Italy Part 1: Bellagio

Every riding holiday, and every riding holiday blog, has to start somewhere. It's a bit like a Grand Tour where they have a prologue before the real action starts. As such, feel free to fast-forward to the end of this post to check that Cancellara did indeed win.

My holiday started at 03:00 on the 22nd June when I leapt from my bed like an over eager salmon, quickly dressed, cleaned my teeth and packed the car with bike, kit bag and hand luggage.

At 03:11 I was on the road and eating up the miles to Gatwick airport, cruise control set to a gentle 75mph. The sun started to rise ahead of me and by 04:38 I was parked by the terminal and unloading. A quick stroll to check-in, a 10 minute queue and I was waving the bike goodbye as it disappeared onto the over-sized luggage conveyor.

At this point you might be thinking "it's all going too well..." Don't worry, there is a shock coming.

Ready?

Sitting down?

There were no decent cognac deals in duty-free. I was devastated. 30% off? I'm not paying £95 for something I've paid £65 for before. I'd have to go thirsty on the flight.

I consoled myself with coffee and breakfast before firing off a couple of text messages to my travelling companions, Phill (from LEJOG) and David (from the Pyrenees and Magnificat). They were a little behind me in the airport passenger sausage machine so I wandered the shops and cursed the gods of brandy pricing.

We met up, we boarded the plane, we flew, we landed. We collected luggage and bikes. We had a coffee. Here is is.

I guess we could have stretched to one each.

Our guide Massimo (for this was an escorted trip) was picking up another rider (Tony) from another airport - hence the coffee - but soon he was outside and we were on our way to Bellagio, on the banks of Lake Como. Twisty roads, scenery to die for and cyclists everywhere. It all boded well for a great holiday.

After lunch (pizza, obviously) we strolled into town. Bellagio is a beautiful place, almost a Hollywood version of an Italian lakeside village. It reminded me of a Cornish fishing port, if Cornwall was

• hot and sunny
• brightly coloured
• populated by slim, stylish Italians sipping espresso and arguing over pasta shapes.

We wandered, I bought a bike jersey, we ate ice cream and drifted back to the hotel, trying to move with the heat rather than against it. Bike building brought our first emergency, when Phill snapped his seat-collar in half. Somehow his frantic call to Massimo led to a replacement being obtained - it seems that an S-Works Roubaix collar can be found if you know the right people.

We ate dinner on the lake at an over-priced tourist trap but quite frankly, with a view like this we were happy to pay.

And I don't mean the view of Tony.

Next instalment - Best First Day Ride Ever.

Heck of the North Hampshire

Remember this? Hell of the North Hampshire, the Magnificat 203km ride last year.

I note that I didn't use the phrase "never again" in that post. Silly, silly me.

After the wind, cold and rain of last year - all for a June event - it surely would be reasonable conditions this year? The week before had been warm and sunny (at least in Paris, where I was - though I was assured the UK was similar) so what were the chances of rain hitting on the Sunday?

Let's look at the factors that influence UK rainfall.

• It almost always rains on public holiday weekends. This was a double special public holiday
• It was a weekend of national celebration - the Queen's Diamond Jubilee celebrations
• There was an enormous flotilla marking the occasion on the Thames. They were expecting over a million people to come out and watch it
• Street parties were planned throughout the land
• The Magnificat was on
• It was the summer

I make that a 98% chance of rainfall.

Last year I rode most of the event alone. This year I had a companion - David from the Pyrenees, London to Brighton and soon to be Dolomites and Haute Route trips. This was his first long ride of the year - over 100 miles - and also the longest he'd ever cycled in one go.

He came over to stay on the night before the ride, and we went out for chain restaurant Italian, with Elaine coming too. We ate healthy food, drank non-alcoholic drinks and were generally very sensible. Up early the next day to kick-start things with coffee, more coffee and double breakfast.

Spinning out to the start (5 minutes from my house) the conditions were... worrying. Not as cold as last year - at least the temperature was in double figures - but drizzle strengthening to rain. Not quite Belgian, but certainly Dutch.

The start was quiet. I think after last year plenty of people bailed before the ride, or simply didn't enter. There were only about 40 people there - I think a couple of groups had already gone - but certainly far fewer than I'd expect.

The first third of the route has three climbs and we probably went a bit hard at these - certainly no-one overtook us, and we eased past the group of people we'd been riding with. Long rides are all about pacing, and this was a great example of what not to do.

60 miles in - my first puncture. Bye bye little group of riders we were towing along.

65 miles in - back in the group.

75 miles in - long draggy climb. Now people were starting to overtake us. We were getting tired. I was getting nauseous from all the energy drink I'd consumed. This wasn't fun. Not even in a "I love the brutality" kind of way.

100 miles in. Onto roads I know well. Spirits rise.

101 miles in. Rain gets harder. Spirits fall. Spirits would have been drunk at this point, if I'd had a hip flask. Oh, my rear brake cable grits up and keeps the pads rubbing on the wheel.

115 miles in, only 12 to go. David gets a puncture, and has difficulty getting his wheel back in. I undo my rear brake. Feck it, rear brakes are just for adjusting line anyway, not for stopping. We're not both pretty cold, knackered and miserable.

127 miles. Done. The finish is almost empty. The bar is almost full. Coffee to warm up. Get a medal.

Time - irrelevant. 57th/190, bobbins really - though the Garmin shows 30 minutes of stops.

Never again. Honest.

Wildlife

One of the great things about road cycling, mountain biking, trail running and hiding from the authorities in the woods, is that you get to see plenty of wild "things". Pretty much every trip out I make I'll see something notable - part of the pleasure of living on the edge of the almost-countryside.

These "things" are rarely important enough to mention by themselves but it's about time I wrote a little about them.

The Deer
There are two types around here, and I can pretty much guarantee seeing at least one of them on every ride. Sometimes they may even be alive. The most common are the Muntjac, an imported species that were brought to the country by Sir Jack Munt for his children to use instead of horses. They are the size of a large dog, and curiously "bark" as well. These are everywhere and can pose a danger to the speeding road cyclist. Whilst riding on the road at night I once had to weave through three large lumps... which revealed themselves to be the remains of an exploded muntjac. This is a muntjac in my garden.

The other deer are Roe deer. These have the decency to behave a little more deer-like. They are rarer, hide in the woods more and leap away when disturbed, flashing their little white asses in the air. The teases. They're still rubbish at dodging cars though.

The (other) Mammals
To me, mammals are proper wildlife. Birds are fine, sometimes interesting - especially birds of prey - but mammals make any ride more entertaining. Oh, apart from squirrels. I hate squirrels. So, I have seen...

• Hedgehogs, alive and dead. Dead are more common.
• Rabbits, all over the place.
• Hares. Mainly alive. I saw one on Saturday pretty close up... big aren't they?
• Grey squirrels. Vermin, they keep stealing all the bird food I put out.
• Water voles, mainly by the canal.
• A dead polecat. Just one, with their existence in the area confirmed by a forest ranger.
• Badgers. I have seen four or five live ones, and many more dead ones. I'd hate to hit one at speed, an enraged badger would probably eat me.
• Foxes, obviously.
• A weasel or two. Or maybe a stoat. Probably a weasel though.
• Rats and mice. Almost certainly "common" versions.

That's a pretty good collection. No boar, wallabies, wildcats, otters, pine martens, monkeys or mysterious big cats.

Reptiles
Ah... probably my favourite category, mainly due to their rareness. I have seen, in the UK, exactly two snakes. Both recently, both grass snakes, both about 18" long. One was on Greenham Common, which is also adder habitat, and the other was crossing the road about a mile from my house. Why was it crossing the road? Insert your own punchline.

I've also seen exactly two slow worms. Slow worms are legless lizards. There is a difference between a legless lizard and a snake and once you've had a slow worm pointed out to you they are clearly different to snakes. They look like eels. Oh, both of the slow worms were dead.

Lizards. Some. I remember not where, but I've definitely seen a lizard or two.

Amphibians
These clearly fit into the "more dead than alive" category. At certain times of the year the back roads are strewn with crushed frogs and I've even been unfortunate to hit one or two. I see this as lack of evolution in action - they clearly haven't bred selectively enough to work out they should hop quickly across the dark grey surface rather then hopping randomly around in circles. More videogame practice needed.

Toads.. well, probably. I'm not very good at the whole frog/toad disambiguation, and they look fairly similar once they've been flattened by two tonnes of motor car.

No newts. I'd love to see newts.

Coming soonish... part two... birds. Including live killings!

The Hampshire Hilly Hundred

I was born in Hampshire - the original one, not the new-fangled version that they invented in America. Although  I don't live there now I still have an affinity for the county - rolling hills, military bases and pubs that tolerated under-age drinking. It was also where I started real bike riding - my first "racer" was bought when I lived in Hampshire, and I rode to school and college on the same bike. I'd grown into it by college time.

For college I even went to the trouble of refurbishing it - new brakes, saddle, gears, rack (sorry), mudguards (more sorry) and a home-respray of the pig-iron frame from a rusty red to shining white.

The rusty red was a sign. The bike's forks fell off a couple of years later having corroded through at the steerer. Thankfully my dad was moving it out of the shed at the time - probably to quietly dispose of it whilst I was away at university.

Back to the point... Hampshire. I live pretty close now, and when a friend mentioned he was doing the Hampshire Hilly 100 (HHH, some good alliteration there) it was too local to resist. Easy and quick to get to, far enough away to be riding on new roads.

It went here (click for a bigger version):

The red dot marks the start, and also the finish - that was a relief as it was where I'd left my car. I'd hope most people would recognise Winchester - home of Jane Austen, a cathedral and where the rifle was invented. Alresford is the watercress capital of Britain, Whitchurch has a silk mill and Stockbridge has a bridge. Probably for stock.

Exciting stuff. There were also hills. The organisers claimed 7000ft of climbing (2133 metres) over the 100 miles, and there was plenty of undulating countryside with the odd cheeky rise thrown in.

Thankfully, it was dry. After six weeks of almost constant rain this was a pleasant surprise, so much so that I had to rehearse my outfit the previous day - what clothes for a 5C start, 15C finish and sunshine? I really couldn't remember.

As usual I arrived early, but hung back a little so that I wasn't in the very first group to start. There were about 50 ahead of me when we set off, and I played the usual card of waiting for some fast people to catch up and dropping in behind them - after saying hello of course. They were three strong riders, especially on the flat, but I could just about keep with them. They also slowed down on the climbs, instead of sprinting at everything. My kind of riding.

We were joined by about eight others after catching a bigger group at some traffic lights, and chugged along nicely, until most of us decided that the three strong ones were just that little bit too strong... we made our excuses and let them go.

Fast forward to 105km, Hannington feed stop. Still about eight or nine of us, working well and chatting together. I like to grab food/drink and go, so after a quick draining in the loo, and filling my bottles, I was straight out again, all alone. There was one other guy who'd left about thirty seconds before me so I caught him up and we started working together - he was slightly the better climber, I was slightly stronger on the flat. The last 50km was more or less flat to downhill, thankfully, as the legs were starting to feel the effort. The last 10km turned into side by side conversation - good luck in the Maratona dles Dolomites! - and after a burst of energy up the last ride we were back.

Timed sportives give you a chance to see how well you compare to the random mix of riders that turn up to not race, and in this one I compared pretty well. 15th out of 198 in the 40+ Men, 34th out of 423 overall. 25 minutes inside the "gold" time standard for 40+, six seconds (count 'em!) inside the "gold" time for young people.

Seems like this training lark might actually be working.

Let's build a bike!

A while ago I noted that I was missing playing in the garage with my tools, and that I was starting to think about something to keep me occupied...

Well, rather than doing something constructive, I thought I'd build a bike. Not just any bike though... a recovery ride bike.

You see, sometimes I need to ride gently. Bimbling along, getting overtaken by 12 year olds on BMXs. Doing this on my current road bikes grates a little as it feels slightly "expensive bike, unfit bastard". I've nothing against unfit bastards on expensive bikes - let's be clear here - yet I feel odd riding the Orca slowly.

Another option would be to get a jersey made with "recovery ride" on the back, evoking those "Wide Load" signs you see on enormous trucks on the motorway. That way people would realise that I was actually a super-fit rider who was doing 10 mph for a reason. They'd probably come alongside and congratulate me on my excellent adherence to a structured training plan.

Or not.

Which brings me to the recovery ride bike plan. The bike had to be stylish, comfortable, geared, and in my mind, cool. This meant steel, retro, Italian. A bike I could cruise on to the coffee shop, lean it against my table and deal with the hordes of admirers who would ask to have their photo taken with it. They'd then buy me espresso and cake, to express how grateful they were that I'd enriched their lives.

Or not.

Oh, I can be a cheapskate sometimes too. That ruled out some of the more exotic options (Cinelli Supercorsa for example) and I was drawn in by a relatively cheap frame and fork - a Guerciotti Record from Planet X. It met the requirements pretty well, although I wasn't sure how they looked in the metal. I also spent some time deciding on the colour - red/blue/orange/black/white/gold was too much choice for me. I went for blue in the end - the colour of the Italian football team shirts.

When the frame arrived, I was glad I chose the blue. The pictures on the Planet X site didn't do it justice - it was metallic as well. Think of "Subaru Impreza Blue".

Then the fun started - shopping for bits. I had an image in my mind which influenced most of my choices. Italian frame = Campagnolo groupset. The need for silver bits meant it has to be Veloce.

Bars, stem and seatpost had to match. Again, looks were more important than anything else (apart from availability) so I ended up with almost the cheapest option - some generic chromed versions (these will probably get replaced with something good in the future). Here they are on the frame, with the groupset.

Ah, fitting the cranks. Campag - what's going on there? Do you have to be so different? Why do the instructions mention a 17mm allen key when I need a 14mm one? What's the deal with that silly wire clip? I know you're trying to be quirky and different but honestly... And don't get me started on your chain joining method. Thank the heavens for KMC and their Campag quick links.

Now, wheels. Again, selected entirely because they were the silvery-ist wheels I could find: Pro-lite Bracciano. It was a happy coincidence to find they are very well reviewed too.

The saddle had to be Italian (not really a problem considering the number of Italian saddle makers), brown leather and retro looking. Oh, and not super heavy. I give you the Selle San Marco Vintage Regale.

That just left bar tape (Fizik), valve caps (Middleburn), down tube cable adaptors (Shimano - I know, but the Campag ones are rubbish apparently) and tyres (already hanging on the wall). Put them all together and you get this beauty.

Matches the plant pots too.

How does it ride? Slowly, so everyone can admire it.

A Grand Day Out

London to Brighton is a classic route - be it for vintage cars, massed groups of occasional cyclists or hordes of mods and rockers all set for gently beating each other and trying to get off with Lesley Ash in an alleyway.

David (from last year's Pyrenees trip) and I had been bouncing ride ideas around for a while. The original plan for the end of April was to ride the South Downs Way - a 100 mile off-road route that goes from Winchester to Eastbourne. However, much of this is chalk based and is renowned for being slightly nasty in the wet - and considering we've had weeks of rain we needed another plan.

A road ride beckoned. As David lives in that London, going down to Brighton for chips on the seafront was a grand idea. Plans were agreed, addresses revealed and last Friday I drove off from home.

The first 80% of my drive was uneventful. I scoffed at the predicted arrival time on my SatNav - an hour and a half to do 67 miles? I'd completed 55 of them in the first hour, leaving only 12 miles and half an hour to drive it. Silly SatNav.

Off the motorway, onto the streets of London. Instant queue, stop-start traffic. Crazy bus drivers, crazier van drivers. Drive for ten yards, stop for a minute. Look out for the cyclists. They were making much better progress than I was, even the one-handed riding shoppers on cheap supermarket specials.

Silly me. That last 12 miles took an hour, and driving in London made me lose faith in humanity.

What are all these people doing? London needs to be a giant park and cycle scheme - turn some of those abandoned warehouses into multi-story car parks, provide changing rooms and charge anyone who absolutely has to drive beyond the motorways £50 to go further. Add in a few tube, train, tram and monorail links and the streets would be cleaner, safer and much faster moving too.

I digress. Eventually I arrived, and after initial handshakes and greetings we decided to go out for some food. Talk was of upcoming trips (Dolomites, Haute Route), sportives, training, bikes and more training. Oh, and the weather. The forecast was... acceptable. Overcast, chilly, but with the wind from the North we'd get blown down to Brighton (there's a joke in there if you look hard enough). I've have preferred warm and sunny but at least it was going to be dry.

Saturday morning. Wet. Not heavy rain, but plenty of moisture in the air, light showers and enough water on the ground to make things interesting. Ah well, time to pretend we were in a Belgian classic race.

After a good breakfast and some moderate faffing ("I've lost my keys" "What, those keys on the table?") we departed. Thankfully we were out before 9am so there wasn't much need to battle with the traffic. 15km of urban weaving led us to roads where I started to feel at home - narrow, muddy and potholed. It must be a product of my experience but I'm much happier with close encounters with cars on these roads than the equivalent in an urban setting. I guess I know I can just dive into a roadside hedge if needed.

Considering it was a miserable day there were plenty of other cyclists out. Fluorescent flappy rain jackets were common - have these people not heard of skin tight gilets? I'd rather be damp from the rain than steaming in my own sweat inside a "breathable" shell. Still, fantastic to see people out.

The route was rolling, with several moderate climbs - nothing too steep or cheeky to begin with yet more than I was expecting. After 55km we suddenly looped backwards and I discovered that David had planned three extra climbs around Toys Hill. At this point I decided that I wasn't going to try keeping up with him and slowly he drifted ahead before waiting for a few seconds at the top.

Every five hour ride in the rain needs a coffee stop, and ours was in Brasted. A pleasant independent deli/cake/coffee/cafe completely undeserving of two dripping wet and filthy cyclists dropping by to warm up and refill water bottles. I wondered why people were giving us curious looks until I saw myself in the bathroom mirror - my face was coated in grit splatters, making me look like a Paris - Roubaix escapee.

The second chunk of the ride had more climbs, a slight-lack-of-food-wobble and some stunning countryside. Trust me, if the weather had been better and I'd had been bothered to take some pictures this blog post would have been much more interesting.

After 115km we came to Ditchling Beacon. My "Top 100 Climbs" book (that covers the UK) describes this as the hill that makes more cyclists walk than any other - mainly because it comes at the end of the mass London - Brighton charity cycle ride that has 30,000 or so riders taking part. I squirted down a caffeine gel as we approached the bottom but although it's a bit cheeky (a 10% average over 1.2km) it was easier than expected. David once again drifted into the distance but made the schoolboy error of dismounting at the top.  I obviously carried straight on over, forcing him to chase back on to my wheel.

The tailwind really helped now - an easy 40kph on the pedally descent towards Brighton - plus seeing the sea meant that we were nearly there. A quick run through town (including setting off a speed camera - oops) and we were on the seafront.

The pay-off for 125km, 1700m of climbing and 5 hours of riding? Pie and chips.

That's real recovery food.

Bad Friday/Good Friday

Bad Friday was in March 2008, on Good Friday - that is, the two days before Easter Sunday Good Friday, rather than a generic uncapitalised good Friday. On Bad Friday I dislocated my shoulder on a singlespeed mountain bike ride in the Cotswolds, on a day of horizontal hailstones, skidding mud tyres on greasy tarmac and blissful, blissful prescription drugs. On Bad Friday I became dislocatedMTB.

That memorable ride was with Jon, who you may recall from such posts as "why am I about to vomit?", "who does he think he is, Andy Schleck?" and "please can we go home now?". When you've ended up in hospital on a ride in a certain location, on a certain day, and with a certain person, the best thing you can do is tempt fate once again.

As I left the house yesterday, Good Friday, to drive over to Jon's the shouted goodbye from Elaine included the words "...and I don't want any calls from Jon saying you're broken".

Can you guess where this is going?

The weather yesterday was a marked contrast to Bad Friday. As I mentioned, Bad Friday was brutal. Freezing, wet, icy, windy. Yesterday was chilly, dry, crisp and bright. The bikes were also very different - from rigid singlespeeds with mud tyres to carbon fibre road bikes with 23mm slicks.

Here are the bikes. Mine is the pretty one. Shame I've ruined the lines with a pump (gasp!) and a seat pack (shudder!).

The ride was originally planned to be a monster re-run of the route of the Cotswold Spring Classic but circumstances led it to be slightly less stressful. Jon's been ill and off the bike for the past eight weeks. This time last year he was riding like Philippe Gilbert. Unfortunately he's still riding like him - the 2012 version.

(Note for non-followers of pro-cycling. In 2011 Big Phil was astonishingly good, imperious. In 2012 he's been floundering in comparative mid-table obscurity.)

This gave me some hope for the ride. I'm in reasonable shape, and with Jon below his usual standard there was a slight possibility that I might be able to stay with him on the hills. Well, at least not get dropped as spectacularly as normal.

First big test: the climb into... um... some Cotswold village. They all blur into one for me. It's hard to see street signs when you're weeping with pain and on the edge of blacking out through the effort. Hang on, I'll check the map on Training Peaks. Oakridge Lynch. Then on to Miserden. On the first climb I STAYED WITH JON. On the second I WAS JUST BEHIND.

Wow. Those two moments will go down in my personal list of cycling achievements, like my first 12 hour solo mountain bike race and ascending Tourmalet on a unicycle.

Onwards - steep climbs, sketchy on-the-brakes descents down singletrack roads, potholed and broken, horses appearing from round blind corners. I resent these descents - after all the work on the climbs, having to take such care on what should be the reward is very, very tedious. Still, better that than another visit to hospital...

I mentioned that this was a less stressful ride than originally planned. We even stopped for coffee and pastries in (checks map) Painswick. Two small coffees, two pastries = £9.10. Cotswold prices.

Here's Jon hiding in the cafe, reflecting.

Out of Painswick on another steep, narrow, twisting descent. Then the inevitable 9% average climb out to the main road. From here on the main road through Slad into Stroud is probably my favourite section in the area, all open roads, stunning views and sweeping bends. There's no need to pedal, but it's just shallow enough that it's worthwhile to do so for those few extra MPH.

Climb out of Stroud. Jon drifted into the distance but I managed to stay close enough to keep him in sight. Another small victory. The rest of the ride was punctuated by wild garlic, snack stops and even another picture.

Then with final, crushing inevitability, it happened.

The last kilometre, along the car-strewn road to Jon's house. I click up a gear. Jon clicks up a gear. We both start to wind up the pace. I accelerate, Jon matches me for a second, then drops back. That's right, I beat Jon in the sprint home.

He may be Gilbert, but yesterday I was Cavendish.

(If you guessed this was going to end up in hospital, shame on you. I don't crash that often)

I used to be a fettler

I have a confession. I used to enjoy a fettle. Ensconced in the garage for a couple of hours, random rock/metal MP3s blasting out, grease in one hand, tool in the other... fettling away. I could fettle all afternoon sometimes, especially at the weekend. On occasion I'd fettle on a weekday evening with my girlfriend slumped on the sofa upstairs - our garage is under the house so I could fettle without fear, confident that I'd hear anyone coming downstairs before they caught me.

I fettle very little now. Since I've drifted to road riding more and more, there is much less need. Mountain bike riding a few times a week would mean that I'd often have a few things that needed sorting out - a crunching noise, a sticky cable or a loose nipple. Road bikes don't lead to as many issues - I admit there might be the odd saddle sore or stubbly leg - but generally the bikes don't need much maintenance.

This has left a gap in my life - I'm lacking something constructive I can do when I'm not riding. I'm starting to think about ideas, options, outside interests. The odd internet site. Staring too long at a shapely frame. Flicking through magazines with arty photography of continental beauties. Daydreaming about throwing my leg over a real head turner. A real head turner that I've given a damn good fettling.

So what should it be? A slim classic with a few miles on it, in need of a tender hand and a good buffing?  A British model with a good name, history and heritage? A younger Italian with retro style? Tommasini, Pegoretti, Milani or Cinelli? Roberts, Bob Jackson, Carlton or a lilac Harry Quinn?

Choices, choices... still, most of the fun is in the fantasy. I think I can keep my fettling dreams going a while longer.

I've gone and done it now

That's it. No turning back. It's all arranged.

Today, the last pieces in the Haute Route puzzle fell into place with the booking of a flight into Geneva and out of Nice. You may notice that leaves a slight gap (of oh, about 780km) between my entry airport and my exit airport. There are also some mountains in the way.

Ah well, I'd better take a bike with me.

A few days ago I also posted off a form declaring me fit to ride, and another one listing previous injuries and ailments. Somewhat disconcertingly it asked for next of kin, blood group and hospital bedding preferences. Obviously I put down "duvet". I hate blankets.

I've got some new wheels. Some new pedals in the post. Three tubs of minty arse lard. I've filled out the food questionnaire for the event ("What would you like for breakfast?" "Kedgeree, chocolate twists and mead") and even done a little training.

Shame it's still 5 months away. I like to be prepared. Look, I've even washed my bottles.

On other fronts, I'm enjoying all the sunshine we're having and even ventured out on a mountain bike last weekend. My three month absence from the dirt showed its impact within the first half mile off road. "Numpty" would be a good description of my riding until I'd remembered that you have to move your body around a little more, and pay attention to where you are going a lot more. There's a slight possibility I might do it again this weekend, if I can fit it in between another threshold test and watching the Tour of Flanders.

Better get some Belgian beer in.

Whither Sportives?

I'll be honest. I'm not entirely sure the title of this post makes sense. What does "whither" actually mean? In the absence of being bothered to look it up, I'll define it as "Why do I bother entering".

For the non-cyclisty people reading, a sportive is a road bike event, with a marked route, timing and food stops. It's not a race. People don't all start at once. Sometimes there is mechanical support. Sometimes you get a medal for finishing (or at least, turning up at the finish). They often offer 100 km and 100 mile options.

I quite often do 100 km or 100 mile rides by myself. I take a Garmin with the route on it. I carry food. I stop for water. Sometimes I buy myself a medal for finishing, or at least a beer - which in all ways is superior to a medal.

Ah, but Sportive food stops offer lovely cake, biscuits, flapjacks, ham and cheese rolls. Exactly the kind of things that I'd love to eat but I know they'll sit in my stomach, festering. Because of this, I take my own bars and gels - things I know I can eat while riding without diverting too much blood from my legs (where it is useful, good, oxygen carrying blood) to my internal food-processing systems (where all it does is fill up with fat and sugar).

Mechanical support? Never needed it. I can fix my own bike thanks.

Riding somewhere new? OK, I'll admit that one. I get to drive for sixty miles, ride 100, then drive sixty back home. Makes sense. Actually, there are plenty of routes available on your local internet that will allow you to do the same thing.

I also get to pay £25 or so for all of these things that I don't need or don't make use of.

Hmm.

I did a sportive on Sunday - the Endura Lionheart. I can't fault the organisation, the route marking, the food stops, the timing. There was even an attractive medal. Yet I can do pretty much the same thing by myself. I can even get my bike this muddy:

So.. whither?

I'll tell you whither. Other riders. I got in with a small group of 5-6 others and we worked well together - swapping turns at the front, sharing the effort. It did get a bit hurty on the climbs - I tend to measure my effort rather than attacking everything - but it meant I pushed myself more than I'd ever do on a solo ride. We picked up a couple more, dropped a couple, dropped a couple more. At the 75 mile mark only two of us carried on past the food stop... and up the biggest climb of the event I found myself easing away from the other guy. By this time we'd met up with the riders on the 100 km route so there were plenty of people around to chase. More motivation.

At around 80 miles, something in my hip went "ping". And not in a "microwave has just made the popcorn" good ping way. More of a "was that a ligament or a muscle" bad ping way. Still, only 20 miles left. I could still pedal but putting any significant force in with my left leg wasn't comfortable. Thank god for all those single leg pedalling drills I did in the winter.

I struggled. I MTFU'd. I got cramp. I MTFD'd.

I got to the finish. I got my medal. I got my free food. I basked in the post-ride glow of 100's of other people all taking about the ride, swapping stories, being bikey. That's whither.

Time to drive home. The heated seats were once again awesome. 

(My next sportive is my local one, where I get to ride the roads I train on. How screwed up is that?)