what happens in Vegas...

More tales from Majorcan training camps this week.

My first there was particularly hard.  We rode for at least 5 hours every day, including a 7 hour day through the mountains on the middle Saturday.  I got back to the hotel shattered, only to be reminded by my room mate, Gerard (who by the way was absent for the day's ride) that I'd promised to go to a night club in Cala Millor with him that night.

So, fed and showered we boarded a taxi and duly arrived at the loudest, brashest place I'd ever been in.  Picture lasers, lights, dry ice, dancers in revolving cages and music to rival a 747 at take-off.

I fell asleep, face first, on the bar.

yes I fell asleep, OK

Then there was the day that the fast group rode into C'an Picafort.  The pace had been getting hotter and hotter until we turned onto the tree-lined avenue at what must have been over 60kph.

We first noticed the presence of the local police when they pulled alongside us and gestured that we should slow down.  We duly ignored them.  Until that is a gun was produced and aimed in our general direction.  The smell of brake block on aluminium was overwhelming.

I'll also never forget the day when one of the lads who had been dropped on our ride eventually made it back to the hotel so much later than the rest of us that we were lounging by the pool.

He rode through the hotel's back gate and straight into said swimming pool!  He was nearly thrown out of the hotel until he was able to explain he hadn't done it on purpose but was running on empty and could barely stay upright.

Best of all though, and Gerard's fault again was the night I and a few others were cajoled into dragging up and acting as "Elvis's" backing band for a spoof act on the final night of our holiday.  Gerard had become "friendly" with the entertainments manager who was putting on a show for the rapidly filling hotel.

I was poured into a skin tight dress, put in a wig and then fully made up to such an extent that the daughter of one of the couples on our trip told me I looked "very pretty".

Now, at 6 feet tall, and weighing around 10 and a half stone I was skin and bone.  And with shaved, cycling-kit tanned legs looked quite a sight.  Well, I thought so, until a man on a bowls trip from Bolton came up to me after the show and offered me his room key!

Like I said though, what happens in Vegas...