The Longest Day = Do something silly

For several years I've had a hankering to do a "Longest Day" ride on June 21st, the Summer Solstice. I normally remember this around June 22nd so it's never actually happened. This year I somehow thought of it a good four days before the day so I had a fair chance of the ride taking place.

In my imagination I wanted a clear, warm sunny evening, an off-road ride where I'd be somewhere high up as the sun set. I could start after work - maybe about 6pm - and ride through sunset to do some real Summer night riding. There would be clear skies and a bright moon and that long lustrous twilight that you only get as a golden sun dips below the horizon.

Wow. Poetic. I'd also need another idiot to join me.

"Hey Darren, fancy a long ride after work on Friday? Oh, you're flying back from San Francisco that afternoon? Ah. OK, sure".

That was a yes then. The plan was set. All that needed to happen was good weather, flights to be on time and both of us still having the motivation to ride for four hours after long tiring days. Of course, the weather was the main risk - we've not been blessed with summer the past few years so the chances of that were slim.

Thursday, I checked the forecast. Warmish, maybe showers, maybe sun, maybe cloud. These weathermen like to hedge their bets. The one promising sign was the wind - from the West. My planned route took us out due East before looping back. A tailwind blowing us home would be most excellent.

Friday, I checked my email. Something had arrived overnight from Darren in the USA. He was just boarding the plane and still up for the ride. Every better news was the forecast had clarified, and clarified in a good way. 18C, mainly sunny with a magical tailwind.

Friday, 2pm. Darren was off the plane, and still keen to ride. Jet lag? Where we were going, we don't need jet lag.

Friday, 6pm. "Is Darren coming out to play?"

Of course, Darren was still doing work calls. There was twenty minutes of getting changed, filling bottles, fitting lights and generalised faffing and finally we were off.

The first half of the ride was only memorable in that it seemed to go on for ages. Riding mountain bikes on the road into a headwind for 35km doesn't excite me. At least Darren let me go in front for most of it, he's told me that the person riding in the wind gets extra oxygen and therefore it's easier for them. Thanks Darren!

After 90 minutes or so we reached the turn - the junction with the Ridgeway. Known as "Britains oldest road" it's been in use for over 5000 years. Hopefully it would hold out for another three hours. At the trail we started on the photos. I took one of Darren...

...as he took one of me.

It was that kind of evening. We started riding and soon discovered that the ground was bone dry, and as it is chalk based, it was like riding on concrete. The wind caught us and we were rolling along at an easy 18 mph. Uphill. We stopped for pictures.

And sometimes didn't stop for pictures.

We stopped for snacks, and kept one eye on the sun.

By 9.15pm we were 60km into the ride and there were distinct signs of orange around. Time for more pictures.

Sleeping bike

Magazine cover star

Purple grass

 We were even being followed by the shadow bikers. Always a good sign.

Right hand one looks cool.

Right, pictures done. 20km to go, and probably an hour of riding. Time to get going again. We hammered along as fast as our tired legs could take us, losing height as we dropped off the ridge.The trail turned from wide and open to narrow, overgrown and rutted. Concentrate, concentrate was our mantra as we balanced speed against the need to stay on target, in the eight inch wide channel. Now the sun was down we fired up the lights as we entered the trees, roots casting shadows like pythons, dips in the trail deepening in the gloom. By now, Darren was feeling the effects of being awake for 30 hours or so and was starting to bounce off the sides of the track. Not far now... only a few more kms.

Glorious road. Rear lights on, we could relax slightly. Talk turned to recovery drinks. Cider in particular.

10.30pm. Back at Darren's house. Four hours including stops, 80km.

Cider.

Sleepy.

End.

My first rubber glove

Oh, gee, thanks. That's a challenge. What could I say? I'd get a free training video and all I'd have to give in return was my dignity, a large puddle of sweat and the ability to talk for a few hours.

You see, an FTP (Functional Threshold Power) test really means "pedal as hard as you can for 20 minutes, or until you fall off the turbo trainer". I've never done one indoors - they are notoriously difficult to do without some kind of external motivation, be it someone to chase, a man in a car throwing conkers at you or an angry hippo after your energy bars. Outside I generally fail to warm up properly, go off too hard and then run out of road after 18 minutes.

So yeah, I needed to do one.

Once you know your FTP you can calculate your training zones and train more effectively. That's the theory anyway - it doesn't actually make the training any easier. It's also a great measure of progress; if your FTP is going up over time, things are going well.

I replied to the evil geniuses behind The Sufferfest and they sarcastically sent me a code for a free download. I don't know how a simple download voucher code can murmur "mwa-ha-ha-ha-haaa" but this one did. After an hour I now had the video - The Rubber Glove. All that remained was to set up the pain cave.

The Orca in an unfamiliar position

This was one for the good bike - I needed everything to feel right and more importantly I needed a powermeter.

Powertap. This tells me how weak I am.

Sure I could have moved the powermeter wheel to my normal turbo bike, but I needed to save all the energy I could. Talking of energy, time to wake up.

Yum.

I'd had a coffee shortly before (triple ristretto, obviously) so no need for extra caffeine. Time to mount up and start the video. There was a frustrating ten minutes while I figured out how to play it - Windows Media Player didn't like it for some reason, and I had to download Quicktime - but that just added to the warm up.

The first part of the video explained what was going to happen, like detail driven dentist would before breaking out the big drill. The video had three main parts.

• An initial warm up of slowing increasing intensity. This would be fine.
• A series of low resistance, high leg-speed intervals. This would also be fine.
• The test. This would not be fine.

I mentioned previously that I always, always fail to warm up adequately for tests. This time I was taken through a well designed, well-guided set of intervals as I gradually started to divert blood from my stomach, brain and eyes into my legs. Gotta divert that eye blood. Makes all the difference. The music was upbeat and joyful and the scenes of the early stages of a Belgian Classic race (Dwars Van Vlaanderen? Or something like that?) helped me get in the mood. Hey, this was fun! Easy riding, watching cycling videos, rhubarb and custard gel swimming around inside me... what could go wrong?

Then there was a rest period, intercut with some footage of Spartacus (who's on the wall of my downstairs bathroom) winning some race or other. I won't say much about the other footage used in this section, only that she should turn the heat up. This was the part with the high-cadence (leg speed) intervals - the hummingbird section.

Then... the test.  There were some tips - ride hard but not too hard for the first 5 minutes, then harder for the next ten, then even harder for the final five. There was a countdown. There was a noise. The noise may have been me.

Start. Change up a gear, another, another. Cadence steady, 95 or so. Glance at the Garmin. Hmm, that's quite a high power figure. I'd love to keep that going. Breathing getting heavy now, hope the neighbours are listening. I like to entertain.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. You know that high power figure? You know how you always go off too fast? Yeah that. Ease back a tad. Let the snot dribble, you can wipe it off later. Look at the video. People riding! They look... unhappy. There's some music, I think. I can't really hear it over that bloke having an asthma attack through a megaphone. Weird, I thought I was the only one in here. Close eyes. Open eyes. Look at the clock.

4 minutes gone.

4 minutes.

Arse.

So that's.... 16 left. You can ride for 16 minutes! Come on, one more minute and that's a quarter done, another quarter and that... um, half? Brain fading. Need more leg blood. Some of it seems to be in my mouth, at least that's what it tastes like. The gel was nicer.

10 down. Into the rhythm now. Come on, it's only a 20 minute interval - just like the ones you did in the winter whilst listening to Rammstein. Admittedly they weren't quite this hard and this music isn't Rammstein (note to self - play more Rammstein for next test).

5 left. Go harder? How the hell am I supposed to... oh, OK. Pedal faster. That works.

4.
3.
2.
1.
0.

Sweep the gears to minimum. Try and keep the legs moving, even slightly. Breathe. Don't forget to breathe. Recover. Look around, impressive sweat puddle on the floor. Spin. Focus. Done.

I wandered back upstairs, out of the cave and into the light. My girlfriend was asleep on the sofa. She opened an eye, shook her head disparagingly, and went back to sleep.

I hosed myself off in the garden, dried myself with sackcloth and plugged in the Garmin to look at the numbers. The result of my Functional Threshold Power test?

Not enough. You can never have enough.

The verdict
The Rubber Glove is a bad, bad thing. You won't like it, but you will appreciate it - like a good vomit after a heavy night or getting your genitals waxed. I was surprised how much more it was than just "ride hard for 20 minutes" and how well it managed to motivate me through the test.

Everyone should get probed now and then.

Sardinia Part 2 - holidays with random people

You know those stories in magazines and blogs, where people describe their rides in astoundingly remembered detail? You know, the "we rode for 300m up the slightly stony track before taking a left across a field, diverting slightly around a rather large puddle that could have been tricky" kind of thing?

Well, I'm terrible at both remembering rides like that, and reading write-ups like that. So instead, I'll avoid misremembering all of the routes we did - suffice to say they were varied and excellent - and instead concentrate on why I really enjoyed this trip.

It felt like a holiday, with just enough cycling to stop me getting restless.
I'm terrible on holidays. I can laze around and relax for maybe an hour or so but any more than that and I'm itching to do something - go to a bar, an attraction, for a wander, for a shop. I'm not cut out for beaches or spending all day by a pool. However, I don't want to be wearing myself out all the time. This trip had that variety. I could laze for a bit.

Use for Buff No 17.

I could walk for a bit:

Sardinian Jungle

I could even ride for a bit:

No pictures of me riding exist, so here's Sir Shagalot, a very friendly puppy

There was food. Lots of food. And drink too.

Gelato

Lunchie-munchies

About 10% of one night's antipasti

Some beer.

Meeting strangers
I've done quite a few trips like this one, and with the exception of one trip (which had some really odd characters - about 8 years ago) all the groups have been great. Everyone on this trip was a stranger (with the exception of David - and he's pretty strange too) and we embraced that - we all had different backgrounds, experiences and views, yet a shared love of eating. Oh, and bikes. I think most of us had bikes too.


The scenery (shamelessly stolen photos from Jenny!)
We were in Sardinia at a brilliant time - the Spring rains had turned everything green and bright and yet we didn't really get wet and basked in warm sunshine.

There were green forested hills

Pretty flowers

And the odd waterfall too.

And.... well, you get the idea. Everything was stunning.


The guides, the routes, the accommodation
Our guides had come first, second and third in a "Most Sardinian Bike Guide" competition. At least, I assume that's how they were selected. Laid back, helpful and enthusiastic, they could describe a route in minute detail ("It goes up a bit, then down, technical up, some more up, then some technical down, some up, then 4km down, then 3km up. Then we'll have a coffee stop"), spend 10 minutes animatedly discussing some minor detail (Was it 2.3km to the junction or 2.4km?) and give a lesson on stone age settlements whilst spanking our arses on every technical descent.

The routes were well balanced between technical, mile-munching and practicality. We had adventure, we had rivers, we had some scary-but-you'll-probably-not-die challenges. We also had at least two coffee stops and two snack stops. Before lunch.

We stayed mainly on farms, in converted outbuildings or purpose built blocks. There were a couple of luxury hotels thrown in too, just so we could kick back and spend two hours in a bubble bath. Never underestimate the power of bubble bath.


Finally, baby animals
We met baby dogs, pigs, sheep, goats, horses, cows, donkeys, wild boar, lizards (probably) and were even presented with a one-day old kitten.

This is the internet - of course I have to finish with a kitten picture.

At first, we thought it was a rat...

Sardinia Coast to Coast

I'm sitting here slightly battered after trying to insert the end of my handlebars into my chest cavity... but that's another story. Suffice to say, ibuprofen is a wonderful drug.

Anyway, this time two weeks ago I was basking in the sunshine, indulging in the usual pre-ride faffing that you get when there are more than two mountain bikers trying to go out and ride together. I was probably slightly hungover, full of breakfast and looking forward to the first coffee stop 30 minutes into the ride.

The whole idea of Sardinia was to do a bike trip that was actually (whisper it...) a holiday. Something where the riding would be fun, not too stressful and there was plenty of opportunity to relax and have a bit of a bimble. Compare that to the two bike trips last year - a week in the Italian Alps and Dolomites dragging myself up the big mountains, and a week in the French Alps dragging myself up the big mountains against the clock.

Why Sardinia? Well, somewhere Italian was preferred due to a love of coffee, gelato, pizza and Italian food in general. It had to be warm, it had to be about a week long, it had to be an easyish grade and most importantly it had to fit the schedules of two people - David (Pyrenees, Dolomites, Haute Route) and me. Brochures were studied, calendars cross-referenced until we finally found a trip that would work - the Saddle Skedaddle Sardinia Coast to Coast.

The start to the trip was brutal - getting up at 2:45am! Still, the roads were clear, the check-in was hassle free and we were soon greased up and inserted into the spaces that Easyjet calls seats. We met a couple of the other riders at the other end, along with our guides, and were then dropped into the centre of Cagliari to wait for the rest of the people coming in on other flights. Cold local beer? Oh, go on then.

Our trip started for real at Montevecchio, at a Agriturismo (farm stay). This one had a pool which came in handy for building the bikes around. It was a little cloudy and a little windy so we avoided taking a dip and made ourselves at home in the bar.

Dinner was a preview of what we'd be eating all week - cured hams, salami, cheese, bread, grilled vegetables, wine and beer. And that was just the antipasti. Then came home-made pasta, braised lamb, salad, fruit and liqueurs. Mmm, Limoncello. Only a couple though, for tomorrow we ride.

Ride Day 1
We were staying at Montevecchio for two nights so there was no need to get luggage ready or load up the van. Still, despite the fact we'd built the bikes the previous night we somehow managed to leave about an hour later than scheduled. Adjusting saddles, polishing frames, ensuring valves and tyre logos lined up. We were in Italy - we had to look good.

The ride started with a gentle rocky climb, with a moderate rocky contouring, followed by a YOU WANT ME TO RIDE DOWN THAT? Yes, it may only have been a moderate grade trip but it was time to drop the saddles and get our rocky descent heads on. We don't have rocks down our way so my rocky descent head hadn't been used for a while. I managed to pick up a flat on the first descent - Giant seem to use cling-flim as inner tube material on their off-the shelf bikes - but made it down without too much incident. There were a few cries of "ohshitohshitoshit" behind me which I think was a comment on the trail rather than a comment on my riding. The second descent was slightly harder - tight, slow and twisty rocks - but all still ridable for an XC numpty like me.

Part two of the day was the famous 23 river crossings trail - something that I'd done 10 years before on my previous visit to Sardinia. It may have been 23 crossings but it was a single river, thankfully more of a stream.  We had a whale of a time splashing through and astonishingly, with 9 x 23 crossings in total no-one fell in. We were all mildly moist by the end though. The route came out near the sea, close to the biggest sand dunes in Sardinia/Italy/Europe/the World (delete as necessary depending on tourist hype).

So big they don't even look like dunes

 From here there was some up, some down, some trail, some tarmac, some lunch - cured ham, salami, pasta, cheese... you get the idea. We had two options after lunch - the long, off-road climb or the easier tarmac route back. It was day 1 - of course we took the climb. It was fabulous - steep enough so you knew you were climbing but no so steep that there was any danger of having to stop. It went on, and on, and on. What goes up went down (slightly - our agriturismo was on top of a hill) and then we had the fun of another off road climb, another descent and finally 10km of up on tarmac.

Bring on the beers. And the cured ham, salami, cheeses...

Paris Roubaix Part 2: The magic pass

Race day dawned bright and sunny. We were up at a reasonable hour - a 7am alarm is nothing compared to the 0515s of the Haute Route. We filled up on breakfast as if we were riding the race itself and were soon in the minibus on our way to the start.

We'd been promised access to the start on the trip itinerary, and I assumed we'd be able to wander around the public areas with the rest of the spectators. We started like this, watching the publicity caravan start to leave and the teams start to arrive.

Follow that truck!

There was even an Android!

Saxo bank were one of the first to arrive. 3 or 4 team cars and the usual bus.

The Saxo bank caravan.

They were closely followed by the Death Star itself.

Dum dum dum, dum der dum, dum der dum...

We watched the parade of vehicles as they went into the team car park, which was closely guarded by a belligerent looking Frenchman. Misty eyed, we strained to get a better look - what was going on in there? Then the Vacansoleil bus arrived and Matteo dashed off, hopping inside before it entered the restricted area. A couple of minutes later he appeared, with a handful of plastic cards. These were our passes for the day, and we could get into the team parking area with them. He flicked through the passes and carefully handed them out, making sure the names matched. Well, I say names... maybe "gender" would be a better word. Apparently, due to some administrative delay, they had to produce the passes in other names. Oh, and they weren't from Vacansoleil. And we seemed to be Assistant Sportifs. Still, if they worked...

We approached the belligerent Frenchman. He challenged the first of our party, pointing out that he didn't look much like an Assistant Sportif. Still, a few words from Matteo and he seemed to accept the situation. We were in!

We were now in a world populated by pro cyclists, mechanics, team heads, press and the odd fan or two. We started to hang around the Sky bus and I started to take a few pictures.

Ian Stannard's bike - note FMB tubulars

Dave Brailsford looking shifty

Eddie Boss with the youngest assistant sportif in pro-cycling

Geraint Thomas having sunglasses issues

Of course, it wasn't just Team Sky. Euskatel were there with their Orbeas. They must have some really tiny riders for the race, as their frames were pretty small.

You'd think they'd be more tidy.

We were now having a whale of a time. It was slightly chilly though, and someone suggested a coffee. There was a VIP tent - maybe we could get in there? Off we wandered and brandished the magic passes. This time there was no hesitation from the guard and we were waved in. I took a look at the back of the pass.

VIP start, VIP finish, all PR spaces, Press Room and finishing line...

Let's just skip over the "non-transmissible" part shall we?

Things were getting more lively outside now as the riders started to sign in for the race. They were also starting to form up in the start lane, so we lined up at the entrance to the start area to see the riders better. Matteo had other plans though. A swift wave of his pass and he was in the start lane - well, deep breath, look confident, follow.... and I'm in.

I'm in the start lane of Paris-Roubaix with riders all around me and Matteo chatting to Baden-Cooke and look that's the big star of the race Fabian three feet from me climbing up to be the last to sign in and a gaggle of press taking pictures and I'M RIGHT HERE WITH THEM!

I was slightly excited.

Matteo catches up with old mates

A little wave

Rider's eye view of the start

Of course I'm meant to be here...

A few minutes before the start we were finally asked to leave - else we'd have to ride the 262km as well - so we went to the beginning of the course to watch the roll out. This wasn't particularly exciting (although we may have been feeling spoilt by this time) and the riders were soon gone.

Next - Arenberg Forest. Arenberg is one of the roughest sections of cobbles and a great place to get a feel for what riding Paris Roubaix involves. It was a good hour's drive away so we spent the time trying to calm ourselves down.

 At Arenberg we followed tradition and enjoyed sausages and beer.

 Before finding ourselves a spot by the barriers. It wasn't as crowded as I expected - we were able to find space fairly easily - and we settled in to wait for the race. Occasionally we were enlivened by a passing car or moto, or some dancing Belgians. Sooner than we expected the race arrived, with the break about a minute ahead of the main chase group.

The break, breaking

 Occasionally a rider came past much more slowly than the rest.

New Zipp wheel shape

We waited for most of the riders to come past - some blood stained, most with gritted teeth, some with no teeth. This was a hard, hard race. The poor Euskatel riders on their tiny bikes really weren't having fun.

However, we were. Next - the velodrome for the finish. As we approached we found the road closed - this was the race route and no cars were allowed.

Unless... you have a magic pass for your minibus. Which we did.

Equipe = Team

Once we were past the first set of barriers, the rest were easy. Three more sets were pulled aside so we could approach the velodrome on the most direct road. We parked up a few hundred metres from the entrance (off to the side of the course - we're not that dumb) and walked to the first entrance we found.

Inside we found ourselves trackside with a big screen to watch.

Surely there must be more to this... we had magic passes! Glancing around there were a few cabins, a stage, some tables and a bar. Hmm, how much for a drink? We went to the nearest cabin that contained a giant TV showing the race - 40km to go - and a bar handing out free champagne. Well, if I must.

We made ourselves at home, and the room started to fill up as people realised that this was actually a pretty exciting race. Having a recently-ex-pro as a personal pundit was handy as well.

3km to go, and I decided I'd watch the finish for real. With a free beer. The atmosphere built as the two lead riders approached - and there they were, with a lap and a half of the velodrome to go. It was all a bit cagey until the final bend, then the sprint, the straining of eyes... and Fab had won again.

Cheers!

More riders arrived, looking shattered. There was much milling around, a presentation, more arrivals, more milling around.

The comedown. It was all over bar the showering (for the riders) and the drive/tunnel back (for us). As an experience it was awesome - way beyond what I was expecting when I received that first text message. I think it's probably ruined watching cycling for me now as I'll want this treatment at every race I go to. The organisation, the travel, the food, the guiding and the backstage access were all superb, as was the race itself.

My final photo - looks like they'll need another stone for Fabian.

It started with a text: Paris-Roubaix from the inside

"Are you interested in a trip to Paris Roubaix next weekend? Access to start, transport, hotel, meet Vacansoleil before race, ex-pro as a guide."

Those were the words that leapt out of my phone when I got back from my ride last Friday. They were from David, who you may have seen in blog posts about the Pyrenees, the Dolomites, the Haute Route and the greatest cycling cafe/pub crawl ever performed. A quick consultation with my girlfriend followed ("That sounds ace, you should definitely go") and a hopeful "yes please!" was sent in return. A couple of nervous hours followed until I got the confirmation that David and I had the last two places.

Roll forward a week and I was on my way to London. The trip was organised by Cadence Performance , a bike shop/training venue/cafe kind of place. They were using the contacts of their in-house recently-ex-pro, Matteo Carrara, who rode for Vacansoleil 2009-2012 (as well as Lampre, Barloworld, QuickStep...). I'd not heard of him but a quick check on Wikipedia showed a pretty impressive palmares. When we arrived at the shop I was surprised to find that this was only a small group - seven guests and two from Cadence. Somehow I'd got in my head that there would be 20-30 people and a much bigger bus.

We drove out of London towards the channel tunnel terminal. Traffic was light (at least on the roads - it was dark in the tunnel) and before long we were in France, on our way to our hotel in Noyon - about 20km from the start town of Compiègne. Looking out of our hotel room window there was a hint that a bike race was taking place.

I spy a team car

We had an hour to kill before the first activity - meeting Vacansoleil - so obviously we spent it watching the time trial stage of the Tour of the Basque country. You know, just to get us in the mood. We met the rest of the gang in the hotel reception for the short drive to Soissons where Vacansoleil were staying.
You read about how the life of a pro-cyclist is a stream of anonymous chain hotels on industrial estates. Well, I can confirm that this was certainly the case this time, with the team being located on an estate just by the ring road. We knew we were in the right place when we pulled into the car park.

The service truck

Matteo leapt out to greet his old mates and we took a nosey round. The truck had washing machines.

Handy.

And was full of maybe £300K worth of bikes, wheels and bits.

Remember not to steal anything

I even got into the truck without being wrestled to the ground by an angry Dutch mechanic. Clearly we were in for special treatment.

I said, don't steal anything!

Next, we were told that there might be a rider or two hanging around. We went into the hotel, stopping to check where everyone would be.

If only all hotels did this

Although in the end, we were saved any hunting by the simple tactic of waiting for Juan Antonio Flecha, one of the big favourites, to come and say hi to us. Which was nice. We had a brief chat about the race, how he was feeling and he signed a couple of autographs for those brave enough to ask for them ("You bought this cap specially? I'd better sign it properly then!").

Flecha, Mirko Selvaggi and Matteo

We left the riders to their dinner, and went to find ours in the start town of Compiègne. Thanks to the research and planning of Simon from Cadence we had a great meal - traditional French country cooking at its best - washed down with local beer and wine. The meal was enlivened by Matteo's tales from the peloton (Oh, that Giro stage in 2010 with the six climbs....), training hints and a long discussion of Tarantino's films. See, it wasn't all about cycling.
Coming soon, part two: Race day.

Light, warm, dry. Pick one, preferably two.

First early long commute of the year. It was necessity rather than desire - there was no way to train in the evening and I'd already missed a day. Pack everything the night before, pump the tyres, fix the lights. Lay out the tights, the merino, the softshell. Balance the hat and gloves on the radiator.

Read the weather forecast. 3C, wind, drizzle. Ignore it. Set the alarm for half an hour earlier than normal.

Sleep.

Wake.

Do not look out of the window. Do not look out of the window until chamois cream is on, bib shorts in place, heart rate strap tightened. Once the cream and shorts are on, you're either going out or taking an embarrassing shower of shame.

Down the stairs to the hallway, recoiling from the drying sweat dead animal stench coming from the gloves. I really should wash them some time. On with the boots, the toasty comforting Northwave Artics. Boots so good you can forgive the poor spelling in the name.

Open the front door, survey the weather. Rain, real rain. Still, the boots were on. I've never missed a workout once I've got my shoes on. Get out the Kaffenback, fire up the lights, hold down the Garmin switch til I hear the comforting bleep. Garmin is now watching you.

It was light. That was a relief. I don't mind cold and wet, if it's light. I don't mind cold and dark, if it's dry. I don't mind wet and dark, if it's warm. There's probably a joke in there somewhere.

Only Belgians and hardmen like cold, wet and dark.

Of course, once I was riding I felt much better. Rain when you're actually cycling is much better than rain before you cycle - it's rarely that bad. I had mudguards, I had softshell, I had dead-badger-stinking gloves and I had toasty warm boots. I was starting to enjoy myself. There were even signs of Spring - daffodils, snowdrops and squished dead frogs. First ones of the year.

I chugged along. I wasn't fast but I felt awake, rain blasted and wind whipped. An hour and a bit later I turned into the work bike park and locked up the Kaff, stripping it of lights, GPS, bottle and pump. Dripping muddy water I entered the main office building, wishing the giant security guard a cheery good morning. I think I saw him smile at the state of me. Up to where I sit (we don't have personal desks), dumped most of my kit and headed to the next door building to shower.

After the shower I stopped at the restaurant for a bucket of coffee and a bowl of porridge bigger than my own head, with a good half pint of maple syrup. Reward time. Burn 700 kcals on the way in, eat 1000 to refuel.

I always feel a little bit proud when I do the long work commute, a glow of satisfaction. Sure, some people do it every day but I only live 2km from work - the mental strength to go out of my way every day just isn't there yet.

Especially if it's dark, cold and wet.