Davide la Locomotive

My favourite holiday? Easy.
Mallorca, with a group of good friends, legs full of lactic acid, and—for two riders—steaks in their shorts.

Weird, I know.
Stick with me.

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It was my first cycling holiday with a group of really good friends. The kind of trip that blurs the line between boot camp and fun—early mornings, long rides, aching legs, all set against the backdrop of a hotel in Port de Pollença, Mallorca. Idyllic. Gruelling. Brilliant.

One evening, we got onto the topic of weird cycling lore—the sort of stuff that gets passed down through generations of riders without anyone checking if it’s actually true. That’s when someone brought up the steak.

Apparently, in the early days of cycling, before Lycra and chamois pads, riders would put a steak down their shorts and ride on it all day. Then, at the end of the ride, they’d cook it and eat it.

We found this equal parts disgusting and hilarious.
Naturally, we talked about it for ages.
And somehow, as these things often go, what started as a joke became a plan.

“Let’s do it on the rest day.”

I declined the invitation to saddle up with raw meat, but two brave souls—true pioneers in the name of sports science—headed to the local supermarket to purchase their… undercarriage equipment.

Apparently, once the steak had warmed up a bit, it was surprisingly comfy. So off we went on our rest day ride, two riders now armed with marbled beef and questionable hygiene.

Every time we stopped, we were swarmed by flies.
Steaks, as it turns out, still contain blood.
And blood, as it turns out, still oozes.

One of the steak guys was wearing sky blue shorts. From behind, it looked like he’d replaced his saddle with a meat grinder. Blood trickled down his legs. He insisted the steak felt fantastic. So, I suppose… pros and cons.

After the ride, they took the steaks to the hotel kitchen and asked if they could be cooked.
The kitchen said no.

They pulled them out anyway.
The steaks were not red—they had been cooked by body heat.
They were incredibly rare.
But(t) cooked nonetheless.

They didn’t make it to the kitchen grill.
Instead, they were served straight from saddle to stomach—done to about 60 miles, with some light elevation gain.

They didn’t get sick, in case you’re wondering.
Which is some sort of miracle.

The next morning, Will turned up to breakfast beaming. I asked what he was so happy about.

“My shorts were in such a state, I thought I’d have to bin them. But the hotel does laundry—€5 per item.”
He paused, nodded, and said,
“Best €5 ever.”

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I crashed a couple of days later and spent a week in hospital.
But the steak chamois story became legend—
a “were you there?” moment.
I was.

The myth was tested.
The steak held up.
Cooked by body heat, cured by laughter.

Some people retell stories.
Others live them.

It takes creativity to wonder.
Curiosity to ask.
Courage to try.
And commitment to ride it out.

Blood, sweat, and gears.

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