Allsop(p)s are getting two tyred: Ahhh sunny June indeed (...via Gran Canaria)

Ok so admittedly I had to travel to just off the coast of Africa in order to smirk smugly at Clare's sopping Converse, but spend all week on a beach when I got there? Pah! Dedicated cyclist that I am, before visiting the charming Seedi (who himself cycled to Paris a couple of years ago) I had informed him keenly that we would have to hire bikes so that I could continue my exercise regime. I began to slightly regret this when I arrived in the kind of blazing hot sunshine that's made for sipping cold beer in rather than hill training. Sip cold beers we did (and plenty) but we did find time to do a lot of walking and to squeeze in a 2-hour cycle around the city of Las Palmas. We were put off from hiring a bike from a rental shop by the 100 Euro deposit and a distinct absence of shop employees (the 'back in 10 minutes' sign displayed all day, only for someone to eventually return our call though not to actually come down into the shop mind, left us wondering whether said deposit would be returned safely).

Plan B was to investigate the city's yellow equivalent to London's Boris bikes. A quick set of forms to fill out and a bike was ours for 3 hours for the princely sum of the cost of a text message (take note Transport for London). So at 6pm, in 30 degree heat, we set off. Having discovered that only the crusty old bikes had baskets (no one wants to wear a backpack in this weather), I tested out brakes, rusty gears, and tyres, and immediately pulled a skid in the middle of the park. The brakes work then. Unfortunately the saddle wouldn't go high enough (I've finally got used to my toes just skimming the ground when I sit on a bike), which was bound to start aching sooner or later. I gingerly followed Seedi, now a little suspicious of my new steed, along lots of nice cycle lanes that were completely separate from the road (take note Transport for London), with the occasional bit of practice at cycling on the right-hand side.

Our aim was to cycle to the top of La Isleta; a place called Las Coloradas, at 239 metres the city’s highest peak, on the port side of the city. I'm not trying to be nautical, there is a port there. Approaching from the industrial side of the hill brought its difficulties, namely that evidentally no one other than us is that bothered about getting to the top of the peak, because there isn't a straight road that goes up there. Cue lots of cycling to dead-ends that finish in warehouses, a few times sailing downhill (past groups of old men taking in the spectacle from a bench) only for us to find that there's just a roundabout and a wall at the end of the road and we have to trek back up the hill again. 'Nevermind', I gasp, 'I did say I needed the hill practice...'. At one point I was about to whimper about taking a break and/or going home and then thought better of it as I remember that the tables have turned in the past 6 months and Seedi is the one that hasn't cycled much in that time, while I'm the one that's about to cycle to Paris in a month (Panic! On Tuesday of this week it was one month to go). All the same, the heat was unbearable. I had sweat rolling down my calves (a first, though perhaps that's one of the rare aesthetic benefits of usually wearing the full length leggings) and wondered how long it would be until I threw up.

We changed tack and got out of the industrial bit of the port, and we were soon on the (very steep) road up to the top of the hill. The views were stunning, and a welcome reward for all our efforts and rickety bikes. Stopped for the obligatory camera poses and on our way to watch a para-glider circling over the shore on the other side of the hill. Cycled back up to the top of the peak and freewheeled all the way back down to the city for a well-earned beer.