May and June, in which I rode less, flew a bit, walked 5 kilometres, fixed a computer, and almost became a barman.
If you’ve read anything I’ve written before, you already know: Mallorca312 has quietly promoted itself to highlight of the year. Not just the race, the whole pilgrimage. This was the fourth time the island made it onto my travel plans, and at this point we should probably just admit we’re in a committed relationship. But the race does something else too, something harder to explain. It breaks a mental barrier. Every year, in the weeks after, I ride like someone quietly removed a limiter I didn’t know was installed. May and June brought never-faster rides, and I’m giving the island full credit, because giving myself credit would be out of character for this blog.
May: Croatia, a borrowed bike, and the hip dance
An unexpected short visit to Croatia turned into one of the best rides of the year, and taught me an important life lesson: it pays to have friends who are slightly worse at cycling than you are. Not out of ego, out of pure logistics. If your friend can’t follow you on your rides anyway, his bicycle is, by definition, available. He wasn’t going to use it at my pace, I needed a bike, mine was 1,500 kilometres away. Everybody wins. Mostly me.
One friend supplied the bike. The riding company came from a group I’d gotten acquainted with through Instagram, because apparently my hobby now includes joining random groups of strangers on the internet and hoping for the best (spoiler: it keeps working). The borrowed bike was great, with one small footnote: the seat post was stuck. Completely. Immovably. Welded by time and Croatian humidity into a position slightly too high for me. So I spent the entire ride with my hips performing a gentle interpretive dance on every pedal stroke. If anyone filmed it, I don’t want to know.
The locals, Vozim Bike, riders from my actual hometown, which made the whole thing feel weirdly full-circle, took me up every local peak in a single ride. All of them. In one go. And here’s the premium package nobody tells you about: free local guides who also pull you. They know every road, every turn, every place the wind ambushes you, and they sit on the front while you enjoy the scenery. At one point they apologized for the conditions, saying it was a bit windy. Windy. My dear Croatian friends. That was a calm Tuesday in Denmark. I have ridden to the bakery in worse. I felt right at home.
The same short stay also gifted me a visit to sLOVEnia, my old “love”. I lived there for a few years while studying, and since my hometown sits not far from the border, it would have been rude not to. Some relationships you never really close, you just leave the door slightly open.
The final May tally: over 1,000 kilometres, which I’m calling surprisingly good given that it was on the cooler side. For my liking, that is. Yes, I am still cold all the time. This is a permanent condition and I’ve stopped fighting it.
The puncture tax
The universe, of course, demands balance. The invoice for all this good fortune arrived in the form of four punctures and two completely destroyed tires in a single month. All of them in Denmark, because apparently my tires only misbehave on home soil, like a child who saves the tantrums for the supermarket.
The grand finale was a tire that didn’t puncture so much as explode, in a way no patch, plug, or prayer could fix. Which is how I found myself walking five kilometres home in cycling shoes, pushing a bike like a man walking his very expensive, very dead dog. To Denmark’s credit: people stopped constantly to ask if I needed help, offering an impressive range of not-so-usual roadside fixes. I didn’t accept any of them, but I appreciated the creativity. There’s something oddly heartwarming about strangers competing to solve your problem with increasingly improbable materials.
Cranks: my new Thursday suffering appointment
Continuing the theme of joining random groups of riders (a genre of decision-making I’ve fully embraced), a random Google search led me to Cranks Cycling Club in Klampenborg, conveniently close to home. Their Thursday rides are technically no-drop, which is a lovely, comforting word right up until the intervals and race-pace sections start, at which point I get thoroughly, comprehensively destroyed. Every Thursday. On schedule. I keep going back, which says something about either the club or my judgment. Probably both. Super nice people, though, the kind who destroy you and then wait for you, which is the best kind.
June: the chill one (by my standards)
For context: the past two years, June meant crossing all of Europe, north to south, over 2,000 kilometres of it. This year there was no big trip, the weather couldn’t decide what season it was, and I barely stacked up 500 kilometres. A quarter of the usual. Less but more, remember? Focused and targeted. I’m sticking with that framing and I will fight anyone who calls it “just riding less.”
Besides, June has become something else entirely: the one month a year I return to my scuba diving adventures with my favorite club from Croatia, Geronimo. This was, by my count, a wonderful 8th year of diving and discovering Croatia with them. Nine short days of scuba diving, relaxing, sunbathing, catching up with people, eating, and the occasional nice beach cocktail. A perfect balance of activity, relaxation, and enjoyment, calibrated over eight years of field research.
And the diving delivered. What turned out to be the last dive of the trip was also the best one: fish everywhere, a lobster, a moray eel, a few cave passes, and an actual cave. The sea clearly understands dramaturgy, save the best for the finale so you spend the whole trip home planning next year.
The barman incident
Now, the story of the trip. We’re at a beach bar during the diving camp, cocktails in hand, doing absolutely nothing productive, when the cashier’s monitor dies. The whole system, down. And this is where a career in IT finally pays off in a way that matters: I debugged it right there, told them exactly what to do, they brought a new monitor, and everything worked again. Beach bar saved. Cocktail service restored. Civilization preserved.
In gratitude, we jokingly arranged a job for me starting in July: barman, on a beach, on a Croatian island. And honestly? Reviewing all the career options I’ve had so far, this one ranks first. By a comfortable margin. Unfortunately I couldn’t stay, so the position remains tragically unfilled by me. But it’s nice to know the backup plan exists. If you ever can’t reach me, check the islands.
Flying season: open, status uncertain
I also opened the flying season, glider planes, where I’m still under training, still learning, still occasionally amazed that they let me do this at all. Last year, “opening the season” turned out to also be closing the season, one outing and done. Whether this year repeats that pattern or I actually find the time to fly more is an open question. The official position is “we’ll see,” which, as regular readers know, historically means no. But I’m choosing optimism. Cautious, heavily-scheduled optimism.
The tally
So: less kilometres, more of everything else. New personal bests on the bike, a borrowed bike and a hip dance in Croatia, a reunion with sLOVEnia, four punctures and one five-kilometre walk of shame, a new club that destroys me weekly, an 8th year underwater with Geronimo, one debugged beach bar, one dream job declined, and a flying season of undetermined length.
Less but more. Focused and targeted. I’m counting it as a win, and yes, I will fight anyone who disagrees.
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