Author: SurLaJante

Sur La Jante is the alter ego of Paul Dobbie, a 60-something, remarkably undistinguished club cyclist, occasional blogger, all-round curmudgeon and sometime smart-arse. Sur La Jante’s sole ambition in life is to win the club sprint to the café. He’s old enough to know better, but remains (just barely) young enough not to care. Sur La Jante loves words, lots of them, and is at his happiest disgorging 50 word long sentences with poor grammar and little or no punctuation. If you can cope with that, then read on. The blog itself is a paean, an homage, a eulogy if you like, to club cyclists and the traditional club run, in all its eccentric, idiosyncratic, bizarre, compelling, colourful and hugely entertaining glory.

From Pillow to Post and Riding with Marley’s Ghost

Club Run, Saturday 10^th October, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 109 km/68 miles with 941 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 15 minutes

Group size: 34 riders, 2 or 3 FNG’s, 3 guests.

Weather in a word or two: Grey. Cool

Main topic of conversation at the start: Trying to determine how a discussion on the club Faecesbook page about the discrepancies between Strava and official hill climb times somehow mutated into a debate about the theory of relativity, time dilation and relativistic speeds. Perhaps this could be used to explain the general tardiness associated with the start of our club runs?

Cruelly derided for being a “wee sassenach twiddler” by a group of burly, be-kilted, braveheart, Scottish rugby fans last week, OGL was keen to avoid further disparaging comments about his national allegiances and so rolled up wearing a Scottish cycling jersey, proudly declaring that he is not in fact a wee sassenach twiddler, just a wee twiddler.

In a discussion with Crazy Legs we determined that, although it’s ailing, summer isn’t quite dead as we haven’t yet been forced to reach into the darkest, deepest recesses of our wardrobes in search of bib tights, hats, long-sleeve base layers and assorted thermal clothing that has been in aestivation since Spring.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Sneaky Pete sneaked (snuck? snucked?) onto our table only long enough to insult Red Max’s portable workshop and then inform us that it was the 50^th anniversary of maverick maestro, Bob Dylan’s seminal “Like a Rolling Stone”.

A music-related, round-robin of reminiscing took in favourite local venues and revealed a busy itinerary of concert going planned for the next few months, including the likes of Paul Weller, Chvrches and The Stranglers. Then someone had to go and spoil it all by mentioning Rush.

As a final act of sabotage, Sneaky Pete then dropped us into that perennial, hoary-favourite, the Campagnolo vs. Shimano debate, before sneaking away in classic agent provocateur fashion…

Carlton, already paranoidly protective of his bikes, has a new steed and, like an opportunistic suffragette, has taken to carrying a security chain with him everywhere and seeking out suitably sturdy railings. And this is not just any chain, but one allegedly forged of carbon-tempered steel, recycled from the hulks of old Panzerkampwagen’s in the depths of the Vulcan electric-arc furnace of the Thyssen-Krupp steelworks. It’s of sufficient length to fully encase both frame and wheels in its mighty links which are as thick as a wrist, and it’s strong enough to serve as an anchor chain for the new Ark Royal. As Red Max brilliantly quipped, “He carries around more chains than Jacob Marley.”

The Rugby World Cup seeding which allowed the RFU to take deliberate and very careful aim before boldly shooting itself in the foot – great for all the Anglophobes everywhere, perhaps not so good for the long-term development of the game (and almost succeeding in making the UCI look sensible.)

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold and reassuringly dry, postponing the need to break the winter-bike out of mothballs for at least one more week. (Every week is an unlooked for bonus). It was however chilly enough for me to go with full-fingered gloves, a long-sleeved jersey, leg warmers and Belgian booties.

Things looked quite pleasant until halfway down the Heinous Hill when I unexpectedly rolled into a bank of seriously thick, grey fog, which almost had me turning around to head back up the hill for a rear light. It was just the fact that I couldn’t see any approaching cars, rather than thoughts of the steep incline back up to the house that dissuaded me from backtracking. Honest. Luckily the fog was squeezed around the middle of the hill like an over-sized gastric band and I was soon spat out into the clear air below.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness? Well, certainly plenty of the former. — Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness? Well, we’re certainly seeing plenty of the former.

I found other patches of mist on my trek across to the meeting point, especially lurking around the bottom of the river valley, but thankfully it had all burned away by the time I reached the magical Transport Interchange Centre.

Today seemed to be a day for bringing along guests, one of our riders, who originally hailed from South Africa, returned after a long absence from the club runs and brought two friends with him from the homelands. Surprisingly they weren’t here for the rugby, but were a Dad accompanying his daughter to a work internship in the lands of the mythical Pant Cudd – via a complex and oddly circuitous route which managed to take in the Masters World Track cycling at Manchester velodrome and then a club run out through the wilds of Northumbria.

Our South African guests seemed very disappointed at the low turn-out, and we had to explain that the 9.00 meet scheduled on the website actually meant no sooner than 9.15 in the strangely elastic (relativistic?) concept of time held by North East cyclists.

Sure enough, 15 minutes after the scheduled departure time there was a mass of riders and bikes spilling across the pavement as huge numbers returned from The Wooler Wheel, Kielder Run-Bike-Run, or wherever it was they had hidden to avoid the hill climb last week.

Punctually, bang on 20 minutes late, 34 lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and set out into the cool grey morning.

It was at this point that the Prof drew my attention to another guest, up from York, visiting a club member and joining us for a run out. He was notable because he was riding completely without a saddle and careful questioning revealed he did this out of choice, and had even taken part in a 48 hour Edinburgh to King’s Cross marathon with the same set up.

Unless your saddle looks like this ... — Unless your saddle looks like this …

He related how he first got started after someone nicked his saddle and he got used to doing without, had a period when he reverted back to having a saddle, but developed bad sores so had given up for good. He felt his new riding style was great for developing a super-strong core, but was admittedly horribly inefficient and un-aerodynamic. In fact when he tucked into a “sprinting position,” hovering inches above the empty seat tube he looked like someone uncomfortably squatting while trying to defecate on a campfire without singeing their ass hairs.

While I usually admire individualism, I couldn’t help feeling his choice had no real benefit and was just bloody-minded and wilfully odd. G-Dawg suggested there was a fine line between eccentric and insane and this fella was so far over the line it was probably as easy for him to press on and hope to return to sanity the long way round, rather than trying to turn back now.

Surely there's no need for this. — … surely there’s no need for this.

Still, the guy must never be short of chat while riding – at the café around half a dozen of us admitted quizzing him and I’m pretty certain we all asked the same questions, principle among them being, “Why?” – and he managed to easily stay with us as we rolled round to our usual stopping point.

Here the amblers split off for the café, then the ride split again as the Racing Snakes took off for the hills and I followed the middle group. Crazy Legs led from the front with G-Dawg, manfully battling a viciously strong headwind that existed solely in his head.

Regrouping after a short, sharp climb, we pressed on for the café and started to build up speed. Sweeping through Milestone Wood we hit the rollers and I decided to stretch things out and inject a bit of pace, narrowly skirting the crumbling edge of a long trench that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Passchendaele and had suddenly appeared gouged into the road surface.

“The pothole was so deep, ah had to change gear te climb oot!” Geordie cycling folklore.

Over on the left Cowin’ Bovril must have had the same idea and jumped as well, but I swiftly overhauled him and he fell away as I kicked over the first hump and hit the bottom slopes of the second ramp. I poured on the pace over the top and down the hill to the last climb up to the café.

Just before a turn in the road the Red Max attacked and seven or eight riders slipped off my wheel and whistled past in pursuit. Breathless I tried to maintain some semblance of speed and managed to overhaul a couple as they flagged and their legs died on the uphill grind. Then we were through to the café and much deserved cake and coffee, followed by a spirited dash home.

This ride marked a little bit of a milestone, as I’ve now topped over 5,000 kilometres for the year and hopefully there’s plenty more to come, although not next weekend when I’m cruelly being dragged away to a wedding. I mean, what kind of inconsiderate, low-life arranges weddings for the weekend where they inevitably clash with the club run?

YTD Totals: 5,134 km/ 3,190 miles with 58,002 metres of climbing.

Ghostface Killah

Club Run and Hill Climb, Saturday 3^rd October, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 89 km/55 miles with 924 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 3 hours 46 minutes

Group size: No more than 20 –2 FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Extremely chilly

Main topic of conversation at the start: Crazy Legs gives voice to what I suspect all the regulars are thinking – how much we hate this day. No matter how good you’re feeling, I’m not sure anyone actually looks forward to the hill climb and its attendant hurt.

He then suggested we have a whip around to hire a Portaloo for the start of the hill climb. I countered by saying what we really need is a patio heater. The general consensus was we were both wrong and what we actually need is both a Portaloo and a patio heater.

A couple of FNG’s, or more accurately an FNG couple, exiled from Sarf Larnden, spotted Reg and we had a good chat about the original Holdsworth shop in Putney, which was their LBS and they remember as being loaded with a cornucopia of memorabilia from the mighty Holdsworth-Campagnolo pro team.

The store closed in October 2013 after 86 years, according to my interlocutor’s because it was located in some prime real estate that the owner’s family sadly wanted to cash in on. Although Reg’s carbon frame was probably mass produced by a faceless squad of minions in an ultra-high-tech, utterly sterile, Far East factory, I like to think it has some spiritual connection and shares just a little bit of heritage with this illustrious and successful British bike brand.

Fallout from last week’s plethora of punctures saw Crazy Legs check the pressure in his repaired tyre on returning home – to reveal a massive 20psi. This was despite his and Red Max’s efforts with both the molto piccolo and Max’s uber-pump. Some discussion was had about Szell’s spectacular blowout and whether it was caused by the inner tube trying to squeeze out between tyre casing and dangerously worn rims.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Hill Climb day is the only time we use this particular café, and then we all turn up coughing and spluttering with climbers cough^1., like a consumptive poet dying of TB. We often wonder what the staff make of us and whether they think we’re the most unfit cycling club in existence, or are perhaps sponsored by Rothmans and contractually obliged to smoke 40 a day.

Zardoz told me he was out again on Wednesday with the Retired Gentleman’s Combative Cycling Club, when the conversation rolled around to Il Lombardia, and someone asked where the race was and received the very obvious and undoubtedly correct answer: Lombardy. Then there were blank stares and silence all around as everyone realised they didn’t quite know where Lombardy actually was.

Apparently the Cyclone Sportive and associated events which OGL organises may be without a headline sponsor this year, as negotiations with Virgin Money to renew seem to have reached something of an impasse. I must admit OGL seemed remarkably sanguine about the whole thing.

Coffee, and the supposition that Britain has the worst tasting coffee, with the highest caffeine content. Discuss.

Ride Profile (Hill Climb highlighted)

The Waffle:

Hope you’re sitting comfortably, this could be a long one …

We’re into October and all the portents are pointing assuredly toward this being the start of winter. Il Lombardia or to use this classics most poetic title, la classica delle foglie morte, closed out the pro season on Sunday^2., and as if on cue all the leaves at home are suddenly turning golden and starting to sift down.

Darkness is beginning to slowly steal away precious minutes of daylight at both ends of the day and the weather is developing a distinctive chilly bite to it. And if all this wasn’t enough, the final indicator that we’re at the back end of the cycling year is that the traditional British hill climb season is now in full swing.

Fabulous Lombardy poster from the Handmade Cyclist

Not to be outdone, this weekend was our turn to pander to our worst masochistic, self-harming instincts, with a tilt at the club hill climb. The chosen arena for our self-flagellation is Prospect Hill, near Corbridge in the Tyne Valley. The climb is about 1.5km long at a 7% incline, with a maximum of 15.5% and runs through 9 bends, several of which are almost tight enough to be classed as hairpins.

The forecast for the day was an early mist that would eventually burn off, but with temperatures subsequently depressed and unlikely to claw their way up into double figures. My breakfast and ride preparations are interrupted by about half a dozen trips to the toilet. Nerves? Possibly.

Knowing it’s going to be chilly out, compounded by the lengthy wait hanging around for a start slot, I choose a base layer, club jersey, arm and knee warmers, long gloves and a windproof jacket over the top of everything. I’m attempting to walk the razor-fine line between not overheating on the ride to the hill and trying to stay reasonably warm once I get there. I’m somewhat shocked to find how surprisingly capacious my club jersey has become.

After last week’s mega turn out, the numbers at the meeting point are disappointingly low, even though they’re bolstered by a few of the racing snakes, who don’t usually deign to ride with us mere mortals, but have been lured out by the thrill of competition.

Several notable absentees can be explained by conflicting events, G-Dawg and the Prof are doing the Kielder Run-Bike-Run, while Red Max and the Monkey Butler Boy are tackling the Autumn Wooler Wheel Sportive, but where’s everyone else?

Even with the juniors making their own way to the climb, numbers are significantly down on previous years, and several of those at the meeting point are just out for a normal ride and have no interest in seeing if they can cough out their own lungs by riding as fast as possible up a hill, just to turn around and come back down again. Oh well, at least it should help get things over with fairly quickly.

The temperature dropped even further as we swept down into the bottom of the Tyne Valley to follow the road upstream, and as we approached the start we could see the hillside above us shrouded in a dense grey blanket of wetly-dripping mist.

A rival club was holding their own “chrono escalada” up the other side of the hill, but thankfully they’re early starters (and probably punctual too!) They were just about done and dusted by the time we rolled up, avoiding the potentially catastrophic (if comic) opportunity for two, charging, heads-down and rapidly converging riders lunging for the same line and colliding in an explosion of flailing limbs and carbon fragments.

As we milled around, horribly messing up the signing on process and allocation of numbers in the disorganised chaos that only cyclists seem capable of achieving, the cold really started to bite. We stood around shivering, with fumbling fingers occasionally bypassing jersey material to pin numbers directly through benumbed, frozen flesh, but at least they were well secured and not likely to flap in the wind.

Rab Dee offered me some of his home made energy bar, which is reportedly so dense it absorbs light. It didn’t seem to be the sort of extra weight I should be taking on board before hauling ass up a steep hill, so I politely declined.

Then, in a break with tradition, instead of being snooty and snotty and whingeing at us for having the temerity to use the public road outside their homes, one of the local households decided to embrace the annual invasion of slightly mad cyclists, and sent out a sacrificial daughter with a tray of freshly baked brownies. Not only did they taste great, they were actually still hot, and several groups of cyclists formed a huddle around them trying to warm their hands.

I discussed tactics for the climb with a horrendously hung over Son of G-Dawg, who blasphemously suggested starting on the inner ring. Luckily his Pa wasn’t around to hear, but it seemed the sensible decision anyway, as there’s less to go wrong if you’re not dropping from the big to smaller chainring under pressure.

A bit of riding around to … I was going to say warm up, but I think “not feel quite so cold” is closer to reality, and then it’s time to strip both myself and bike as I jettisoned water bottle and tool tub, sunglasses, gloves and finally, and with great reluctance, my jacket.

It was good to see one of our semi-FNG’s, Avatar: The Last Air Bender lining up directly in front of me, ready to hurl himself recklessly at the hill in his first ever club competition. I’m not sure he realised when he rocked up this morning that we would be doing the hill climb, so he gets extra kudos for not backing out. Chapeau!

I only have time to note that one of the young kids is set to follow me, then I’m on the line ready to start, not really concentrating and feeling quite disassociated from the entire process. The timekeeper tells me 30 seconds, and I lift my foot, clip in and settle. 15 seconds. Breathe deep. The 10 second countdown starts, I tense, the hand comes down and I’m off.

I quickly roll up a decent cadence, reach a bend and sweep around it to attack the first ramp, cresting it and pushing on toward the second bend and probably the steepest part of the course. The first slopes however have sapped just a little too much speed, the gear is too big and I’m now losing momentum and dying dismally.

The next section is a real struggle as impetus drops sharply and I’m forced out of the saddle to grind away to the accompaniment of my cleat creaking horribly on the pedal. Or at least I think it’s my cleat, it could just as easily be one of my ancient, fragile knees humming discordantly as it vibrates under the pressure in an audible warning that it’s about to explode.

An awful moment appears to attenuate into long, torturous minutes, and I can’t help gratefully thinking that unless the kid behind me is one of our outrageously talented youngsters, I should at least manage not to be caught by him. Gradually the slope eases, and I’m able to flop down heavily in the saddle and roll the chain up a couple of gears.

I try to find a rhythm now, and maintain the pace, but can’t go any faster without jumping out of the saddle and stamping hard on the pedals, and this burns up oxygen quicker than I can suck it down.

As if still influenced by last week’s blood moon, I’m in full Laurens Ten Dam “werewolf” mode now, mouth agape and thrashing like a basking shark stranded on a beach and with great strings of snot and slobber, spit and drool pouring from my mouth and nose and eyes. My chest is heaving like over-worked, over-extended bellows, sucking in huge lungful’s of the freezing, burning, damp and clammy air. And it’s not enough.

Full Ten Dam mode — Full Ten Dam werewolf mode

I round another bend. All I can hear now is my rasping, too-quick panting that seems to be in wild syncopation with my thudding, banging heart. Is it natural to try and breathe so damn fast? As the bend straightens I almost plough into the back of a couple of ramblers walking blithely up the middle of the road, studiously and very deliberately ignoring each one of the gasping, labouring cyclists who have had to haul themselves around this unexpected impediment.

I swerve wide to the right to pass them, and almost immediately have to dive to the left as a huge 4 x 4 sweeps past, heading downhill with headlights blazing in the gloom. Everything is hurting now and I can’t distinguish individual areas of pain as I try to raise my speed.

Ahead of me in the mist and murk, almost always just disappearing around the next bend, I keep catching the occasional glimpse of another rider, my minute man, who’s craftily chosen a fog coloured jersey to blend in and not give me a distinct target to chase. Not fair.

I recognise I’m approaching the final section, and against all reason and the silent screaming of my body I click down one, then two gears and just push and hope. I think I’m still accelerating as I shoot over the line, then freewheel and finally remember I have to brake. Some 100 yards past the finish line I finally stop, but the pain doesn’t, and I slump over the crossbar, trying to control what feels like supernaturally fast panting.

To be read in your most hysterical Phil Liggett voice: “Just who is that rider coming up behind in the mist – because that looks like La Jante! That looks like Sur La Jante… it is, it’s Sur La Jante!”

After a few minutes I manage to get turned around and slouch my way to the finish, where Zardoz cheerfully informs me I look like a ghost and wonders aloud how I managed to so successfully drain all the blood from my face. I might have laughed, but was instantly consumed with my first bout of climbers cough.

Another year, another hill climb. So how did I do? I was 17^th out of 33 riders and 4^th out of the vets. Much more importantly, I posted a personal best time of 6 minutes and 16 seconds, 11 seconds better than the previous year.

In fact it’s pleasing to see the steady, if unspectacular progression I’ve made year on year. At 53 however I’m not looking forward to the inevitable day when age conspires to erode any improvements I can make through increased training, better equipment or smarter preparation, but at least for today I can feel I’m still winning the battle with time.

In the café I hang back to stand guard on the wallets, phones and helmets that get abandoned as a few go off to pay, and the first of our group splits and disappears up the road. I decide to take the more direct route home along the valley floor, rather than climbing out to the north and then dropping down again and strike out on my own.

I make good time on the flat, but every little incline hurts. At the bottom of the Heinous Hill I decide to postpone the inevitable a little longer and drop into the Pedalling Squares café to arrange a much overdue service for my ratbag mountain bike. Suitably fortified with one of their excellent espresso’s, the clamber up the hill and home turns out to be not quite as bad as I imagined it would be.

Footnote ^1.

During a hill climb, cyclists are breathing as hard as their lungs will allow, so hard in fact, that their airway gets eroded from the air passing through it. This erosion causes irritation in the airway which leads to the dreaded climbers cough (or in running parlance, “track hack”).

This irritation can cause the membranes to produce mucous for protection and lubrication, which can lead to phlegm in the cough, and may even break little capillaries in the airways causing the taste of blood, or a metallic taste in the mouth. Hmm, nice.

Footnote ^2.

The inaugural Abu Dhabi Tour doesn’t count – I’m willing to be proven wrong, but this just looks like a shameful, money-grubbing exercise by RCS and/or the UCI, and likely to be as dull, tedious and anodyne as all the other interminable Gulf Tours. I think a certain Mr. Cavendish is the only person who feels mass sprint finishes are the acme of cycle racing.

YTD Totals: 4,975 km/ 3,091 miles with 56,247 metres of climbing.

So, size does matter after all.

Club Run, Saturday 27^th September, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 109 km/68 miles with 941 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 15 minutes

Group size: 30 plus – no FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Grey. Cool.

Main topic of conversation at the start: OGL turned up to solemnly inform us that one or more of the FNG’s had been in touch to tell him they’d joined a rival club because the pace of our rides was too high right from the start. While OGL’s tone was one of mild censure, surely I wasn’t alone in thinking this was a positive result all round. The FNG’s now get to ride with a group maybe more suited to their current level, while we don’t have to constantly nursemaid riders who need to honestly assess their own capabilities before signing up to a club run.

Although that might sound harsh I’m not actually convinced the speed on the first parts of our ride are any faster now than they were when I was the struggling FNG, and plenty of others since have started, found it ok and still continue to come out with us. In fact I worked hard riding on my own to make sure when I rocked up the first time I wasn’t going to embarrass myself too much. Despite my preparations I still remember the hammer blow of that first climb, or being tailed off and constantly chasing while trying to keep the last rider in sight, along with all the encouragement and aid of others.

While there is a great deal of goodwill and help doled out to new starters there has to come a point where slowing the pace too much is simply going to ruin the ride for everyone else. At what point do the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few? A certain, smart, but entirely fictional, pointy-eared alien would have a very clear answer to that.

This does suggests that a “once size fits all approach” doesn’t always work and we should consider splitting the group much earlier (goodness knows it’s big enough) and have different groups to match different abilities and desires. This suggestion isn’t universally popular though and has led to schisms and rancour in the past. Answers on a postcard, please – I haven’t got any.

On a different note, apparently the Prof fears that he’s being dealt a duff hand by Father Time and is increasingly worried by a loss of elasticity in the skin on his legs. He’s been going round inspecting and comparing the calves of anyone in the same approximate age bracket who’ll allow him to get up close and personal.

According to Red Max the Prof has so much loose skin he’s pulling it up from his ankles and over his knees a bit like a pair of baggy socks with perished elastic. For whatever reason, my twisted mind immediately conjured up an image of two legs like flaccid, wrinkled, elephant foreskins, though I wasn’t even marginally tempted to look for a suitable photo to illustrate it.

Anyway, if you’re ever accosted by a fella on a small-wheeled bike of curious design asking to feel your calves, try to let him down gently. He’ll probably tilt his head back to peer myopically at you from under his dark glasses, then just shrug and pedal off. Don’t be alarmed, he’s mostly harmless.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: The Red Max demonstrated his hard won, encyclopaedic knowledge of cake, by correctly identifying a Viennese Whirl, despite it being incorrectly labelled as a Malteser Tray Bake.

He gambled on this new confection being to his tastes, and it duly transported him to unforeseen heavenly delights. I’ve never seen him eat anything quite so slowly, as he delicately nibbled away like a bulimic teenager, savouring every morsel and pausing for long periods of deep contemplation. On finishing he promptly declared it was much too good for his son, the Monkey Butler Boy who he would now have to ban from ever seeing, let alone tasting such forbidden fruit.

The wasps had again disappeared – but someone obviously mentioned their absence 5 times, and like Clive Barker’s Candyman this seemed to be sufficient invocation for them to suddenly swarm our table and remind us that summer wasn’t quite over.

The pair of punctures led to a discussion of pumps, shot through with dubious double entendre’s which concluded it was all about the length, girth and hand-action as well as course of how hard it would get (your tyre , obviously.) Oh. Dear.

Crazy Legs then fished in his back pocket and delicately pulled out the smallest, frailest looking micro pump known to man, holding it carefully aloft between a thumb and forefinger. It looked like it could barely deliver sufficient volume to give CPR to a sparrow, let alone inflate a tyre. G-Dawg raised an eyebrow and asked how big it was when extended, “It is extended,” was the flat response.

Then Szell started talking about his sweaty helmet and we knew it was time to make a swift exit.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

Saturday brought a dry, but chilly day with the sun barred and barricaded behind a flat, iron-grey blanket of cloud. Another day ticked off where shorts still remained a viable, comfortable option. Everyone feels like a bonus now.

I reached the rendezvous point early, so did a quick spin around the car park, coming back to the start from a slightly unusual direction and converging with 4 other riders, all arriving from different angles like a highly choreographed Red Arrows manoeuvre.

Thankfully we narrowly missed an embarrassing mass pile-up and as our well-published start-time rolled past we hunkered down for the inevitable wait for everyone else to show – which they did in increasing numbers, until the concourse was awash with brightly coloured, skinny limbs, shiny plastic bikes and the hum of unrepressed badinage.

Eventually over 30 guys and gals pushed off, clipped in and set out, in a long snake and I chuckled as an unsuspecting lone rider appeared at the back and had to surge over pavements, jump kerb’s and hammer down side-roads to try and get past our extended train.

We’d just left the urban sprawl behind when Son of G-Dawg punctured, and we all huddled in a lay-by as repairs were effected. Half a dozen strokes from Taffy Steve’s mighty frame pump had us rolling again, although Son of G-Dawg would later complain his tyre felt squishy as we hadn’t quite managed to inflate it to his usual 140 psi!

"A real pump? You couldn't handle a real pump!" — “A real pump? You couldn’t handle a real pump!”

We rolled along merrily for a while, until the puncture curse struck again, this time it was Crazy Leg’s turn to get that sinking feeling as his rear tyre sighed one last gasp and expired. Repairs took slightly longer this time as the sidewall was gashed and needed a bit of emergency patching. Again we regrouped and pressed on until we reached a suitable splitting point.

Here a large contingent looked set to head straight to the café, until OGL revealed the route travelled down a farm track, through closed gates and over cattle-grids, before delicately picking a route between extensive, steaming piles of cow ordure. A few changed their mind at this point, figuring it was just an evil ploy for OGL to rack up sales of inner tubes, and concluding the pain of the longer ride was preferable to off-road adventure’s and the need to deep-clean and sterilise the bike on returning home.

An audience just adds to the pressure of a slick tube change. Whenever I puncture I try to slip slowly out the back to fumble around on my own. — An audience just adds to the pressure of a slick tube change. Whenever I puncture I try to slip quietly out the back so my inept fumbling remains hidden.

It was a large, unusually disciplined group then that hit Middleton Bank, and for once we churned up it in tight formation, at a fairly respectable, but not blazing speed, losing only one or two out the back. I was alongside Red Max, who seemed at ease with climb, although he later admitted just hanging on had been fast enough to blunt his enthusiasm for a Forlorn Hope long attack. We regrouped over the top and no one was really pressing hard as we swept through Milestone Wood, over the rollers and down toward the final climb to the café.

Rounding the last corner, Shoeless and Son of G-Dawg kicked away, and I dug in to follow on G-Dawg’s wheel, but he didn’t respond. Somewhat surprised I slowed, waiting for a surge that didn’t come and trying to recover from the shock. I then somewhat apologetically did the unthinkable and passed him on the inside, trying to build some lost momentum back up.

Goose, Ovis and maybe a couple of others swept over me at this point, and I gave chase with my front wheel skipping and skeetering on the broken surface near the gutter, managing to hold them without actually closing the gap as we ground up and over the final rise.

Luckily we got into the café and served before it was mobbed by a twitchy herd of arriving pensioners, who managed to mill around aimlessly and glare at anyone they thought might have been queue jumping.

I went into the car park looking for the coach which had disgorged this ominous horde, but they had either all air-dropped into the café, or travelled there independently – perhaps part of a pensioner flash mob co-ordinated months in advance through the pages of their radical ‘zine, The People’s Friend.

Fearing a Sanatogen-fuelled riot we sent G-Dawg in for re-fills, reasoning he’d be the most likely to intimidate them into silence, and somehow he managed to pull it off.

Don't mention Mr. Wasp... — Don’t mention Mr. Wasp…

It was at this point that attention was drawn to Szell’s bike which he’d dropped and abandoned in the middle of a flower bed, before staggering away weak-limbed, shaking and utterly spent from his efforts to hang on in the sprint. Red Max tutted disgustedly however , arguing you were never truly spent, until it’s you found lying on your back in the flower bed with the bike in the air, still cleated into slowly turning pedals and occasionally twitching and buzzing like a freshly swatted blue-bottle.

We left the café before the pensioners kicked off, and I found myself riding on the front with Taffy Steve. We were just debating if anyone was going to surge past and push the pace on Berwick Hill, when Szell suffered either a puncture or an assassination attempt, his tyre exploding with a retort like a rifle-shot.

Once again we stopped, and sprawled across the road while repairs were undertaken. This was somewhat delayed as Crazy Legs first paraded the offending inner tube which had ruptured as badly as the Kalamazoo Pipeline.

“Molto piccolo!” The peloton’s verdict on Crazy Legs’s pump was suitably disparaging.

Back up and running, I resumed the vanguard position with Taffy Steve and we crested Berwick Hill and dropped down again in a fairly close ordered, compact bunch, managing to keep our discipline and everyone together until we all split up for home.

YTD Totals: 4,848 km/ 3,012 miles with 54,961 metres of climbing.

Glossary and Dramatis Personae (updated)

Several dedicated readers (yes, seriously) have requested a glossary of terms they can quickly reference in case some of the pesky TLA’s and my lazy short-hand references are a little too obscure.

This is a formative revised version which hopefully will continue to be updated and grow as I bumble along churning out more and more err, witty effulgence. I’ve also taken it as an opportunity to flesh out some of the recurring dramatis personae, just so you can get some sort of understanding of the people I’m forced to put up with each week.

[Here’s as probably as good a place as any to reiterate that everything you read in SLJ is the pure, unvarnished, unalloyed truth. Well, apart from all the bits I make up obviously.]

A decent starting point would seem to be:

SLJ or Sur La Jante: The original phrase comes from the term “finir sur la jante” which I rather shamelessly purloined from a glossary of obscure cycling terms on the Inner Ring blog. Seriously, if you have even a passing interest in the sport of road cycling Mr. Inner Ring is a must read. To finir sur la jante is to finish on the rim, as if you’ve punctured and have to ride slowly. It seems to rather aptly sum up my efforts in the weekly club sprint to the café.

SLJ or Sur La Jante can also refer to this blog, (well, d’uh) – a paean, an homage, a eulogy if you like, to club cyclists and the traditional club run, in all its eccentric, idiosyncratic, bizarre, compelling, colourful and hugely entertaining glory.

SLJ or Sur La Jante can also refer to this blogs author, a 50-something, remarkably undistinguished club cyclist, occasional blogger, all-round curmudgeon and sometime smart-arse.

FNG or Flippin’ New Guy/Gal– is somewhat sanitised, US military slang, adopted (solely by me) to describe any new, newbie, noob, first-timer who turns up for one of our regular club runs and, more often than not, is never seen again. There has been some recent debate about when a FNG is said to “stick” and loses their FNG status. This has yet to be resolved.

People

OGL: Our Glorious Leader. Also our Road Captain, Club President, Vice-President, Treasurer, Chairman, Secretary, Event Organiser, Social and Welfare Officer, Patron, Club Committee, Route Finder, Web Controller, Archivist, Photographer, Social Media Gatekeeper, Weatherman, Chief Recruiter and Club Ambassador. A megalomaniac you say? I couldn’t possibly comment…

Crazy Legs – a fellow rider and club run regular, characterised by unfailing enthusiasm and a super-high cadence driven by the skinniest calves this side of a bankrupt Eritrean cattle farm. Full of natural bonhomie. Given to nurturing and nursing FNG’s and renowned for constantly singing an eclectic mix of slightly off-kilter, occasionally tacky, pre-Millennial pop songs.

Taffy Steve – a fellow rider and club run regular, originally from the lands of the mythical Pant Cudd (who only narrowly escaped being referred to as Pant Cudd throughout this blog.) Most closely resembles “satirical comedian” Marcus Brigstoke, only far, far funnier and considerably more cynical. Drier than an Oklahoma dustbowl. Hates his thrice-cursed winter bike with a passion.

G-Dawg – a fellow rider and club run regular. Largely thought to be indestructible. Made in the same factory and cast from the same mould as the Terminator T-800 Model 101. Much like a paranoid hobbit, he has an irrational fear that a cruel overlord will claim his soul if he ever succumbs to the dark side and slips the chain off his big ring.

Even G-Dawg's much under-utilised inner ring is the size of a dustbin lid. — Even G-Dawg’s much under-utilised inner ring is the size of a dustbin lid.

Son of G-Dawg – Obviously the younger, faster, stronger chip off the old block. Most closely resembles the Terminator T-850 Model. NB: Just as in the movies the younger, faster, stronger model doesn’t always win.

This photo supplied by the BFG purports to show Son of G-Dawg's early training behind his Pa. — This photo supplied by the BFG purports to show Son of G-Dawg’s early training behind his Pa.

The Prof. – a fellow rider and club run regular. Does actually work at the University, but earned this soubriquet more for his uncanny resemblance to Professor Pat Pending in Wacky Races, his blind devotion to Convert-A-Car eccentric and small-wheeled bike design and some remarkably home-spun (and home applied) engineering solutions. Perhaps the owner of the club’s smallest, leakiest bladder.

The Prof. on one of his many Convert-a-Car creations.

The Red Max – a fellow rider and club run regular. Prone to chasing down anything that moves, like a loopy Labrador on speed. Has a penchant for red – bikes, clothes and the zone where his heart rate usually resides. Master of the Forlorn Hope “sprint.” It is believed Max has recently signed a sponsorship deal with the Ringling Bros, who now provide all his shoes.

Zardoz – a club run irregular and super-fit, cold-hearted assassin masquerading as a good-natured, white-haired, twinkle-eyed, perfectly avuncular octogenarian. Will rip your legs off if he senses even the slightest weakness, but you accept it because all the while he’s smiling sweetly at you through the pain. Has a great way of announcing an approaching motor vehicle by bleating “Keeargh” in an exaggerated Scouse accent, a warning that sounds remarkably like our cat coughing up a furball and never fails to make me laugh.

Shoeless – a club run irregular and super-fit, super-strong Tri-Athlete, whose exploits will always be framed by the fact that he travelled 60 miles to an event, only to realise on arrival that he’d forgotten to pack his cycling shoes. Although hard, not hard enough to ride barefoot, but to be fair he drove home, collected his shoes and still made it to the start of the regular club run in time. His escapades have so far failed to convince us that all Tri-Athletes aren’t a hyper-successful experiment in Artificial Stupidity. (Where traditional comedic tropes for stupidity include the Irish, Essex Girls or blondes, cyclists tend to substitute Tri-Athletes)

Of course Tri-Athletes aren't really dumb, are they? — Of course Tri-Athletes aren’t really dumb, are they?

Ovis – a club run irregular with a strange predilection for running down stray farm animals. Forced to abandon his former life in the Deep South (Rochdale, Rotherham, Richmond, Rochester or some such) and live in exile under Witness Protection following the failure of a catastrophically inept, pyramid selling scam. Left with a container full of garish cycling kit from a previous club, that has a half-life greater than Bismuth-209 and is rumoured to be capable of surviving a 6 megaton thermo-nuclear detonation.

Both the peloton and flock breathed more easily once they realised Ovis wasn't there and there wasn't going to be a crash. — Both the peloton and flock breathed more easily once they realised Ovis wasn’t there and there wasn’t going to be a crash.

Captain Black/The Captain – a club run irregular of slightly saturnine appearance. Wears the dirt on his bike like a badge of honour. In thrall to a fat man of allegedly indeterminate parenthood, to whom he pays a princely ransom to be allowed to watch men chase an artificial pigs bladder around a paddock. Once, in an Obama-isn’t-an-American-citizen type scandal called me “young man”. Should have gone to SpecSavers.

Captain Black - in and out of official club kit. — Captain Black – in and out of official club kit.

Cowin’ Bovril – as in, “’Ere Carrott, they ain’t got no cowin’ Bovril!” for those of a certain age and uncertain comedic taste. A loquacious, club run irregular and trick cyclist from the Black Country. Most likely to say, “Did I ever tell you about…” or perhaps “Cherchez la femme.”

Szell – a club run irregular and supreme master of the single entendre. Spends all winter in hibernation, then bitches constantly in spring when everyone is fitter and faster than him. Provided the inspiration for the Szell Game. Most likely to ask, “Is it safe yet?”

BFG – the Big Friendly Giant – exactly as it says on the tin. Has a strange passion for all things vintage and classical, including esoteric kit made from inappropriate materials that never caught on, either because they were scrotum-tighteningly expensive, or simply deeply flawed, fragile and not at all effective, or in the majority of cases all of these things.

bgf — Finding a frame that fits “just right” has always been a struggle for the BFG.

Shouty – a club run irregular, I unashamedly stole the name from one of her self-titled Strava rides where, giving her the benefit of the doubt, I think it was so windy she had to bellow loudly in order to have a conversation with the rider next to her. Not sure this potentially discourteous soubriquet is truly deserved, but I’m working on the principle she’s unlikely to find it buried in this benighted backwater of the Internet.

The Plank – a thrusting young thing and irregular club rider. Essentially a semi-professional, full-time stagiaire for the Army. (Whether the Army should be doing something as frivolous as sponsoring a cycling team in these days of defence cuts and extreme austerity, I’ll let you decide). Before anyone accuses me of being particularly mean-spirited it’s worth pointing out that Plank is accepted British Army slang for a member of the Artillery, and I’m pretty certain it’s a term that’s used with a great deal of affection.

Ether – a club run irregular from north of the border who occasionally displays the whitest legs that have ever existed this side of an over-worked albino wool fuller with vitiligo. In keeping with his Scottish ancestry and stereotypical impecuniousness, can often be seen using inner tubes with more patches than Windows 8. Still owes me a (new) inner tube for the one I loaned him 3 years ago.

We had to use special protective filters on this photo to stop the glare from Ether's legs damaging retinas. — We had to use special protective filters on this photo to stop the glare from Ether’s legs damaging retinas.

Rab Dee – a club run irregular and another from North of the Border. A strong rider, but sadly lacking the shockingly-white, retina burning skin tones of some of his brethren.

Goose – a club run irregular, as likely to be following ancient ley lines from one side of the country to the other as riding out with us. Highly sociable. Owner of a booming voice and honking laugh, I always know where he is, no matter how big the bunch is.

Moose Bumps / Moose – a thrusting young thing and irregular club run rider. In an affirmation that first impressions count, hasn’t been able to shed the stigma of turning up for his first ride in the middle of winter wearing fewer clothes than a Mylie Cyrus video where she’s trying to prove she’s “all growed up”

Plumose Papuss – a 44kg bundle (when soaking wet) of youthful energy and seething enthusiasm, laced with wicked potential and usually armoured in long green socks. Floats up hills and provides truly crap shelter in a headwind. Has a burning ambition to grow old disgracefully – an admirable metier for one so young.

Plumose Papuss gearing up for a club run.

Grover – an irregular club run rider. Good-naturedly puts up with a great deal of stick for being OGL’s erstwhile lieutenant and enforcer in absentia. The only person ever known to change his drink so the faint blush of colour through his bidon matched his new bartape. Bike tinkerer par excellence.

And of course there are many others such as Dab Man, Richard of Flanders, Carlton, Mini Miss, beZ et al that I haven’t got around to insulting yet…

Groups and Gangs

The Demon Cult of the Racing Snakes – super-skinny, super-fast, super-strong and super-serious roadies. Invariably young. Always in training. Always using their siren song to lure the unwary off for longer, faster, harder, hillier rides at lung-bursting, eye-sweating, blood-boiling, muscle-twitching, on-the-rivet, break-neck pace. Often leave their victims as straw men, a hollowed out empty shell, seemingly dazed and blind behind a thousand yard stare.

Grognards – literally the grumblers, named after the veterans of Napoleon’s elite Old Guard divisions. Here it refers to a contingent of old gits who have refined complaining down to a fine art and lived through the halcyon days when everything was, quite simply, better.

The Grogs – a dark and secretive cabal within the club which may, or may not number many grognards in its ranks. They have their own, special version of the club jersey which can only be won through a dark ritual involving the sacrifice of small, furry animals and communing with the drunken ghost of Henri Desgrange. Often silently and mysteriously slip away from the club run to do their own thing, only to reappear sitting relaxed and unruffled in the café long before anyone else gets there. Communicate through a series of arcane hand signals and a high-pitched chirruping that can drive dogs insane, but is generally inaudible to human ears.

Amblers – the slower, eminently more sensible group who usually take a shorter, more relaxed route to the café when the ride splits.

Raphalites –particular devotees of massively over-priced and painfully niche bike and cycle clothing brands who, despite spending a small fortune on “all the kit,” don’t actually ride all that much, or seem to enjoy it when they do. Show ponies with more style than substance and more money than sense.

RIM – Random Indignant Motorist. One of those superbly angry fellow road-users who feels they have a divine right to all of the road, all of the time and are on a mission so important that they cannot slow down for anything or anyone. They are always … always … in the right.

Inanimate Objects and Things

Transport Interchange Centre – our rendezvous point, aka: a bus station.

The Great North Road Cycle-Maze and Death Trap™ – a constantly evolving, ever- changing and utterly illogical narrow ribbon of tarmac built with the sole purpose of protecting all other rightful and righteous road-users from the evil depredations of cyclists. This has been achieved by making the route so confusing, befuddling and dangerous that the unwary cyclist gives up, gets off and pushes, rather than becoming trapped or delivered directly into the path of a kerb, bus stop, barrier, bollard or speeding motor vehicle.

Reg – my constant companion and weapon of first choice when the weather isn’t utterly, utterly miserable. A Holdsworth Stelvio frame of mixed pedigree in an eye-bleeding combination of black red and yellow, built up with salvaged bits and pieces from my crashed and trashed previous bike. According to one fellow rider the paint scheme is gaudy enough to be worthy of an aluminium bike.

Interestingly this is the only bike I’ve ever owned with a name, thanks to some wag of a club rider (Dave “Le Taxi”) who decided to refer to it as Reg. The name kind of stuck (although I have to admit I had to Google “Reg Holdsworth”)

Reg’s predecessor underwent major reconstructive surgery in the Prof’s secret home workshop/lair/control centre/laboratory and has been resurrected as the Frankenbike.

Strava – a bike app I use to track my rides and record distance, speed routes and times. It supposedly has many more sophisticated functions that this old Luddite cannot grasp and can also be used “competitively” to cause utter chaos in the midst of the most serene of group rides.

Riding Rituals

Forlorn Hope – a glaringly telegraphed, highly predictable, massive attack miles from the finish that’s inevitably doomed to failure. An all-out sprint of between 3 and 5 miles. (See also: The Red Max).

Szell Game – an undertaking to never let Szell rejoin the front group for the café sprint once he has been distanced on a hill. It is acceptable, indeed desirable to allow him to nearly, almost, just get within a few metres of the last backwheel before putting in a spirited acceleration. (See also: Szell).

The Last Hurrah?

Club Run, Saturday 19^th September, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 118 km/73 miles with 1,083 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 26 minutes

Group size: 28 cyclists at the start. 3 FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Practically perfect.

Main topic of conversation at the start: Whether wearing clothing emblazoned with the Campagnolo logo should only technically be allowed if accompanied by a complete change of groupset to match.

The shocking, eye-wateringly and prohibitively expensive cost of tickets for the Rugby World Cup, even just to see the minor nations where you’re unlikely to recognise a single player. A stark contrast to the Tour of Britain where you could see, meet and mingle with some of the World’s top cyclists for free. To be fair to the RFU, their concession policy does allow kids to get in for only £15 … once the accompanying adult has forked over £150 for a ticket.

The Great North Road Cycle Maze and Death Trap™ continues to prove fantastically divisive. A photo of our Sunday morning club run studiously avoiding its perils was one of several snapped by ever vigilant, eternally law-abiding RIMs, no doubt using completely legal, dashboard and hands-free mounts on their mobile phones. The “incriminating” photos quickly found their way onto a Faecesbook page, where they started an all too predictable flame war, which rapidly grew in vitriol. The whole argument was neatly summed up in one of the most mature, astute, devastatingly logical and proportionate responses I’ve ever had the pleasure to read: “Well, if they’re going to ride in the road, I’m going to drive on the pavement.” Sigh.

Elsewhere, a local motorcyclist group also condemned the GNRCM&DT™ to the local press and the story was picked up by the RCUK website, where the comments section found even cyclists bitching amongst themselves, though without the same degree of creative swearing, searing insight and deep reflection the more general public had brought to the debate. I’ve got the feeling this one’s going to run and run…

The 6½ minutes of sheer hell, commonly known as our club hill climb (chrono-escalade if you want to be suitably pretentious) is looming large. Is it too late to file excuses? I noticed a handful of regulars have already reported conflicts with hastily arranged events elsewhere.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: As expected, the wasps were out in force and anyone having jam with their mid-ride scones or tea-cakes was universally shunned like a leper and exiled to a remote table in the corner. They should be grateful we didn’t take it as far as Son of G-Dawg’s suggestion of smearing them with jam and setting them loose as some sort of wasp decoy.

The fallout (seepage?) from last week’s rain-sodden, “godless ride” continues: Crazy Legs and I both agreed there had to be a better way of staying dry on both the inside and out. His solution was a new 2½ layer, foul weather jacket, though none of us could quite comprehend what half a layer might look like. I had to go one better of course, and went for the triple-layer Galibier Mistral jacket. I’m guessing both are indisputably and impressively waterproof, the acid test is how breathable they are. I’ll report back when I know more.

We were also chastised because some of the more incontinent “godless” amongst us had soaked through the seats at the café last week. It seems the pads of their shorts acted like giant sponges throughout the ride, sucking up a veritable flood of rainwater and road spray, which was duly squeezed out when they slumped their tired bodies down to enjoy hard-earned coffee and cakes.

Now on rainy days black bin bags to sit on will be issued to one and all, not just those who request them. There was some wild speculation that if things didn’t then improve there would be no choice but call for Bottom Inspectors a la the fantastically juvenile, but intermittently hilarious Viz comic. Heaven help the waitress who draws the short straw and gets such a truly thankless task.

Halfway through our stay one of the potential Bottom Inspectors came outside to look for used mugs to take away and wash as they were running short. Our table couldn’t provide any, but Carlton and Richard of Flanders conspired to helpfully load her tray down with a teetering, super-Jenga construct of used plates, dirty cutlery, glasses, saucers, milk jugs, teapots and empty cans – everything in fact except a single one of the needed and requested mugs.

Great, now they probably think we’re incredibly obtuse, as well as hell bent on sabotaging all their seating.

Ride Profile – [Now in glorious technicolour]

The Waffle:

The contrast with last week’s deluge couldn’t have been more marked, as Saturday morning dawned with faultless, clear and pure blue skies vaulting from horizon to horizon. This was the kind of day one of my friends would typically refer to as having a “Battle of Britain sky”, lacking only the contrails of a lone Spitfire or Hurricane to complete the suitably cinematic image.

Nevertheless, the air still had a real bite to it as I rode out early for the meeting point, and the long descent down the Heinous Hill had the cold wind dragging tears from my eyes and chilling my fingers. Thankfully things soon warmed up and before too long the arm warmers were dispensed with.

Why, oh why, oh why do we have to put up with such reckless, selfish and criminal behaviour, potentially holding up traffic, and enjoying themselves at the same time. What is this country coming to? — “Why, oh why, oh why do we have to put up with such reckless, selfish and criminal behaviour, potentially holding up traffic, and enjoying themselves at the same time. OMG what is this country coming to?”

At the meeting point a competent looking and enthusiastic Irish FNG turned up, bang on 9 o’clock. We had to explain that the 9 o’clock start time listed on the website was technically accurate, but actually represented a fantastically fluid and elastic concept of time that meant we would, of course, be leaving at around 9:15. He looked at us as if we were all ever so slightly mad, but seemed to accept our general tardiness with good grace, if a slightly furrowed brow. He’ll probably try and find a more punctual group to ride with next week.

Not surprisingly the perfect weather brought out a good sized bunch of lads and lasses to supplement the ranks of last week’s hard-core Rain Dogs, and despite missing a few students, it was a large complement of 28 that pushed off, clipped in and rode out en masse.

The first distraction of note came somewhere out in the wilds, where we swept past a big directional sign pointing to a wedding, but all we could see was a big tractor rolling round and round in circles in a somewhat overgrown and otherwise empty meadow. I guess that’s a rural wedding Northumbrian style?

The Prof spent a great deal of time and energy playing mother-hen to a couple of the FNG’s, who he recognised as exiled flatlanders of some ilk, which might explain his affinity for their struggles. They just couldn’t seem to get the hang of even the gentlest of slopes and slipped inexorably backwards whenever the road rose up. I’m guessing his efforts weren’t all in vain, as I’m fairly certain they at least made it as far as the coffee stop, although they may still yet be struggling to get home.

The usual stop and group split saw Taffy Steve sidling shamelessly away with the amblers on a direct heading straight to the café. Although he proclaimed some excuse about family commitments and having to be home early, he didn’t have the requisite signed note in triplicate. The consensus was that after winning the sprint last week he had decided to retire while still at the peak of his game, a little like Alberto Contador, but obviously far more successful and with much greater kudos.

A big bunch of us pressed on, before our middle group split away from the Racing Snakes. At the bottom of Middleton Bank I drifted to the back until the slope began to bite and the initial surge died. As a gap developed I pushed up the outside to latch onto the small leading group and let it pull me upwards and away.

Over the top we regrouped as Szell wasn’t around, so the strict Szell Game rules weren’t in play. Shoeless then hit the front and started piling on the pressure, and the pace was so fast that even the Red Max’s Forlorn Hope attack never materialised. He stayed firmly planted three back on G-Dawg’s wheel as we were all strung out while I tucked in behind him.

As we swept up the final hill G-Dawg kicked past Shoeless and Max slid back. On the limit, I held on for as long as possible before pulling over and watching Son of G-Dawg surge across the gap. He went straight over the top, sweeping past G-Dawg on one side, as Shoeless dived down the other to snatch second.

With the sprint done and dusted, there was only time for Ovis to briefly flirt with death and destruction show some sublime traffic filtering skills that scared the crap out of me, before we were rolling to a stop and some well earned cake.

Potentially on their way to a cafe near you!

As we were packing up to leave the café Crazy Legs floated the idea of an extended, longer and shockingly novel, alternative route home to Red Max, rightly reasoning that if anyone was daft enough to agree it would be Max, and his participation might “encourager les autres.”

With this being perhaps the last hurrah of summer and much too fine a day to waste, around eight daring and extreme radicals swept left on leaving the café, while everyone else turned to the right. The first few miles were into a hard headwind and everyone took a turn pulling as we slowly built up to a cracking, leg-burning pace and rode with remarkable (well, for us) discipline and organisation.

It was interesting to travel the roads back to the Quarry in the opposite direction to the way we usually do, and realise just how much it actually climbs. This isn’t really noticeable charging the other way down to the café, where the favourable incline no doubt fuels our mad capering and pushes us toward dangerously terminal velocities.

Despite the extended ride we quickly ticked off the miles until reaching a point where I had the chance of taking a slightly shorter way back. As the group thundered around a sharp left turn I got slingshot out of the back, like some forlorn probe on a deep-space mission to parts unknown, and set fair for home. Yet another great ride. Thanks fellas.

YTD Totals: 4,679 km/ 2,907 miles with 53,134 metres of climbing.

The Godless Ride Out

Club Run, Saturday 13^th September, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 98.5 km/61 miles with 968 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 1 minute

Group size: 14 cyclists at the start. No FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Stottin’ doon.

Main topic of conversation at the start: I rolled up to the start point, which had temporarily shifted 10 metres north into the dim bowels of a multi-storey car-park, where I found the usual, grinning suspects sheltering from the rain, but ready and waiting for a business-as-usual club run. Weather be damned!

As a dripping OGL rode up we were expecting an immediate club sermon about inappropriate choice of gear, last week’s poor riding display or some such, but he was distracted by new cleats that held his feet to the pedals in a death grip. Narrowly avoiding an embarrassing pratfall and almost dislocating an ankle trying to dismount, we were given a brief reprise while he loosened the tension on his pedals.

It wasn’t until these critical adjustments were completed that he roundly cursed us all for having godless bikes! Oh, sorry, no – “guard-less” bikes – bikes without guards – mudguards, fenders, crud catchers, now I get it.

Charlie Bird got a “Chapeau!” for setting a Strava record for a lap on Saltwell Park Boating Lake, although I’m a little concerned anyone would think to take a Garmin on a pedalo. Sadly, but perhaps unsurprisingly there was no corresponding KOM prize to claim.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: That awkward moment when you’re diligently cleaning your bike chain and your partner asks where their toothbrush has disappeared to …

Crazy Legs then gave us a vivid description and demonstration, replete with Mr. Bean facial contortions and appropriate gurning, of how he had futilely struggled to pull a sodden glove onto a wet hand with his teeth while riding at the back of the group.

This reminded me of the time Dave “Le Taxi” tried to doff a rain jacket with a ¾ length zip only to get it caught on his helmet halfway over his head. Having finally extricated himself he castigated me for being of no useful assistance as he wobbled all over the road and teetered blindly on the brink of disaster, but to be fair I was too paralysed with laughter to be of help to anyone.

We then asked Charlie Bird why he’d disappeared on the shorter, amblers ride and he muttered about his front derailleur not working so he couldn’t select the inner ring. G Dawg’s utterly baffled, uncomprehending expression was priceless.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

For once the BBC weather forecast was spot on, predicting heavy rain all morning and uncharacteristically obliging, Mother Nature duly delivered. I was already resigned to the winter bike and had selected appropriate clothing the night before, including overshoes and my most waterproof rain jacket. I’d even given the winter bike a once over with an oily rag last weekend, so had nothing to do except check the tyre pressure before rolling out into the morning’s deluge and watery grey light.

G Dwag — G-Dawg not only eschews all use of the inner ring, but largely denies its very existence

Despite all the careful planning and preparations, leaving the best bike behind for a club run in September somehow felt all wrong, a little like sneaking off from your partner for a quiet date with an ex-girlfriend (or boyfriend, depending on your own personal preferences.)

At the RV point I found the usual suspects taking brief respite from the rain in the bottom of the multi-storey car park, and we might have been persuaded to stay there all day if the Strava KOM between the ground floor and top wasn’t so challenging.

Despite the weather Taffy Steve eschewed the thrice-cursed winter bike and bravely brought out his titanium love-child, while elsewhere there was a mix of the new and old, a few fixies and a smattering of mudguards, ass-savers and the like.

14 brave lads, no lasses (apparently rain plus helmet is murder on the hair) pushed off, clipped in and set out for a drenching. OGL’s plans were instantly washed away as the first mishap of misdirection saw us sailing blithely past the very first turn he wanted us to make.

Aboard a shipwreck train ... — Aboard a shipwreck train …

We sped onwards nonetheless, tyres cutting through the surface water with a hiss like tearing silk, and everyone settling as comfortably as they could into the ride and conditions.

The second mishap of misdirection saw us reach a big, wide-open roundabout that RIMS like to orbit at maximum warp without slowing. With no clear instructions we hit the roundabout and Ether shouted left on the spur of the moment. Twenty seconds later and while the front group were leaning well into the turn, OGL bellowed straight-on and our organisation exploded like a water-filled balloon dropping 20 feet onto concrete.

more raine — Gave my umbrella to a Rain Dog …

Taffy Steve pulled around 7g circumnavigating the entire roundabout at speed, while a half dozen of us had to cut a sharp U-turn on a major feeder road which is notorious for kamikaze traffic. By the time we re-joined the right route I could barely make out the winking red lights of the back of the pack as it disappeared into the rain and so began a long, long chase into a headwind to catch back on.

Typically, I’d just bridged across when BFG punctured and we were forced to stop anyway Milling idly around, shooting the breeze, getting rained on and obliviously sprawled across about ⅔ of a narrow country lane, we waited for repairs to be made.

It was at this point that for some reason the Prof decided to flag down an approaching car. As the driver pulled up alongside us and wound down his window quizzically, we all looked nonplussed at him, and then at the Prof, then back at the driver. The Prof mumbled something, we apologised and the guy finally realising we weren’t in need of emergency assistance and we had stopped him for no apparent reason, drove away. I’m just guessing here, but suspect that isn’t the best way of befriending your average motorist.

Repairs made we were back up to speed again when we heard a loud clunk, rattle and bang, which Crazy Legs surmised was either a serious mechanical, or an ultra-smooth Campagnolo gear shift.

The sound repeated itself a short while later, but no shout drifted up, so we mentally shrugged and pressed on, shedding riders like a comet’s tail. First beZ shot off for a lone, long, self-flagellation ride, then OGL, Ether, Cowin’ Bovril and Carlton decided they’d had enough rain and took off on the direct route to the café.

Charlie Bird seemed to hesitate, then turned to follow, as Crazy Legs squealed after him, “Come back Chuck, come back!” like the erstwhile heroine of an 80’s Chewits ad – but to no avail, as like Chuck in the advert he pressed on to join up with the amblers.

By this point the BFG had disappeared who knows where, having perhaps succumbed to that all too audible mechanical failure and slipped away unseen from the herd with a quiet dignity – (or perhaps acute embarrassment?) – to seek out his very own elephant’s graveyard.

Now our somewhat depleted group wound ourselves up the Quarry climb and struck out for the café, traversing decidedly sketchy road surfaces into a tearing headwind and lashing rain.

Moose Bumps jumped away and Red Max and Taffy started to wind it up for the usual Forlorn Hope. I tried hanging onto their wheels, but the legs were leaden and unresponsive and they slowly slipped away, with everyone else piling past in earnest, but futile pursuit. There it was, proof if ever I doubted, that last week’s burst of almost human strength was but a flitting mirage.

In one unexpected turn however, the Forlorn Hope was spectacularly successful, as with a last burst Red Max bridged up to Moose’s back-wheel and Taffy Steve clinically delivered the coup de grace.

We regrouped at the café, earlier than usual following a somewhat shortened ride, to find much to G-Dawg’s disgust that his customary ham and egg pie was still in the oven. Sitting round the table with the Prof’s untenanted jacket presiding over us like Banquo’s ghost, we slurped coffee, talked nonsense, laughed a lot and no doubt annoyed everyone else in the café while we waited for G-Dawg’s pie.

The amblers left long before our vigil was complete, exiting the café to find the rain pelting down with a renewed vigour. When our turn came to leave Crazy Legs half-jokingly suggested a longer route home, but with the rain still unrelenting there was no great enthusiasm for a detour. The first few minutes were uncomfortable, but we soon warmed up and quickly clipped off the miles back to base.

I turned off for home accompanied only by a recurring Tom Waits song and arrived at the river crossing to find the skies, if not clearing, then at least no longer weeping. I was thankfully able to shuck the boil-in-the-bag jacket before my assault of the Heinous Hill and I stuffed it into my jersey pocket. It may have sat like a cold wet sponge in the middle of my back, but it was good to be free of it, no matter how briefly.

All in all an enjoyable run despite, or just maybe, perhaps because of the foul weather.

YTD Totals: 4,679 km/ 2,907 miles with 53,134 metres of climbing.

The Curious Incident of the Cog on the Right

Club Run, 5^th September, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 108km/67 miles with 929 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 06 minutes

Group size: 26 riders, 2 FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Chilly

Main topic of conversation at the start: Crazy Legs recounted a nasty, high speed, front wheel blow out that had him sitting around for 20 minutes considering his own mortality and the fragility of both life and worn Gatorskins. He then spent 10 minutes giving his upper body a total workout, pushing over 200 strokes through a Blackburn Airstick to inflate a new inner tube so the tyre was hard enough to get him home. This served however only to deflate his ego further when he got back, clipped on his track pump, and the dial barely flickered on its short, staccato hop to show that with all his efforts he’d forced a mighty 20 psi into the tyre.

The Tour of Britain is visiting these here parts and there was much discussion about how best to catch some of the action, as well as a hope that Greggs might sponsor the stage into Blyth and award the winner a bouquet of pasties.

It seems we could have both the Vuelta and Tour of Britain on terrestrial TV at the same time, surely a first for British broadcasting.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: G-Dawg and Zardoz have been running with the Wednesday Club an irregular group of older guys who batter each other incessantly over immense distances and ultra-hilly routes. If G-Dawg and Zardoz are complaining, it must be hard.

Dab Man rolled up all on his lonesome, not quite fixed enough to brake fully effectively or ride in a group, although I think he’s just waiting for the return of icy roads to add a little frisson of excitement and uncertainty to each ride.

[I feel duty bound to mention him because he says he only reads the blog if he’s likely to feature, so it’s a good way of doubling my readership. Oh, and while I’m at it, thanks Mom as well, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense to a non-cyclist, and yes I will try to moderate my language in future …]

While relaxing with my second cup of coffee, Crazy Legs appeared from the Faster! Harder! Longer! group with a blank, thousand yard stare, muttering darkly about the Demon Cult of the Racing Snakes.

Finally, in one of the most bizarre conspiracy theories since the ice bucket challenge was recently proclaimed a satanic baptism ritual (yes, really), Red Max claimed the unseasonable cold weather was closely linked to the unveiling of Google’s new logo. Scarily I wasn’t altogether certain he was joking and the evidence seems to back him up, so just in case, can we petition them to change it back?

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

Sadly the brief emergence of wasps last weekend did not presage an Indian summer and it was a decidedly chill morning with a constant, bitter-edged wind. Having learned a lesson from my early commute on Friday, I started out wearing long-fingered gloves which served me well and I didn’t feel the slightest urge to swap them out for the rest of the ride.

Although too cold for the wasps, there was a surprising turnout of that other pest, the common or garden club cyclist, and 24 regulars and 2 FNG lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and rode out to systematically brighten and disrupt the day of many an impatient motorist. Our ranks were further bolstered by the juniors, who always take to the roads on the first Saturday in every month, and I started at the back chatting happily to one of the dad’s as we rolled out.

When the group split at a junction I was left behind with the kids and had a hard chase uphill to rejoin the main group, which at least got me warmed up a little.

I found myself having one of those days when the pedals seem to effortlessly float around on their own accord: un jour avec perhaps, rather than a day without? These ultra rare days are definitely to be savoured as there’s no rhyme or reason for them, no possible way they can be replicated – even if you follow the exact same routine, and absolutely no way of telling when you’re likely to have another.

I put my good fortune to maximum effect, standing on the pedals to stomp and sprint up a few sharp hills in double quick time. On cresting one of these I tried to change down into a bigger gear to push on, only to find nothing was happening. I did the “dumb bad-guy in a cliché-ridden action movie” shtick; pulling on the trigger of an empty gun several times in disbelief, but no matter how often or how hard I clicked the STI lever, nothing was happening.

I then did a quick double-take to find my chain was as far over to the right as it could possibly go, and I’d just shimmied up a hill in my highest gear.

As we turned for the café the Red Max surprised us all with a sneaky, completely unexpected, un-telegraphed, long range attack which faded quickly in the headwind. Taffy Steve followed on his thrice-cursed winter-bike, the choice of which he admitted was a mistake. Despite his protestations it didn’t seem to hold him back any when it came to the pointy-end of the sprint.

I followed G-Dawg through to the front, but could sense his reluctance to take on the lead too early, so I pushed through on the inside and lined everyone out as we tipped downhill over a sketchy, corrugated surface that felt like it had been recently ploughed.

Just as I hit terminal velocity a woman in a large green 4 x 4 started to pull out into our path from a T-junction, but luckily realised at the last moment just how fast we were travelling and she lurched to a halt halfway across the road, scant seconds before I considered bailing out.

I briefly caught the surprised look of the kid in the passenger seat, her eyes wide and mouth forming a perfect “O” as we hammered past, and then the road levelled out and everyone swept around me and down to the Snake bends.

On the way home I couldn’t help chuckling when I overheard a conversation between Son of G-Dawg and Shouty when she finally realised there was a paternal connection between G-Dawg and Son of G-Dawg. I think she was secretly relieved to learn that the bacon and egg pie, bacon butties, tea cakes and cans of Coca-Cola lavished by father on son at the café weren’t part of some bizarre North East grooming ritual.

Shoeless then set a blazing pace up Berwick Hill, and I tagged on as he dragged a small group with him that managed to shed or pass everyone else and splinter the group. He continued piling on the pressure all the way to my turn-off, where I struck out for home, having netted six Strava PR’s in just over 10km. Even a RIM in a BMW who cut me up and then flipped me off at the last roundabout couldn’t blunt my good mood and the warm glow of a great ride.

YTD Totals: 4,513km / 2,804 miles with 51,163 metres of climbing.

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.