Feeling Gravity’s Pull

Club Run, 30^th August, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 116km/72 miles with 1,037 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 27 minutes

Group size: 16 riders, no FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Fine

Main topic of conversation at the start: Peter Sagan’s (fully justified) hissy-fit in the Vuelta when he went postal on the medical car, a race motorbike and his own bike after his collision with a service motorcycle. There was some speculation that if a camera bike was in any way involved then the tape of the offending incident would most mysteriously disappear.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: The sudden reappearance of wasps at the café, which made their previous absence all the more notable. Where have the little boogers been lurking all this time, lulling us all into a false sense of security? Does this mean we can expect an Indian summer? I’m not banking on it.

Our club activists put in an appearance railing against the Great North Cycle Maze and Death Trap™ – amongst other things. Wisely OGL is determined not to get the club involved in any kind of “official” capacity.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

After a week of travelling by vaporetto, climbing on and off planes and hauling suitcases (did I mention I’d been away?) I was suffering with a bad back, but reasoned a bike ride would either kill or cure. The first couple of miles were decidedly uncomfortable, but as I pressed on to the meeting point and warmed up everything seemed to work itself loose and I began to feel much better.

“Don’t make me angry – you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry”

16 lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and rode out from our meeting point, in warm and dry, if overcast conditions. I spent some time behind one of our racing snakes somewhat mesmerised by the strange twisting patterns his right foot described as it drove the pedals around and futilely trying to work out exactly what was happening bio-mechanically. I’m still none the wiser, but I do know it doesn’t seem to slow him down any.

Somewhere along the byways and highways most of the amblers bailed out, sneaking silently away from the back of the bunch, so by the time we stopped to split the group I was left facing a covey of gimlet-eyed, racing snakes, who all looked hungry to whip up the pace and dish out some real hurt. (More precisely, I guess the collective noun for racing snakes should perhaps be den, knot or pit, although maybe we could borrow from cats – a glaring, crows – a murder, or sheep – a hurtle.)

At this point OGL stated he was going direct to the café as his hamstring was feeling a little tight, and so, looking to the better part of valour, I decided the Hamstring Ride was the order of the day for me. We were joined by the Prof, Captain Black and a few others, and duly set off.

Unfortunately our route began with a long, straight downhill leading to an even steeper, faster descent. We were meant to turn a sharp right to pass around a radio mast at the crest of the hill before the road tipped over to a faster, steeper bit. Even with such a blatantly obvious landmark to aim for I got carried away by the moment, (or maybe it was the momentum), and swept straight past the junction to plunge downwards. Weeee!!! Great fun.

e99820a6f08cf57d2e39e56305698121 — Weeee!!!

Although I quickly realised my error, I was enjoying the descent so kept going until the slope eased and I slowed and pulled off the road for a quick toilet break. It was at this point that Rab D. went whistling past, shouting something utterly incomprehensible.

As he isn’t quite as dumb as me and quite happily holds his own with the racing snakes, I reasoned that he wouldn’t have missed the turn-off and must be going on a longer, planned ride of his own devising, so I didn’t give his sudden appearance (and disappearance) much more thought.

Now on my own, the road signs ahead were all pointing resolutely toward Jedburgh, which even I could figure out was the wrong way to go, so I turned around to head back up the hill. This is a climb I can only recall having ridden once before, on the Tyne Velo Reliability Ride a couple of years ago, and it would be safe to say I enjoyed it much more this time around.

In splendid isolation for the second week in a row, (was it something I said, or more likely wrote?) I began plotting a route onward, although somewhat hampered by my shockingly incomplete knowledge of the roads and villages north of the river. In fact I spent some time vacillating between working my way to the café, or simply crossing the river at the nearest point and tracing a longer way home on more familiar roads.

After a few false starts, quite a bit of back-tracking and a great deal of indecision, I set course for the café, trying to push the pace as much as I could and, if by some miracle I chose the right route, seeing if I could catch up with any stragglers.

After a while I started to recognise the roads and was soon climbing past the Quarry and homing in on the café. A couple of miles out a familiar voice cheerfully announced there was a car behind and I turned to find Rab D. camped on my back wheel, having chased on since that fun descent and somehow engineering a route that intersected with mine. We reached the café together and not too long behind the others.

The ride home was uneventful, and I found myself tackling the Heinous Hill with a little more enthusiasm than my last outing, to end a somewhat different, but enjoyable post-holiday ride.

YTD Totals: 4,369km / 2,712 miles with 49,664 metres of climbing.

Random Rambles and Esoteric Observations # 3 – MAMILS Go Mainstream

I was somewhat bemused on my regular commute to be confronted by a poster advertising the new Vauxhall Mokka as being “M.A.M.I.L. Ready.”

Since when did cycling become so popular that we’re now a legitimate, and by implication lucrative, sub-market in our own right? Then again, surely I’m not the only, ahem, MAMIL who finds the ad just a tad patronising?

Having had my interest piqued I tracked down some blarney about the ad from the creative agency and Vauxhall, which seemed to suggest that wearing cycling kit has grown to such an extent that it’s as common as kids peeing by the roadside, or husbands surreptitiously slipping away to avoid familial strife (two of the random scenarios in an ad that the developers grandiosely assert is: “a saunter through everyday eccentric British family life.”)

I was particularly intrigued by a section which promised to illuminate “in a light-hearted and humerous way, the perils of the M.A.M.I.L.”

Surprisingly this did not feature cyclists bodily hurling themselves into hedges and ditches to avoid homicidally driven, over-sized, petrol-guzzling, and speeding 4 x 4 behemoths, such as the Mokka itself. That’s certainly one of my most common experiences with this type of car, which a higher than average percentage of the RIM’s (Random Indignant Motorists) I have run-ins with seem to favour.

The perils of the M.A.M.I.L. actually features two middle-aged cyclists trailing doggedly on foot up the very first, gentle slopes of the approach to Honister Pass, already reduced to pushing their bikes by the “pig of a hill”. Thankfully, they are saved from further embarrassment when the incredibly perky daughter of one of them drives up (in her shiny new Mokka obviously) and offers them a lift home.

This hill’s a pig – or The Perils of a M.A.M.I.L.

There you have it then in one gloriously overblown cinematic sweep, MAMILS are completely delusional, un-fit, under-prepared quitters and figures of fun to boot. Nice.

Deflationary Pressures and Tales of the Tape

Club Run, 22^nd August, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 110km/68 miles with 954 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 15 minutes

Group size: 27 riders, a smattering of FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Grey

Main topic of conversation at the start: Everyone did a swift double-take as OGL rolled up to the meeting point at precisely 9.01, only one minute behind the advertised start-time and, as regular readers know by now, fully 19 minutes ahead of our traditionally belated “grand depart”. He rather sheepishly admitted his premature arrival didn’t mark the start of some kind of personal, time-keeping epiphany, but was simply a consequence of Mrs. OGL being away on a family visit.

I was delighted to learn the Great North Road Cycle Maze has now sprouted a second “Cyclists Dismount” sign and continues to mutate in ever more convoluted, dangerous and unexpected ways.

I was called out for sporting a bottle in the exact red, yellow and black as my bike frame. Shucks, guilty as charged.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: The disastrous and neutralised Vuelta TTT, which apparently ran across seven different surfaces: marble, stone, wood, dirt/sand, asphalt, tile and plastic in its short 7km. We naturally wondered if anyone would stop to change to bikes more suited to each particular surface. Probably not, but might have added a frisson of excitement which the actual (non) event sorely lacked.

I caught Grover wandering around outside like a stereotypical NCO martinet, inspecting everyone’s bike, perhaps checking for chain wear or unacceptable levels of grime and taking notes to report back to OGL. He confided that his girlfriend had offered to buy him anything he wanted for his birthday, but all that he could think of was some new handlebar tape! I guess that’s the consequence of already owning a blinged to the hilt Pinarello.

Speaking of bar tape, I managed to catch up with Moose Bumps and ask if his bare handlebars were a clever way of saving weight. Apparently it’s more of a consequence of just being forgetful and lazy.

Someone complimented me on Reg, proving once and for all that beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

With the early forecasts all predicting heavy rain throughout the day there were heightened levels of pre-ride procrastination about not only what to wear, but what to ride. The morning brought no clarity with leaden skies pregnant with potential rain, but an uncomfortably warm, humid atmosphere. While this would eventually translate into heavy, air clearing thunderstorms later that night, the chances of avoiding rain on the ride remained distinctly uncertain. Taking a chance on good fortune for a change, I decided to keep the winter bike in mothballs, but made sure I packed a waterproof as a bit of insurance.

As if matching my indecision, there was a mixed collection of winter and best bikes on show at the RV point, and an even wider assortment of wardrobe choices , including as many in just shorts and jerseys as in waterproofs, overshoes, arm and leg warmers. Red Max compromised, turning up on his winter bike, but kitted out with summer wheelset. G-Dawg, obviously fearing the worst, came out on his winter bike and wearing a heavy Gore-Tex rain jacket that didn’t look as if it could be easily packed down and stowed away if things stayed dry.

After a brief “pep talk” when we all repented our sins for the previous week’s bad riding, 27 lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and set out.

I drifted until I was at the very back of the group as we hit the country lanes, and was riding along, quietly content in my own company when an intermittent hiss, like a damp and misfiring Catherine wheel, announced The Cow Ranger had a rear wheel flat. The cries of “Puncture!” didn’t reach the front group, who sailed blithely on, oblivious to the problems at the back.

With only me and a couple of friendly Grogs left for company The Cow Ranger was duly inducted the Club Hall of Shame, as a misfiring CO2 cylinder left him at the side of the road with a common, easily fixable mechanical, and no means of putting it right. I lent him my pump and we were soon underway again, chasing the main group, but with no idea which route they’d taken.

At each junction we’d slow looking for tyre tracks on the rapidly drying roads, and at one point I was tempted to press my ear to the tarmac Tonto- style to see if I could pick up the subtle whirr of carbon and soft clunk of shifting chains. The two Grogs gave up at this point and turned off for their own ride. I pushed on with The Cow Ranger, lining it out as we started a mad pursuit which netted a host of personal best times on a handful of Strava segments, but brought us no closer to catching the main group.

“Hmm, still no trace of them, Ke-mo sah-bee.”

Our crazed chase ended prematurely as The Cow Ranger punctured again. For fear of a disintegrating tyre and running out of both spare tubes and the benevolence and patience of fellow riders, he borrowed my pump one last time before calling it a day and heading homeward in shame. It was while fixing this latest puncture I noted that, rather bizarrely one side of his handlebars was covered in red tape, the other in white. Odd.

The Cow Ranger can't hide his disappointment at being inducted into the Club Hall of Shame. — The Cow Ranger can’t hide his disappointment at being inducted into the Club Hall of Shame.

Left to ride solo, I now began a complex guessing game of trying to decide where the main group was, where they might be going and how I could intercept them. I set off following some of our more common routes, and at one point passed the two Grogs who were now heading in completely the opposite direction! Although I passed other solo riders and groups there was no sign of the club run. It later transpired that today was the day for something a little different and they’d taken one of our much less travelled routes down the Ryals.

I'm pretty certain it wasn't me going the wrong way... — I’m pretty certain it wasn’t me going the wrong way…

I finally decided to turn for the café, winning the personal sprint with myself along the way, and arriving nicely timed between the amblers and the Faster! Harder! Longer! group.

I was able to catch up with a few fellers on the ride home and still have time to mock Taffy Steve for his worryingly, girly advocacy of fruit cider shandy (I always took him for a Stout or Bitter man). Even better, for once the widely predicted rain decided not to spoil the day, and I made it home long before the impending storms.

YTD Totals: 4,253km / 2,642 miles with 48,627 metres of climbing.

The Szell Game : What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?

Club Run, 8^th August, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 112km/69 miles with 1,041 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 21 minutes

Group size: 25 riders, 1 FNG.

Weather in a word or two: Contradictory: (breezy, sunny yet chilly)

Main topic of conversation at the start: The most efficient ways to consume calories on holiday and not waste them by making the journey to the pool unnecessarily arduous.

Crazy Legs survived a visit to a Cold War era nuclear fallout bunker in the deepest, darkest depths of – well I’m not allowed to tell you. He also made a brave decision not to buy the TT bike he was coveting, although he has acquired some aero bars.

The Red Max, having maxed out all his red bling; clothing, bikes, accessories, socks, shoes, bottles et al, has kitted out the Monkey Butler boy in similar vein – a Mini-Max!

What is it with all the migrants queuing up in Calais to come to the UK – isn’t France far more attractive anyway? At least they have better weather for cycling across there, and drivers don’t treat you like roadkill that needs to be scraped deeper into the tarmac.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: There was some discussion about whether the Sky wind tunnel testers were ever allowed to address the massive elephant in the room in their dedicated pursuit of even the most miniscule of marginal gains: “Err, Chris … you couldn’t, err, just, err, well, err tuck your elbows in a bit, could you?”

We had to explain to the FNG that it’s considered a point of honour to never, ever let Szell rejoin the front group once he’s been distanced on the Middleton Bank climb.

Conversation then seemed to deteriorate as Szell tried to deflect attention from a series of faux pas and outrageous assertions, namely:

– That Maggie Philbin was the thinking man’s crumpet back in the day!

– That Clare Grogan was not worthy of our undying adoration!!!

– That Clare Grogan married Nick Heyward???

– That “Where does it go from here? Is it down to the lake I fear?” isn’t one of the dumbest lyrics ever committed to song.

His attempted diversion was to suggest he had the unique ability to detect the size, type and use of a vibrator simply from the frequency of the sound-waves it made. Or perhaps (very hopefully) I completely misheard this?

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

The Transport Interchange Centre either has its own micro-climate, gently warmed by the collective, throbbing emissions of a dozen, idling diesels, or it’s a bit of suntrap, as quarter of an hour shooting the breeze here had me stripping off my arm warmers under a hot sun, only to find it a mite chilly out on the open road and in the cold wind.

25 lads and lasses pushed off and clipped in as we sallied forth into the unwelcoming traffic. Unbelievably in a life-is-stranger-than-fiction moment, a week after I suggested cyclists would be better getting off and pushing through the abortion that is the Great North Road Cycle Maze, it is now proudly adorned by a huge warning sign that proclaims: “Cyclists dismount before proceeding” What. The. Fuck?

Fellow riders who live in the area are also saying they are now subject to regular abuse from motorists because they’re refusing to use the GNRCM death-trap. To top it all a scurrilous rumour has started suggesting OGL is actually responsible for this abomination and the club paid for it! Madness.

Crazy Legs has some new Aero bars — Mmmm … Aero bars

In one bright spot, before carefully skirting the GNCRM, Dab Man sailed out to join us – only the second ride for him since the crash when his shoulder pinged, back in May.

Our route for the day was designed to intersect with a local road race where we had several club competitors to cheer on. This saw us running along very familiar roads, but in the opposite direction from the one we usually take. Everything looked familiar, but strangely different, and it was all slightly unsettling and discordant in a Twilight Zone/Parallel Universe sort of way.

The ride became a bit chaotic, as several thrusting young things, aided and abetted by some of the older, supposedly more level-headed guys, flexed their legs and pushed the pace up and up. An apoplectic OGL shouted to keep it steady, but truth be told it was steady – just unaccountably fast. He then complained we weren’t looking back to check on other riders and I couldn’t help snorting with laughter as Crazy Legs’s head popped up for a very exaggerated, pantomime look around, like a startled Meerkat on snake patrol.

Watching the race whirr past in a blur of colours reminded me that one of the fundamental problems of this sport is that spectating isn’t a particularly rewarding experience, as the racers come and go in blink of an eye and it’s impossible to grasp what’s actually happening in that split-second. I will say however, that hideous as they are, our guys orange socks were very visible in the bunch.

Though lacking somewhat in sartorial elegance, the orange socks did stand out.

Pressing on, our ride then endured a messy split, with no one quite sure which groups were which, where they were going and everyone all mixed up. A small bunch headed left, another right and I dithered a little before my naturally left-leaning tendencies took me after the smaller group.

We had distanced Red Max on the climb up Middleton Bank, but as we wound up the pace for the café he bridged the gap pulling Szell and a few others with him and dropping them off at the back of the group, before his even crazier than normal, but understandably short-lived attack over the top. I clung grimly to the wheel in front as we shed riders up the final climb until there were only three of us left. G-Dawg dug out a 10 metre gap that was too much for Crazy Legs to close while I hung on in third.

The ride for home was somewhat marred by one RIM who insisted on taking up ¾ of the road in his over-sized 4×4 and then refusing to slow while barrelling down a narrow country lane toward a bunch of squishy cyclists. What an onanist.

I complimented Shouty on having perhaps the loudest free-hub in the club. With a grin she told me how much she enjoyed coasting behind someone and letting the constant whirring mockingly tell them she was freewheeling happily, while they slogged away into the headwind. Pure evil genius.

A consequence of hard riding, the fast pace, challenging headwind on my solo ride home and the accumulated, dual effects of holiday inactivity and bingeing, left me utterly exhausted and empty as I finally made the bottom of Heinous Hill.

As I crawled slowly upwards at barely 5 mile an hour I would gladly have sold my soul to Eufemiano Fuentes for just a single sip of EPO, or even just one extra cog. The last speed bump with its consequent 1% increase in gradient for all of 1 metre was almost the end of me, but having conquered this very personal Kemmelberg I was gratefully home and hosed.

YTD Totals: 4,083km / 2,537 miles with 46,966 metres of climbing.

National Orgasm Day

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 114km/71 miles with 1,148 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 27 minutes

Group size: 28 riders, no FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Good in the end.

Main topic of conversation at the start: Comparing and catching up on holidays: walking in Cornwall, cycling in Wales, or walking, mountain-biking, drinking beer from huge steins and wiping-out in water-parks in Austria? Hmm, tough choice that one.

Our club road race is next week and sadly, through an accident of propitiously bad planning, I’m on holiday and will miss it. Damn. OGL informed us that there were some temporary road works and traffic lights part way around the course, but muttered darkly that we shouldn’t worry and it “should be ok.” Err, right…

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: When Taffy Steve placed his order and told the waitress where he’d be sitting, she simply wrote “Colin” on her pad. Sure enough his toasted teacakes duly arrived, exactly where he was sitting – evidently at the table widely known as Colin.

One of the guys was helping out at the British Transplant Games, but couldn’t enlighten us about the persistent and rather scurrilous rumours that OGL tried to blag himself a place in the bike race by dint of his hair transplant. (He assures me it’s 100% natural).

Talk of hair-transplants naturally led to the all-round ridiculing of Graham Gooch for his macho image, but Alvin and the Chipmunks-on-helium, squeaky voice. Surely far too easy a target for Aussie sledging – although, like the school bully, when has sledging ever rejected a target for being too easy?

This in turn led to discussions about the maddeningly inconsistent England cricket team and reminiscing about the time super-oily, supercilious, self-publicising, pompous oaf Piers Morgan faced an over from deadly Aussie fast bowler Brett “Binga” Lee.

This then (see, there is method in the madness, well sort of…) led to the idea for a new TV show where Piers Morgan (or other celebrity caricature of your choice) is drafted in to compete in a extreme sports – perhaps a round with Mike Tyson, kick-off returns in the NFL, sumo wrestling, or a bit of extreme cage-fighting. If only gladiatorial combat with lions hadn’t gone out of fashion…

On my way back to Chris from getting a coffee refill, another table (“Jonathan” perhaps – Chris’s younger, more awkward and slightly estranged brother?) declared that they’d already done all the hard work for me and decided on the title for this blog entry. Thanks fellers.

Although I admit I may have misunderstood the story slightly, apparently one of their group is only scheduled to get “lucky” with his missus on that very day, the 1^st of August, but had foolishly eschewed carnal pleasures to ride with us. Such are the dangerous lures of the club run.

There was some debate, but no resolution, about whether his schedule followed an annual or bi-annual programme, or simply mirrored the Olympics and World Cup at 4 year intervals.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

Well, there we all were, a whole host of lads and lasses in summer clothes and with shiny best bikes, gathered together for a pleasant ride in acceptable, if somewhat unremarkable, unremittingly dull and disappointing weather, or as its more typically known – the British summer. Still, grey and overcast though it was, at least it wasn’t raining and the forecast was for dry conditions throughout.

We pushed off, clipped in and as if on cue a squally burst of frozen rain swept over us like a communal ice bucket challenge. Instantly soaked through from head to toe from “stotting” rain and filthy road spray, it was enlightening to see how many of us had the foresight to pack a rain jacket, and the wherewithal to actually pull it on quickly enough to stop the rain getting in rather than simply trapping the dampness between clothing and skin.

Sadly I was one of those unprepared for the drenching, so black marks for me – actually rather neatly and fittingly visualised by the streaks of dirt that appeared on once pristine white socks.

The rain did ease and quickly pass, but left everyone uncomfortably damp and chilled for the first hour or so, until we warmed up through general activity and the occasional burst of sporadic sunshine.

I drifted through the group, catching up and chatting with Ovis, Plumose Papuss , Szell, Grover, Moose Bumps and a few others until I found myself generally loitering at the back and content in my own little world. On the way past Szell had suggested the paint job on my bike was gaudy enough for it to be made of aluminium. Ouch. Bitch.

For all the shiny, shiny carbon on display there seemed a lot of ill maintained bikes out, so we rode everywhere in a whirring, buzzing, rattling chiaroscuro of noise with the constant group chatter ladled on top. This was perhaps the reason why we spooked a passing horse that came crabbing sideways across the road toward us. We all had to stop and pull over to the side to let the dumb, helpless animal (and his mount) regain control and finally sidle warily past.

A stop for micturition relief gave us the chance to split the group, along with the opportunity to ponder the one-hit wonder that is (was?) Natalie Imbruglia, as Crazy Legs declared through the medium of song that he was “torn”.

By all appearances this chap came first in the inaugural National Orgasm Day Road Race

[Nat did have one supporter who felt she was much more than a one-hit wonder, but when challenged he couldn’t name one single other song . More tellingly his views are rather suspect as he has been known to plug-in earbuds and declare he’s off to ride on his own while listening to Alanis Morissette. Listening to Alanis Morissette seems like the worst kind of madness, until you consider actually telling other people that’s what you are doing.]

The split left us with an uncomfortably large pod of demon racing snakes, and could explain why shortly afterwards Crazy Legs took off on his lonesome at the first available junction. Then again, maybe he was just torn.

We rattled up the long, much-hated drag to the cross-roads and then as the racing snakes wound up the pace G-Dawg sneaked us, down a little known side road for a slightly shorter, longer ride. Five of us duly escaped, deftly avoiding the evil clutches of the Demon Cult of the Racing Snakes, although we couldn’t quite manage to avoid the regular sufferfest that is Middleton Bank.

We arrived at the café slightly behind the other groups, to find ourselves at the back of a very long queue for cake and coffee, and we were still there, blathering on when everyone else left, so had a very compact group for the ride back.

We had a grandstand view of G-Dawg and Son of G-Dawg eye-balling each other for the final sprint home – there’s a lot on the line with this particular contest as first one home gets the shower, while the loser is left to clean the bikes. As they disappeared off into the distance Taffy Steve swept left at the roundabout while I swooshed right and we each set off for our own individual trek home.

bike suitcase — Well, I’m packed for my holidays. Just not sure I’ll get away with it…

I’ll be back in a week or two. In-between times, keep watching the skies…

YTD Totals: 3,932km/ 2,443 miles with 43,356 metres of climbing.

Sur La Jante

The Chronicles, Confessions and Idle Musings of a Club Cyclist

Month: August 2015

Feeling Gravity’s Pull

Random Rambles and Esoteric Observations # 3 – MAMILS Go Mainstream

Deflationary Pressures and Tales of the Tape

The Szell Game : What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?

National Orgasm Day