dislocatedMTB

The fear of riding with newbies

2012-01-30T22:53:00.000Z

Several years ago I accidently started a mountain bike club at work. I say accidently - there were a few factors - alcohol, the World Corporate Games in Zagreb and the lure of entering events with company money. As a consequence of this I organised weekly rides for all comers. We had fast people, skillful people, chatty people, just-there-for-the-beer people and... new people.

I liked the new people. Taking someone out on one of their first mountain bike rides gave me a buzz, seeing their excitement at the swoopy bits and overcoming the challenges of the tricky bits. We generally finished at a pub for a drink and crisps and they all said they'd loved it and would be back out again.

Some were then abducted by Hoogerlandian pirates.

At least, that's my assumption. They were never seen again. Hoogerlandian pirates are the most likely explanation.

However, some came back. Again, and again. Some I rode events with. One has done a couple of 24 hour solos (I think her mind must have been abducted by the pirates). Eventually my riding became more training based, the regulars moved to other jobs and the Friday Rideys dribbled to a conclusion. Still, the memory of the newbies lingered.

So when Darren mentioned that he was taking out a mutual friend for her first real off-road ride, and would I fancy a bimble across the common, I agreed enthusiastically. I could fit in some intervals beforehand and then meet them for some recovery riding. I'd also not used a mountain bike for a couple of months so it would be a welcome change.

Oh, hang on. That reminds me. The fear.

Sometimes I get scared riding with new people. Not because I'm scared they might fall, crash, explode or otherwise expire. That'd add to the fun. Someone else in an icy stream? Laugh it up, fuzzball. A total loss of energy, near hypothermia and being chased by polar bears? Just makes good blog material.

No, I'm not scared of something happening to the newbie. I get scared of doing something stupid myself.

Suddenly I've lost all off-road skills. I put my feet where? Is it heels up or down when descending? How do the gears work? How do I get out of these pedaaaaaaaaaaaaaaals (crunch). What was natural is now alien. Unconscious competence to very conscious incompetence. Combine that with a few months only on the road, gloopy mud and greasy roots and you have a bill of materials for embarrassment.

I brought out the full arsenal of skill-compensation. 4 " full-suspension bike for a normally-ride-it-rigid route. Tubeless mud tyres at 25psi for extra grip. Lower the saddle. Full-face and body armour. Bubble wrap.

10:25am. There they were, newbie on the borrowed ex-team issue Kona hardtail, clean looking bike clothes, trainers and flat pedals. And Darren on his 5.5" travel Trans-Rockies proven all-mountain beast. I like his thinking.

I relaxed. I may slip off the narrow wooden bridge, wash out on a diagonal root and plummet into the drainage gully but at least I had an excuse. Underbiked. Clearly.

Of course, no-one fell, we practiced some technical sections a few times, the newbie proved that volleyball and running fitness can translate to cycling and everyone agreed to do it all again.

I hope the pirates don't get her.

Why recovery weeks suck

2012-01-25T20:32:00.000Z

According to Joe Friel and the Training Peaks training plan generator, I'm now officially old. This means that my training plan has a "rest and recovery" week every three weeks. Last year, when I wasn't officially old, it was every four weeks.

This has consequences.

People occasionally ask me why I do all this exercise. It's quite simple, and started when I saw a photo of myself at about the age of 25. I'd been out of university for a couple of years, in paid employment and had access to a fridge, freezer, car and supermarket. If you put money, a wide array of food, places to keep it and a way to get it home together you get... fat. Well, fatter. Suddenly I could have ice cream sundaes every night, chips whenever I wanted, pre-made-grease-laden frozen meat-style products. After a couple of years of this - and only once-a-week 5-a-side football for exercise - I became slightly chunky. Certainly not "big", more "well fed".

I started to think about exercise. Did the odd run. Joined a gym. Played a bit more football. It helped that I was in a very sporty office, with most of my colleagues doing various activities. I even started weighing myself. At my chunkiest I was 12kg more than I am now (26lb, nearly 2 stone). What with the cutting back on the ice cream and the increase in exercise I started to shrink back down. I plateaued at 7kg more than I am now, which I was happy with.

Then I discovered cycling. Then, by virtue of a New Year's Day bet to do a half-marathon, I discovered training. Which naturally led to cycling training and racing.

My weight started to fall again. I started to get close to "lean". I realised I had to eat more if I was training.

Eat.

More.

I had to eat more.

Awesome. What more incentive is there than being able to eat much much more than usual if I was bike training? Coming back from a 5 hour ride and essentially sticking my head in the fridge and chewing. Sometimes I go straight to swallowing, chewing wastes too much time.

Which leads me to recovery weeks. Last week, a hard training week, I could have that chocolate twist, the fruity flapjack, the hot dogs, the homemade sausage rolls, the energy beer. That was last week.

This week I have to be good. This week I have to be careful.

That's why I don't like recovery weeks. Especially when they're one week in three, instead of one week in four. I've gone from 75% eating time to only 66% eating time. My eating time has gone down by either 9% or 12% depending on how you do the maths.

How sucky is that?

I think I need a doughnut to cheer myself up.

Fine dining for cyclists

2012-01-20T18:36:00.000Z

Last night I had my first ever experience of "fine dining". It was at The Vineyard at Stockcross - a 5 star hotel with spa and attached restaurant. My only previous experience of the place was a friends post-Christening event which was an entirely different thing. The Vineyard has it all - people greeting you at the entrance to escort you through the building, a relaxed waiting area in the bar with posh nibbles, enormous mark-ups on the drinks. They even have a fountain that's on fire. I'm always impressed by the ability to burn water for entertainment purposes.
Our team of waiting staff showed us to our table and introduced the menus. Not cheap, but not unexpected. They had a "seasonal menu" which was slightly cheaper, and mainly consisted of things that didn't look quite as appetising as the items on the main, more expensive menu. Cunning. It's like displaying SRAM Red next to SRAM Force, or XTR next to XT. Good as the XT is, you know you really want the XTR.

Obviously I went for the Red/XTR option - a pumpkin velote with wild mushrooms, monkfish wrapped in pancetta with carrot and mandarin puree, roasted fennel and mini potatoes, and the possibility of a dessert to come... If I still had space.

Bread arrives. Just a couple of pieces for me, no need to fill up. Lots more to come.

Oh look, an "amuse bouche". A shot glass with some leek flavoured white stuff, some solid green stuff at the bottom and a mini crisp on the top. This wasn't really for me, I've never really liked creamy-leeky-stuff-with-some-green.

Ah, starters. The waiters were entertaining at this point - their little dance around us to ensure simultaneous plate landing was worth of Britain's Got Talent, and the lady who tried to interrupt our bawdy conversation to explain what we were eating was really wasting her time. Quite frankly I could remember what I'd ordered, and I couldn't really get why she explained the same thing five times to the five people who all had scallops... And who were all in earshot of each other.

I looked at my plate. I seemed to have another "amuse bouche" size portion. I did have a whole roasted mini-pumpkin although they'd failed to carve a scary face into it. The soup was served in a coffee cup, so I drank that and knocked back the pumpkin filling.

Main arrived. This time a starter sized portion. Delicious, but I could have eaten it again. And again. And again.

There was no danger of being too full for dessert. This wasn't a restaurant designed for a cyclist. Dessert was a collection of nutty, chocolately items with a curious "mojito granita" on the top. Delicious, but what I was really craving was a pound of sticky toffee pudding and a pint of custard.

Four slices of toasted malt loaf.
A couple of Soleros.
A chocolate twist danish.
Three hot dogs.
Chocolate milkshake.
A giant BLT.
A cheese and bacon burger.
And a triple ristretto to perk me up for the drive home.

That's fine dining. For a cyclist.

One Year

2012-01-13T20:44:00.000Z

(Warning - contains roadkill)

One year ago today, I was in an ambulance.

One year ago today, I was in shock.

One year ago today, I was slightly broken.

What better way to tempt fate than to ride after work. On Friday 13th. On the first icy day of this winter.

The initial signs weren't good. A freshly killed badger, at the spot where I try to look out for live ones. Lying in the road like some kind of countryside-mafia warning: "ride tonight and you'll end up like this". I'm normally fine with roadkill but this was in the centre of the tarmac, blood still wet, teeth bared. I'm cringing now thinking about it. It ranks alongside the exploded deer in my gruesome night-ride discoveries.

Up next, a dead squirrel. Less icky and thankfully off the side of the road.

My rear light started to misbehave. I thought the battery was failing, but performing the IT-guy ritual got it going again. Turn it off. Turn it back on. Let there be (red flashing) light.

I felt wobbly. Treatment - strawberry yoghurt Torq gel. Exactly like the gel I took while being assessed by the paramedics. Exactly one year on...

My main light battery indicator turns to red. Red = 25% left. That's only... two and a half hours on medium. That's probably going to be plenty for the thirty minute ride home, barring any accidents, mechanicals or incidents.

Then came the truck, the dirty construction truck, passing where it shouldn't, passing very close... but not close enough.

And finally... home.

Now, I know what you're thinking - that was an anticlimax. Well, as I climbed the stairs... up

...up

...up

... I noticed my toes were quite cold. Nasty.

You know, if you'd told me a year ago that in a year's time I'd be riding normally, on my usual routes, on a new bike, I'd have replied "yeah, probably". Screw you Friday 13th!

Outside spin class

2012-01-07T14:35:00.000Z

Now and then, when I remember to book and I've cleared a space in my diary, I'll do an hour-long spin class in the work gym. Yesterday I had space in my diary, the Kaffenback, and would-ya-believe it, a set of cycling kit.

Time for an experiement. The lunchtime "outside spin class".

It's odd. Lots and lots of people at our fairly sporty office go running at lunchtime. The concept of riding a bike, outside, at lunchtime, is somehow alien. Squeeze into some lycra and join fifteen others in a hot, airless, underground spin studio and people consider you normal. Squeeze into some lycra and put a helmet on people think that you're going home early or simply deranged.

Part of the experiment was to see if the timing was any different. I left my desk at the same time I would for a 12pm class, walked to the gym and got changed there. I tend to get to the classes five minutes early to get a decent position and warm up gently. By the time I'd got outside to my bike, unlocked it, strapped on the Garmin and straddled the saddle it was exactly 12pm. No difference there then.

I rolled down the car park ramp, onto the campus ring road (it's a pretty big site) and accelerated towards the back gate. We have a bus service that takes people to town and as it was lunch on a Friday there were tens of people queuing up. As I passed them I could feel the eyes on me, their owners thinking "slacker, going home early" or "why's he going for a run with a bike?".

Onto the road proper and up towards the castle. The "castle" is an ex-English civil war site, with only the "keep" left standing. It has a stony climb around the back of it, then a mix of tracks and golf-course tarmac to get to a wooded common. More tracks, some monster puddles, some branches to hop and some wildlife to dodge.

I had a really weird feeling as I rode. It took a while to place it... the smell, feel and warmth of winter sunshine. Did I mention the weather? Glorious. Clear sky-blue sky. A fresh breeze. A chill in the air. And sunshine. It's only been a couple of months since I've been riding in the sun but on a January lunchtime, escaping from the office, the impact was amplified. The bare trees, the rolling green hills, the splash of tyre into puddle. This was right, very right.

As I continued (out of the common, onto the road, time-trial mode through the villages, looping back) I started to think of the differences between outdoor and indoor spinning. I even compiled a little list in my head.

Here is is.

Outdoor Advantages

The view. Trees, bushes, birds, squirels, hillsides and fields outweigh the sight of my own sweaty self in the spin studio mirror.
The smells. Crisp winter freshness vs sixteen sweaty bodies.
The workout. My rules. My pace. Forget "press-ups" on a spin bike, this was a real death-or-glory blast, attacking every rise like Philippe Gilbert in a Spring Classic, tucking in for every flat section like David Millar escaping the peleton in a doomed bid to get away in the last 2km of a flat grand tour stage, sweeping through the corners like Matt Goss leading out Cav on a technical finish.
The time. Everyone knows time runs at half speed in a gym environment, and double speed when you're having fun on a bike.
The sounds. Nature + tyres vs a bearded nutter shouting at me.

Indoor Advantages

Ladies bottoms. Although as I tend to sit at the front of a class I miss out on these anyway.

Conclusion? Outside wins. It would even be a whitewash if I could find a willing ladies bottom to ride behind.

25km later, and at 12:56, I got back to the bike sheds. Into the gym at 1pm, shower, back to my desk by ten past.

"Spin class?" they asked me.

"Yeah, something like that".

Well, that was 2011

2012-01-02T09:55:00.000Z

At the end of 2010 I totted up all of my exercise:

Road bike, 321 hours, 9840 km
Mountain bike, 104 hours, 1448 km
Gym, 47 hours
Run, 8 hours

I've just done the same for 2011 and it isn't pretty:

Road bike, 293 hours, 6850 km
Mountain bike, 34 hours, 561 km
Gym, 25 hours
Run, 7 hours

In my defence my year was somewhat disrupted by breaking my collarbone on the track and the subsequent operation, rehab and recovery. I didn't get on the turbo trainer for five weeks, and it was another six weeks before I actually ventured out... for 45 whole minutes. All in all I reckon I lost close to three months of proper training. So, not a good start.

Still, I just about made my first planned event of the year. The Cotswold Spring Classic has a choice of either 100 km or 100 miles. My plan was to do the 100 km. Jon's plan was for me to do the 100 miles. Jon won. Astoundlingly, I felt good on the ride - being towed along for the first 70 or so miles helped.

Next event was the Tour of We. That was partially enjoyable. I mainly enjoyed the packing up to go home a day early when it was pissing down. Then the Magnificat. I should really have packed up and gone home a day early when it was pissing down for that one... but it was only a one day event. And I was at home to start with any way. Seven and a half hours of constant rain, punctures and an inability to get undressed at the end.

Then came the Pyrenees, pit bitching at TwentyFour12 and a casual appearance at the Torq 12:12, where we went with the intention of only riding for a few hours rather than the full 12, and surprisingly did exactly that. There was the odd 100 miler, a new bike and that was just about it.

What I lacked was real focus - it was always going to be difficult matching the levels of motivation of 2010 (when we did Lands End - John O'Groats) as it was tricky to find something equally challenging and inspiring.

Still, now I've got the Haute Route. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it earlier.

What shall I do with my new Go Pro video camera?

2011-12-26T09:05:00.000Z

Yesterday was, you know, Christmas. Christmas Day. I ate too much, I drank enough, I went for a minor walk with my mother scoping out new bike trails on the common. She should really stop riding illegally, but I indulge her.

I'm very thankful for all of the wonderful gifts I received - everything this year showed some thought behind it which I far more gratifying than costly things that are pointless. I even had a few unexpected items which hit that "I'd never have bought that for myself, but it's brilliant" sweet spot. Some books, clothing, bike stuff.

And... a Go Pro Hero HD camera. Now, if you've not come across these I'll assume you don't mountain bike, drive fast cars, parachute or run with the wildebeast across the plains of Africa. The Go Pro is one of the main cameras for filming yourself doing something stupid and then putting it on the internet. YouTube is littered with people being attacked by squirels, falling off cliffs or eating three week out of date oysters. So, in a world where most videos have already been done, what should I film with mine?

Firstly, I plan to wear it around the office. That way, when people ask me what I do all day I can just point them to the daily video. Thrill as I order a pastry to go with my coffee. Scream as the revolving doors nearly cut me in half. Sleep while I spend two hours listening to how some start-up is going to change the world of mobile phones FOR EVER! The only drawback of this is that I often come across sensitive information, and the other blokes in the gym changing rooms might get a little uncomfortable.

Secondly, the world needs more videos of long, complicated and frustrating bike maintenance. Most bike maintenance videos show you how to fix things. Mine will show how to break tools, strip threads, slice skin and a new array of British swear words. Two hours trying to remove a stuck bottom bracket with increaing levels of violence will no doubt be an internet hit bigger than a dog being chased by a herd of deer whilst two babies and another dog commentate on the action.

Thirdly... well, I'm open to suggestions. Long boring road bike climbs? Gentle descents at safe and cautious speeds? A six minute bike commute where drivers generally see me and give way where required? I just don't know.

Any ideas?

Training block 1, #HauteRoute

2011-12-13T21:47:00.000Z

Amazing how the prospect of seven days of suffering focuses the mind, isn't it? About three weeks ago I was bumbling around in a haze of indecision, riding a bit here, running a bit there and generally doing my best to devour the European chocolate mountain. Now with some real mountains looming up next year I'm dedicated, organised, dare I say motivated.

I've finished my first two week block of training - I'm now officialy old according to Training Peaks so I can only cope with two weeks of hard work before needing a recovery week. To be fair to TP, last year I was getting pretty wiped out in the third week of each training block so maybe it has a point.

This has been the first chunk of base training - so a reasonable amount of hours, some leg spinny stuff and the fun of single leg drills. I've also been pretending to be beefcake in the gym, lifting some heavy weights. Well, heavy for me. I'm still using the pink vinyl ones, hopefully I can progress to purple next week. They'll match my face then.

My one moment of gym based glory is the leg press machine - I can now do 3 x 6 reps using ALL the weights, a whole 190 somethings. I've never been able to do this in previous years so either my legs are stronger or I'm less worried about tendons snapping.

I've kept to my plan pretty well - TP turns the workouts on its calendar green if you complete them (or get close) - and I reckon I'm 85% green. I also did a threshold test - riding as hard as I could for 30 minutes after a decent warm up. I'm at about the 260w mark, so not bad but some room for improvement. 272w would put me at 4w per kilo of bodyweight (I'm 68kg at the moment). I'd like to get to around 280w+ at 65ish kg, 4.3w/kg. That's still nowhere near Jon in good condition (5w/kg!) but at least I'll be close enough to him up the hills that'll I'll see which way he goes at the top of the climb and don't have to spend the night in the woods with the wolves again.

I apologise. That was a bit geeky. Don't worry, normal service will be resumed next time.

Call NASA, the MOD, CERN, the Pentagon and Dr Hawking. I've invented invisibility.

2011-12-02T18:49:00.000Z

It's astonishing. I couldn't believe it. My bike and I have somehow developed an aura of invisibility. A "cloaking device". A magic ethereal cape.

You scoff, I know. How can a lowly biker come up with such an incredible invention? You are right to ask. Quite frankly, I don't know.

I was first alerted whilst riding to work on Monday when I saw a silver BMW on a side street to my right. The mid-thirties female driver looked towards me, yet in some way looked through me. Like I wasn't there. It was curious. I thought that my day-glo yellow jacket plastered with reflectives was fairly obvious. And that the 240 lumens of flashing Exposure Joystick with wide angle diffuser would have been seen by the dullest of half qualified drivers. However, this wasn't the case as she pulled out on me forcing a violent brake, swerve and shouted expletive.

Ho-hum. This happens occasionally.

Tuesday, mini-roundabout at the end of the road. Van driver (50's, male) shoots past, failing to give way.

Like I wasn't there.

Wednesday, another mini-roundabout. A blue Seat I think. I was ready this time, trackstanding on the painted white circle as the driver breezed past, oblivious to me.

Wednesday evening, a car comes alongside, ahead then brakes sharply to a halt. Why would they do that if they saw the retina searing Exposure Flare? The various reflectors, the Altura Night Vision jacket, the pedal reflectors bobbing up and down 80 times per minute?

Then it hit me. Invisibility. It's either being projected by me (unlikely), the jacket (less likely) or the lights. I can only imagine that the lights are combining to cancel not only each other out, but all the light reflected by the bike and me.

Now, there must be skeptics amongst you readers so I thought I'd video my bike at rest, just so you can see the effect - and how difficult it must have been to see me this week.

Brace yourselves.

Wow. Nobel prize anyone?

I've gone and done something silly

2011-11-27T21:53:00.000Z

Right, enough of all the rambling on about old bikes and new bikes. When it comes down to it, it's not about having, it's about doing.

Last year we did Land's End to John O'Groats. That was a challenge - seven months of planning and training, team bonding sportives, charity fundraising, outfit buying and finally the eight days of riding themselves. It was, to me, epic.

This year has been indifferent - a crash and eight weeks off the bike, a couple of sportives, my first big mountain road riding - nothing that really inspired me to knuckle down and concentrate, to get up an hour early through the winter and ride the long way to work, to drag my ass over to the big hills every week and spend every Saturday afternoon prone on the sofa wearing leg squeezing tights. I didn't even shave my legs.

Next year will be different. I've entered something silly. The Haute Route.

Columbiere. Madeleine. Glandon. Alpe D'Huez. Alpe D'Huez again. Izoard. Cime de la Bonette. And a few others.

Seven stages. Distances of 120km, 105km, 136km, 14km (up the Alpe), 136km, 98km, 171km. Ascents of 2700m, 2700m, 4700m(!), 1000m (in 14km, up the Alpe), 3700m, 3200m, 2900m.

I think that counts as epic. I have three goals for this.

1. To get to the finish, i.e. be riding on the last day
2. To complete every stage within whatever time limits are set
3. To have a final position in the top half of my category. This is probably a bit of a "stretch" goal.

Preparation so far has consisted of picking out three other training events, booking a week in the Dolomites, putting together a high level plan and buying some new climbing wheels.

Oh, and the three days after I entered I got up an hour early and rode the long way into work.

Hell, I might even shave my legs again.

New bike, new bike!

2011-11-04T19:52:00.000Z

Well, I've finally sold my track bike. A combination of the difficulty in getting to the track combined with a hunk of metal and ten screws in my collarbone convinced me to let it go.

Still, you can't go through life with only six bikes, so I had to order another one. For a while I've been thinking about something to ride on the road in the winter. In the past I've used a combination of the Allez with Crud Road Racer guards, or the Scandal with slick tyres for when it got really messy and a bit more grip and disc brakes felt that little bit safer. I've also been thinking about a "bimble bike" - something that looks pretty and I don't mind riding slowly on. I always feel a bit odd doing gentle recovery rides on a carbon race bike.

Fate intervened and I was sent an email from Planet X, which included a build of their steel cross-ish frame, with disc brakes. Clearance for 32mm tyres, mudguard and rack mounts, plus it looks pleasingly retro. It's called a Kaffenback, because you can use it for going to the caf(e) and back.

Like this.

It's a kind of metallic tan colour, bronze maybe? Contrast gold panels with white logos. Black bits. To me, it just looked right.

Tonight was the first ride (I'm not counting going up and down the road on the day it arrived to get the position right). It's been foul all day - windy, rainy, thunderstorms. The roads are covered in puddles, leaves, mud and general autumn crap. Ideal then.

I couldn't believe how smooth it is. I'm sure it's 99% down to the tyres but in my head I'll attribute it to it being steel and designed by master craftsmen in Yorkshire. Or somewhere like that. I was confident on the messy roads, the brakes worked, the mudguards guarded (...and rattled, but that's sorted now) and you know what? I felt great riding it at full on bimble pace.

Finally, I have a "recovery ride" bike. Now that's niche.

I'm not in love with my Orca any more

2011-10-23T10:56:00.000+01:00

I still love it, of course, a deep seated affection established over more than 8500kms. It's still beautiful, still excites me when I ride it, still does all the jobs I need it to do.

But no longer do I find myself staring at it lustfully whenever I see it. No longer am I obsessive about washing it down after every ride, lubing and polishing it. No longer do I get buterflies when I walk into its room and see it lounging against the wall.

Our relationship has developed now. I've spotted the occasional blemish, heard the occasional nagging creak, felt the slight movement in the cranks when before there was none. I've applied varnish to a stone chip, changed the brake lever reach, replaced the odd worn part. We've grown together over the past couple of years - I'm a better rider and able to take the Orca to places I couldn't have done before, handled it more deftly and brought it to the top of more exciting peaks with astonishing rewards.

And all this without falling off once.

So, I love it, but I'm not in love with it.

Time to start a new affair?

A Magical Discovery

2011-10-15T09:03:00.000+01:00

I learnt something yesterday. Something magical, brilliant, useful and unexpected. However, telling you now would only be half the story, so you can either read on or cheat and skip to the end.

Where does the story start? In Afan Argoed? On the drive down there? In Cirencester the night before? No, it starts several months ago when Jon suggested a trip to the Afan trail centre (in South Wales, for non-UK readers). We'd been there a few years ago as part of a Welsh road-trip and it seemed as if Jon's stellar performance in the Twentyfour12 had re-ignited his mountain biking fire. Needless to say I was mildly ambivalent due to not having done much MTB this year and an underlying nervousness about crashing and breaking. Still, after a Jon repeatedly suggesting dates and me repeatedly avoiding the issue Jon finally came up with a day that I had no valid reason to decline. It was nearly scuppered at the last minute due to various work-y things but kidnapping his manager and locking him in my cellar suddenly solved the issue.

The night before I travelled down to Jon's in Cirencester. He lives half an hour nearer to Afan than I do, so it made sense to get everything sorted at his the night before and leave early in the morning. The evening was spent eating pasta, drinking beer and wine and playing with small children. There was also some toenail cutting but I don't really want to expand on that.

We were up at seven (06:20 for Jon, using the toddler alarm), coffee, toast, arse-lard, bike clothes and into the car by 07:30. Little traffic, more coffee and bacon roll at the services (Jon: "I don't think I've been to these services before". Me: "We stayed here for the Dragon Ride") and in the Afan car park for 10:00. Some minor faffing and we were riding by 10:15.

"Skyline" is the big long trail at Afan and the only one I've not done before. It starts with the same climb as "White's Level", which I have done, but then heads off into the slightly-more-wilderness than the other trails. At 47km it's also a good 3-4 hour ride (4-7 according to the trail guide...ha!). The climb is sort of interesting, in that there a various rocky sections - loose, steppy, nadgery - that kind of thing. It's not particularly steep though, so more of an exercise in power management for the technical bits than an outright lung-burster. I do find these trails tediously repetative - hey, we've built a rocky feature on the climb, let's do it every 20 metres! I think that's at the heart of my dislike of trail centres, and what distinguishes them from natural routes.

So, where were we? Ah, yes, getting lost on Skyline. I say lost - we knew we were on the trail at all times but somehow managed to miss a 25km loop, suddenly finding ourselves at the final descent. Another exercise in repetition - roll down a bit, rocky feature, roll down a bit, rocky feature - times twenty-five.

After the aborted attempt at Skyline we did "The Wall" (much more natural feeling - definitely my thing), rode back to the Glyncorrwg centre for lasagne, chips and Coke and tried to fix my brakes. Did I mention my back brake lever was squishing to the bars before biting? That really helped my crash induced nervousness. I fact, most of the descents involved Jon zipping off into the distance and me being much more cautious - merely terror rather than hysteria. It's all relative though - I was still going quicker than previous visits.

We decided that we were both a little tired by now so we were never going to attempt Skyline. White's Level it was. My fixed brake became unfixed, we rode up the same initial climb and bimbled round.

On the spin back to the car we discussed how battered we were feeling - four and a half hours of rocky trails uses very different muscles to six hours of road riding. I could feel my core, my hamstrings, my calves were burning from all the standing and my shoulders were stiff from all bar control. Either we need to do more MTBing or stick to being wimpy roadies.

Once in the car I really started to feel the ride. The seats were hard, my glutes (=arse) ached, my legs ached... it wasn't comfortable. Thankfully all the traffic and accidents were going the other way so we had a clear run back to Cirencester. We transferred my stuff to my car and I started the drive home.

I then made my magical discovery.

When you are tired, battered, aching and stiff: Heated seats are awesome. It's like taking a long, hot bath whilst having a nagging feeling that you've wee'd yourself.

Now, that was worth the read wasn't it?

Catching Flies

2011-10-02T09:27:00.000+01:00

As predicted, the weather yesterday was blistering. It was the first of October, and it was my first minimum-clothing-full-length-zip-unzipped ride of the year (excluding foreign lands). And no, this isn't the Southern hemisphere.

I had one of those magic legs days too -the days when you glance down at the computer and can't believe the power you're maintaining. I even overtook someone. Admittedly he was shirtless, on a loaded tourer and looked like he'd been riding non-stop for six days, but hey, an overtake is an overtake. I broke my record for the ride to my Mum's, and then broke it again on the way back. I'm surprised Team Sky haven't been round.

I celebrated this achievement with a stretch and a Cornetto, though not in that order. It was more important to get the recovery ice-cream down quickly. Proper sports nutrition is vital for an athlete like me.

Then I went for a shower. That was where I discovered that not only had I been dragging my own sorry carcass up the hills, but the carcasses of twelve flies. Twelve. At least - there were a few mushy black dots that could have once been flies but it was hard to tell. I only counted the dots that had a clear, visible leg or wing.

There are definitely a lot of flies about at the moment. In the evenings, when the sun is low, you can see clouds of them and feel the bigger ones slamming into your glasses. Are they as confused as I am by the weather? Do they think it's Spring and have all hatched six months early? Any entomologists care to comment?

Still, there are definitely twelve fewer than there would have been had I not been out yesterday. No need to thank me. All part of the service.

Indian Summer

2011-09-28T21:49:00.000+01:00

Who'd have thought it? There I was, just writing about having to fit mudguards, and we've been blasted with sunshine and warmth. Finally, summer has arrived. 22C on Monday, 24C today, 26C forecast for the weekend.

Actually, I didn't just write about the mudguards. I fitted them. My Crud Roadracer guards are now in their third fitting and oddly they've got harder to attach. Somehow I need to cut bits off each time I put them on. Maybe my frame is shrinking - it does keep getting wet.

After fitting the guards, the next obvious step was to get the bike on the turbo. I find it vital to fit mudguards for turbo use - it gets pretty moist in my garage duing some of those interval sessions and I'd rather take a shower in clean water at the end of the session, rather than doing it with sweat during the session.

So - guards, turbo. I've also bought a new softshell jersey for use on the road (continuing my love affair with Gore bike clothing) and stocked up on Minty Arse Lard. Oh, and mud tyres on the mountain bikes.

And along comes the heat. Still, bring on the dry, hardpacked trails, the smell of roasting tarmac and the salt-encrusted helmet straps. I'll cope with the guards when I don't need them, the mud tyres in the dust and I'll leave that new shell hanging in the garage.

This is the UK.

Snow next week then.

Tools are ace

2011-09-23T23:17:00.000+01:00

This may be slightly obvious to some readers but tools, in particular specialist tools, are ace.

When I first started trying to do my own bike maintenance I had the basic, usual things - allen keys, screwdrivers, pliers, some squirty cream and a hammer. I could therefore do smaller tasks, and with a significant amount of bodging and swearing, slightly more complex ones too. Over the years I've built up a good collection of odd shaped pieces of metal half dipped in blue plastic that all do one thing, and one thing only, very well.

A chainring bolt spanner is ideal for saving you from having to try and grip the back of the bolt with a pair of pliers.
A chainwhip is ideal for saving you from having to try and grip a cassette with a pair of pliers.
A decent chaintool is ideal for saving you from having to snap a chain with a pair of pliers.
A star-flangled nut tool is ideal for saving you from having to try and seat a star-fangled nut with a screwdriver. Only joking! You'd try and do it with needle nose pliers.

Basically, I used to try and fix things with pliers. If they didn't work, I'd hit things with a hammer, and then try the pliers. I have spent over £100 on tools to use instead of pliers.

A couple of days ago I replaced my drive train (cassette, chainrings and chain), bottom bracket and shifters. Out came the chainwhip and lockring tools. Out came the Shimano HTII tool. The workshop chain tool. The cable cutter. The copper slip. The baby wipes. The latex frickin' gloves.

All went swimmingly apart from undoing one plastic cap that goes on the end of the crank axle. I just couldn't get it to undo using the HTII tool - my fingers couldn't grip it hard enough. What solved the problem?

Pliers. Never forget the pliers.

Week off

2011-09-12T10:05:00.000+01:00

I have a week off. I'm not going anywhere exciting so I should have time to do some riding, some mechanics and some winterisation.

I thought a week in September would be a good idea - September is always warm and sunny, right? Not this week. To be fair, it looks reasonable but starting the week with the remains of a hurricane isn't the best. Watching the footage of the Tour of Britain I'm just glad I'm not in Scotland.

The plan is to get a few decent rides in - with a vague idea of doing a 100 miler at some point. A couple of years ago Jon and I thought we'd try and do a century (technical term for a hundred mile ride) every month through the winter. We counted a ride we'd already done in September, then found ourselves at the end of October with no ride done and no weekends left - which lead to the infamous after work ride.

This year I've done a century in April (Cotswold Spring Classic), May (Tour of Wessex), June (Magnificat) and August (Cirencester-Aylesbury-Newbury). This week seems like a good opportunity to tick off September, and we'll just see what happens.

Future maybe/possible/we'll see plans include some winter MTB enduros and some planning and decision making over the road rides next year - I'd like something up big mountains with a vague element of competition too.

Right, better get down to the garage to fix on those mudguards.

Torq 12:12 - Riding, not racing

2011-09-03T17:39:00.000+01:00

After my lack of mountain biking this year I took a minor leap of faith (or should that be a hop of faith?) and agreed to partner Darren at the Torq 12:12 mountain bike race. It was on a strickly "non-competitive" basis though which meant there was no need to ride fast, or even ride much at all.

The race starts at midday and finishes at midnight - hence the 12:12 name - and as Darren picked me up in the morning he reiterated his non-competitive stance by stating that we probably wouldn't even need lights. That suited me - whilst I've done a few off-road rides recently I'm still nervous about crashing. Darkness and the forecast rain would increase the chances of this dramatically. He was also suffering with a cold so we decided to treat the trip as "just going for a bike ride, where there might be lots of other people riding too".

Somehow I ended up being the starting rider (the event is a relay) and decided to take my non-competitive role seriously by bimbling round the first lap. I might have overtaken a few people on the climbs but I certainly wasn't racing anyone. There were a few numpties who thought that they might save 5 seconds on a 12 hour race by barging past but generally people were pretty relaxed.

There were a couple of slightly sketchy points (which I sorted out on the second lap) but all-in-all the course was condusive to staying rubber-side down. Some dampness, a touch of moistness and a smear of greasiness on the roots but nothing that Mud-X tyres at 25psi couldn't cope with.

(Slight aside - Bontrager Mud-X are my favourite tyre in all the world. Is it wrong to have a favourite tyre?)

Ten minutes into my first lap the rain started. Just as I finished and handed over to Darren the rain stopped.

Five minutes into my second lap the rain started again, and continued throughout my third lap (we were doing double laps this time).

Shortly after I handed over to Darren the rain stopped. Half an hour later it started again, and this time it looked like it was going to continue for a while. I considered the options.

If I went out again, that would mean Darren would either have to go out again too or be called a wuss for the next month.
Darren really wasn't feeling well. It would be cruel to make him ride again.
Stopping now would be really non-competitive, thereby executing our strategy perfectly.
If we stopped we could go for hot chips.
Chips are delicious.

As Darren came in, sodden and filthy, after his double lap, I met him in the change over area. Dressed in normal clothes, with no helmet and no bike.

"Are you not going out again? Why not? Oh, OK."

He didn't take much convincing. That's the lure of chips for you.

So, we only lasted six hours of the race, but quite frankly we were both fairly satisfied. I hadn't fallen off, Darren hadn't colapsed vomiting and we were home at a reasonable hour. I quite like this non-competitive thing.

Because I can

2011-08-27T23:07:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, 28th June 2008, a couple of months after I started this blog, I rode my first century - 100 miles, in one go, on a road bike. I'd built up to it with longer and longer rides and I remember getting to about the 80 mile mark and just riding small loops close to home to make up the 100, in case I blew up completely and ended up quivering by the side of the road (like that would ever happen).

A Century (capitalised to emphasise the awesomeness) is a big thing. It has to be miles of course - none of this "metric" business with kilometres. Your first century ride is like your first car crash or assassination attempt. A little scary, maybe a little painful, but forever memorable.

Two days ago, with the minimum of recent training, little fanfare and admittedly some careful pre-eating I rode from Cirencester to Aylesbury to Newbury. 107 miles.
This was partly because I wanted to help out Jon on the first part of his charity ride (http://original.justgiving.com/jonlast) but mainly because it would be fun. Not epic, not brutal, just fun.

You've come a long way, baby.

The psychology of clothing

2011-08-14T22:43:00.001+01:00

I've written about bike clothing before - mainly pointing out how silly it all is when taken out of context. But I realised today something fairly obvious but something that seemed at the time to be a major revelation. Now, I'm sure when people read this major revelation, they'll think "um, yeah, that's obvious", but the fact I consider it a major revelation says a lot about my attitude to clothing in general.
Off the bike, I wear the following outfits.

For work, jeans, t-shirt, sometimes a shirt if I'm meeting someone external or very important. I have a pair of shoes too. They're brown and casual.
For evenings at home, I wear whatever I had on at work. I might change out of the shirt though. And I take off my shoes.
For weekends, jeans, t-shirt and the same pair of shoes. Can you see a pattern emerging?
Now, how about "evenings out"? A birthday meal, or a night on the town? Well, obviously I'm going to wear jeans, a "going-out" shirt and my shoes. You know, the brown ones.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.... that's about it. My attitude to non-bike clothing is very much "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". Normal clothing is not particularly important to me. Besides, I like my brown shoes.

Now I've put some context around my attitude to clothing, I can let you in on the revelation.

I am very picky about what I wear on the bike.
What I wear affects how I ride.
I know. Astounding. You might imagine that I have a simple range of tops, shorts and one pair of shoes that I use for everything. Not so. I choose on style, colour, practicality, warmth, fit and even fashion. Take today for example - a singlespeed mountain bike ride. Firstly, mountain bike generally means looser fit unless I'm racing. Colour is less important as being seen by drivers is not as much of a consideration. Indeed, blending into the countryside is almost an advantage. Singlespeed is also more laid back in attitude than normal mountain biking therefore I'm more likely to wear clothing with "wanker" written on it.

Some general guidelines to get you started.

Road. Tight lycra, as little as you can get away with. A modicum of colour but stay away from fluorescants. Matching is important. Red top = red gloves. Black and white top = white gloves. Remember, first get the look, then get the speed. Shoes must match the weather. Don't wear white shoes in the rain. Roadie clothing makes me want to ride fast and hard. I find gentle rides in lycra almost impossible.
Mountain Bike - bimbling. Baggies, loose top, casual shoes. Can use some colour but avoid bright unless you're trying to make a statement. Casual shoes = casual riding. Flow, relax, look at the birds and the trees and the deer and the flowers.
Mountain Bike - training. Baggies, tighter top, race shoes. More colour is acceptable. Team shirts are allowed. Now I'm concentrating on being smooth and being fast.
Mountain Bike - racing. The only time lycra should be worn off road. Essentially, roadie look with different shoes and less colour matching. Breathing will be heavy and laboured.
Singlespeed. Naked is best, otherwise rough shorts and sandals. Wellies in the winter. Breathing is not important.

Remember the brown all purpose shoes? I have seven pairs of bike shoes. As Lance said, it's not about the bike.

It's about the look.

Let me introduce the band

2011-08-07T15:08:00.000+01:00

I'm in a pub. It's probably my fifth of the day. I'm on my sixth pint and all I've eaten in something grilled in a bun. The average hair colour around me is grey, where hair is present. And my ears are starting to dribble at the sound of another meandering bass solo.

Welcome to the Maryport Blues festival.

The premise. Book some good/famous blues acts and put them in a marquee, charging £100ish for the weekend. Also book some quite good but not-famous blues acts and send them trawling around the pubs of a small fishing port, charging £6 for a wristband that gives entry to all the pubs. Add lots of cheap alcohol in plastic glasses and hundreds of locals drinking in the streets. Let the carnage ensue.

Maryport is in West Cumbria, sort of Carlisle and go left until you get wet and salty. For Southerners in the UK, it's very very North. The accent is Geordie put through a scrambler. We (Chris and I) spent the six trips with our regular taxi driver chuckling and agreeing without understanding any more than one word in ten. For all we know he was threating to drive us off the harbour into the sea - and we'd chuckle and reply "yes, sounds fantastic".

The Blues festival has been going for thirteen years now. Not non-stop you understand, not even blues guitarists can keep a solo going for that long. It's grown to encompass the marquee of "proper" bands along with the "Blues Trail" of pubs and clubs. This gives the whole town a party feel as there is music everywhere - there is even a free outdoor venue as well. Obviously this descended into fighting and vomit later in the evening but by that time we were safely in the "rich outsiders" marquee.

So, the bands:

Barry "Sinnerboy" Barnes. Some acoustic, some mandolin. The festival needed more acts like him - a bit different to all the other blues/rock three/four pieces.
Paint it Blue. A blues/rock four piece. Singer was folky which didn't really work for the material. Guitarist competant, bass and drums played by pensioners. Poor sound quality.
Dr Truth. One of our favourites. Mainly original songs, excellent musicians, top-class vocalist with what looked like 150 years of experience and anecdotes to draw on. He could have expired at any time - that's what a blues singer should be like. Actual age - probably 62.
Sandi Thom. She's famous. Well, she had a hit about wanting to be a punk rocker. Surprisingly good.
Cherry Lee Mewis. Terrible, terrible name. Same venue as Paint it Blue and again poor sound. Others we met raved about her though.
Dog House BB. I don't really remember this lot. Pub was packed.
Hooson. Powerful female singer, one of the best of the weekend. Funny coloured hair. From Yorkshire so the blues-chat was hard to take seriously.
Philip Sayce. He was second on the bill in the main tent, so he should have been top class. Thankfully, he was. By this time Chris was drunk enough to pay him the complement of "as good as Joe Bonamassa" at the CD signing. Thankfully he didn't hit him, and bumped fists instead.
Jonny Lang. We went to see Jonny Lang. He disappointed us. He fell into the world of meandering blues cliche - for someone with so many great songs, why was it hard to actually play any of them normally? Yes, I'm sure you can do it in jazz-scat with a 15/16th time signature but it doesn't help the song.

That was just the Saturday. There were five more on the Sunday. By Sunday evening we were all blused out and went for a walk and a curry instead.

Life's a (pit) bitch

2011-07-25T21:56:00.000+01:00

About this time of year I like to go to the Bontrager Twentyfour12. It's in its sixth year and I've been to five of them. The first was held on a reclaimed rubbish dump, where I lost my UK 24 hour virginity with a group of people from work. The year after I did a 12 hour pair with Jon (now known as Little Jonny Fast, LJF) at Cotswold Farm Park, before the event moved to its current home near Plymouth, Newnham Park. That was my first (attempted) 12 hour solo, cut short due to me being so tired I forgot I had caffeine gels to use when I was tired. A missed year was followed by victory in the Torchbearer12 (midnight to midday) mixed pair which brings us bang up to date. The original plan was a 24 hour pair with LJF but due to the snapped clavicle I decided to give it a miss - and pit bitch instead.

Pit Bitch, definition. It's not quite right - it also applies to people helping out other riders at mountain bike events, and you don't have to be female. My preferred definition is "someone who wants an excuse to feel part of an event, but can't be bothered with all that painful riding".

So, here's my guide to pit bitching.

Qualifications required: No formal qualifications are needed, but basic time keeping an advantage. Being able to work out "it was 03:24 when they went out, two laps, averaging an hour fifteen, allow ten minutes in case they speed up, plus fifteen more for you to get ready, means I'll wake you up at X" at 4am after no sleep and several beers is a preferred skill.

Experience needed: Good with zip ties, duct tape, disposable BBQs, super noodles, indexing gears, Dirtworker operation and motivational speaking. I say motivational speaking, what I really mean is the ability to lie consistently about relative race positions and time gaps in order to persuade riders to go out again. For example

"You're in fourth, only ten minutes behind third and fifteen off second. Get out there"
"Go out hard, and just keep going. Full gas"
"Did I say ten minutes? Really? I meant a lap and ten minutes!"
"What do you mean it hurts? Just remember what Jens would say!"
"Superman wears Jens Voigt underpants. Jens wears LJF underpants"

Equipment needed: Zip ties, duct tape, allen keys, burgers, cable cutters, BBQ sauce, cool box, beer, track pump, beer, comfy chair, coffee, beer. Marshmallows.

Duties: Many and various, but the main ones are

Sitting, looking at the weather forecast. Shaking head whilst doing it.
Emptying the coolbox.
Cheering, the more random the better. If you can get a passing rider to look round and fall off, you get a point. Ten points and you get an extra burger.
Sitting, poking meat balanced above some flames.
Wearing a silly t-shirt. Home made.
Watching the final stage of the Tour De France.
Eating ice cream at 9am.
Race position checking. Forgetting the race position on the walk back to the pit, making something up at random.
Pretending to understand bike mechanics before telling the rider there's nothing you can do. They'll just have to go round with one pedal.

Rewards: If you get all this perfectly right, you'll be rewarded with the reflected glory of podium places. You'll also have an ace weekend, meet some ace people and knock your own fitness back by a few months.

So, how was my performance? LJF and Mark were second in male 24 hour pairs, and Caroline was third in female 24 solo.

I think I did pretty well.

Pyrenees... part 8: Yes, yes we are.

2011-07-19T22:05:00.000+01:00

Hold the wheel. Hold the wheel. Come on, you can do this. You can do this for an hour. It's hurting, but you like the hurt. Oh God, he's pulled aside. I'm in front now. Keep the pace up. Tuck low. Clip the apexes through the corners. Bit more. Pull off, ease up slightly, let them go through. Ah, Dangerous Dave is on the front now. This is really going to hurt.

And...... repeat until there are only four of the group left - three riders, one guide.

That's what happens when it's flat on the final day. It all gets a bit competitive. It was a lot of fun though, and we rattled through the final 90km to the seaside. At the seaside we had ice cream, beer, burgers, more beer, watched the first stage of the Tour, more beer, fabulous food, wine, complaints from the French (naked on balconys), complaints from probable Germans, more wine, dessert, angry Scotsman, unconcious Scotsman, more wine and finally bed.

That was it. That was trans-Pyrenees.

A few random memories.

Chaingate, when Greasy Dave dropped his chain on the Col de Souler, I stopped to help (therefore making it not-chaingate) and Dave got so covered in oil he earnt his "greasy" nickname.
Paul buying a compact chainset after the first day. Very, very wise move, and astonishing that we were in a village with a bike shop.
Vomiting at the top of hills. Good effort.
Surly Dave being the most un-surly person I've ever met. He just rode a Surly.
Not crashing, or even having a hairy moment, on any of the descents. That's not normally like me.
Coke and Snickers. I've mentioned them before and I'll mention them again.
The odd hour that felt relaxing.
Coke and Snickers.

You know, next time I might go on a holiday.

Pyrenees... part 7: Are we there yet?

2011-07-18T22:19:00.001+01:00

Not quite. Just one 19km climb, up 1281m, straight out of the hotel in the morning. One deceptive climb that advertises as being 6.9% average, but you soon realise is going to be much harder than that after the first few kilometres are only 3-4%. One Hors Categorie, steepening, relentless sweaty climb that goes on and on at 9-10% near the top, never turning, never flattening. Flies were landing on me. Hell, flies were setting up home on me. Port de Pailheres, the second highest pass in the Pyrenees, 2001m. You've got to be suspicious of that "just over 2000m" thing though. It certainly felt like they'd added a bit on the top.

See that twisty thing? We got to ride down that. At the first village we stopped for Coke and cake, waiting for the others. Ah, sunshine. On average, the rest of the tour was downhill from here.

The next climb was livened up by some very childish behaviour, mainly instigated by me. Partly instigated by Dangerous Dave doing his usual van-based goading I launched a sprint, which just happened to coincide with a minor Col summit. This led to all kind of mini-attacks, including the "wait for him to get closer then speed up" game. I'm sorry. It was fun though.

Another fabulous lunch, this time properly homemade, and we only had the Col de Jau, a mere 1500 metres or so. This was it. The final col. Winding through the trees, brilliant sunshine, the odd waterfall and a pair of teenage girls wearing very little. The last bit may have been a hallucination but the others saw them too.

The final big descent. The final mid-descent stop - though coffee and Coke were ignored in favour of a cheeky beer. And then... a recovery McDonalds. We went for milkshakes and ended up with burgers. And milkshake-like ice creams. And fries.

A few more beers, some terrible sub-motorway services food at the hotel "restaurant" and we only had one flat half-day left. How hard can one flat half-day be, which a bunch of mountain hardened riders who can smell, taste and almost touch the finish line?

We'll see. It's not as if we'd treat it as a team time-trial.

Pyrenees... part 6: Sex and Bonking

2011-07-16T22:34:00.001+01:00

That got your attention.

Of course, it should be Seix. That's where we overnighted, in another middling French hotel. My overriding memory of this one was that the bathroom in our room had seemingly been transplanted from a 1970s caravan, complete with the world's most useless shower hose that melted and colapsed under use.

Anyhoo, a 20km flatish start led to the Col de Port (which translates to "Pass pass"). A mere Cat 2, yet somehow the lack of a decent breakfast had got to me and I hovered on the verge of bonking (cyclist talk for running out of glycogen) all the way up. Dangerous Dave was doing his sheepdog impression, shuttling up and down the line of riders handing out snacks and barking at people to keep them on the route. At the top I dug into my secret stash of Torq bars and suitably refuelled plumeted down the descent.

Sunshine once more. Arm warmers off, leg warmers off, sun cream on. We bimbled through a town, adding in a couple of laps of the one way system for added interest, before joining the Route de Corniches. I'm not one for scenery (I've just watched the TdF stage where they descended the Aubisque the same way we did - wow, that would have been amazing if I'd focussed on anything else but the road), but this was spectacular. Breathtaking. I'm sure some of the crew took some great pictures but I was content to take it in by eye. Trust me. It was ace.

Lunch stop. Hot. Sunny. Pate, bread, Haribo (hurrah!), mini-Snickers (double-hurrah!), Coke, cheese, meats, cakes.

Post-lunch, another climb - Col de Chioula. 1431 metres but nothing too steep. Forever known as "Iain's Col". Then, down to Ax-les-Thermes, a spa town where we ate, drank and were merry. Dangerous Dave earned his nickname by crashing on virtually the last corner and arriving at the bar torn, battered and dripping blood.

I think this post needs a pic. Not a Col, but a crepe.

That is a Black Forest Crepe. Cherries, chocolate ice cream, sauce, cream. There may even be a crepe in there too. That's what I call recovery food. And with it, some recovery drink.

Salut!

Pyrenees... part 5b: Belgium II

2011-07-15T18:16:00.000+01:00

My titles are getting increasingly complex.

The climb up Col de Portet D'Aspet was one of my favourites - shortish and sharpish. At the top I met up with my two breakaway companions and after some faffing, texting guides and getting cold we descended to the nearest cafe for coffee. By now things were pretty chilly and this seemed the most sensible option. Plus, it involved coffee, which is always a good thing.

The rest of the group passed the cafe so we paid our bill and followed. We shortly came across the others and the van, and lunch. Hot lunch!

I haven't really mentioned the lunches. The lunches were a real highlight - who can resist a picnic every day with all you can eat local produce, cake, Coke, fruit, tea and coffee? The guides had kindly decided that hot pasta was the order for today which went down a treat. We defrosted, dried out a little and relaxed.

The after-lunch route included the Col de la Core - another Cat 1 climb. Hurrah. Plus, more rain. Double hurrah. I didn't stop to take pictures at the top of this one, but thankfully Iain did. Again, we didn't hang around at the top but descended pretty imediately, found a cafe and tried to thaw out once again.

So, that was our trip to Belgium. I loved it.

Pyrenees... part 5: Belgium

2011-07-13T19:17:00.001+01:00

It was a dark and stormy night....

Really, it was. Very stormy. Those continentals do thunderstorms extremely well. Lightning, thunder, rain, power cuts. A few more clothes than normal went on and we rolled the 20km out of town, over the border... into Belgium.

At least, aspects were Belgian. The chill. The moisture. The combination of mist, fog and drizzle that morphed into clouds as we climbed higher. Obviously the climbs weren't particularly Belgian, but I guess they must have had some kind of cataclysm, throwing up some mountains overnight.

The first col of the day was Col De Mente - 9.3 km long, 849 up (an average percentage of 9.1%) with bits in excess of 11%. I noticed that our reigning King of the Mountains was having an easy day so this was the time.... to attack.

Up ahead, big Iain. Big as in tall, strong, powerful... but heavier than me. He'd also spotted the chance to take a Col and had set off at a fair old pace. I kept him just about in sight, through the trees, around the hairpins. It was certainly a cooler day - I guess both of us liked this kind of weather. Slowly, slowly I started to catch up - I knew there was a fair way to go so there was no hurry. Occasionally he looked round. Did he speed up as he saw me? I my mind, yes. In reality, probably yes.

Then the van came past, with Dangerous Dave at the wheel. Now, Dangerous Dave had a habit of goading riders. He might call it encouraging, we called it goading.

He leaned out the window... "You're not going to let him take this one are you?". "I'm just taking my time... few k to go".

He passed me, and slowed as he drew alongside Iain. Whilst I couldn't hear him I could imagine the conversation. "He's catching you! Don't let him catch you! You've got this one!".

Iain sped up.

I sped up.

I closed in, and sat on his wheel for a few seconds. I'm sure I heard a comment at that point, but it could have been the wind. I attacked, getting a 10m gap. I eased off, to let him catch up. I attacked again, with a slight giggle. There was definitely a comment that time.

The rest of the climb involved me trying to keep the gap safe, and presumably Iain try to close up. He was quicker on the flatter bits, I had the advantage on the steep bits. Gradually I pulled away.

The Col was mine. Not by much, but it was mine. He's a picture of me looking like a muppet. Go on, laugh. I don't care.

At the top, DD was waiting with hot drinks. We needed them. Soon Iain and I were joined by others, and cooling rapidly three of us set off carefully down the descent. At the bottom we found ourselves at one of the most (in)famous Cols in the tour - Col de Portet D'Aspet. Short and sharp 4.4km averaging 9.6% - with a maximum of 12.5%. This was the descent where Fabio Casartelli crashed and died during the 1995 Tour de France, and there is an impressive memorial to him at the foot of the climb. I pulled over, had a wander, a sit, a think. Road cycling is potentially lethal in so many ways. We'd flown down narrow roads at 70kph, on 23mm of rubber, less than a metre from deadly ravines. Dodged cars. Hopped potholes. Had punctures. Slid on gravel. Protected by a piece of polystyrene and a layer of lycra. Sometimes it's good to sit and think. Just don't do it on a technical descent.

My two companions missed the memorial. They thought I was going for a piss.

To be continued...

Pyrenees... part 4: The "rest" day

2011-07-11T21:31:00.001+01:00

Normally, my rest days involve not doing much. It's an almost constant factor that threads through them all. What I wouldn't do on a rest day is ride up something like the Col de Peyresourde, 9.8km long, 669m of ascent, an average of 6.8%. I certainly wouldn't start the ride by throwing in an extra 300m of ascent over Col de Shortcut before getting to the foot of the Peyresourde.

I'd enjoy a Coke and an ice cream, maybe, and even a 15km descent into Bagnères de Luchon followed by a pleasant coffee and a wander round a bike shop. Following that with a ride up the Col du Portillon (7.9km, 8.4% average, sections to 14%) into Spain would be sheer madness.

Oh, no. I wouldn't do any of that on a "rest" day.

What I definitely would do is spend a couple of hours drinking beer and eating tapas, before stuffing myself with a selection of excellent Spanish food, wine, port and beer.

I must have imagined that whole middle section of the day. And faked those Col signs too.

Pyrenees... part 3: Tourmalet

2011-07-09T11:33:00.000+01:00

Off to Wiki again:

"The western side, from Luz-Saint-Sauveur, is 19 km long, climbing 1,404m at an average of 7.4 percent with a maximum of 10.2 near the summit."

Thankfully, Tourmalet, the highest pass in the Pyrenees (at 2115m) was a morning climb. This had been billed as "the big one", mainly because it was, you know, the big one. I did my now usual trick of not pausing at the bottom to photograph the sign, giving me a handy head start. I got into my rhythm, set my mental power limit to 220 watts and started tapping away.

From what I recall, the lower sections were through some little villages, all stone buildings and respite giving hairpins. At some point the trees disappeared to be replaced by Pyrenian pasture (I was going to say alpine, but we were clearly not in the Alps) which meant there was no relief from the sun. There was the odd ski station - a building, a car park - but very little else of interest.

A 19km climb is an exercise in pacing. Some riders can judge their efforts by feel and experience. I use gadgets. Power-meter, heart rate monitor, mental-state-brainwave gauge. Plus looking at the numbers gives me something to do other than looking up, up, up at a road that seems to go up forever.

210w, 220w, 190w. Heart rate 145, not bad. That's tempo. Push it a bit more to 220w average and the HR is now 151. Hmm, OK, ease it back a bit. Gear down. Oh, lowest gear already. Um, pedal more slowly - cadence 58, 55, 57... Gradient for next km 7.6%. Then 9%. Then another 9%.

I'm nearing the top now - well, 3km to go. I look up. I can see a building waaaaaay in the distance, far away and much higher than I am. Surely the pass doesn't go up there? 2km, 1km. Then there seem to be a couple of car-park ramps, 15-20%, 100m long. Right, final push. Top. Breathe.

Our group King of the Mountains was already there. We recovered with Coke and Snickers, then I went souvenir shopping. A cheap bike jersey for 60 Euros, Tourmalet branded.

There were llamas at the top, skittering around and falling off things. I think they were real.

We had lunch, we swooped down the descent, we started climbing again. Col D'Aspin. Pretty, wooded, a bit like Wales. This climb was made harder by not having signs every kilometre - don't ask me why, it's not as if I'd been riding all my life with them. Then again, the biggest climb around Newbury is only 1.5km long, so there would only be one sign anyway.

Then the descent. Slightly technical, lots of hairpins. Not the place where you want to have a front wheel puncture at 50kph. Guess what?

Thankfully it was on a straight section so I eased to a stop, walked back up the road to a shady verge and had the flint removed, tube replaced and tyre back on before the support van arrived. I still got Dangerous Dave to pump it up though.

Well, what else are guides for?

Pyrenees... part 2

2011-07-07T21:10:00.000+01:00

Morning. We emerged bleary-eyed, having been subjected to the local om-pah (um-pah? Ompah?) band for most of the previous night. For some reason this part of the Pyrenees is riddled with them, probably due to the lack of other basic entertainments - TV, radio, internet, badger hunting.

It was hot. Hot hot hot. About 20C in the morning, 30C by midday, and just kept rising through the afternoon. Thankfully I'd packed plenty of white-based jerseys, so I wasn't suffering in black like some of the fashionistas on the trip. After some gentle rolling roads we came to the bottom of the first real climb - the Col de Marie-Blanque. 9.3km long, average gradient of 7.7%. Last 3km are about 11-12%, which is nasty by my standards. Generally a Cat 1 climb in the Tour.

That's the geeky description. The real description goes something like:

Hmm. Bit steep this. Not too bad, we did worse yesterday. I can just about sit down and turn the pedals without falling off. There's a bloke up ahead, weaving all over the road. Oh, he's fallen off. Ah, I see. This bit is steeper. And this bit is steeper again. How can that be? Who build this stupid road? What kind of garlic-steeped, goose-liver stuffed, beret wearing excuse for a road engineer decided that this was a good idea?

Better stand up. 2km left. 12%? Must be a misprint, surely. 1.2%, that's what they mean. Ow. Ow. Ow...

The top. Relax. Take picture.

I know, I know. It's only 1035 metres. But we did start at about 300m.

Next, the good bit. The descent. At this point I realised that I was competent at going down, but not exceptional (insert joke here). I was about 3rd or 4th, but thankfully I never felt like I was going to hurtle over a ravine.

We continued. At the bottom of the descent (which was pretty awesome) was a little town, which we explored in order to find water. Then on through another little town (using a rare "flat bit") before we started climbing again. These were the lower slopes of the Col D'Aubisque. We had lunch in Eaux-Bonnes, which meant that we had to do our first Hors Categorie (i.e. frickin' hard) pass in, oh, 40C heat. On full stomachs.

Wikipedia says:

"On the west, the climb to the Aubisque starts in Laruns. From there, the Aubisque is 16.6 km and rises 1,190m, an average of 7.2%. The first kilometres, to the spa resort of Eaux-Bonnes, are fairly easy [dislocatedMTB says "yeah, I could actually spin my legs for this bit]. After the Cascade de Valentin comes a section at 13 per cent. [13%? Probably, I had my eyes closed]From there to the top, the climb is 8 km at eight per cent average, passing the ski resort of Gourette at 1,400m.[Ah, the ski resort. I wanted to stop for ice cream. It wasn't open]"

"The Aubisque is one of those hors catégorie cols that make the legend of the Tour. The climb is in three parts. The first is fairly easy. The road is good and the specialists use 39 × 19 or 53 × 21[Odd, I was in 34 x 19]. Then, at Eaux-Bonnes, you [stop for a long lunch and the] turn left and get to the real climb. This part, as far as Gourette, is a lot more difficult. The hardest part swings between eight and ten per cent from the seventh kilometre until Pont-du-Goua at the ninth kilometre and you need 39 × 21[No, you need 22 x 34, the lowest standard MTB gear. Unfortunately I only had 34 x 26]. Then, after 300m of flat in Gourette, a hairpin goes up to the Hôtel des Crêtes Blanches. Riders use 39 × 17 over four kilometres before going into 39 × 16 in the last two kilometres [No, they use 34 x 26. It's all we've got. We also pedal really really slowly, about 60rpm]"

By the top I was dehyrated, shivering and baked in the sun. I needed a Coke, a coffee, an ice cream, a couple of cereal bars and a massage. I didn't get the massage.

I did get a picture though.

The descent went on for ages... it was ace. The only scary bit was the melting tarmac, but hey, it probably makes it stickier.

Next. The big one.

Pyrenees... part 1

2011-07-06T20:08:00.000+01:00

I've just come back from the Saddle Skedaddle Pyrenees Road Cycling tour. I've just about recovered enough to write about it...

I think I mentioned that my bike was packed in the Evoc bag. On arrival unpacking and reassembling the bike took about 5 minutes, compared to the usual 20. I can't recommended the bag enough - it was even easy to drag around the airport. I was enjoying it so much I asked to take it with me as hand baggage but despite repeated attempts I couldn't get it to fit in the little sizing cage at check-in.

So, bike unpacked, fellow riders met. All by themselves. One Canadian woman. One Australian woman. One man who flew over from Saudi (where he lived and worked). Six other assorted men. Bikes ranged from a Surly Long Haul Trucker, with co-ordinated accessories, to a rather tasty Cervelo. Two guides - big Kevin (who I was convinced was called Steve for the first 2 days) and Dangerous Dave. Dangerous Dave was merely Dave at that point...

We ate, we drank, we talked. We girded our loins for the next day. Mountains? How hard could they be?

Fast forward 12 hours.

Oh. My. God. I. Need. Oxygen. Must. Slow. Down. Or. Fall. Off. 14% for next Km. 12%. 12%. 7%. 5Km to top. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Looking back, the first climb was always going to hurt. Nothing to do with the length, or the gradient, or the heat. All to do with it being the first climb of the trip. This was where we started to sort out "the order".

"The Order" is the unspoken King of the Mountains competition. No-one admits they are trying, no-one talks about it before it starts, but once that first big climb of the trip comes up gears are shifted, pedals are stood on and heart rates go to maximum.

I hit the steep start hard, putting 20m into the second placed rider. Then I realised that this wasn't a 500m Cotswold climb but lasted 8Km. Oh. A few hundred metres further on and I was now the second placed rider. Bah. I was also in a lot of pain. Somehow I got it under control and vowed two things.

1. To respect my position. I wasn't the best climber.
2. To never hit a big mountain climb that hard again. The new tactic was to start slow, and continue slow.

The first Col.

Only 1135m. Only! The highest point around here is 230m. It was also one of the steepest of the whole trip with some very nasty sections.

The second Col, which although was higher was much less steep.

We had lunch at the top, where we were amazed to discover that was it for the climbing - the rest of the day was downhill to flat, pretty much. Which was nice.

Tomorrow - some Cols you may have heard of.

My road bike is excited. Very excited.

2011-06-23T19:14:00.000+01:00

My road bike is going on a plane. My road bike has never been on a plane before and so it has been spinning around with excitement. It's even been making little excited chirping noises from within the funky Evoc bike bag it's been carefully packed in. That was a fight, I had to wrestle it to the floor and take its wheels off in order to get it to calm down. I can still hear it now, through all the padding and the living room floor (our garage is at the bottom of the house), going "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkk!".

My road bike is going on a plane to France. To the Pyrenees. To Tourmalet, Aubisque, Aspin, Peyresourde, Portet d'Aspet, Marie Blanque, Souler, la Core, Jau, Portillon, Port, Pailheres...

And I'm going with it.

I'm quite excited too.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk!

Hell of the North Hampshire

2011-06-14T21:29:00.000+01:00

Belgian. That's how we like to describe road rides that are cold, wet, rough, dirty and brutal. Last Sunday's Magnificat was double Belgian.

Some statistics to begin with.

The long route is 202km (or 127 miles if you're being non-Belgian)
587 people paid good money to do this route
17 people took the short option and did 51 miles
131 people took the medium option and did 81 miles
65 people didn't finish
202 people didn't start
172 people completed the 127 miles

So less than a third of the entrants completed the route.

This sounds a little like I'm about to justify quitting. But no. I was one of the 172. The 172 cold, drenched, battered, numb, punctured and beaten who were truly Belgian too. Also in that 172 were Phill and Dave B from LEJOG (who somehow managed to ride 140 miles!) and three others I know from work - Dave W, Pat K and Chris H (on a hybrid!). Awesome stuff.

So... what happened?

We've had quite a lot of sunshine recently, and very little rain. All week I'd been watching the forecasts and it looked like the precipitation fairy would be making an appearance. The forecasts for Sunday varied a little - on Wednesday showers were predicted, on Thursday it had changed to light rain, Friday heavy rain and Saturday we were back to light rain. I spent most of Saturday on various weather sites, hoping that one of them would show a change in the wind, or a change in the cloud cover. To be fair, they did - but not in a good way. Moderate to heavy rain all day, 15mph winds.

Time to prepare.

Clothing. I umm-ed and ahh-ed, but past experience has told me that too hot is better than too cold, and being warm is more important than being dry. Time for the trusty Gore Phantom softshell (which kept me alive on LEJOG), knee warmers and my winter overshoes - rated down to -5C.

The bike. Wet lube on the chain, Conti GP 4 Seasons tyres - a rain/winter tyre. This is June! What am I doing using winter tyres in June!?

The food. Extra strength Torq juice, mainly gels and a couple of bars. I don't like to be hungry. You might have guessed that from my last post.

Time to sleep and pray the forecast was wrong. It normally is.

Morning came, and it was just as predicted. 9C, windy, moderate rain. I rode to the start expecting queues of people like last year but it was surprisingly quiet. I was in the first group off at 8am and I think I saw my first punctured rider at 8.10am. It was carnage - all the water was hiding pot holes and helping the local flint to shred tyres. There were also very few people out, so no real groups were forming. I punctured at 20 miles in - a giant pothole exploding the rear tube at the valve - and had a 15 minute fight to change the tube with cold sodden hands. In all honesty I was in a better state than a lot of people who hadn't really dressed for the conditions. My feet were wet but toasty, my shell was keeping out the wind and keeping in the warm and my hands were just about functioning.

I put all thoughts of a fast time out of my mind - with no groups around I must have ridden at least 100 of the miles alone. I stopped briefly at every other feed stop and just kept pedaling. Around almost every corner there was someone fixing a puncture, and when I saw the odd other rider there was very little chat. Grim.

At the 80 mile point there was a feed stop with hot tea! That was nice. I even had sugar. 80 miles done... only 47 to go. Fuck.

With 25 miles to go I lost the ability to change my front gears. The bike was working, but my hands were so cold I couldn't push the lever. I used both hands to get it into the little ring and left it there.

With 16 miles to go, I treated myself to a caffeine gel. I was on very familiar training roads now so I knew what was coming. A couple more climbs, one little kicker (at about 25% gradient) and just keep pedaling.

At about this point I started to think about what I was going to do when I finished. I'd been invited to a friends (Caroline) for post-ride tea and cake, but quite frankly I figured if I stopped I'd never get going again. Then again, there was cake. But home and a hot shower beckoned. Home or cake, home or cake...

With 10 miles to go I lost the ability to change my rear gears. Again, cold hands. I put it in a lowish one and singlespeeded to the finish. At this point cake won. That and the fact I was rapidly losing the ability to work my bike controls - brakes would probably be next and Newbury traffic with no brakes is no fun.

The finish. I grabbed the goody bag (completely failing to carry on through to get a medal - ah well) and bimbled the 500 yards to Caroline's house. I realised how cold I was when I found I couldn't grip anything - I couldn't undo my helmet straps, I couldn't undo a zip, I couldn't undo my shoes. Thankfully Caroline had warmed up after doing the 81 miler and helped me with the tricky fasteners. A warm towel, a very hot shower, a cup of tea and a huge piece of cake and I was almost human again. She gave me a lift home - there was no way I was riding again - and I picked up my bike later. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

So, that was the Magnificat

Chapeau to everyone who turned up a rode - whatever distance. You are all now famous Belgians.

(There was a tweet later from one of the photographers, @SportivePhoto - "Have now photographed over 150 sportives, NEVER have I been in the rain all day long. An epic day for those who rode")

Today I have eaten...

2011-06-10T19:47:00.000+01:00

Two slices of toast with cherry jam.
One slice of malt loaf.
A Nature's Valley granola bar.
An apple.
A Nutrigrain Elevenses bar.
An egg salad sandwich.
A giant jacket potato with baked beans.
A handful of dried cranberries, blueberries and raisins.
Another slice of malt loaf.
A small High-5 gel.
400ml of Torq Recovery, Chocolate Orange flavour.
Another slice of malt loaf.
A slice of bread with some chicken, sort of folded over into a sandwich.
A square of Lindt Mint Intense chocolate.

I'm now cooking tea - home made ciabatta pizzas. Then I'll almost certainly have a Solero. And maybe some more malt loaf.

I'd better do this 200km bike ride on Sunday, otherwise I'm going to be really really fat.

Tour of We

2011-05-30T18:13:00.000+01:00

Or 2/3rds of Tour of Wessex.

Yes, I wimped out on day three. Tired legs (from about 20 miles in on day 2) and a forecast for persistent rain swung the will-I-enjoy-this-ometer firmly into the "Hell No" zone. Having spent most of the day sleeping and eating pizza and cake I think I made the right choice.

Day one was windy, showery, hilly, occasionally picturesque and windy. Did I mention windy? I rode most of the way round with Darren, having let Jon, Phill and Phill's friend Chris escape into the distance. I remember the climb up Cheddar Gorge, the second feed station (with little old ladies serving tea and coffee in china cups!), Darren chatting to a young lady for 30 miles (she kept trying to get away but she just wasn't quick enough), the climb up to King Alfred's Tower (ouchy) and Darren's dodgy knee making an appearance again. I also remember Becky (of the Brownies) arriving back at the campsite after getting round the 73 mile route - an amazing achievement when her longest previous ride was about 25 miles.

Day two was hilly, often picturesque, occasionally sunny, windy and hilly. Did I mention hilly? Darren had to turn back after the first 2km - broken knee - and there was a resolution from the team to "take it easy". To be fair, I managed to stay with the others for most of the first section, only to lose them after the feed station and have to ride most of the next 30 miles solo, into the wind. Still - it was pretty - Lulworth Cove, Corfe Castle, some other rolling hills covered in green stuff. I think I saw the sea, but I was concentrating on not crashing on a steep descent so paid it little attention.

Ah, descents. 70kph/43mph on one, narrow and twisty through the trees. I was back with Phill and Jon at that point; I'd caught up at the second feed stop and sat behind the pair of them as they towed a group along, into the wind. I managed to hang on for most of the way back, before blowing up in impressive fashion 10km from the end. I even needed a caffiene gel with 2km to go - I was never going to make it otherwise.

So, 363km/227m in two days, lots of up, lots of down and lots of wind. I don't think I'd do the event again - the whole concept of multiple daily loops from one place gave the feeling of not really getting anywhere. The camping facilities were poor, the "event village" more of a hamlet and it wasn't great value either. Compared to something like TwentyFour12 it was a bit disappointing - I guess it goes to show that mountain bikers party better than roadies.

Something truely momentus has happened

2011-05-26T21:29:00.000+01:00

The recipe for "Becky's Brownies" has escaped, and ended up in our house. It came with a full set of ingredients (estimated value: £341.56) and a brownie tray. They were a very kind present for Pie on her birthday and yesterday they transmutated from blocks of calorie laden individuals into blocks of calorie laden combinations.

Each block: 840kcals

This has happened at a very convenient time - carbo loading day. As everyone knows, chocolate is a carbohydrate, as is butter. I'm not so sure about sugar and marshmallows but I'll tolerate them. They also come in handy chunks, much like Clif Shot Bloks, and I can eat around 15 in a sitting. I'm excellent at eating.

Carbo loading day inevitably precedes some kind of exercise - in this case three 100 mile rides on consecutive days. After last year this should hold no fear, however the combination of breakages, no real base training and recalcitrant back muscles might come together to make things a little tricky. Not to mention a forecast for rain - the first real rain for two months.

Still, if it all goes wrong I can kick back at the campsite with a beer, some brownies and work on my stomach.

Wow, three weeks

2011-05-21T21:03:00.000+01:00

That's a bit of a gap since the last post. It's not that I've not been doing stuff, but it hasn't seemed interesting or exciting enough to mention. OK, I've bought a car (therefore completing part two of my shopping list). I eventually let practicality get the better of me and ended up with an estate, although it does have 414 BHP.

What else? I've learnt to drive a Land Rover Discovery (old model) very slowly. Low range box, diff locks, chunky chunky tyes... "let's off-road!". Great fun. Almost as much fun as taking a 414 BHP estate car onto a runway and being coached in how to drive it properly by Don Palmer, all thanks to a 40th birthday present. I just wish the present had included a new set of tyres too. I did this with my friend Chris, who also has a 414 BHP car (saloon version) and curiously also received a driving course for his 40th birthday.

That's enough about cars. On to bikes. Remember those pics of me in Cycling Weekly last year? Here and here? Fuzzy, but definitely me. Well, they've got a better photographer. I don't even need to annotate the new picture.

If you click on it you'll see that's me at the front and Jon behind (as ever...!). Somehow they've made me look fat, which is quite an achievement.

Next weekend is the Tour of Wessex. Hopefully I'll be in good shape - I've certainly got back to reasonable fitness - but I annoying managed to tweek my back while fiddling with a bike after my ride last night. I'm currently lurching around the house like... um, House really. I'm sure I'll be fine. Really.

I'm not just getting my excuses in early. Honest.

Well that went quite well

2011-04-28T20:09:00.000+01:00

107 miles in 6:14 (official time, including feed station stops), 39th out of 253 people doing the long route. Not bad considering that I've missed a couple of months worth of training, and I've not ridden more than four and a half hours since... let me think... August?

The preparation was pretty much perfect - a week of rest and eating, culminating in a magic pasta followed by rice pudding at Jon's, courtesy of Jem. Staying over gave me the chance to meet little Esme, reaquaint myself with slightly bigger Tom, and meant I didn't have to get up at 6am. Easter Monday morning came and a light breakfast, a gentle roll to the start and we were off...

Light winds, sunshine and Jon and pal pulling on the front for the first ten miles. Then some more pulling on the front by Jon, interspersed with me trying to get him to slow slightly on the flat and hoping he'd wait for me at the top of every climb. This continued for about 50 miles, until the first couple of real climbs... the kind where people were walking... but somehow I wasn't. Somehow, all those intense turbo sessions had done something. Somehow the training had worked.

We rolled through the 100km in about three and a quarter hours. A brief calculation gave me similar to complete the remaining 70km and finish in a Gold standard time. How hard could that be?

Well, then came the hills. The gut busting knee wrenching teeth clenching real hills. Some I remembered from last year, some were new or maybe blanked out. I rode them all though, even though I was sub-walking pace for parts. Being able to trackstand is a handy skill.

And finally - the last 30km. At this point I was confident I'd finish so I was able to put a bit more work in on the front. Handily this coincided with a drop in energy from Jon (who later turned out to be incubating a nasty stomach bug) so I was able to pay back the earlier favours a little. A group gathered behind as we swept up slower people who'd started before us.

Then the last 5km. A main road, flatish and fast. I thought I'd sit on the front and time-trial to the finish, towing the group home. Three others in Performance Cycles jerseys had similar thoughts though, so I ended up four back.

500m to go. A rise in the road - not a hill, just a kicker. So I kicked, sprinting into the climb, breaking away from the group. Then a black a white rocket, who had the same idea, came past me. Ah, Jon's back. One other rider came too, and when I looked back we were 50m ahead of the bunch. Childish I know, but I'm really a big kid.

The finish line. The Easter Egg. The food, coffee, stretch, bimble back to Jon's for more food, water, tea and cake. Home.

Slump on sofa.... a nagging feeling I've forgotten something...

Recovery Tights!

First event

2011-04-24T09:20:00.001+01:00

When I broke myself, one of my thoughts was that I'd wasted all the money used in entering various events. Well, here I am the day before my first scheduled one and I'm tapering and carbo loading in preparation. For those who don't speak cyclish, that means I'm resting and eating.

Tomorrow is the Cotswold Spring Classic, an event so good that they give you an Easter egg at the end. I did it last year - it was tough, but not killer - and it'll be a good test to see how much worse I am after an unexpected couple of months off earlier this year.

Jon claims that he's going to pace me round the 100 mile route (there is a 100km option) but I seriously doubt whether he'll be able to ride as slowly as I'll be going, especially when there are other riders to chase. At least the weather is looking promising - 20C, 9mph winds - so he can work on his cycling tan.

So how do I feel? Legs are... OK. My newly acquired powermeter is giving me a rating of "Cheshire" on the cheese-legs scale. I reckon I may have been at "Double Gloucester" this time last year, so not quite as good. I've certainly not done anywhere near the amount of hill climbing practice - I've missed those weekly 7am trips to the Cotswolds to ride for five hours every Saturday.

All in all, I'm pretty positive. Not that I'll do well, but that I'm actually going to be on the start line. If I complete the 100 mile I'll even be ahead of my "best case scenario". Fingers (and collarbone screws) crossed.

Personal Training Camp Days 4 and 5

2011-04-18T21:30:00.000+01:00

Failure. Failure to do the planned 400km/16 hours. The total was about 12 and a half hours, 320km. Not bad, but not great.

Still, I've learnt a couple of things.

In the middle of a personal training camp, on the designated "rest day", don't do a set of power intervals and then get taken out by Jon to be "manned up"
After being "manned up", the most likely result for the next day will be a bimbling recovery ride, at a pace that a unicycling rhino would call slow
Pro-cyclists, on a pro-cyclist training camp, probably don't have to go down the tip
It's highly unlikely that they'll go shopping for socks in Winchester either, and end up buying expensive handbag presents
And don't get me started on the temptations of hot pastie sellers and free samples in the posh chocolate shop. They don't sell many pasties in Lanzarote.

Essentially, life gets in the way. Which to be fair is no bad thing.

I needed some socks.

Personal Training Camp Days 2 and 3

2011-04-16T18:35:00.001+01:00

After the excitement of my longest ride for ages on day one, I eased things back slightly for day two and did a well used loop of 85km. Pace was slightly slower (a good thing) and I clocked up another three hours.

That's all I can remember. Wow, it was only two days ago and already my mind is a blank. I think that's the problem with solo rides on familiar roads - everything blends together. There may have been a dead badger or two but I've seen a lots of dead badgers recently; it must be the season for them.

Day three. This was designated as my "rest day", so I was up early, did a trip to the tip to clear some garage space, visited the bike shop for cables and rim tape and returned home to talk myself into some intervals. After an hour of internal debate I dragged my carcass down to the garage and fired up the turbo. Two sets of 3 x 2 minutes, at a power of "hurty". After the first set I remembered that I'd also arranged another ride with Andy Schlek/Jon that evening. Hmm. Better not do the full second set then. Another hour clocked up.

5pm, and it looks like Jon this time, instead of that Andy fella. Jon in his full shop team kit including matching silly shorts. We set off and I soon realised that wha looked like Jon's Wilier (that's a bike) was in fact some kind of lightweight motorcycle. That's all I could conclude as I just about hung on behind him as we cruised along at a steady 45kph. There were also "vroom-vroom" noises and exhaust fumes but I'd rather not talk about them.

Another 35km notched up, and another hour and a quarter (there were some hills where the pace dropped a little). I limped up the stairs, fed Jon coffee and a hot cross bun, then collapsed on the the sofa.

So much for a "rest day".

The score after three days - 9 hours 45 minutes riding, 257km. Oh, and the start of a saddle sore...

Personal Training Camp Day 1

2011-04-13T19:19:00.000+01:00

Ow. My legs really shouldn't hurt this much. 114km, 4hr 30mins, a few hills in there. Probably a bit more intense than I should have been riding but I seem to be doing that a lot recently. I'm sure tomorrow will be different.

I was up on time, coffee'd on time and out on time. I'd found a route called "Magnificat Stage 1 Plus" buried on my laptop, which I thought was the first chunk of last year's event with a loop back. Almost right. It was obviously something I'd drawn last year after the event, as the first 30km and last 40km were from the official route but with a beautiful linking section through some picture perfect Hampshire villages. Honestly, I had a "Isn't this bit of England brilliant" moment and I even saw my shadow a couple of times as the sun bravely tried to make an appearance.

Hell, I even passed the Vitacress watercress place and the entrance to Jody Scheckter's organic farm.

I stopped near Basingstoke for a Snickers and Powerade top-up which just about saved me from some low-sugar wobbliness and I kept up the pace until catching my chain on my front mech (again... really must sort that) which pulled it round and meant I sounded like I was trying to grate a spoon for the last 5km.

In, stretch, recovery drink and a first appearance of the year for the recovery tights.

The next couple of hours were spent slumped on the sofa watching "The Flying Scotsman", continuing the cycling theme.

Now off to a quiz. That's not very training camp but I'll pretend the Directeur Sportif has organised it.

Tomorrow - 3 or so hours, then physio appointment, then maybe another hour. We'll see.

My own, personal, training camp

2011-04-12T21:24:00.000+01:00

For those who spend their lives not obsessed with cycling, training and eating (and I know there are a couple of you left) a training camp is where you go somewhere sunny with other freaks and spend the days riding and eating.

This is not my plan.

I've been to a couple of training camps - semi-public ones - in Southern Spain. The weather was sunny (we'll conveniently gloss over the rain sodden days where we nearly died of exposure), the routes glorious and the food plentiful. Riding with a group adds additional motivation and having a plan and some ride leaders meant that six hours of training a day was done.

This is not my plan either.

I have 5 days. Three in the week, two in the weekend. I'm in drizzly Berkshire. I've no-one to ride with Wednesday and Thursday, the chance of 45 minutes riding with Jon and Friday and no plans for Saturday or Sunday. My endurance fitness is questionable and my motivation marginal. I do however have a fistful of GPS routes, a garage-full of energy products and a fridgeful of milkshakes.

My target: 400km or 16 hours.

Game on.

Hello bike!

2011-04-08T23:26:00.000+01:00

Well, that's what the sign said.

I was out for an after-work ride with Jon. Well, that's who I was expecting. Imagine my surprise to find that Andy Schleck had turned up in his place. Weighing 52kgs and putting out 500 watts there was no way I was keeping up. Especially with that motor in his bike too. I managed to cling on to his back wheel on the flat bits and downhill bits, but whenever there was the slightest uphill he dropped me like a red hot hedgehog. Obviously my hard training week had taken things out of me a little, plus my brakes were rubbing. And I'd ridden 80 miles before meeting him. Oh, and I was just recovering from a virus. With two flat tyres.

It was either that, or Jon has been training quite hard. Bastard.

Maybe I like the misery

2011-04-03T21:32:00.000+01:00

I've now got the ability to measure the power I generate on my road bikes, thanks to some shiny metal, carbon fibre and lots and lots of electronics. I've done three rides with this ability and can happily report that having another number to watch on my bike computer reduces boredom by 8%.

Is it, however, not enough. I need more things to measure. Training Peaks has a concept of Training Stress Score, calculated from the time and intensity of a ride. TSS is interesting but there is something better I've just invented. I'll start with the basics of what I want to record.

The hurt. Either I'm dishing out the hurt, or someone is dishing it out to me. This will work by monitoring the vital signs of riders around to see how hard they are working compared to me. It'll also monitor people going out of range behind me (i.e. I've dropped them) or in front (they've dropped me). Hurt is measured in Voigts.
Food in versus energy out. I want to press a button to tell my computer I've just had a bar, a gel or a bottle of energy drink. I also want it to work out how much energy I've burnt, split into fat and carbs. And obviously I want it to tell me when I'm about to run out so I can stop for cake and king size Snickers.
Weather. Not just temperature but wind (strength and direction), rain, hail, snow and sun. This will be important later. Weather is measured on a scale from Southern France in July, to Belgium in March.
Vibration. Not only will this allow me to complete my classification of the worst roads in Berkshire but it will give me the ability to boast about how hard I am (no, not that kind of hard...)
Annoying squeeks. Chain, pedals, knees. Any kind of disconcerting noise really.
My outfit. It's important to be coordinated.

Pretty good huh? But that's not the best bit. The best bit is that I want to measure the misery. The misery is a combination of hurt, energy loss, weather, vibration, noise and whether I've got mismatched gloves on.

Misery = Hurt x (energy loss + weather + vibration + noise), with a minor multiplier for bad clothing and a major modifier for bonking (running out of carbs completely).

Forget about coming back from rides saying "I did a TSS of 135". What we all really want to boast about is our Misery Stress Scores.

Roadie clothes are dorky

2011-03-30T20:48:00.000+01:00

I admit it. I'm a roadie, especially this year. I will also admit, grudingly, that road bike clothes are wrong. I honestly don't think there is a single piece of road bike specific clothing that I'd wear off the bike. I think this is pretty special as most other sports I can think of - football, rugby, swimming, basketball, cricket - have at least the odd item that you'd wear for leisure (can I conveniently ignore martial arts?).

Consider the evidence, top down.

Helmet. No explanation needed. They certainly don't have the all round wearability of a baseball cap and compared to a hockey mask they're rubbish for wearing whilst on a killing spree.
Jersey. It's tight, brightly coloured, has a big long zip on the front and three silly pockets on the back. I wouldn't wear one down the pub to watch the Tour with my mates, no matter how much of a fan of Liquigas I was.
Arm warmers. What? What they hell are they? You put them on your arms when they get cold? Have you not heard of jumpers?
Waterproof. Short at the front, long at the back, bright yellow, figure hugging and only fits if you've got your arms out in front of you like a classic zombie.
Bib shorts. Two words - gay wrestler.
Normal shorts. One word - nappy.
Leg warmers. Practical but very difficult to explain around the office.
Knee warmers. Like leg warmers times a million. To quote a colleague, "you look like a f**king idiot".
Cycling socks. Why do I have special socks for cycling, apart from the fact some have "Wanker" written on them?
Road bike shoes. Perfect for riding in, useless for anything else. So useless for walking in that you perfect the weeing while straddling the bike technique to avoid having to walk to the bushes.
And finally, the trigger for these thoughts - shoe covers...

It looks like I've put socks over my shoes! Hang on...

Oh... I have. I even had to cut a hole in the bottom so the cleats could go through. I don't think I've ever bought an item of clothing that required me to cut a big hole in it before it would serve its intended purpose.

I have truly been sucked in to the cult of the roadie.

Just like riding a bike

2011-03-28T23:11:00.001+01:00

First ride in 11 weeks tonight - just a 45min/18km bimble on the road bike, watching very carefully for potholes. They've certainly increased in size, severity and number since I last went out, although the good people of West Berks Council road planning have resurfaced a 15 metre stretch of local road to make up for it.

The bone+metal caterpillar coped well, the upper back less so. The straps of my new helmet were flapping about like an air-breathing goldfish though - some kind of scissor-based surgery is needed there. Apart from that, fairly uneventful. I did have to dodge three large black poodles and a reversing trailer - oh, and a reversing Honda too - but that's normality on the roads around here.

I also visited the gym for the first time since the accident. It wasn't the most intense session. Pulling thin pieces of rubber band and press-ups against the wall hardly made me look, um, hard. Pathetic springs to mind. And the less said about the 3kg bicep curls the better.

Still, I had by far the most impressive scar in the changing rooms.

Mental preparation

2011-03-18T19:45:00.000Z

I've got a box of rhubarb and custard gels.
I've downloaded some Sopranos, something with Scarlet Johanssen and an underground film about extreme endurance hamsters.
I'm girding my loins. Well, smothering them in arse-lard.
I've got a shiny new Powertap and a Garmin to listen to it.
I've installed my dribble catcher and got the mind-numbing syrup ready.

Yes, it's time for endurance training on a turbo. Multiple hours of dullness with extra sweat and sugary things.

My record is four hours. That isn't pleasant. I think it does display a certain mental strength though, the kind of mental strength that 1920's chain gangs needed as they dug ditches for hour after hour after hour. At least they had people to whisper too, and the occasional beating for excitement. No-one will come and beat me.

I'm not going to manage four hours tomorrow. I've got a haircut booked, and Milan-San Remo is on. I've also got to have breakfast, lunch, a sleep, read the paper, go to the post office and buy a pudding to take to Colin's on Sunday.

Actually, I think I may give it a miss.

It's started

2011-03-15T21:12:00.000Z

The shopping, that is. A Powertap SL+ hub on an Open Pro rim, three boxes of Torq bars ("What flavour would you like?" "Surprise me" "OK, I'm writing down what you're getting but I'm not going to tell you") and two boxes of gels, all direct from Torq.

That may all be complete gibberish to you, so I'll try and put it into English.

Powertap + Open Pro = a wheel that costs as much as a serviceable car, isn't particularly light but will tell me how pathetic and unfit I am. I'm paying to know this.
Torq bars = vaguely fruity chewy things that I eat while exercising but rarely at other times. They're very tasty compared to other bars and very effective. I wouldn't call them food though, more like petrol for the legs.
Torq gels = vaguely fruity gloopy things that I absorb while exercising but rarely at other times. Think of super sweet toothpaste that disolves your teeth. The caffeinated ones are brilliant for perking you up on a long drive though. They should sell them in garages.

On the healing front, I can now rest my right hand on the bars for good 10 minutes and the ribs on the back right only occasionally feel like they've been twisted like a sodden towel in a boys changing room.

Training plan complete

2011-03-12T08:50:00.000Z

Not just any training plan, but the 144 Episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Training Plan (tm).

I started this 27th December 2008 and finally finished on Thursday with the series 7 finale. I can't say I feel any fitter for doing it, although given that it's taken 26 months there may have been other influences along the way.

I therefore need a new training plan. I have two and a half series of Angel, three series of ER and the wonders of Sky Player video on demand. I started on Treme last night, and I've downloaded the next two episodes for today. Somehow though, the TAAHSOA,TSOER AND TWOSPVOD (ISOTLN) doesn't have quite the snappy title I'm looking for.

You may have guessed that the hospital visit went well on Wednesday - I'm now free of the strap-on* (which was ceremonially burnt in my fire pit) and my physio notes have the magical phrase "progress treatment, no restrictions" on them. I can sort of rest my bad arm on the handlebars but I imagine it's going to be a few weeks before I can actually venture outside. Still, it's all good and somehow I'm far more motivated to train that I would have been without the injury.

Right, down to the garage...

(* strap-on = pet name for sling)

I am bionic

2011-03-09T19:38:00.001Z

I think that's the word. I'm not a cyborg, as that's brain and thinking related. I'm not a robot, as far as I can tell. I might be a little bit Wolverine, except that I'm full of stainless steel instead of adamantium.

Yup, I've seen my post-surgery x-rays. And now, so can you. Click on the pic for a biger version.

I make that ten screws, but it's tricky to be sure. I have an underneath shot too:

As you can see, the plate is drilled for lightness. I've got a racing plate.

How cool is that?

Endorphins vs Adrenaline

2011-03-07T20:58:00.000Z

This post on Jill Homer's blog got me thinking a little about what I get from bike riding. It's the mention of being an endorphin junkie rather than an adrenaline junkie that resonated. If I consider what I really relish in a bike ride it's either the people, the playfulness or the pain.

I've mentioned the people factor before - they are often what make a ride truely memorable for me. The playfulness refers to those sections that are just damn fun: swoopy singletrack, splashing through streams, or sweeping down long twisty hills on a road bike. I could have added to that the thrill of diving down off the top of the banking in a velodrome, but my love for velodromes is slightly dulled at the moment.

Now, for clarification, there is a difference between "something fun that makes me grin" and "something terrifying that makes me pee". I just don't get attracted to "scary" things. I've never been into rollercoasters, knife fights or super-techy-rocky descents. My danger-of-death alarm kicks in waaaay before my adrenaline receptors start to get tickled. Part of it is about limits and control - if I feel I'm in control then I'm comfortable with the situation, but I don't like being pushed too far past my limits. Adrenaline doesn't do it for me.

Which brings me to the pain. Endorphins are different. I enjoy burning muscles, fatigue, the challenge of a steep road climb. I associate it with good things happening. I'm burning off last night's tub of Phish Food, or I'm making my muscles that smidgen more dense. My lungs are getting bigger, my lactate clearance is getting more efficient. Getting home after a six hour road ride and spending the afternoon on the sofa (after eating anythin within easy reach) gives me a buzz. Thorn scratches and nettle stings are to be embraced. I may hate XC racing at the time, but there is a definite high afterwards.

I guess I'll never be a top downhill rider, but if you want someone to clear a bramble patch, I'm your man.

Limbo

2011-03-02T20:11:00.000Z

Not the bending over backwards kind.

I had my operation 6 weeks ago tomorrow. They say that the average bone healing time is 4-6 weeks. My check up is next Wednesday. It's the not knowing that is frustrating.

If I knew my breaks (don't forget there are two of them - my standard answer to "what have you done?" is "I snapped my collarbone into three bits") were joining up I would

Dance a little with joy
Attempt to wear a t-shirt
Wash my left armpit properly
Roll over in bed
Rest my right hand on the handlebars whilst on the turbo. Just for a bit, to remind myself what it was like
Not have to strap myself up whenever I get up for a piss
Get less sympathy
Have to help with the cooking and washing up
Be in work full time

Hmm... maybe limbo is the place to be. At least for another week.

Near misses

2011-02-27T16:02:00.000Z

Most people remember their big crashes, especially if they result in injuries, broken bikes or particular amusement for friends. My first spectacular accident resulted in none of the above, so it probably falls into the near miss category.

I was on my first proper mountain bike holiday. I'd been on a trip the year before, but as one of the guides did the ride on a Brompton I don't think it really counted as mountain biking. This time I'd gone to Sardinia with Saddle Skedaddle where I was promised sun, singletrack and most of all fabulous food. The trip delivered on all three, and threw in some fantastic company as well. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

It was fairly early in the week - the second day perhaps - and we were on a ride that followed the line of a stream out to sea. The route promised 23 (count 'em, kids!) crossings of the same stream before we got to the beach and excitement levels were high. We were riding along a ledge that was ten to twelve feet above the stream, with a rock face on the right and the sheer drop to the stream on the left. The ledge was about three feet wide, flat with the odd small rock. Now, these days I'd barely blink at such a thing but back then I was nervous about this section.

When you get nervous, riding a bike, a couple of things start to happen - especially if you are a beginner. You tense up. You wobble. You focus on the places that you don't want to go to, rather than the ones that you do. I was looking at the rock face, looking at the small rocks on the trail and most of all, looking at the drop.

The small rock. Never, ever look at obstacles right in front of your wheel. You hit them, it's human instinct. As a prehistoric hunter, chasing velociraptors and dragons across the jungle (my view on history may be slightly confused) you want to hit the thing you are looking at. That's what you are going to kill with your stone age shotgun. Target aquisition. So I hit the rock.

I came to a halt. I wobbled and toppled left. Left, towards the twelve foot drop.

I think I got my left foot down. I certainly got my right foot over the bike, swinging and spinning me round so that I ended up standing on the edge of the drop looking out towards it.

Often people teaching mountain biking will say "momentum is your friend". This can be true, but when you are on the edge of a drop having just swung and spun off a toppling bike, momentum is not your friend. Momentum causes you to carry on over the edge.

Freeze frame. I'm standing right on the edge of a twelve foot cliff, above a stream, facing outwards, with momentum about to take me over. My bike is falling towards me. There was only one thing I could do.

I ran down the sheer cliff face. Upright. My feet skimmed off the rock two or three times before I landed on my feet in the stream with a slightly turned ankle and wet shoes. Wet underwear too. I turned and looked back up to see my bike hanging on a rock six feet above me. To my left, and up on the trail, the guide was running back down the trail having seen my spectacular demonstration of mountain goat style descending.

I could not believe I was more or less unharmed. The guide said she had visions of helicopter rescues and lots of paperwork. The rest of the guests were standing open mouthed.

If only I'd had the presence of mind to shout out "ta-daaaa!" and throw my arms wide with a big grin.

Crashes are so much better when you can ride away, and finish the day with ice cream on a beach.

Ricotta Legs

2011-02-23T17:21:00.000Z

After mentioning in my last post that my leg muscles have been replaced by cheese I can now conclude, after a week of turbo trainer sessions, that the cheese is ricotta.

My mid-range turbo gives an indication of the power that I'm generating. I doubt it's accurate but it's useful as a comparison tool.

In early January, my "endurance" zone (i.e. what I could keep doing for a 12 hour race) was about 150-185 watts. This is pretty normal for that time of year. When I'm in shape, for example before the LEJOG, it was about 170-210 watts. About mid-Feb I'd expect it to be about 160-200 watts.

It's currently about 150-165 watts. I think the solar panel on my 80's Casio calculator can generate more.

My threshold power is even more pathetic. I'd expect maybe 260 watts now, rising to about 290-300 when in shape. Now - 190w. I have a power band narrower than a BNP member's mind.

Still, plenty of room to improve and at least I'm back on the turbo.

I'm aiming for mozzarella next.

(Two weeks to go before fracture clinic check up.... I might, just might, be slingless after that!)

The um... eight? Stages of cycling injuries

2011-02-17T18:39:00.000Z

We're all no doubt familiar with the Kubler-Ross 5 Stages of Grief. These also translate into a number of stages people go through when dealing with change - from denial to acceptance. There is also a lesser known "dislocatedMTBs 8ish Stages of Being Injured", which I shall try to explain to make it slighty less lesser known.

Stage 1: Denial
I'm not broken. I didn't crash that hard. I can talk, move most of my limbs and that's only a small puddle of blood on the floor. No way is my collar bone broken, even though it is sticking out a bit. I'm sure it's just popped out of position, they can pop it back and I'll be fine.

Stage 2: Anger
Bastard collarbone! How dare it break! And as for that accident, how come I'm always the one crashing and breaking things? Frickin' fate.

Stage 3: Acceptance
OK, so I'm broken. Just rest. Let it heal. Don't plan on doing anything this year, take things as they come. No point thinking about bikes. Except for selling the stupid feckin' things.

Stage 4: Frustration
I canot believe that my carefully planned season, with all those events I've already entered, is out of the window. Here I am lying on the sofa when I've got a perfectly good turbo trainer downstairs and perfectly good legs to make it go round.

Stage 5: Fantasy
Now, I've got a first check-up coming. I'm sure they'll say it's healing well and I can get out of the sling, on the turbo and get training again. I'll only have missed three weeks, that's not so bad. Still leaves a few months to get in shape before the first big event, and it's just extra incentive to train even harder and long.

Stage 6: Testing
Right, no-one is looking. Let's see if can get on the turbo... hmm not to bad. The physio said it won't do any harm if I wear the sling and take things easy. Right, an easy 180watts. Ah, someone seems to have removed half my lung capacity and replaced my leg muscles with cheese triangles.

Stage 7: Planning
Right, I can do 45min at a time. 12 weeks to 100km event, that mean 3 x 4 week periods, do a base 3 followed by a couple of builds, increase the time and mileage by an hour a week... where's my spreadsheet? And last fitness test results?

Stage 8: Training
This is where is really starts to hurt. And where you realise that it's going to be a whole lot harder than you imagined.

Where am I now? About stage 6.

Hoping to enter Stage 7 on the 9th of March...

A day in the life of a broken person

2011-02-11T11:10:00.000Z

I've been struggling to think of what to write about, simply because I've not been doing anything interesting. So I thought I'd tell you about my current routine. It's not very interesting either.

3am. Get up and wander round the house. Given that I have to sleep flat on my back, and I'm a natural wriggler in bed (insert joke here), I tend to seize up after a couple of hours. So when I wake up with various back and rib pains the only cure is getting up and doing something else. I find that "Gems TV" has the best overnight entertainment.

6am. Wake up again. Try and doze for a while before giving in and gettin up. Fire up the Gaggia.

7am. Wave hello to Elaine as she gets up. Plan day. First item on the list is always "write a list".

9am. Spend 10 minutes getting ready to go out. I'm fairly limited in what I can wear so I'm making use of all those MuuMuus I've collected over the years. They're practical and scare the local scroats away. I'll then stroll to the shops, waving at all the cheery people who greet me with shouts of "freak", "mentalist" and "tent-boy".

10am. Log onto work, see if anything interesting has happened. Fire of a couple of emails. Settle down for some solid, productive activity.

1010am. Quick check of Singletrack. Just in case there's anything I can contribute to. Add my thoughts to a discussion on best rock tambourine players.

12pm. Eurosport. Tour of Qatar. I really should time being broken with one of the big bike races.

1pm. Lunch. Squirty cream on garibaldi biscuits. I've got to watch what I'm eating at the moment.

Afternoon. Post-lunch nap, the odd work email, episodes of ER, Angel and Britain's Worst Drain Engineers. I've got the box sets of them all.

Evening. Elaine comes home so I wander aimlessly around the house complaining about how bored and restless I am. Watch her cook tea, try and "help", get sent back to the sofa for my own safety. Eat slumped backwards on cushions, dribble food down my front. I really need some bibs.

Later evening. More internet browsing, shopping. Wipe up spilt food.

Midnight. Bedtime. Need my sleep, another exciting day ahead!

Repeat for 4 weeks....

(I'm slightly more active now... physio has given the go ahead to try using the turbo trainer too. Fingers crossed!)

R&R

2011-02-02T14:38:00.000Z

I must be feeling better. I want to do things.

Mainly internet window shopping. This has an advantage over traditional window shopping, as the range of things I can window shop for is much wider and there is less of that tedious walking around. It also has a disadvantage, as I think I'm mentally ignoring price tags. So far I have shopped for:

A new car. I figure that I won't be doing any mountain biking this year so I can throw all practical considerations out the equation. So long as I can get a road bike in it that's fine. I think that might rule out a Caterham or an Aerial Atom but not much else. Plus, I don't do any miles, I'm a low insurance risk and I don't need to carry people in great quantity.
Another watch. You know, as a present to myself for, um, passing a certain age and being broken. I also received a watch box for Christmas that has twelve empty slots so that's pretty convincing evidence for having to buy more watches. Hey, I didn't buy the box, it was clearly a hint to buy more watches. Clearly. Would be crazy not to.
Something to help my recovery. I discovered I can upgrade my turbo trainer to a virtual reality one where I can race against strangers on the internet. I hear doing things with strangers on the internet is really in right now.
Something else to help my recovery. How can I understand if I'm improving without having a Powertap wheel? Vital. I think the consultant mentioned that I should get one, whilst I was coming round from the operation.

So I clearly need a Porsche, a big watch, expensive bike bits and to do things with strangers on the internet.

What's that? Mid-life what? No....

Full Circle, Part 3:The Repair

2011-01-29T12:15:00.000Z

At home I felt pretty rubbish. There was a spiky bit of bone poking up a little, my ribs were all clicky and bruised and worst of all, my sore throat had returned. I spent an unpleasant few days on the sofa, pretty much 24 hours a day, as there was no way I could get in and out of bed. The ribs were the big issue with mobility, but I was pretty sure it was just bruising.

Elaine took a couple of days off to nurse me, and a very pregnant Liz came over on the Tuesday. Thankfully she didn't go into labour and I'd have been useless. I've no idea where we keep our clean towels.

On the Wednesday, six days after the fall, I visited the fracture clinic in Basingstoke. After another x-ray they put me in one of the consulting rooms, where I could hear the shouts of incredulity from the office outside where they were looking at the x-ray. "How did he do it?", "Nasty, what's that bit there" and "clearly a high-energy impact" were a few key phrases. As the consultant came into the room I was expecting to be rushed to surgery immediately.

Actually, it was quite a reasoned discussion. I got the impression that they really recommended surgery, but didn't want to push me into it. I could see myself that if it healed in its current position I had a future as a sideshow geek, so with the immortal words "sharpen the scalpel and get out the Meccano" I was told to be "nil by mouth" from midnight and report by 0730 the next day. I then had a pre-op once over by a very pleasant doctor, including my first ever blood test, and was sent home to get my affairs in order.

The next morning I was up, called to confirm things were still going ahead, and driven to Basingstoke by Dave. He even walked me to the ward, where we were both sure the nurses assumed he was my "partner". A shout of "give the contact information to Elaine!" hopefully pursuaded them otherwise...

Then... the waiting. They weren't really sure when I was to be sliced, so I spent the morning reading until they confirmed the op time of 13:30. I saw the consultant and the anaesthetist, nothing exciting happened, then I was wheeled down into a pre-theatre area. A few drugs, a bit of a chat ("how did you do it?" "Ooo, nasty"), then it was tim...............zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Urgh. I'm alive. Um, OK, on oxygen. I can see. I can't see loads of scary machines around so I'm probably in recovery rather than ICU. Time... time... they said it would take about an hour for the op, might be about 16:30. Clock. Ah. 19:30. Hang on. Try again. 19:30. WTF? Move a bit. OK, things move. Definitely in recovery, they are talking to me. I'll make some vague noise back. Oxygen mask replaced by little tubes in the nose. Relax. Oh, I'm moving. In the lift, back to the original ward. Cool. Wave at the other bloke who was in for hand surgery. He's got dinner! Bastard. Mine isn't here - too late I guess.

Drink. Get that poxy glass and straw away from me, fill up my Camelbak Podium bottle! I'm a cyclist! Glug glug glug. Glug. Ooo, need to burp. Can't. Fuck, they had to take out my burp muscle! Or maybe it's the anesthetic. Cough a bit. Burp.

Ask for a small slice of toast. They only have one size, so I had that. Can I have some biscuits too, as clearly dinner isn't coming. Glug more. Hurrah! Burp muscle working.

The nurse comes round. Do you need to pee? It's important to pee. I know that. Glug.

Midnight. I reckon I can pee. Get patrolling nurse to pull the curtains so I can stand up and try to go in a cardboard bottle. Squeeze. Dribble. Flow. Uh oh. I'm going to need a bigger bottle.

Try to sleep. Lots of staff around, one poor lady in a lot of pain from fractured vertebrae. Doctors and consultants are called, she stops screaming after a while. I can really sympathise.

Doze. Sleep. Wake up. Breakfast! Bread and jam. Yum.

The next few hours brought a visit from the consultant - he explained it was more complicated than expected, hence the extra time needed. The loose bone fragment had rotated through 180 degrees, so things were a little confusing inside initially. The jigsaw puzzle was back together though, with a plate and some screws. I was sent to x-ray, had a quick chat with a physio, then was more or less kicked out the door.

So here I am - much more comfortable, bone in the correct position, taking things very easy. I've had my first follow up physio and have a post op check at the fracture clinic scheduled for 8th Feb. Boredom is really kicking in now, so I might even do a little "working from home" next week.

I've still got a slight sore throat though.

Full Circle, Part 2:The Aftermath

2011-01-27T15:51:00.001Z

Arriving at A&E after a 30 minute ride (sadly lacking in sirens) I was whisked past the waiting hordes straight into an examination area. I took up the offer of a couple of mild painkillers and soon realised that just because I was in an exam room it didn't mean anything would happen quickly. After half an hour or so a nurse helped me out of my cycling kit without resort to scissors - good job too, as I was in my favourite gilet and LEJOG Peugeot top. I was given a fetching gown and sent off down the corridor with some vague directions to X-ray. I guess they figured that as I'd found the hospital I was perfectly capable of finding the right department by myself.

X-ray was efficient - no queue - though I was a bit concerned when the radiologist told me to keep my necklace off as "they might want to do something to you...".

It's not a good sign when on seeing your X-ray the doctor can't figure out which way up your insides are and then starts paging all the other doctors with the words "Holy fuck, have a look at this!". Slight exageration, but I did end up with three of them acting like back street mechanics... "Ooooo, this is gonna cost you guv".

Let's have a look:

What was once one bone is now three. Handily one of the docs was a keen cyclist (time trials, mainly) and after the preliminary comparison of bike collections he was able to explain how this wasn't a good break and that it would probably need metalwork. He'd had similar himself so was able to cover healing times, affect on training ability and that having shortened collarbones really helps a riders time-trial position as they could get narrower on the bike. The orthopedic reg arrived and said similar, but decided to send me home as they'd review over coffee and muffins in the morning and let me know.

So, after causing some amusement in the waiting room in my gown and bib shorts combination, we departed for Newbury, Darren driving.

Did I mention that Darren was in pain? Lots of pain, so a big thanks for getting me back home.

Next... why the words "high energy impact" are rarely the precursor of good news.

Full Circle, Part 1:The Accident

2011-01-25T15:37:00.000Z

I started this blog when I dislocated my right shoulder and was stuck inside instead of riding in the open air. I had my arm in a sling for much of the time and typing was often one-handed.

Guess what?

I'd recovered from my virus and back/neck spasm just enough to do a couple of gentle rides and to feel that I could handle a trip to the velodrome, if I took things easy. So Darren and I set off on the usual post-work trek down to Calshot. The freezing weather had been replaced by moderate rain and the temperature and humidity had risen considerably. Arriving at the velodrome things felt a little... slow. Lots of sitting around and the coach wandering about the track. There was also a bit of dampness on the floor, most obvious on the vinyl centre of the track.

Coach explained that the change in the weather had caused a lot of condensation in the velodrome, and there were a few drips of water on the track. They sent a man with a brush round and the coach rode a dozen laps himself to check things out. He reported things felt fine so we mounted up carefully on the inner wooden boards and started the warm up.

I felt pretty good and ended up leading. We were doing "through and off", where the lead rider pulls up the banking, letting the line of riders pass below. A rider up the banking has further to travel and hence takes longer to do a lap. Once everyone has passed he rejoins the line at the back. I pulled up, slowed slightly, cruised round and rejoined. This happened a few more times until an unnamed rider (let's call him, um, Dappen) pulled up.

As the line passed under Dappen, I noticed out of the corner of my eye his back wheel slide out. Bear in mind he was above me and slightly in front. He then tumbled over and slid down the track, neatly sliding into my front wheel and transforming me from forward and upright into forward and slamming shoulder first into the boards.

Not good.

Head hits boards. Little stars. Shouting. Hard breathing. There's something poking out by my collarbone.

Sounds of another crash on the far bend.

Ambulance? Yes please. Alert and concious? Unfortunately, very.

Accident forms. Darren (sorry, Dappen) also hurt, he was hit by me at 20mph. Two others had slid out and crashed on the other side of the track. Paramedics. Shock. Energy gel. Freezing cold in lycra, shivering like you would not believe. Proper cartoon shivering with chattering teeth.

Ambulance ride to Southampton A&E. Darren follows in my car, clearly in pain from a very nasty scrape down his back.

I wonder how this is going to turn out...

Broken and bored

2011-01-06T12:38:00.000Z

After a good lot of training last week, where I managed six sessions in four days, I broke.

My first breakage was possibly maybe caused by the two sessions on New Year's Eve - a strength session in the gym followed a couple of hours later by a hill climbing session on the singlespeed. Both of these stress the upper back and during the course of NYE my back/neck interface started to tighten and stiffen until I could barely move without crying like a kitten. A particularly pathetic kitten. This put an end to the three rides I had planned for the weekend.

My second breakage started about the same time with my throat getting dry and sore. This hasn't eased much (maybe a little) and has been joined by those friends of the sore throat; Feeling C. Rappy and Mr Blocke D'Nose. I manfully struggled into work Tuesday and Wednesday but woke this morning feeling more delicate than a Howies Natural Base Layer Light after a boil wash.

So, here I sit at home. The Singletrackworld forum is borked, I slept through the Ashes highlights and I've resorted to watching Alice In Wonderland.

That's a real incentive to get better.

The facts and figures

2011-01-01T09:47:00.000Z

Thanks to the magic of Training Peaks, I can easily analyse last year. So, my totals are:

Road bike, 321 hours, 9840 km
Mountain bike, 104 hours, 1448 km
Gym, 47 hours
Run, 8 hours (hmm, either I'm not much of a runner or I've been a bit lax logging things)

Total bike riding is therefore 11288 km (7055 miles), 425 hours. Interestingly I've only driven about 5000 miles. Random target for next year - 10000km on the road, 1500km off road.

Oh, and 9 hours running.

Post Christmas/Pre New Year Resolution

2010-12-28T18:17:00.000Z

Some might call this slightly premature, but a resolution this good can't wait until New Year...

About this time, I like to reflect a little on the previous twelve months. And I mean "a little". I'm not a deep reflector, more a puddle on the trail than Loch Ness. So, I scribbled down all the rides that I remembered from the year. Here they are in no particular order. Pay attention, there is a theme.

Training rides in the Cotswolds with Jon, especially the one where his mate G bonked and had to be towed home. We then did an extra bit afterwards. This was the pre-ride of the Cotswold Spring Classic route.
The Cotswold Spring Classic, covered by Cycling Weekly.
Training rides with Darren that included Streatly Hill.
The sportive in the New Forest where we lost Dave Brown, waited an age for him, got overtaken by loads of people, gave up waiting then overtook all the loads of people in the final 15 miles.
LEJOG, obviously, and all the support we received.
Skills training on the mountain bike.
The ride with Caroline around the Chilterns, with the sun and the trees and the general English loveliness of it all.
The 24/12 mixed pair - in fact the whole event, including Darren's solo ride in the Torchbearer 12.
The four hour enduro in the Autumn where Darren, once again, broke. He still beat me though.
Doing the Torq 12:12 as part of a deperate last minute recruit to the Torq Development Team.
The C2C weekend with Darren. I nearly forgot this one, I think I'm trying to blank it out.

Spotted the theme? There isn't a single ride in there that I did solo. If you consider that 95% of my rides are solo, then it seems pretty conclusive that I don't remember rides, I remember people. So, my resolution for 2011 is...

To ride more with others.

Simple huh? So, anyone up for a ride on New Years Day? Early?

"Truth is I need a focus to get me off my fat arse"

2010-11-21T09:07:00.000Z

I can't claim those words, but they rang true. They came in an email from Phill, an email entitled "Wessex". This referred to the Tour Of Wessex, an end of May three-day sportive. It covers 320 miles over the three days in the Somerset/Dorset area - an area we know pretty well from the infamous Day 2 of the LEJOG.

Naturally I leapt at the chance to enter - lured by the cycling and camping combination - and it seems that Jon and Darren will be riding too. It's almost as if we're getting the band back together. We need some "Mission from God" shirts to wear.

Now, one of the interesting things about the ToW is that you can choose to ride a single stage or a shorter route on a single day. This means that if 320 miles seems a bit much you can still join in the fun and do 23 miles, or 73 miles, or 106 miles, or 117 miles. It really is achieveable for almost anyone who cycles.

So what's stopping you? Join us, and we'll supply the Snickers bars.

Hello again!

2010-11-13T20:57:00.000Z

Posts have been few and far between, mainly due to not having done anything particularly interesting or noteworthy. I did visit Las Vegas where I shot some innocent paper targets with machine guns, and I even found time to ride a bike through Red Rock Canyon.

Yes, it's red and it has rocks in it. Check out the fetching hire bike.

It was pretty good, for a hire bike. Some fool had fitted the brakes the wrong way round though, but that didn't really matter as I barely braked anyway.

Today's ride was a dose of winter reality. From these pictures of the bike after the ride it's difficult to tell whether I was riding on or off-road (apologies for the cross-shifting but I only allowed myself to use the big ring).

And...

Filth, pure filth. I even had to bunnyhop a branch at one point, as an oncoming car prevented me riding round it. Still, if Cav can do it at 50mph, I can do it at 17...

Take a look at what you would have won

2010-10-09T20:39:00.000+01:00

This is the bike I originally ordered for the bike to work scheme, before various delays (including a gnome invasion and a factory fire) meant I chose the Felt instead. In a way, I'm a bit disappointed not to have one - It's very pretty - but in another way I think it would look a bit silly at the velodrome.

And yes, buying one now would be a bit pointless. Still, I have been known to do pointless.

I done a race

2010-09-27T21:36:00.000+01:00

Or more correctly, I competed in a race last Sunday.

On a bit of a whim, Darren and I entered the XTM Enduro, a four hour mountain bike race organised as part of an off-road tri/du/mono-athlon weekend. Clearly as I'm not tri or du, I was only interested in the mono side of things - the mountain biking bit.

The main attractions of this race were twofold - it was pretty close (about 40 minutes drive away) and there was a free gold water bottle for all finishers. I'll do a lot for a free gold water bottle. The course was slightly odd, only being 5.5km. Almost like an off-road velodrome. I was concerned about getting dizzy.

The race itself was not unpleasant. The course was moderately interesting with a couple of fun descents and sharp climbs each lap, plus a mix of noodley singletrack and fireroad. It was mildly confusing though as the shortness of the lap kept surprising me - "What, that bit agin? Already?" - was my mantra. I started fairly fast, but not so fast that I'd suffer later. Darren started very fast and I made it my goal not to be lapped by him. I was lapping at about 17-18 minutes, so he'd have to make that up over four hours to catch me.

Round and round... I was overtaking far more than I was being overtaken, and I felt as well as could be expected. Towards the end my legs were teetering on the edge of cramp but they stayed on the edge without leaping over. About 8 minutes before the four hours were up I had a little chat with the guy behind me.

Me: "If we get in before the four hour mark, can we do another lap?" (this is fairly standard for most races)
Him: "No, only laps completed before the four hours count"
Me: (and I quote) "Thank fuck for that"

I crossed the line, had a slightly more interested chat with the other rider, then hunted out Darren, who somehow hadn't managed to lap me.

Darren was broken. Threatening to vomit. Shivering. Not making much sense, even less than usual. Not completely broken, he could still walk to the car to put on more clothes before having a little lie down across the back seats. Apparently he'd slowed down at the two hour mark, and then really slowed down for the last couple of laps. If he ever learns to pace himself properly he'll good at this bike racing business.

We collected our free water bottles.

They weren't real gold.

Bugger.

It's that time again...

2010-09-27T17:27:00.000+01:00

Allez is back on the turbo trainer.

Sent from my HTC

Bike Seasons

2010-09-16T19:11:00.000+01:00

As I dug the singlespeed out of the pit I buried it in last March, I started thinking about how my bike usage tends to vary throughout the year. Clearly, as it had been encrusted in sweet, sweet clay for the past six months, I don't ride the singlespeed much in the summer. And I kind of know that the Orca only has a few rides left until being sealed in the time-locked badger guarded vault, before emerging like a playful bear cub in the spring. The others tend to be used depending on the time of year too.

The commuter (or as I shall call it, the exception). Used all year. It's nice to blow a theory in the first bullet point.
The singlespeed. Off-road, mainly October to March. Big mud tyres, neoprene mudguard, one gear. Does not require cleaning.
The hardtail. In the depths of winter, when the weather is really, really crappy, this is set up as the ultimate winter road bike. 1.5" road tyres, disc brakes, carbon rigid fork. Lights that stop traffic. In the spring, this has been the training camp bike, with summer tyres and a bit of bounce up front. For the rest of the year it doesn't get used much - apart from the occasional summer blast.
The full-sus. Spring to Autumn, long off-road rides. Most of my races are long, so this is the race bike too.
The Allez. Slightly less ultimate winter road bike. Road racer crud guards, a slight pattern on the tyres. Lights that hesitate traffic. Also, the turbo bike, for those days when it's horrible outside or I want to watch a bit of Buffy.
The Orca. Dry, summer use only. If there's a puddle on the road I'll pull to the side and wait for the sun to dry it up.
The track bike. Given I've only used this a couple of times, I'm not sure yet. Probably winter indoor training.

I know what you're thinking.

I need a Christmas bike.

I am being stalked by the press

2010-09-11T08:33:00.000+01:00

Do you remember this?

Cycling Weekly Cotswold Spring Classic

I thought it was a random picture, a happy coincidence, that out of the hundreds of pictures they could have used, they used one containing Jon and I.

No.

They are following me. It's the only explaination for this.

Their coverage of the Magnificat, an event with about 1500 people, includes another picture. Another picture where I'm mysteriously in the background, slightly blurred.

If you doubt me, here it is a bit bigger.

Conclusive.

I'm struggling to understand why they are doing this, but I hope that they continue.

All this in the same week when the Bridgwater Mercury finally found space to print the story on our LEJOG. They have a lot of news down there, so we're just glad we made it into such an esteemed publication.

Can you spot the three mistakes? I'll reveal the results later...

Planning is overrated

2010-09-05T15:32:00.000+01:00

A few weeks ago I outlined my plans for August and September. From what I remember, these were

Go to Afan with Jon and ride all the waymarked trails in a day
Ride the off-road coast to coast with Darren
Do a 12 hour solo at the Gorrick 12:12 Torq in Your Sleep
Ride the South Downs Way in a day, again with Darren

These have turned into

Fours hours of local biking, as Jon was ill
Tick (minus 30km in the middle. And lots was walking rather than riding)
Rode as part of the Torq Development four man team at the Gorrick 12:12 Torq in Your Sleep
100km road ride

The last two probably need a little explaining. I was all set up to ride the 12 hour race - to the point of signing in and collecting my race numbers - when I was grabbed by one of the Torq riders to fill in a last minute gap. I didn't really have any expectations about the 12 hour solo (I only entered solo as I couldn't get a team together) so I accepted. There are a couple of differences between riding solo and riding with a team of fast people.

Solo: Ride slowly for 12 hours.
Team: Ride as fast as you can for 45 minutes, rest for two and a bit hours. Repeat four times. This hurts, especially when you haven't riden like this for about 18 months.
Solo: Be self suficient. Have 10 litres of energy drink made up, an organised box of food, a bike that is comfortable for 12 hours and plenty of tools and spares.
Team: Hang out at the team truck, under their gazebo, with all-you-can-eat energy bars, gels, drink and recovery. Watch the really good riders warming up on rollers and the mechanic fix all the bikes
Solo: Let almost everyone overtake. Only overtake other soloists. Be very keen on pulling over to let others past.
Team: Rarely get passed. Be accused of riding faster uphill than people ride downhill (hard to believe, but true). Be very very polite in asking people to make space where convenient.
Solo: Carry on through fatigue and finish sometime after midnight
Team: Finish your last lap at 1030, and be munching on a sausage, fried onion and brown sauce bap by 1045.

I could get used to it.

The South Downs Way ride has been postponed due to Darren's dodgy knee. If anyone has a spare (preferably right, but I'm sure we could make a left one fit) let me know.

So, various unexpected things have happened. One extremely positive one is that I've ended up with a new track bike - one that fits better, is a kilo lighter and has gold bits on it. All for not very much more money, thanks to Darren and Banjo Cycles. It's clearly way better than I am, and came with several warning stickers, two of which are now on my toolbox.

It also has a ma-hoosive chain, clearly needed to cope with the 35 watts of power I'll be putting through it.

Finally, in all its glory:

Overall, it's been an interesting month. I'm not planning anything for September. Let's see wht happens.

Traditional summer pub shot

2010-09-03T18:41:00.000+01:00

I think I do one of these pics every year...

C2C Day 2 - The Clone(d Sheep) Wars

2010-08-27T18:02:00.000+01:00

As we cycled out of Reeth (at an unspecified time) we had little idea of how long the rest of the day was going to be. The route was flat to downhill road for the first 70km, followed by a couple of cheeky road climbs, before hitting the off road sections across the North Yorkshire moors. Our experience of the day before had left us uncertain about the moor crossing, as with all the rain it could be saddle deep in mud. Still, there was good weather forecast for the day and we even had a scraping of suntan lotion on.

The 70km passed quickly, with just the occasional piss stop to break up the flow (there's a joke in there but you can work it out for yourselves). We stopped at a village where a couple of locals pointed us towards an open pub and a closed shop. At least I assume they were locals, as the pub wasn't going to be open for another week and the shop had at least three "Open" signs. The shop was probably the most poorly stocked convenience store since the closure of the Artyk Non-Stock in Siberia. We surveyed the shelves, rejected the tinned sweetcorn, Frey Bentos pie and shoelaces, and chose the biscuits instead.

Onwards and unfortunately upwards. After an unexpected half hour on a motorbike racetrack we turned off the road, and onto the off-road. This was shockingly rideable, meandering through the woods and gaining height quite rapidly. We didn't actually ride it though - but we could have if a) we'd really wanted to and b) didn't have knackered legs. This trail led up to the moors, the trail of truth that would resolve our fears of a four hour trudge through a boggy mess.

At the top of the climb we were greeted by this.

Deceptive isn't it? That boggy mess looks almost like a dry, hardpacked, slightly rocky trail, surrounded by purple heather in bright sunshine and a 10mph tailwind. We stopped and prodded the ground. This was promising... very promising...

We almost flew along, taking care not to run over any walkers, dogs or other cyclists. Sheep were different though. The sheep were... evil.

Dun dun duuuuuuuuur!

Your standard evil sheep would stand in the trail, forcing you to slow down until you were almost on them, at which point they would run along in front of you a bit before leaping aside.

Your enhanced evil sheep would stand in the heather, at the side of the trail, then leap in front of you as you came close, causing violent braking, cursing and slight moistness "down below".

And then we came across the most evil of all sheep... the ninja sheep.

The ninja sheep nearly killed Darren.

Picture the scene. You are riding at 20-25mph down a narrow rocky track. You spot a bunch of enhanced evil sheep on the right hand side of the trail, and prepare to brake whilst watching them carefully. As you get closer, they scatter into the heather, away from the trail.

You relax, and release the brakes.

False. Sense. Of security.

You have fallen for their trap.

Ninja sheep is waiting. Ninja sheep has buried itself in the heather on the left hand side of the trail. Ninja sheep is undetectable, a stealth sheep.

As you come alongside ninja sheep, it explodes from the heather like a woolly IED aimed at your front wheel...

At this point I screamed, and it wasn't even my wheel ninja sheep was aiming for. Darren shouted "duck" (or something) and somehow, no doubt the result of years of Quantocks badger avoidance, managed to leap the ninja sheep. Then ninja sheep was gone, in the blink of an Oakley clad eye.

We made it off the moors without further incident and with plenty of fun. The last 20km were a drag, forever uphill, with a 25% climb followed by a 33% climb. Round every corner we thought "it's got to start going down soon, surely the sea has to be at sea level... or pretty close". Yet on and up we continued. Finally the road flattened, and with just 2km to go, we plummeted down. I think we were still on the road, although judging by the speed of the descent we may have simply rolled off a cliff.

Robin Hood's Bay is your Hollywood seaside village, all quaint houses, souvenir shops and fish and chips. Oh, and tourists, lots of them, who tried their best to knock us off in the last few hundred yards of the ride. Compared to the sheep, they were amateurs.

So finally, after 240km of riding, 10km of hike a bike, and 30km in a car, we came to the sea.

Smashing.

(Thanks to Becky and Caron for the support, and the lady who took the picture at the end. I doubt you're reading this, but if you are, that was a lovely jumper - don't let anyone tell you otherwise)

More pics here

C2C Day 1... still.

2010-08-25T19:52:00.001+01:00

As I mentioned, we had chips.

They didn't last long.

We also had an emergency planning session. Given that it had taken us seven hours to cover the first 55km, with 95km left to go, it seemed prudent to try and optimise the route a little. By optimise, I mean "cut out anything off-road that might slow us down". There were a few sections that we could divert around, but we still had a lot to do to make Reeth by anything close to dinner time.

We set off. Going by road was less interesting but much quicker. Darren's knee was getting steadily worse, to the point where he couldn't really put any force through it. I suggested pedalling one legged, but he announced that he had been since 9am. Oh.

Not much happened. We did re-ride some of the LEJOG route, along the A6, although I didn't notice. Darren was fairly convinced, and a map check after the event proved him right. The fact that I didn't notice is hardly unexpected - not looking at the scenery whilst riding is one of my superpowers. I've missed great swathes of North Africa, Italy, Norway, Sardinia, Yorkshire...

At about 7:30pm we arrived at Kirkby Steven, with 30km still to go. This 30km included the climb up to the Tan Hill Inn, the highest pub in England. I don't remember the exact point that we decided we were going to stop for the day in Kirkby Steven, but it might have been halfway through consuming the Frijj Cookies and Cream milkshakes and Snickers bars. Somehow another two hours of riding (at least) didn't appeal.

Logistically, this left us with a problem. We could eat where we were, once the girls had driven over (they were out hunting for food for us East of Reeth, in the assumption that we'd never get there whilst anywhere was open). We could then get driven to Reeth for the overnight - though this was about a 50 minute trip. We could then come back to K-S in the morning, and continue where we left off. Or...

One of these two things happened. One didn't:

We ate, drove to Reeth for 10pm, rushed around sorting out kit and food and drinks and routes and GPSs for the morning, plus showering and trying to stuff newpaper in our sopping wet shoes. We then set alarms for 6am, slept briefly, woke up, leapt out of bed, drove back to K-S for a 7am start to ride the 30km back to Reeth over the moors with the highest pub in England, arriving back in Reeth for about 8:30am ready to tackle the day 2 route, all 135km of it.
We ate, drove to Reeth for 10pm, showered, chatted, relaxed, sorted out a few bits, ordered breakfast, set alarms for 7am then went to sleep. In the morning we had a pleasant fry-up, got kit sorted and changed without any rush, then set off at 8am to ride the day 2 route, all 135km of it.

Day 2 to follow...

C2C Day 1 (A story this epic needs two posts. At least)

2010-08-24T21:25:00.000+01:00

Every story needs an angle. Something to hang the narrative off of, to give depth, substance and a false sense of being a better writer than you really are.

At the moment, I'm angle-less. Let's just see how this goes. I'd suggest getting a cup of tea, maybe a biscuit (choc hobnob?) and a comfy chair. This could take a while.

We left Newbury at 5pm on Friday, with Darren driving his giant bike-mobile. After picking up Becky and Caron at the station and dropping off Becky's folding bike we joined the summer holiday traffic oozing up the motorway to "the North". I'd had a moment of amusement when Darren realised how long it would take to get to the B and B but this was tempered by realising myself. Sat Nav says... 10pm arrival.

11pm. We arrive at the B and B. We were greeted by a very friendly lady, asking if we wanted tea to go with our wine that was already waiting in the rooms. Not only did we have wine, but we also had slices of chocolate toffee crispy cake and little chocolates too. The lady also helped us with our kit and let us put our bikes in the beautifully decorated hallway! A big thumbs up to Fleatham House.

Morning, and the usual rush of breakfast, making energy drink, packing camelbaks, putting on sun tan lotion (risky, I know) and checking the GPSs. We managed to get out by 8am and rode the 1km to the beach.

Here is my bike at the beach. There is a photo of Darren and I, complete with bikes, but I don't want you getting too excited.

You may notice that my bike is leaning against a bit of a ramp. This is the slipway which I walked back up to the path. Darren rode up, stating that he was going to ride the whole way. Remember this.

The first part of the route was on the road, before turning onto a cycle track. We had a tailwind, almost sunshine and were feeling pretty confident at getting to the lunch stop (Ambleside) by about midday. Remember this also.

The first section of off-road arrives. Across Banna Fell, Whiteoak Moss, Mosedale then down to Crummock Water. You don't get names like that round Newbury. You also don't get tracks that disappear, knee deep bogs and suicidal sheep - including one that seemed to be stuck upside down. Not being well versed in sheepish ways we didn't know if this was normal or not, so felt it best to leave it as it was. Better that than getting savaged.

I walked quite a lot of this section. I'd say that Darren walked too, including a stumble caused by his front wheel disappearing up to the hub in a puddle, but of course Darren was going to ride the whole way.

The track next to Buttermere was surfaced and quick, but also full of walkers. On this ride we soon learnt that walkers meant we were near civilisation, and soon enough we arrived at the road by Buttermere Fell. Brilliant, we thought. Road! Road that goes up! At 25%!

Honister Pass. Actually, it was fine - we were on mountain bikes so just spun our way up. It was at this point that Darren pointed out that his knee was a bit hurty, and had been since the morning. Still, sitting and spinning wasn't too stressful on it. The descent was fun, dodging the traffic and more sheep. A few more roads and we arrived at the bottom of the big climb of the morning, Greenup Edge.

Let's have a look at the map.

Hmm. Lots of those funny red lines, quite close together too. Still, Darren's going to ride all the way.

I started walking. It was steep, rocky and quite hard going. It also went on... and on... and on. Without looking round (to avoid having to watch him ride it all like a mountain goat on a bicycle) I asked Darren how it compared to Trans-Rockies. Quite similar, apparently, although he walked that.

We got to the top. Well, we thought it was the top. Thing is, the path seemed to end and we were surrounded by what I can only describe as "minor cliffs" on all sides (except backwards). Then we spotted the path. It was more of a scramble than a walk. Well, more a climb in places. Up a waterfall. With mountain bikes on our backs.

Greenup Edge is not a bike route.

Strangely, we were still enjoying ourselves. The sillier it got, the more it made sense. A cross-the-country route should involve some hike-a-bike. Just not this much. It was now about 12:30. Lunch at 12 was looking increasingly difficult, unless it was the next day.

Once over the top the track did the comedy disappearing act again, but we managed to find our way across the mushy bits until we found something that could loosely described as a path. Or a stream. A stream would be an equally good word. We scooted/ran/walked/climbed/swam and even rode downwards, confusing some walkers who couldn't fathom how we had got across with bikes. Truth is, we were a little confused about the whole event too.

We made lunch at 15:30. Lunch was good. There were chips.

(TO BE CONTINUED. MY FINGERS ARE GETTING TIRED)

The B&B

2010-08-20T23:21:00.000+01:00

Cake, wine and chocolate! How cool is that!

C2C

2010-08-20T20:38:00.001+01:00

On the way to the lakes, the M6 is as busy as ever. Random weather forecasted. Hot Cross Buns bought in case of emergency.

The Quiver

2010-08-15T19:39:00.000+01:00

Plans change, and due to an unavailable riding partner, who was doing the decent thing and looking after an expectant wife and small child, I didn't go to Afan. I did however do a 4 hour, "local" 70km ride on my full-sus mountain bike - the one that I tend to use for long days off-road. This (and the slight front wheel/slippy root/ouch incident) left me in need of a recovery ride today. The depressing drizzle of the past few days had lifted so I released the Orca from the underground vault where it lives, after first drugging the irate badger that guards it.

Recovery rides are strange things, to me at least. I have to ride a bike, and try not to put any effort at all into it. I'm rubbish at this but it does encourage me to do something that I'm equally rubbish at - looking at the scenery. I've cycled in some amazing places, from the Atlas Mountains to the Lofoten Islands in the Arctic Circle, from the mountain top villages of Croatia to...um... Bucklebury Common... and I barely remember any of it. Occasionally I'll stop and take in the drama and beauty but 95% of the time I'm staring at the tarmac/gravel/dirt/arse in front.

I digress.

So there I was, straddled across the graceful carbon fibre curves of the Orca, and I realised that this was my fifth bike of the week.

On Monday, I rode the commuter. Singlespeed, pig-ugly, rack and full mud guards. I actually rode this most days.
On Tuesday, the Scandal hardtail, for a couple of hours.
On Wednesday, the Scandal again. To work, then for a cheeky lunchtime blast, then home again.
On Thursday, the track bike. On the track at Southampton, its first proper outing.
On Friday. the Scandal again. I must be enjoying it. I also did a spin class, so that's almost another bike too.
On Saturday, the Marin full-sus.
On Sunday, the Orca road bike.

I now have a challenge - seven bikes, seven days. I'm such a saddle slut.

Big Weekends

2010-08-11T22:40:00.000+01:00

I'm not quite sure how but I've ended up committing to four big weekends in a row. The kind of things that I used to train intensively for, building up my fitness carefully before resting ahead of the event, to come to a best-of-the-year peak. Instead of this I seem to have just said yes to everything.

This Saturday, 14th August, I've off to Afan to ride all the MTB trails in a day. OK, so only The Wall, Whites Level and Skyline are open but it's still a fair bit of riding.
Next Saturday, 21st August, I'm going to dip my wheels (thankfully not a euphemism) in the sea on the West coast then ride for 90ish miles across the Lake District, off road as much as possible. Then I'll do something similar on the Sunday, except across the Penines and dipping my wheels in the North Sea, on the East coast. Also known as the C2C (either Sea to Sea or Coast to Coast). This looks pretty scary to be honest.
Sunday, 29th August I've entered the Gorrick 12:12 Torq in Your Sleep 12 hour race, as a soloist. I might treat this as a rest weekend and take thing a bit easy. Or maybe not.
Saturday, 4th September I'll be doing the 100 miles+ of the South Downs Way. Hopefully. I may be very broken by this point.

I blame Jon (for Afan), Darren (for the SDW and C2C) and Caroline for the Gorrick 12:12.

I'm not really one for personal responsibility.

24/12, The Podium Tales

2010-07-31T11:21:00.000+01:00

I like to think that the key for a distinctly average XC racer is intelligent catagory selection. There's no point me entering the most hotly contested races, with the biggest and best prizes. For example, an Olympic gold is probably beyond me. There is little point me dressing up in replica kit and sneaking onto the start line for London 2012. Not after last time anyway, with the shouting, the pushing, the (short) chase and the taser.

No, my time is far better spent reviewing old races to understand what categories have the fewest people and still offer prizes. My palmares consists of

2nd place in the mixed team category of the 24hrs de MTB, Coin, Spain
3rd place in the World Corporate Games mixed team relay
3rd place in the mixed team Nightrider12

These excellent results need to be tempered by

There were three teams that entered, but one team went on strike after 2 laps
There were four teams that entered, but one couldn't be bothered to race and went to the bar instead
There were three teams that entered. We came third.

There is another factor running through these results. "Mixed". There aren't that many women who race mountain bikes so there is much less competition. My training regime for this year's Bontrager 2412 mainly consisted of finding a willing female partner for the race. It wasn't a very difficult regime. I can outline it in two easy steps.

Caroline says "How about doing a mixed pair in the Torchbearer race at the 2412? Not many people entered last year, so we might win something".
I reply "OK".

So I attribute my first victory in a mountain bike race to my ability to say the word "OK".

That's my kind of training.

Glow sticks on the helmet.

2010-07-24T23:02:00.000+01:00

Race starts in 1 hour. Conditions are poor to say the least.

First race of the year

2010-07-18T10:37:00.000+01:00

I've not posted for a while, partly due to laziness but mainly due to a lack of inspiration. I really didn't want to bore people with tales of my holiday ("...and then we went on a guided tour of of the museum of British Columbian Fish Canning..."), suffice to say that we all had a lovely time and learnt that whilst some bears may shit in the woods, at least one prefers the car park of a ski resort.

As a friend pointed out, it does make you wonder if all the Popes are actually Catholic.

Anyway, back to the so-called point of this post. Next weekend I've got my first bike race of the year. I'm doing the "Torchbearer 12" as one half of a mixed pair (I'm the male half, Caroline is the female half). The Torchbearer 12 starts at midnight Saturday and runs until midday Sunday. We're feeling fairly confident as according to the entry list we are the only people in our category, so we're hoping for 3rd place at least.

I'd like to say that we were hoping for a large competitive field and that we didn't pick this race simply because there were so few people in it last year.
.
.
.
.
Moving on, I'm in the process of planning some more trips, all thought of by Darren. I like to think of myself as the reality filter that holds back the bitter coffee grounds of serious injury ("Let's ride on the railway line to Wolverhampton") and lets through the stimulating espresso of inspirational challenge.

I'll write more when they become slightly better brewed.

The aptly named Hertz car rental

2010-06-28T16:12:00.000+01:00

So here I am in Western Canada (which I've discovered should be pronounced to rhyme with armada), without a bike, and without any plans to go out on one. Ironic, given where we are has some of the world's best mountain biking, but sometimes I heed the advice of people who tell me to "give it a rest".

I'm not missing out on training entirely though - I have gym stuff with me, and I spent an hour of the flight lying on my back in the aisle doing the upsidedown pedalling in the air thing that we used to do in PE class when we were 8. The cabin attendants did look at me a bit strangely, but as I pointed out, what do you expect if all the films are in French? And it's not as if they didn't have another aisle to use.

We flew into Calgary, which is famous for stampeding cattle, terrible car hire and an old winter olympics. We managed to experience one of these within an hour of landing, and I wish it had been being trampled by 37 angry steers about to have their balls removed. Instead, we suffered the punishment of Calgary Hertz.

We'd booked a luxury car - something big enough to be comfortable, but not so big that we'd feel we were driving a combine harvester. The people in front of us were given a Cadilac for their similar booking, so imagine the joyous looks on our faces when we were told that they didn't have any luxury cars, they never had luxury cars, and actually, Hertz doesn't even do them. Hey, would you like a free upgrade to a combine harvester?

No, we would not. We would like the car we booked. The car we booked a month ago, just like the one we've seen drive out of the car lot with the happy, smiling couple in it.

Ah... well, we could get you one of those... tomorrow. We'll call you. We're really competant.

So we took the harvester, with the expectation of changing it the next day. On the plus side, it was excellent for mowing down pedestrians.

That evening, Hertz call. Your car is here. The one you booked. I know you're out drinking and eating and enjoying your holiday, but how about bringing the ol' international harvester back and getting the car? What? You'd rather wait until you were sober? And you'd like it delivered to your hotel?

The next day, we speak to Hertz again. They would deliver! The car was with them! A Caddy!

Half an hour later they call back. They don't deliver. They never deliver. Bring back the combine. We have your Caddy.

We go to the airport, burning more of our precious holiday. At the airport, we avoid the pedeststian residue cleaning charge by pointing out that by now, we realy don't give a shit, and go to the office to get the keys to the Caddy.

We don't rent Caddys from this office. We never have. We certainly haven't given yours away again. You'll have to take something else. But don't worry, it'll be an upgrade.

Wow, Hertz really came up with the goods.

Magnificat

2010-06-16T21:46:00.000+01:00

So, 127 miles. Pretty lumpy. Not as many people as the Dragon Ride. However, they did have the Mavic support car:

And even the Mavic support bike, sans spare wheels:

Things started fairly fast, as Darren and I escaped most of our starting group up the first hill and tried to hang on to a couple of faster groups that had started after us. Tried, until we both realised that riding flat out for 6+ hours wasn't really going to be a viable strategy (you could argue, quite convincingly, that it wasn't a strategy at all). We settled into our own pace, sometimes sheltering behind others, sometimes doing the sheltering. Darren was feeling a little ill (having raced the day before with a cold) and was fairly confident that he'd only do the 81 miler. He might have been feeling rubbish but as usual it didn't show - I don't think I'd have been going any faster if he hadn't had been there.

At the first big food stop we were passed by the Torq team riders, who had started a good 20 minutes behind us. They were travelling so quickly (and with no intention of stopping for food) that they completely missed the timing mats at the entrance to the food stop and had to sheepishly turn back. We noticed a few riders doing this - the moral of the tale being to never, ever pass up the chance of free flapjack.

Shortly after Darren split off for the 81 mile route (or "Wusses Route", as it was known) and I carried on the big one. At this point it became slightly disconcerting as there were so few people around. I hung on the back of a couple of riders for a while, but let them go (i.e. couldn't keep up) after half an hour. Then I was alone... alone to the extent that I was convinced I'd missed a turning. The course wound up and over the South Downs - stunning countryside in the sunshine, less stunning if you're worried that you are riding an unknown road with no useful map and limited supplies. I'm sure very few people die of starvation on these roads, but I didn't fancy existing on dead hedgehog and Torq bars until I was rescued.

Finally, some more direction signs, a couple of other riders and a drinks stop. After this (about the 80 mile mark) I managed to tag along with some other groups until I found that these groups kept getting smaller on all the climbs - and I wasn't one of the ones being dropped. Wowzers... I can climb. Must be all those days trying to keep up with tiny Jon.

Lots more miles, and finally back onto some familiar roads near Basingstoke. I could sense the finish so allowed myself to burn a tad more energy until the beautiful gleeming spires of the the old Air Traffic Control tower at Greenham Common came into view. Down the hill, back to the racecourse and a very gentlemanly finish with noone trying to sprint ahead of the two guys who had been towing us around for the past ten miles.

I finished 100th out of 440 starters on the 127 mile route - 7 hours 11 ride time, 7 hours 24 total including stops.

No witty ending for this one.

Anticip...

2010-06-12T09:01:00.000+01:00

This time last year I was eagerly (i.e. nervously) awaiting the Dragon Ride, 187km (117 miles) of South Wales roads. A few long climbs, a couple of thousand riders and my first road event. I prepared carefully, with a well thought out and executed training plan combined with careful nutrition, a new bike and a well executed taper to have me in perfect form for the day.

Tomorrow I'm doing the Magnificat, 203km (127 miles) of Berkshire and Hampshire. Some sharp, nasty climbs, a couple of thousand riders (maybe) and my fourth road event. I've done a bit of vague training since LEJOG, eaten cake and drunk beer, I think my bike is somewhere in the garage and probably works and I've had a slightly more relaxed week than normal.

Funny how perceptions change isn't it?

I'm still looking forward to the event, but after eight days of riding similar distances I don't see it as a challenge. It's not going to be easy - I'm not that dumb - more that I'm fairly confident I can ride it at a reasonable pace, and if not I'm not that bothered. It's a big training ride.

Of course, now I'm writing about it maybe I should set a target time. You know, something to aim it. Plus I'll see all the Torq people, experience a new route that's local and they've got the yellow Mavic service vehicles too (which were my absolute favourite thing about the Dragon Ride). Hmm... maybe I am a little weeny bit excited.

...ation.

The Quickie

2010-06-09T22:51:00.000+01:00

Friday, 1525. My laptop has crashed, it's been dry and warm all week and something outside is calling me.

Shut down the laptop in the most violent way, throw it in the drawer and skip outside to the bike rack. Spend the five minute ride home thinking, weighing options... Singlespeed? No, winter bike. Full-sus? Still a bit creaky. Road bike....? But the trails might be dusty. Dusty is rare round here, something to be embraced. Scandal then, 10kgs of race hardtail.

1530.
Into the garage, park the commuter bike, take the bling wheels off the full-sus and drop the Scandal onto them. Out the garage, dash upstairs and throw on baggies, Seventeen11 team bike jersey and silly socks. Grab a bottle of water, a Torq bar, multitool, tube and CO2 inflator. Oakleys, Giro E2, shoes, gloves.

1540.
And I'm out. Christ, this bike feels fast. Pump over the speed humps, drop the outside heel round the tight corner on the dodgy estate, carve the bike path by the park.

1543.
Pause. A4, Friday traffic. See a gap and I'm across and cutting through the pub car park and hopping the kerb and whipping onto the towpath. Race everyone else, though I'm the only one racing. Over the wooden bridge, tight switchback corners onto more tarmac. Past the racecourse, up the hill, leave those 8 year olds pushing their BMXs for dust... and I'm onto Greenham Common.

1555.
Dirt, dust, roots, singletrack. I'm riding like the first lap of an XC race, looking for all the speed I can, focusing on body position, wrists and heels, looking far far ahead. Ignore the trees and trust the tyres. Down the steep drop, over the two sleepers that constitute a bridge, up the short steep climb. Two other cyclists at the top, pausing for breath. I say hi but don't slow down.

1604.
The pickle factory is strong this afternoon... mmm... limey...

1607.
Rider approaching from the front on a silver bike and hang on is that Kev but he's got a helmet on which he doesn't normally and as we pass each other I turn and he turns and we shout hello and don't let up the pace as this is waaay too much fun to slow down.

1610.
Singletrack complete. It's now gravel, byways and towpath. Power takes over from skill as I push the intensity and my heart rate reaches those places where it doesn't often go. With other riders on the path it's like a 24 hour race, as I slow, freewheel and politely ask to come past when convenient. Then sprint like a bastard away from them.

1627.
Back on the road. Sprint to make the lights. Just squeeze through. Officer, the light was yellow.

1632.
Home. Dripping with sweat, dusted with, erm, dust, water barely touched.

Short can be epic too.

Butchery

2010-06-04T21:24:00.000+01:00

As well as cycling, I'm also a big fan of food. The two kind of go together - I exercise so I can eat more, and I eat more so I can exercise. Symbiosis. Now there's a word. For my birthday I was bought an evening of butchery - not the stab-your-victim-in-a-darkened-alley type, but the cut-up-dead-animals-with-a-very-sharp-knife type.

It was fascinating. Held at The Ginger Pig, the evening started with a talk from Borat - Slovakian I think, rather than Kazak. Our course was on beef, so we learnt about different cuts, where they come from, how to cook them and aging (the good dry-aging and the bad wet-aging). We then moved onto the meat, where another butcher (I forget his name, it wasn't as memorable as Borat) showed us how to cut up almost half a cow into the major sections and explained how different cuts, on and off the bone, are known by different names. Did you know that the main chunk of meat in a fore-rib join is rib-eye steak? And that a sirloin steak with the bone left on is a porterhouse? You did? Really? Oh. You probably eat more beef than I do.

We then all had a go at cutting a chunk off the big side of cow - using saws, super-sharp knives and a little stabbing knife. That was the technical term for it. With the right tools and instruction it was reasonably simple, but I imagine we'd have made a whole lot of mince without either. Oh, there was a lot of slapping of the meat too. The butcher claimed it was a butchery tradition, but I have my doubts.

After the chunking we all got a section of fore-rib, which we turned into "Cote de Boeuf", by removing the cap, deboning one side, unrolling it, cutting out the paddywhack, putting the cap back, French trimming the ribs and finally tying it up with string.

Impressive huh? That's about £45 of meat there (included in the price of the course), sitting in my kitchen.

We then ate chunks of a bigger version of above - with five ribs - served rare with dauphinoise potatoes and a cheeky red. Yummy, and very filling. We joked how glad we were that there wasn't a pudding... and then a brioche bread and buter pudding turned up. I did my best.

More chat, including some bloke quizing the butchers on their income (must be a London thing), then a dash for the train.

I'd really recommend it - it's not often I get to saw through bones without the ~~victims~~ owners screaming.

Metamorphosis Parts II and III

2010-05-25T21:16:00.000+01:00

After the hair regrowth and and self flagellation with brambles, the next stage in turning myself back into a mountain biker was to reacquaint myself with how to ride off road without hitting trees at regular intervals.

Part II involved a decent ride somewhere new - although when I got there I realised I'd actually done some of the route before - sort of like deja vu, but with a sprinkling of reality. Caroline and I went to the south Chilterns (or near Pangbourne for those who navigate by towns) and did the route from an organised ride a few weeks before. It was stunning. Hot, bluebelly (i.e. there were lots of bluebells. Not that we had smurf stomachs), dry, dusty. One spot was breathtaking - the camera phone picture really doesn't do it justice.

Part III was something that's been arranged for a while - an afternoon for Caroline, Jon and I with Tony from UK Bike Skills. The idea was to have some fairly personal skills coaching, and Tony came highly recommended.

Tony has such a calm, relaxed, intuitive coaching style - he can pick up on the smallest thing, suggest a correction and suddenly you find things so much easier. When you are riding well everything flows, everything is effortless and there is a connection to the bike and trail.

At least, that's how it was for Tony.

For us, things were a little more, um.... patchy. Certainly at the start our feet were wrong, our wrists and heels were wrong, our vision was wrong... and Jon nearly fell off in the first 10 seconds of riding around a stick. However, with a few pointers we got better. We pumped, we dropped, we climbed, we cornered, we strung sections of trail together. We had gone from a dribble to definite signs of flow by the end.

And I didn't hit a single tree.

(For Tony's view of the afternoon, see his blog)

Startling Discoveries

2010-05-22T17:29:00.000+01:00

One of the advantages of mountain biking over road biking is that it brings you closer to nature. Road biking does sort of do this, except most of the nature is squished. And a squished creature is not nearly as exciting as a live one, unless you enjoy roadkill cuisine or taxidermy.

Yesterday evening it was glorious. You could smell the heat, taste the roasting asphalt in the air. No wind, clear skies and dusty trails. It would have been a crime not to ride.

I dragged the full-sus bike out for the first time since Spain and set off on a very well known loop - Greenham Common, down to the canal, up to Bucklebury and back home. I've ridden this so many times, especially the Greenham section. You normally see a few deer, rabbits, wild cows (well, common cows) and occasionally ponies. This ride brought me a three new discoveries.

Firstly, a (presumably) female duck with a dozen tiny ducklings. This isn't that strange, but I've never seen something like this running along wooded singletrack, well away from any water. Little ducklings tend to fall over a lot when startled by a mountain bike, and they don't have the sense to run off the trail - they just tumble along it, cheeping furiously. Eventually they figured it out and I was able to pass without turning them into tiny singletrack-kill.

Next, and this was a real surprise, my first UK snake. In all my time riding, walking, being out and about in the UK I've never seen a live snake. The closest has been a couple of dead slowworms - so very slow worms. I glimpsed it out of the corner of my eye as it made a break off the trail to the undergrowth, having heard me approach. And OMG... it was about 18" long! Real inches, not man-inches. Probably a python, or maybe a cobra. I concede that a grass snake may be an option too.

My final discovery was the biggest, most active, and most entertaining. Descending a fast gravel track I noticed a runner ahead, his back to me, well to the right hand side of the car-width trail. I moved left. He started to drift left. I moved even further left to the extreme edge of track and slowed, tyres crunching noisily. He moved to the left edge of the track. By now I was only a few metres behind him. Some sixth sense must have alerted him from his iPod-zombism as he turned quickly, saw me skidding to a halt and reacted like a startled fawn. He leapt off the trail, into the verge, and danced across the adjoining field shouting profuse apologies, flapping his hands in the air. I suppressed a giggle, let go of the brakes and rolled down the hill.

Thank god the snake wasn't wearing an iPod too.

Metamorphosis

2010-05-20T20:05:00.000+01:00

It's time for a change. A transformation. After four months of turning myself into a roadie, I must now turn back to a mountain biker.

Several things need to happen. The first has already started.

That's leg hair. Shin hair to be precise, so don't get any funny ideas. I'll need to start going to the gym again to build up my upper body. Road riding has left me with tiny T-Rex arms, so I won't be able to pick up my mountain bike if it falls over, let alone heft a whole pint of beer to my mouth.

In order to abide by the code of the mountain biker, I'll also need to

Put on a couple of stone in weight, then spend £2000 making my bike 2lb lighter.
Start using terms like freeride, all-mountain and jeycore-lite.
Eat sausage rolls, cake and flapjack mid ride, instead of energy bars and drink.
Carry a huge camelbak with 3 litres of water for any ride over 30 minutes.
Spend much more time on the internet, instead of going out riding. Some of this will be on bike related things, most will be spent arguing with strangers over random topics.
Treat anyone wearing lycra as if they've just eaten my cat.
Race anyone on a road bike in order to prove how much better mountain bikes are, especially if I've only been out for 10 minutes and they've been out for six hours.

Right, I'm off out to roll in some nettles and decorate my arms with bramble scratches. It's what we mountain bikers do. Gnarly.

LEJOG - Epilogue

2010-05-16T16:12:00.000+01:00

It didn't feel that special at the end. It's strange, but as people keep saying, it's the journey that counts, not the destination. JoG is kind of what you expect - remote scenery, a couple of tat shops, man charging £10 for a photo of a sign - but it could have been anywhere. We kind of rolled up to the finish, had a few pictures taken and then got back in the camper van.

I've felt more satisfaction at the end of races - particulary my first 12-hour solo. This finish was like the end of another 100 mile bike ride (done a few now... in the past week), although a 100 mile bike ride when you have had your legs beaten with broomsticks for the previous seven days.

What has been more special has been the comments and reactions of others - we've just riden bikes for a few days, but hopefully we've kept other entertained, maybe inspired, and we've definitiely raised some cash for a good cause. We've also had great help and assistance from others - the official support team, the visitors (planned and surprise ones), the cake makers, the people at Prendas and Spokeshirts, the campsites that gave us free or discounted rates.

Certain days and sections stand out. Day two, the 218km in the cold and the rain and the wind was truely Belgian. If that had been a single day ride we'd have been talking about it for weeks. As it was, as part of a bigger thing, it was a real highlight. Also on day two we had the visit to Darren's parents, with the signs in the street, the bunting, the marching band, the flags, the 100s of people out cheering us on and the photographer from the Bridgwater Mercury. At the end of day seven we had the surprise bunkhouse, with the real roof and heating and everything. The scenery on the final day was breath taking, as were some of the sections after coming off the ferry.

Ah, the ferry. OK, so 5 miles of our route was spent sitting in the warm, but we didn't count that in the 959 miles. Also, we had to team time trial it to actually get to the ferry on time - and losing ten minutes to a puncture on the only day when we had a deadline really really didn't help. Except... it did. It made it more memorable, added a touch of spice to the ride.

We learnt a few things.

Under stress we all slightly lose our minds, giving uncensored train of thought monologues to the world in general. It was like the filter between brain and mouth had been removed ("Why don't we cycle on the Loch instead of along it? If we put enough air in our tyres...").
We will pee almost anywhere without thought to who might be watching (sorry Liz/Lynne/Becky!).
Tracklogs under estimates distance, but over estimates height gain.
Procycling must be brutal, and drugs would almost certainly be needed. You should have seen our ibuprofen consumption. Two, maybe three pills a day!
When planning to go through towns, study the one way systems.
Banana and marmite toasties are wrong.
Nutella in porridge is right.
Bunkhouses are better than tents when there is frost on the ground. May is not a warm month.
Eight days cycling in the wind and rain makes your face peel off.

Would I do it again? Probably not in the same style. Non-stop as a relay? Maybe. Race Across America? Would love to. Big single day races/stage races? Oh yes.

It's not about where you ride, it's how you ride and who you ride with.

LEJOG Complete

2010-05-14T22:05:00.000+01:00

Done it.

It wasn't hard.

I lie. It was. Draining, fatiguing, wearing, um, chaffing. I didn't realise that Assos Cream pots were single serving. The knees just about held out, as did Darren's broken pedal. The riding of the past two days has been awesome – sunshine, tailwinds and amazing scenery. Let's hope Dave's pictures come out.

959 miles in total, three punctures, two ripped tyres and no falls. There was almost a submission or two though.

Highs:
The section along Loch Esk after the ferry – rolling, fast, smooth tarmac with our first helpful wind of the week.
The whole of the final day. Wow. I mean, like, wow.
Fish and chips at the end of the final day.
The 15% climb from Drumnadrochid, and the descent afterwards with 43mph clocked.
Lunch in the sunshine, Church Stretton.
Being photographed for the Bridgwater Mercury.
No cramp for anyone.
The campsites in Little Torrington and Slimbridge.
Managing to ride for 45 minutes one morning without having to stop for a wee.
The hilarity of watching others being massaged. Lizzie fixing us.
The brutality of day 2.

Lows:
The cold and the rain and the headwinds..
The Belgian style cobbles in North Devon.
-5C, the lowest temperature recorded in May in Cumbria in 20 years. When we were camping.
Knees.
Preswick Airport campsite. Meany owner.
The campsite North of Oban. Another meany owner, with stupid petty rules. Hmm, there's a theme here. Scottish campsites? Dave nearly clocked him, and he would have deserved it.
The pain of being massaged.
The brutality of day 2.

I'm sure I'll remember more, but for today that's it. I'm going to have a few more beers and pass out. Thanks for all the comments, sponsorship and support – you've been inspirational.

Recovery ride tomorrow.

Puncture!

2010-05-14T10:03:00.000+01:00

Why nutrition is important

2010-05-13T18:49:00.000+01:00

Obviously, as we're riding 8+ hours a day, we have to eat quite a lot. We have a number of different foodstuffs available. Let's look at some of the popular ones.

Little Snickers. 244 kcal, 24g carbs, 13.5g fat.
Malt loaf, ¼. 172 kcal, 36g carbs, 1.2g fat.
Torq bar. About 220 kcal, 65g carbs, 1g fat.
Pringles, small handfull. Um, small amount of carbs, quite a bit of fat (I've lost the packet..)
Scotch egg (you really don't want to know)

Notice that some have quite a lot of fat, and some don't have much fat at all. As we're exercising, carbs are good. Although we are mainly burning fat, you need carbs to trigger the reaction. We all have lots of stored fat, so we don't really need to eat any more. What we need to eat is lots of carbs. We can store carbs in the form of glycogen. Glycogen is good.

Let's look at a couple of examples. For lunch, we could have

Rice, pasta
Ham, other lean protein
Energy bars

This would give lots of energy that is easy to use, and easy to digest.

An alternative, hypothetical, lunch would be

Several handfuls of pringles
Cake
Scotch eggs

Hmm, that's a little fatty. What would happen in this case hypothetically would be that all the fatty stuff would sit in your stomach, making you feel lethargic and bloated. What would also happen would be that you would fancy eating any of the nice energy products that are stashed about your person. You would be doing pringle flavoured burps and trying to sip water, but failing. However, you'd feel OK for a bit due to having some stored glycogen (carbs).

OK, for a bit.

Until you start to run out of stored glycogen.

And then... you have trouble burning fat. Your vision goes a bit blurry, you start to shake, and you have trouble turning your legs round. This would happen, hypothetically, about 2km from the camp site.

When you got to the camp site you would fall off your bike, collapse on the floor, beg for recovery drink and be generally pathetic. Hypothetically. You would then eat a whole malt loaf, two torq bars and a couple of pints of water.

Of course, none of us would ever do this, as it would leave us so tired that we would be unable to write a blog entry.

We're much more professional than that.

(Now North of Dingle, which is a real place! Assault on JOG tomorrow. Tim plans to ride, so it could all end in casualty)

I have no comment

2010-05-13T12:42:00.000+01:00

Trying to blog from phone

2010-05-12T21:47:00.000+01:00

But signal is bobbins. You might have to wait a bit.

Ferry trip!

2010-05-12T11:19:00.000+01:00

Very exciting.

Stage 5 - A day in the life of a Badajapadlejog rider

2010-05-11T22:00:00.001+01:00

This is how we live.

3am, get up for a wee. Depending on how cold it is, you'll either go a discrete distance away or as near as possible without getting anyone's tent wet.
4am, still awake so hunt around the tent for a Torq bar. Eat bar, play with phone.
6am, vaguely aware that people are moving nearby.
6:30am, unzip top half of sleeping bag and put on down jacket. Wait for jacket to warm up before removing rest of self from the sleeping bag and liner.
6:35am, coffee. It's important to get this in first.
6:40am, porridge with dried fruit, broken up digestive biscuits, cut up energy bars and anything else within reach. We're trying Nutella tomorrow.
6:50am, coffee has worked its magic so dash to the loo.
7am, start getting dressed for the ride. Chamois cream, shorts, socks, leg warmers, overtights, base layer, jersey, soft shell, HRM strap (oops, that should have gone on before the base layer...), inner gloves, MP3, hat, outer gloves, helmet, sunglasses, bars and gels in pockets. It's complicated. And cold.
7:30am, now dressed, so start bike faffing - tyres, water bottles, GPS etc.
8am, start riding.
8:45am, stop for Jon to have a wee.
9:15am, stop for Jon to have another wee.
10am, first food/water pick up.
10am-lunch, stop for wees, more food, remove layers of clothing, add layers of clothing as appropriate. Wave to photographers.
1pm, Lunch. Eat a lot, drink more coffee, get cold, put on down jacket, get warmer.
2pm, more riding/food/wees/photos.
4pm, start to get a bit dispirited. Curse something random. Bloody lambs, always getting in the way.
4:10pm, afternoon food stop. Scotch eggs, snickers bars, kitkats...
6pmish, finish. Slump into a chair, drink recovery drink, get up, stretch.
7pm, get massaged/tortured. Shout and giggle a lot.
8pm, dinner. Eat a lot. Although you've generally been eating constantly since 6pm anyway.
9pm, write blog, argue about the next day's route, chat, eat. Might have a beer, might not.
10pm, go to bed.
Midnight, go for a wee.

Repeat until John O'Groats.

We're now well into Scotland, three more days riding to go. We get a ferry ride tomorrow as well!

Thanks for all the good wishes and comments too, both on here and on Facebook! And please check out Dave's blog for the photographer's point of view - Widge

We're not in England any more

2010-05-11T12:33:00.000+01:00

Crossed the boarder about an hour ago. Jon won the sprint.