my perspective changed. It was no longer me against the mountain.

There was no longer a separation between the me 'down here' and the wanting to be 'up there'. Instead, I noticed the life beside me, the mountain goats, the grasses and mosses, the birds and my thoughts repeated the quote from Pirsig that "it is the sides of the mountain which maintain life, not the top."

I began to feel that I could maintain this stream of consciousness, but it didn't come without its challenges and I'd sometimes get caught in a crosscurrent, an absorbing resistance, that sucked like a black hole.

The resistance of my mind.

This never crept over me, like a subtle whisper; it was a sudden ill feeling of mental opposition, where everything felt like it was slipping away. These black hole moments could sink deeper into mind-bending dimensions, time lengthening and every hope dissipating. In these moments I rode through treacle, and the brow of the hill would wane in the distance. It is this mental confrontation that I find most hard to bear, and frustratingly the only enlightening thing I could do was

grit my teeth and ride through it. I knew that riding would keep the thoughts moving and stop them from stagnating. The blood that thumped through my head, became a chant and I chose to follow its rhythm, keep its pace. I began uniting my breathing with every revolution, and every revolution was a fresh gulp of air replenishing every organ, every cell, every thought in my body.

As we climbed the scenery began to feel more epic and wound into a spectacle of land sandwiched between sea. The air was saltier, fresher soaking into my skin. I looked back on where we had rode, a blanket of mist lingering over the sea, calm and quiet. This is a paradise on earth, and unlike many spiritual teachings that tell you that heaven and earth are separate, here they are enmeshed. This is the higher plain, where you can hear the sound of the waves crashing over the ancient Mesozoic rock formations, their currents moving, rearranging everything around them.

I kept an eye on the horizon as I followed this flowing chant of nature and reflected on the few (inwardly focused) hells I had passed through on the journey to get here, and I realised it is those who open their heart to this earthly paradise that get to enter the heaven that's in front of them.

Six years... six years since I last rolled on the smooth sunkissed tarmac of what I like to refer to as ‘Tracy Island’ a Jurassic type landscape, packed with sharp rocky mountain sides and lush green woodland, all neatly sealed with calm beaches, ports and hidden bays. The roads twist and cut unconventionally through these rugged hills and it makes me feel like it was designed for cycling; it’s perfect.

SaColabra in my opinion, the most breathtaking to see, when you first roll over the Col del Reis peak to start your decent on this out-and-back ride, it’s like something you could only dream of. It has everything to get you excited for the descent ahead, starting with a 360’ carousel into some tight switchbacks and sharp steep ramps. Fast flowing turns open up, linking this all together, it’s one hell of a descent… but that’s just half the story.

Dropping into the decent, I never take much in, focusing solely on the moment, trying to hit the perfect apexes on every corner, ripping through the twists and turns like I’m on a rollercoaster ride. I have no time for conscious thought, or outer awareness. It's not until I reach the Port that I even start thinking about having to tackle this beautiful beast; but in such a different way, I got myself here, and now I have to climb myself out.

At the start of the climb there’s a sign that reminds you of the distance and gradient, 9.5km at 7% average, it doesn’t sound intimidating but having just blasted my way through more than 50 turns, I automatically know it’s going to hurt. I always try to start steady but 60 seconds in I’m at max effort, well, an effort I know I can just about maintain for the duration of the climb. Like the descent, I never really look around and see much on the way up either; just so engrossed in channeling the pain, my mind goes blank. 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2 on the pedals, letting out all my legs and

Finally, you approach the under and over 360 carousel. I’m almost there, one last steep ramp to the summit of 682m (2,238ft) I use this part of the climb to absolutely empty myself; everything in my brain is telling me to stop, but my personal quest to push myself beyond the limits. I knew I had won and felt euphoric as the gradient levelled out and I could stop pedalling. Before I disappear down the other side and head for the cafe in Lluc, I put my gilet on and take a few moments to take it all in. I think about how lucky I am in this world and how insignificant my worries are…I smile to myself and think, DAMN, WHAT A RIDE!

Thermals are rising air currents that are detected as temperatures shift. Birds use these thermal columns of air flying without batting a wing. They can soar upwards and glide without effort for hours or miles. There are few places I've been where I can watch eagles catch thermals at eye level on my bike. Like a bird whose wings are wide, as I ride, I imagine my lungs are broad, helping me catch the rising currents of warm air that will propel me upward. I follow the birds as they spread their wings soaring and gliding through the thermals. I sigh, having wished there was a column of air that could vault me upward over the peak. I pedal through, alone with the mountains, the birds, and my bike.

Ridingtogether

On Christmas day we took a ride out along the coast with spirits high and flat(ish) terrain. To be out in the early morning sunshine in late December was a DREAM, the purified island air reawakening my soul. There is an exceptional power in riding with a partner and I am fortunate to have one willing to tune into my rolling flow. To recognise my state of mind and adjust to a pace that might still stretch me to the edges of myself, whilst keeping me motivated to keep pressing on.

I like to think our rides come together with an energy reciprocated. The intrigue of our perspectives on riding bring different elements to the journey and as much as we "press on" we also take time to take it all in. I am often challenged when we ride together, laughing through gritted teeth as I pant up a hill with Grant riding beside me on one wheel.

Although my pace may not be a competitive match to his, it's a give and take and we roll out of the inner competition within ourselves and roll into the living world we pass through. Together...collectively we harness a synergy, a power from head and heart that burgeons though the land.

Riding on Christmas day I was given an unexpected gift from a large group of strangers, taking on a head wind through Alcudia to Port Pollença. It was a team of about eight cyclists passing us, as they did my immediate thought was of frustration, how can I be puffing like this and eight people pass me as if I’m stationary? We wicked up our pace and (quite cheekily) dipped in behind and onto the back of their wheel “just stick in there for a minute, see what it's like” Grant said and I realised before he’d even finished his sentence I was beaming. It was as if I’d entered a hidden vortex and without effort or control my bike was being whipped around and around, I just had to hold on and enjoy the ride. In my early 20s I’d experience the thrill of hitchhiking free rides from strangers through Scotland, but this was a hitch on another level and I felt every ounce of my awareness dedicated to the group, my space from their wheel, theirs from mine. The distance of my body, my bars and my bike, we rode as one component, in tune and pitch, everything in harmony. I looked at Grant's Garmin, our pace almost 30 miles an hour! I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the two strangers heading up the front, their fitness admirable riding without despair yet carrying the great weight of the group, battling the wind to spare the rest. My dad once said a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet, and unbeknown to this group, for a couple of minutes, we were synchronised, bonded and bound, their friendship a gift that carried me home.

Ridingsolo

As much as I love riding with a partner, the joy and liberation of riding alone is another gift the bicycle provides. Riding alone requires a particular sort of confidence and there is something self-assuring in being self-reliant. Also by stepping away from a person next to me, I can step into the world around me and find comradeship within the environment. Spending time focussed on the world around me I begin to see patterns and relationships forming. The world teaches me about itself, just through merely existing. These relationships in the environment are what us conservationists call ecosystems. Something that merely exists becomes something else that everything is interacting with. The whole world becomes boundless and the distribution of life feels abundant. When I am in this place my internal awareness slips away. I'm no longer mindful of my breathing but immune to the pain of exhaustion and awake to everything I see before me. Although I am the observer, I am also a part this, a part of something much greater.

Comepainor shine