For the most part, the local drivers were very tolerant of the intruders; I don’t recall a single “International Sign of Displeasure.” Our group leaders, Andre and Olga, were outstanding in their ability to lead the way and set the pace, while still keeping an eye out for everyone in the “peloton.” We quickly learned, however, that you had to stay up with the pack, as stopping to take a picture or dropping back for whatever reason could leave you on your own. Fortunately, there were no major problems (unless you include sore legs and derrieres).
Fred Rompleberg, our Glorious Team Leader (a PR man and promoter “par excellence”) was ever present, making sure our bikes were ready, the “grupens” were organized, everyone was on their respective way each day, and that we sang the “Grupen Song” each time we had a “team meeting” or sat down to eat dinner. When Fred was not directly or indirectly in charge, our “Master and Commander on the Far Side of the World,” Sandy Y was. She assured that we were constantly active, involved, and properly hydrated (whether it was beer consumption at Paco’s, or wine consumption in her room - #624, I’ll never forget), as well as observing the proper nuances of European dining, cycling, and, of course, wardrobe fashion.
On our “free” days, we dissolved into diverse groups of between two and six. One day it was footloose in Palma with coffee and pastries at the famous Foreo Café, visiting the Cathedral, or just taking in the sights of this largest city on the Island whose features and architecture borrowed heavily from nearby Spain. Another day was spent by an adventurous group, “flying blind” to and from Inca, the Island’s leather capital, while a “self-directed” Social Outing led a second “groupen” (by various means of conveyance) to the southern beach town of Alcu′dia to see the “sights.” The consensus among the Politically Correct Neanderthals was that the quality of the bathing attire (or lack thereof) was equal at all the beaches, but quantity (by both measures) was greater at Platja de Palma.
Linguistically, we heard more Dutch than Spanish, and gastronomically we proved eclectic, adsorbing more food than culture. For the most part, our American ways were accepted and security was only called once (a drop in the bucket for Wheelmen junkets, I’ve been told), although, there was an incident in which we were blamed for failing to pay for two bottles of water at dinner and subsequently the group was placed on a “pay now” basis. I’m not sure how the predominately-Dutch “locals” took to the shrill screeches that Sandi would emit (usually at the encouragement of Fred R). Overall, the Spanish staff seemed to accept our weird American ways, and we were not declared “persona-non-gratis so, hopefully, we can return some day.
After two weeks, we were pretty much whipped – you can only take superlatives for so long. Saturday, we decamped; records were set; having eaten the most – everyone, having consumed the most beer – some of us, and having ridden the most consecutive miles in a long time – just about all of us.
To borrow a phrase from Dickens, “It was the best of times….” oh, and did I mention the best oranges? |
