I’ve just returned from a few days on the tarmac of Mallorca. As far as cycling lore goes, the island has reached a sort of mythic status – a rite of passage for anyone who identifies with the cult of the road. If your social feed is tuned to the right frequency, you’ve seen the highlights: the monastic silence of the interior roads, the jagged peaks of the Tramuntana, and the engineered perfection of Sa Calobra and Cap Formentor.
On this island, the car is a secondary species. Away from the sprawl of Palma, you are more likely to find yourself in the slipstream of a passing peloton than stuck behind a bumper. It is a place where the Mallorca 312 sells out in a heartbeat and where drivers afford you the kind of respectful distance that feels almost alien back home. It is, by every objective measure, a road cyclist’s heaven.
The silent sentinels
But there is a detail in the Mallorcan landscape that people tend to overlook when they’re waxing lyrical about the smooth asphalt and the coffee stops. If you look past your Garmin, you’ll see them: thousands of small, weathered windmills – molins – dotting the plains.
Dating back to the 16th century, these three thousand structures were built for a singular purpose: to harness the air to grind grain and pull water from the earth. They are beautiful, haunting, and a very clear warning. Because where there are windmills, there is – by design – a relentless, unforgiving wind.
Into the teeth of the gale
Believe me when I say the wind in Mallorca is a beast of its own making. I’ve ridden almost every corner of this island over the years, and the story is always the same. Every ride eventually turns into a confrontation with a painful headwind. It feels sentient; it evolves as you move, shifting its weight to ensure it is always waiting for you around the next bend, ready to exhale directly into your chest.
While the occasional tailwind offers a fleeting moment of grace, it never quite pays the debt of the miles spent grinding into the gale. It always seems to find you in that final, desperate hour—when the legs are heavy and the lure of the hotel is strongest.
The unfiltered reality
This past week, I found myself in a familiar position: shoulders slumped, cadence dropping, and shouting uselessly into the roar of the air. It is a power-sapping, morale-breaking experience that no Instagram filter can truly capture. You hunt for the shelter of a stone wall or the salvation of a passing group to tuck into, but often, it’s just you and the resistance.
This isn’t an attempt to talk you out of the trip – Mallorca remains essential. Consider this a public service announcement for the soul. Go for the climbs, go for the culture, but go mentally prepared for the grit.
And if you can, bring a few “big” riders along. You’ll want someone to hide behind when the island decides it’s time to push back.
