I'm riding Stevens Impala racing bike, with aluminum frame and carbon front fork. Sweet wheels. But am now regretting my ill-advised decision to not bring my own bike seat.
My husband urged me to but I thought, too heavy. Won´t pack it. But when you´re on a cycling trip in a distant country, it´s always a good idea to bring your own saddle.
So the seat on my fancy rental racing bike is sleek, but on a long ride it's like a slow enema. We did 90 km today and my legs are fine, but um...not the rest.
Halfway through the ride past orange groves and beautiful adobe homes, all I could think about was getting off that seat.
"So, who's going to pull the seat out of my ass, so I can sit down and have coffee," I asked?
No takers. Not a very supportive group. And the group leader said, "I'm not your gynecologist, but I'll take a look."
Roy, a fellow cyclist and 60-year-old lawyer from Philidephia said, "Actually, what you mean is proctologist."
Then I had to start with the proctologist jokes. They told me to shut up.
We had cafe con leche and sat in a beautiful courtyard, kibbitzed and then headed back. The towns are uniformly cute with one- and two-story clay structures with green shutters, courtyards, narrow streets and wonderfully indulgent drivers.
Verdant fields are surrounded by low stone walls and this route was rolling.
I left my husband a panicked message to drop my seat off with a fellow Ottawan who was flying to join the group tomorrow. Here's hoping she got the message.
If not, I will be visitng the bike shop. Soonish.
After dinner, I watched families dancing a traditional Mallorcan dance in the hotel courtyard. The footwork was intricate and the rhythms they clacked out on their castenets were rapidfire.
I watched grandparents dancing with their grandchildren, teenagers and married couples dancing the same dance to the same song over and over and I smiled until my face hurt.
My husband urged me to but I thought, too heavy. Won´t pack it. But when you´re on a cycling trip in a distant country, it´s always a good idea to bring your own saddle.
So the seat on my fancy rental racing bike is sleek, but on a long ride it's like a slow enema. We did 90 km today and my legs are fine, but um...not the rest.
Halfway through the ride past orange groves and beautiful adobe homes, all I could think about was getting off that seat.
"So, who's going to pull the seat out of my ass, so I can sit down and have coffee," I asked?
No takers. Not a very supportive group. And the group leader said, "I'm not your gynecologist, but I'll take a look."
Roy, a fellow cyclist and 60-year-old lawyer from Philidephia said, "Actually, what you mean is proctologist."
Then I had to start with the proctologist jokes. They told me to shut up.
We had cafe con leche and sat in a beautiful courtyard, kibbitzed and then headed back. The towns are uniformly cute with one- and two-story clay structures with green shutters, courtyards, narrow streets and wonderfully indulgent drivers.
Verdant fields are surrounded by low stone walls and this route was rolling.
I left my husband a panicked message to drop my seat off with a fellow Ottawan who was flying to join the group tomorrow. Here's hoping she got the message.
If not, I will be visitng the bike shop. Soonish.
After dinner, I watched families dancing a traditional Mallorcan dance in the hotel courtyard. The footwork was intricate and the rhythms they clacked out on their castenets were rapidfire.
I watched grandparents dancing with their grandchildren, teenagers and married couples dancing the same dance to the same song over and over and I smiled until my face hurt.
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