Miles of Smiles: Our Warm-Up to Winter
The Tuesday Peloton Club
International cooperation comes in many forms — but none quite as entertaining as the Tuesday Peloton Club.
Every Tuesday, a small army of cyclists gathers at Camping Alannia, united by two things: a love of bikes and an impressive disregard for age, fashion, and common sense. At the front of this wheeled parade is Jan — a Dutch marvel in his seventies, powered by coffee, efficiency, and possibly a small nuclear reactor.
On most days, Jan can be found zipping past at impossible speeds on a carbon-fibre machine that costs about the same as a modest villa. But on Tuesdays, he leads a peloton of mere mortals — a cheerful, mixed bag of Dutch riders and a few lucky outsiders (that’s us), who are tolerated despite our suspiciously British sense of humour.
This is a group that laughs in the face of Lycra. Their bikes look like something straight out of the French Resistance — solid, sensible, and capable of going absolutely anywhere. Fifty kilometres? Child’s play. Road, track, gravel, goat path — all fair game. No one’s racing, no one’s bragging, and everyone’s smiling. It’s therapy on two wheels, with added chain oil.
We’ve been joining the Tuesday rides since our early days at Camping Marjal — before it was rebranded as Camping Alannia (new name, same sunshine). These rides have become a tradition. Around sixty or seventy riders turn up each week, with marshals ensuring the group moves as one happy, bell-ringing convoy through the Spanish countryside.
Most of the bikes are electric these days, something the Dutch have embraced wholeheartedly. There’s none of that “e-bikes are cheating” chatter you sometimes hear back home. Honestly, that argument makes as much sense as accusing walkers at Parkrun of slacking. If it gets you outdoors, it’s a win.
We first heard the idea of using e-bikes for recovery rides from a Swiss pro mountain biker — he’d alternate hard days with gentle electric-assisted spins to keep his legs loose. We thought that sounded very sensible… and promptly made every ride a recovery ride.
After exploring more of the local countryside (thanks, Jan!), we stopped for the traditional mid-ride coffee — a key part of the training regime, obviously — before winding our way back along the river, dusty, happy, and ever so slightly saddle-sore.
Same time next week, team. We’ll be there — bikes charged, helmets on, and grins firmly in place.
Poppy’s Corner ( just for Mandie)
Here I am again , being carted around Europe in a baked bean tin. My hoomans are great , but they’re a little bit thick. They don’t seem to get it , I’m a Norfolk gal , and I don’t want to leave God’s county. I’m sorted there , I have a nice back garden , my mate Leo next door , a forest to yomp in and at least once a week I get to visit the beach. In any case who will deal with the squirrels in the garden . I comfort myself they’ll get used to our absence , it’ll be a shock when I return.
I was born in Walsingham in Norfolk in November 2020 , in fact it’s my birthday soon. I know you hoomans get excited about birthdays , but to me it’s one thing a bath and that’s not good. I’ve heard my mum discussing me having a bath , apparently I have so much dust on me that if you pat me I resemble an old man in his house coat. When will they understand , I’m self cleaning.
The Spanish pavements are interesting I grant you , the odd bit of discarded Chorizo is always an option and mixture of wood types to pick up and run with. The wildlife is confusing , dad says I can’t chase the avians as they’re protected , not from me they’re not a bird’s a bird in my book.
I haven’t run away yet , I’m waiting for the best opportunity, Dad’s put this massive brick around my neck on which he says he can track me , ha , yes but not until I’ve completely exhausted him in the search.
The foods not bad , but Mum’s started to mix my food apparently , so I’ll not get an upset stomach as I try the Spanish food. Just let me hoover the pavement , the Chirzo will line my stomach.
I get to run here though , just with Dad at the moment , Mum’s an old crock currently, she’s doing something called rehab for Chas , whatever that is , it must be important though although she’s not fast enough for me at the moment.
I’m off to bark at the Schnauzer now, as they pass each morning , it’s bloody brillant fun.
Photography Opportunity
Let me start with a confession: I don’t consider myself a good photographer — but I do consider myself a very enthusiastic one, which is almost the same thing, just with more deleted files. My happy place is wandering with a camera, poking around corners, and capturing that brilliant, strange dance between humans and the spaces they build, ignore, or accidentally trip over.
These days I use a Leica Q3, a camera so lovely it practically hums Beethoven at you. Long gone are the days of lugging around half a ton of gear or fiddling with a tripod that insists on collapsing at the critical moment. As for wildlife photography — I admire it deeply, but anything that requires patience, camouflage, and the ability to remain silent is clearly not aimed at me.
I’m all about the spontaneous: the quick glance, the fleeting moment, the expression that lasts 0.2 seconds and begs to be caught before it escapes. Give me street corners, market chatter, odd doorways, eccentric humans — that’s my world.
It never ceases to amaze me how creative people get once they step away from their screens. Yesterday, on one single, unassuming street in Catral, I found more colour, imagination, and personality than you’d get in an hour scrolling Instagram. They love their street art here.
So below is a little montage — less than a minute long and set to the blues, because apparently my brain likes to pretend it’s in a smoky New Orleans bar whenever I’m editing photos.
Enjoy the vibe
Time to Ride the Trains
The day began with a brisk 45-minute walk to Albatera-Catral station — the warm-up act for what would become a weekend of serious mileage. Half a marathon walked on Saturday, another half run on Sunday. Who needs a training plan when real life organises one for you?
Our destination was the city of Orihuela for the 26th Annual Half Marathon, but first: trains. And I do love a good train. The station is perfectly placed, with speedy connections — Murcia one way, Alicante the other, and Orihuela sitting politely in between like the well-behaved middle child.
We hopped aboard the fast service affectionately called the Duck Train — partly because of the cute little nose on the front, partly because it waddles through Spain at a very respectable speed. We’ve taken it before, once all the way to Madrid via Alicante in another year, and it never disappoints: clean, smooth, and reliably on time.
Here are a few images from our little railway adventure — the calm before the half-marathon storm.
Saturday’s long walk doubled nicely as race registration day — a leisurely wander that ended with me collecting a runner’s bag so generous it practically needed its own luggage allowance. Honestly, the contents defy the entry fee. A fleece, assorted goodies, and enough treats to make the London Marathon goodie bag look lightweight.
It’s obvious the locals aren’t putting on these events to make money — they’re doing it to get people involved, to bring the City alive, and, quite possibly, to make sure no runner ever leaves without at least three branded snacks and a bag of salt , yes you read me right SALT ! . Sponsors clearly keep the wheels turning, and bless them for it.
Race day Sunday itself went well. It was hot — the kind of Mediterranean heat that makes your internal thermostat file a complaint. My body temperature ran higher than I’m used to, and cooling down felt more like an athletic event in itself. Fortunately, the organisers have perfected the art of post-race motivation: every runner gets free draft beer at the finish line. Hydration, celebration, and mild anaesthesia — all in one cup.
Helen is still rehabbing an injury, so she wasn’t on the start line this time — but she absolutely smashed the logistics event, which, frankly, is often harder than the running. While I was busy worrying about pace and hydration, Helen was coordinating taxis, navigating road closures, and making sure we actually escaped and re-entered a city that had shut down half its streets for three hours.
Every race needs a hero. Mine just happened to be wearing comfortable shoes and carrying the taxi numbers.
We hope all of you back in the UK are easing gently into the run-up to Christmas — or at least surviving it with minimal glitter-related incidents. Whether you’re lining up for parkruns, donning a Santa suit for a festive dash, or simply planning how many mince pies can safely be consumed before noon, we’re cheering you on.
See you in the next instalment , it will be soon be time for Die Hard !
