SCOOTER all the way round Mallorca? Are you daft?” John Arcari spluttered into his Glayva. “You’re even older than me and it’s 50 years since I was on a scooter. What do you think, Young ’Un?”
John McLuskey derives his Young ’Un moniker because he was born two years before me, which makes me the Auld Yin. “Well, I’m sure we could manage that. A bit like a Top Gear special. I bags be Clarkson.”
John A, the Middle ’Un, looked at us both. “Top Gear? More like Last of the Summer Wine. We’re bound to come a cropper. If you’re Clarkson I’ll be the Hamster. That means you’re Captain Slow.” He meant me.
The day arrived. Our flight landed at 11pm then we took a taxi to our hotel in C’an Pastilla. Next morning we caught the bus to Palma where of course we got off at the wrong stop. “I’ve never seen Palma before,” said John A, pretending to enjoy our unplanned walking tour of the Old Town’s streets and pleasant piazzas.
Heavy packs on our backs, we staggered into Vintage Motors hire shop like we were teenagers again, oohing and aahing at the big boys’ bikes. Still, the 125cc Piaggio scooters would be exciting enough for us.
Backpacks strapped to the pillion seats, we wobbled through the narrow streets and drew deep breaths before riding along the motorway, coaches and superbikes whizzing by on both sides, before heading towards the resort of El Arenal and a bargain B&B.
The next day, while heading along the coast, our wannabe Clarkson sped out of sight, then John A’s rucksack slid off the back of his bike. Many beeps later he finally pulled over, preventing a trail of designer shirts and chinos spreadeagling the Mallorcan back roads.
After that we stuck together, keeping the Mediterranean to our right. We made good time and soon arrived in Cala d’Or, a pretty white-washed town with a bustling centre.
Next morning we headed for the Caves of Drach in Porto Cristo and swapped the joys of the open road for the enchantment of the classical quartet sailing across the wonderfully deep underground lake.
Forty minutes later we had scootered round to C’an Picafort on the Bahia Alcudia where we admired the sea views before heading out to Port de Pollenca the following day. Stretching our scootering skills to the limit we tackled narrow hairpin bends and cliff edge roads while negotiating swarms of cyclists climbing the steep slopes before zooming down through the switchbacks. Eventually, we arrrived at