Usually it takes me a while to process how I feel after a race. I need time to sit with it, replay it in my head, and decide whether the whole thing was a triumph or an elaborate exercise in suffering. Not this time. The moment I crossed that finish line, it was clear. No internal committee meeting required, no weeks of deliberation. I knew immediately: I want to do this again, it will make me happy, and it did. There’s still a full emotional roller-coaster in the middle, don’t let this deceive you into thinking it was easy, but the final verdict? Never in doubt. Maybe the whole story will explain why.
First things first: going to Mallorca over Easter was the right move
I got out there a few days early to do some long climbs and, more importantly, to figure out how to not obliterate myself in the first 50 kilometers of a 312km race. Pacing. The eternal challenge. The three weeks between Easter and race day passed at an absolutely unreasonable speed, during which I revised my expected finish time not once, not twice, but several times. Why?
Because I finally got power meter pedals.
I know. Gear upgrades are supposed to make you faster, not reveal that you were slower than you thought. These pedals showed me, in cold hard watts, that my actual power output was lower than what my indoor trainer had been telling me for years. This was not a surprise exactly. I had my suspicions based on speed, distance, and heart rate data that never quite added up, but seeing it confirmed was one of those “well, I asked for the truth and the truth showed up” moments. For those interested in the actual numbers and what they mean, I’ll be going deeper into all of this through the Sporlyst app I’m working on (coming soon at sporlyst.com — yes, that’s a real thing, yes, I’m building it, no, I’m not sure when “soon” is).
So my goal shifted: from an ambitious 11 hours, to a slightly-less-ambitious 11:30, to a realistic 12:00. I went over 12. I’m counting it as goal achieved with a few buts and ifs, and I will fight anyone who disagrees.
Training in the gap: a numbers game I probably lost
In the three weeks between holidays and race day, I managed 7 training sessions. Two outdoor (which were, let’s be honest, glorified scenic rides), and five indoor interval sessions, which is where the actual suffering lives. I also packed my own bicycle and flew with it, because I race on my own bike, I know my own bike, and I have 32mm tires instead of 28mm because I value comfort and cornering over looking aerodynamically serious. Travelling with a bike bag is always a special kind of stress, you stand there at baggage reclaim wondering whether your fork is still attached, but it’s a stress I’ve decided is worth it.
Mallorca: familiar enough to feel like home, still capable of pranks
This was my third Mallorca visit. I now know everything: which bus to take, how long the journey is, where the bags arrive, what the hotel is like, what’s nearby for food and shopping, and exactly how the race route unfolds through the first 140 kilometers. This level of familiarity is genuinely calming. Previous versions of me spent mental energy on logistics that this version of me could just… not spend.
However, the island had not forgotten how to have a laugh.
Taking the bus from the airport with a bicycle is always a gamble, apparently dependent less on the actual rules and more on the individual driver’s interpretation of how many bicycles count as “too many”. We were three people waiting at the stop with bikes. The bus arrived. The lady immediately started shouting, in Spanish, of which I have now absorbed roughly three sentences across my three visits, that only two bicycles were allowed. Mild panic. Brief flashback to last year, when they simply did not let me on at all. I quietly accepted my fate and prepared to wait another hour. Then she changed her mind, waved me in, and I got on a bus with plenty of empty space for six more bicycles. Excellent. Drama over.
Sunday was just unpacking and preparing. Monday through Wednesday were training: Monday was the big climb day, including Sa Calobra, 10 kilometres up from the bottom, because of course, and Tuesday and Wednesday were easy exploratory rides on roads I hadn’t done before.
Thursday is when the expo village opens, and this year I decided to actually enjoy it rather than treating it as a quick errand. Good decision. I was missing a few small things and picked them up there. I spent two days just being around, soaking in the atmosphere, and reminding myself why I keep coming back to this race.
Race day: the chaos, the power meter, and the medical detour
The night before is always tense. Alarm at 4:30 in the morning. At the start line by 5:00. Waiting in the cold for an hour and a half before the 6:30 start. Last year it also rained, so standing in the cold dark while wet was the bonus feature. This year: no rain. Already an improvement.
This year I also was not in the last starting box. This matters enormously. Being further forward means less time spent navigating around slower riders, safer descents, and a generally smoother day. The whole race felt more controlled than previous years, better pacing, less chaos, more confidence on roads I now know well.
The power meter pedals came into their own during the climbs. Every time I felt the urge to get carried away and chase a stronger rider up a hill, I checked the numbers and made myself stop. Climbing is my weakness. I live in Denmark, where the terrain’s idea of a hill is a slight inclination that cyclists from anywhere mountainous would dismiss as a pavement crack. Indoor trainers help, but they’re not the same. So for the first 150 kilometres, where almost all the significant climbing lives, I paced carefully and saved whatever I had for later.
After 150km, the terrain flattens, and flat is where I can actually push. I did push. Looking at the data afterwards, I probably had a little more in reserve than I used, which means I was slightly too conservative, but given what came next, maybe not the worst call.
Around 230km, the familiar visitor arrived.
I’ve had this before: breathing difficulties, mild asthma symptoms, starting to tighten up. My inhaler did nothing. By kilometre 250, I’d been struggling for about 20 kilometres — muscles cramping, lungs not cooperating, averaging somewhere miserable. I stopped and asked the medical team for help. Twenty-minute detour. They checked my oxygen saturation (95%, lower than ideal), gave me a mix of medication, and I immediately felt the difference — suddenly I could actually breathe in fully. I fully expected them to tell me I was done. Instead, they simply asked if I was continuing, and waved me on.
Without that stop, the last 60 kilometres would have been a slow crawl at 20-22km/h. With it, I could actually finish properly.
The last checkpoint before the finish line, around kilometre 285, always feels like the beginning of the end in the best way. There are huge crowds, a party atmosphere, and a genuine sense that you’re almost there. This is also where something happened that genuinely made my day: another cyclist came alongside and said that during one of the open road sections earlier, my pace had been too strong for them to hold. That they couldn’t keep up. That it was impressive. I want to be clear that this is the kind of thing you replay in your head for days. It pushed me to sprint the finish harder than I thought I had left in me.
The finish line, the medal, and no hospital this time
The finish line at Mallorca312 is always emotional. The party, the closing ceremony, the people. This year I felt happiness, relief, and a specific sadness that it was over, a kind of “I wish I could stretch this out a bit longer” feeling that is, I think, the sign that something is genuinely good.
Last year I ended the day getting my lungs checked in a hospital. This year I ended it getting my medal engraved. Significant upgrade.
And standing there, medal in hand, lungs functional, legs destroyed in the best possible way, I didn’t need any processing time. I want to do this again. Third time, fourth time, fifth time, and however many times after that the body and the calendar will allow. Because it’s not just the race itself, it’s everything around it. More than 8,000 people riding the same roads on the same day, all voluntarily doing something that is, objectively, a bit unhinged. Thousands more lining those roads to cheer for strangers. Closed-off open roads with nothing but cyclists and sunshine. The food. The island. The whole atmosphere that somehow makes 312 kilometers feel like it’s part of something bigger than just a very long bike ride.
It makes my life a little bit better every time. Maybe only for a short while, but that’s enough. Worth every preparation, every long-hours indoor trainer session, every moment of breathing difficulty at kilometer 250, every pre-race 4:30 alarm. All of it. Every time.
What’s next: probably not the 500km
There was a plan. There is always a plan. The plan was a 500km ride in Denmark in June. The logistics turned out to be more complicated than expected, and as the date approaches, my enthusiasm is moving in the wrong direction. I might try a weekend version of it, or I might not. The official position is “we’ll see”, which historically means no.
If I skip it, I’ll have no more big events this year. Which means Mallorca312 is both the peak and the conclusion, which somehow feels fitting.
For now: recovery, finally hitting 20°C in Denmark, packing away the indoor trainer, and getting back outside. The island did what it always does. Made things a little bit better. Absolutely worth all of it.
See you next year, Mallorca.
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