The pipes, the pipes were calling …

Club Run, 11^th July, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 113km/70 miles with 1,045 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 19 minutes

Group size: 29 riders at the start. 1 FNG.

Weather in a word or two: Good.

Main topic of conversation at the start: The BFG was out on his wooden rims again and gave us a brief description of his intensive wheel care regime which includes liberal applications of linseed oil using the fresh fleece of a newly slaughtered lamb, an act that can only be conducted after dancing naked around the shed counter-clockwise three times when Mars is in the ascendant. Lovely though they look, I can’t help thinking there’s a reason wooden rims haven’t really caught on.

BFG insisted the linseed oil burns off under braking, producing a lovely aromatic scent. Hmm, well I suppose it could explain the strange odour that wafts around in his wake.

OGL turned up in fabulously baggy shorts on a Mountain Bike that (according to him) wasn’t actually a Mountain Bike. We disowned him anyway, just out of principle. Apparently he was off to some club function so wouldn’t be joining us on the ride. Oh yes, we were off the leash…

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Apparently orange socks are now the de rigueur match with our club jerseys and have helped our racers gain something of an, ahem, “bad ass” reputation. As a dyed in the wool traditionalist and all-round curmudgeon I’m of course horrified that anyone would even consider wearing anything other than white socks, so yet another trend is (thankfully in this case) almost certain to pass me by.

The Prof, who had proudly managed to control in his insistent urinary urges for once, related how he felt ostracised from the club for having the audacity to turn up wearing white shoes, but unless he was talking about a period pre-1980 when white shoes were a rarity and the sign of a spiv, I think he must have simply misunderstood. Maybe it had more to do with his bike? Or him?

There then followed a seemingly endless litany of all the recent racing crashes, with consequences both painful and eye-wateringly expensive. The conclusion from this seemed to be if you’re going to race don’t use your best bike!

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

With a complete free rein we agreed to head off and tackle a somewhat longer, hillier ride across a route we hadn’t travelled for well over a year, enjoying the most of our temporary freedom and some surprisingly good weather. I shouldn’t be surprised, it is July after all, but I couldn’t help feeling profoundly lucky.

Route decided and under the joint leadership of Crazy Legs and G-Dawg we pushed off, clipped in and set out. Most of us even managed to avoid getting lured into the Great North Road Cyclemaze, which continues to mutate and become ever more dangerous and baffling to the unwary with each passing week.

The pace was good, the weather better and the ride very convivial as we pushed out into the countryside, whirring along in a surprisingly ordered bunch.

As we dropped down into the Wansbeck valley I was riding along chatting with Crazy Legs when our ears were assaulted by the unmistakable sound of bagpipes droning lustily from a house in the middle of nowhere. (Mind you, if you are going to play the bagpipes it probably makes sense to first find a house in the middle of nowhere.)

Once we were assured the Scottish Nationalist Party hadn’t resurrected the Border Reivers and had managed to calm the nationalistic proclivities and dancing hearts of our adopted Scottish brethren, we were able to push on. They’d caused enough excitement for the day anyway, simply by having one of their number unveil possibly the whitest legs that have ever existed this side of an over-worked albino wool fuller with vitiligo.

No, I don't understand it either. — No, I don’t understand it either.

The next, very abrupt right-hand turn robbed us of all momentum and dumped us at the bottom of what is colourfully (if rather fancifully) described on Strava as the Mur de Mitford, a short, brutal climb, that begins immediately after the turn and will always catch out the unwary. Remembering my own travails with the hill which include rounding the corner in the big ring and having to grind up in agonisingly slow-motion with my knees threatening to explode in a welter of blood and gristle, as well as one time pulling my cleats clean out of the pedals and collapsing in a whimpering heap at the side of the road, I dropped onto the inner ring in anticipation.

wile-e-coyote-e1330462601163 — The first law of cartoon physics: gravity doesn’t work until you look down.

As soon as we hit the climb the surprised, the less prepared and the usual gravity-hating pluggers began to lose momentum and wallow across the road in disorder. Crazy Legs darted up the outside and as I tried to follow I was pressed into the gutter by the wobblers and my rear wheel began to slip furiously on the dead leaves, collected gravel and other detritus there. Remembering the first law of cartoon physics (gravity doesn’t work until you look down) I refused to acknowledge there was a problem, and after what seemed an agonisingly drawn out moment of teetering on the brink, the tyre finally bit and I was catapulted unsteadily out of the pack to chase Crazy Legs and G-Dawg over the crest.

A long drive into the wind was followed by more climbing as we dragged ourselves through the Trench and then up and along to Rothley Crossroads. As the road tipped down on the run up to Middleton Bank I started to drift towards the back of the group to pace myself up the steeper bottom ramps of the climb. Clearing these I clicked down and started picking up the pace, passing other riders as the incline eased, I built momentum as I closed on G-Dawg toward the top.

A small group reformed after the climb and started the long chase to try and reel in a few flyers. I sat on the front and pulled until the inevitable Forlorn Hope attack from the Red Max whistled past and the pursuit strung everyone out.

I used the rolling climb out from Milestone Wood to close the gap and pull level with the leaders as the Red Max faded, but in a rare show of strength Bandana was up there, obviously feeling frisky and sensibly not giving up any wheels for me to slot in. For a while I rode along hanging out and exposed to the wind before easing up and drifting back to drop in behind Goose as we rounded the corner onto the last series of climbs to the café.

With Cowin’ Bovril dying horribly ahead of us I let Goose pull me around him, and then shamelessly mugged him on the last rise in time to see the distant final sprint with Crazy Legs claiming a rare victory over G-Dawg.

Tired, dripping with sweat and strangely euphoric we bundled breathlessly into the café en masse. Captain Black was then accosted by a grey-haired shrew who complained that we were far too happy, too loud, much too healthy and had rudely interrupted her exquisitely civilised little tea party. Seriously? What a miserable old harridan. Needless to say the Captain just shrugged and didn’t feel any great need to pass the message on, or do anything to dampen our high spirits. It’s probably just as well as we’d only have got louder.

Boisterous horseplay in the cafe. — Boisterous horseplay at the cafe.

Somehow we ended up with greater numbers coming back from the café than had set out, and as the front group forced the pace and split the group apart I hung back for a more restrained ride until my turn-off, when I struck out alone for home.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 3,518km/ 2,186 miles with 39,024 metres of climbing.

TWOCing ‘copters and the consternation of choice …

Club Run, 4^th July, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 100km/62 miles with 831 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 3 hours 58 minutes

Group size: 22 including the kids. No FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Meh.

Main topic of conversation at the start: I was disappointed to learn that the Newcastle Chilli Festival wasn’t a chance for all the chilli growers in the North East to exhibit their prize winning peppers and compete against each other for “Best in Class”. Apparently it’s nowhere close to being quite as dull as a modern take on the traditional Leek Show.

With the Tour de France starting and already concerns about the Astana team, it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to le dopage in the peloton. I recounted Michel Pollentier’s legendary failed dope test at l’Alpe d’Huez – when he was told the good news was his sample was clean, but the bad news was that he was pregnant. Always worth a chuckle.

A quick discussion concluded that probably 99% of bike frames were made in Taiwan. A quick check of bikes found some are quite open about this, with “Made in Taiwan” proudly stencilled on the frame, others played with weasel-words, declaring things like; “designed in Germany,” but leaving the actual provenance of manufacture reassuringly vague.

“They’re all made in the same factory in Taiwan!” is the kind of argument OGL all too regularly screeches to disparage just about anything that doesn’t come from his own shop. Then again, where would you prefer your bike was manufactured – in an ultra-modern, high volume, hyper-controlled, computerised factory in the Far East, or in a back-street workshop in Rotherhide by some surly, anonymous, chain-smoking British bloke called Dave, with a CSE in Woodwork, home-made tattoos and an on-going battle with last night’s hangover? Just a thought.

“What kind of bike’s that anyway?” One of the youngsters then asked, with a vague nod of his head in the general direction of, well just about everyone. I did a quick double-take, looking all around in bewilderment as I tried to spot some stealthy, un-badged, über-bike. Finally it dawned on me he meant Reg. I’m not usually so slow on the uptake, but was rather puzzled by the question as my bike has “Holdsworth” emblazoned on it in big, bold, gaudy letters in at least a dozen places. We finally realised he simply hadn’t heard of Holdsworth, or their venerated and rich heritage within British Cycling. #Sigh# The youth of today.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: OGL gleefully recounted several methods for beating dope tests, the majority of which seemed to involve shoving something up your anal canal. Curiously he wasn’t forthcoming about his own personal history with doping control. He then recounted Michel Pollentier’s legendary failed dope test at l’Alpe d’Huez -when he was told the good news was his sample was clean, but the bad news was … yeah, ok, you’ve got it.

We discussed the potential for holding a race along the route of one of OGL’s magical mystery tours: down farm tracks, through gates and across cattle grids, while carefully negotiating flocks of sheep, herds of cows and their assorted effluvia. On paper the tactical nuances sounded compelling, with the breakaway hurrying to get through and close a gate before the peloton arrives. Much like fighting for position on the pavé, everyone would have to scramble to ensure they weren’t the last through and be held responsible for stopping and closing the gate behind them.

G-Dawg then recounted how he once bunny-hopped a cattle grid on his fixie, but foolishly forgot to pedal in mid-air, enduring a turbo-charged kick up the backside on landing.

The Waffle:

The forecasts all predicted heavy, thundery rain in the early morning, followed by increasing brightness that would finally morph into all-round fabulous summer weather. Yeah, right.

Sure enough I woke to a heavy downpour that sounded like an army of clog wearing ants vigorously enacting River Dance across our roof, and found myself almost paralysed by the consternation of choice: the decision between winter bike with mudguards or best bike was bad enough without having to consider all the clothing options for what promised to be a very changeable day. Having just “blinged up” Reg with new wheels and tyres however I was anxious to give them a whirl no matter what the conditions, so style won out over sense. (When was it ever a fair contest?)

I then eventually settled on arm warmers and waterproof jacket (bizarrely often referred to as a racing cape in cycling parlance, as if we’re all wannabe-super heroes), over my usual jersey and shorts, mistakenly leaving behind a pair of waterproof overshoes so by the time I’d reached the rendezvous point my once pristine, white socks were a very grimy shade of grey and I was in danger of developing a bad case of trench foot.

I arrived to find a smattering of winter bikes in amongst all the high gloss carbon, and a wide range of different clothing choices that reflected the same levels of indecision and uncertainty that I had felt.

The kids were out too for their monthly ride on the roads, including The Red Max and Monkey Butler, fresh from conquering the Cyclone. The Monkey Butler was complaining vigorously that his brake blocks were catching and to illustrate the point lifted up his front wheel and gave it a quick spin. It managed about a quarter of a slow-motion revolution before stuttering to a stop. Red Max tried to convince him such small impediments were character building and it would help him grow stronger, but finally relented to peer pressure and adjusted the brakes.

The Prof then declared he was ready to ride and already in need of a wee stop! With that as impetus 12 brave lads (no lasses) and a handful of kids pushed off, clipped in and set out into warm humid air and an all pervading drizzle.

With the choice of either shipping the jacket and getting soaked from the outside-in, or keeping it on, boiling and getting soaked from the inside-out, I went with the latter and stowed the waterproof.

Needless to say there was no right choice as the weather swung from utterly minging to barely passable and back again and we were constantly riding through an unrelenting, muggy and misty drizzle.

We once agian endured the dangers and depredations of the Great North Road Cyclemaze, emerging victorious (if bemused) like an all-conquering Theseus who’s a bit slow on the uptake. We split from the kids who went their own merry way shortly afterwards and we became a rather compact Dirty Dozen.

In between him calling for more wee stops than a dog with an irritable bladder in an ice-field full of lampposts, I fell into a rather bizarre philosophical conversation with the Prof about whether the Samurai Bushido code was actually a religion, if Catholicism was founded on guilt, all Protestants were unhappy and how you knew when you’d actually learned something. [???]. I’m still bewildered.

If The Prof. had his way there'd be a lot more of this. — If The Prof. had his way there’d be a lot more of this.

With such a small group we didn’t split as usual, although beZ flew off early to top-off his ride with another 100 miles or so. I was having one of those days where the pedals were floating round seemingly of their own volition and quickly romped to the top of the Quarry Climb.

As we pushed on toward the café though my rear cassette started to sound like a bag of ball-bearings in a tumble drier. At this point I vaguely recalled tightening the locking ring on the cassette by hand with the intention of taking the tool to it before slapping the new wheels onto the bike. I had then completely forgotten to do this and over the course of the ride the whole thing had worked itself loose. Oops. Idiot.

Medre! Some imbecile has forgotten to tighten the locking ring. — Merde! Some imbecile has forgotten to tighten the locking ring.

I dropped away from the lead group, more embarrassed by the awful jangling clatter than suffering any serious mechanical impediment, and so missed Taffy Steve claiming second place in the race to the café, only beaten by all-round Racing Snake and Pierre Rolland lookalike, Spry.

Finally, sometime in that jingle-jangle morning, I rolled into the café suitably sur la jante.

The guy who rode the Cyclone on a Raleigh Chopper pulled in as I was jury rigging my cassette with the edge of a multi-tool, hoping it would suffice to get me home with some semblance of quietude. I had a chat with him and he moaned that the rain had forced him to leave the Chopper in the garage, explaining that the stainless steel wheel rims make braking a bit of a lottery in the wet!

Once I split from the club on the way home I found I was being stalked by a Police helicopter that seemed to parallel my route. This always gives me a sense of trepidation as over-active imagination thinks they’re pursuing some TWOCing bastard in a stolen hot-hatch who isn’t going to see a skinny bloke on a plastic bike as much of an impediment to his escape.

Luckily our paths didn’t cross and they buzzed away as I turned for the climb up Heinous Hill and home. Finally, as I rounded the last hairpin the sun burst out in full, glorious splendour, the beautiful summer’s day the forecast had promised. Ah well, only 4 hours too late.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 3,346km/ 2,079 miles with 37,158 metres of climbing.

[Footnote: as the superb* “Alpe d’Huez: The Story of Pro Cycling’s Greatest Climb” by Peter Cossins and many other sources make clear, the story of Pollentier’s failed dope test is completely apocryphal and totally untrue. He was actually caught trying to use some Byzantine apparatus to deliver a clean sample of urine from a bulb under his arm and was eventually left to produce his own, much tainted sample au naturel.]

[* Footnote to the footnote: I have to admit to total bias as the book’s centrepiece is the battle between Joop Zoetemelk and fabulous Lucien van Impe during the latter’s glorious Tour win in 1976.]

Stems, scrotums and the melancholy winking dog ride…

Club Run, 27^th June, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 104km/65 miles with 1,047 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 0 minutes

Group size: 33 including at least 4 FNG’s.

Weather in a word or two: Almost perfect.

Main topic of conversation at the start: Every rider who normally turns up early (i.e. on time) made a point of checking their watches in stunned disbelief as they rode in to find a sizeable crowd of fellow cyclists already gathered and waiting for the off. Before 9.00! Good weather does strange things to people. The majority were even willing to risk their ultra-posh, water-soluble good bikes on what promised to be an exceedingly pleasant day.

OGL spotted an old Cinelli stem on BFG’s new/vintage bike(?) and cheerfully recounted how he had ripped open his scrotum on one during a crash at a track meet. Needless to say that’s one set of scars no one wants to see during the next “show us yours” bragging contest.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: The continuing, philosophical elucidation of the circumstances in which a dog is prone to winking, or smiling, and its propensity to do so, often believed to occur in direct correlation to its need to conduct intensive self-ablutions of a most intimate nature.

The revelation that the world can be divided into those who’ve ever listened to Pink Floyd and those ageing, but still heroic, punk-inspired brethren who feel their soul would just shrivel up and die if they thought a copy of Dark Side of the Moon had ever crossed the threshold into the purest sanctity of their homes.

Remembering laughably bad Top Gear/Dad- rock as epitomised by Toto, REO Speedwagon, Boston, Europe, Foreigner, Journey, Styx, Heart, Berlin. (Shudder).

[The ensuing, Berlin inspired Top Gun verdict was a unanimous whitewash – the Grumman F14 Tomcat: 6, Miss Kelly McGilliss: Nil]

The awkwardness of being mercilessly pwned and ending up as an ultra-embarrassing impediment to your own children, while trying to co-op their favourite online FPS’s.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

33 brave lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and set out in perfect weather, warm temperatures, high broken clouds and plenty of sunshine, only occasionally marred by a sometimes challenging breeze. Once again we carefully negotiated the labyrinthine, Heath Robinson death-traps of the new, Great North Road Cycle Way, where Taffy Steve amused himself by twanging the “Rommelspargel” candy-striped poles, to see if he could get them to bang together like some immense Newton’s Cradle.

Having successfully emerged unscathed from our very own version of Yungas Road, I thought we were in the clear when directly in front of me one of Cowin’ Bovril’s tyres detonated with a sound like a Paveway bomb exploding. Luckily I don’t wear a heart monitor as I think the resulting spike might have frazzled it for good.

“Hmm, I suspect someone may have punctured.” Another Engine stated dryly, coasting nonchalantly past.

For some reason the rest of us then felt the need to ride another quarter of a mile to the overpass before stopping to wait for Cowin’ Bovril to repair the damage and catch up. Oh well, at least we got to watch the cars pile past as we languished in their therapeutic exhaust fumes.

Out into the country and more open roads we sped, with a regular rotation of riders at the front as the wind was proving somewhat more of an impediment than expected. I caught up with The Red Max who declared he was having un jour sans. The consensus then seemed to be his Forlorn Hope effort would likely be restricted to a 3 mile instead of 5 mile sprint.

We were well into the ride proper when warning shouts of “runner” floated up from the front, closely followed by “dog”. Sure enough, as we all moved to the left of the road a girl jogged lithely past on the right. I looked up, empty road. Looked again, still empty. Finally, and trailing her by about 200 yards, her dog (I assumed it was hers, and not just crazy bad at stalking) lolloped past, almost tripping over its own tongue and panting like the soundtrack to a bad 70’s porn film.

Crazy Legs seemed surprised the dog hadn’t attacked him on sight (I think he feels he’s irresistible to all mammals,) but I countered that the dog was happy and appeared to be smiling at him. This led to a rather long and convoluted discussion of whether dogs can actually smile. Or wink. A discussion we carried on throughout the café stop, much to the bafflement and bemusement of everyone else around us.

The group split, with the amblers being promised one of OGL’s magical mystery tours down farm tracks, through gates and across cattle grids, while carefully negotiating flocks of sheep, herds of cows and their assorted effluvia.

The longer ride hadn’t gone far when we were halted by another puncture, poised at the foot of Middleton Bank, and I found myself at the back as we finally got rolling again and began the climb. It was from this vantage point that I first noticed one of our FNG’s, a Dapper Dan in perfectly fitting, laurel green Café du Cyclist jersey, simple black shorts, retro looking shoes and the most outrageous long socks. He just utterly nailed the look as if he’d been born to it, oozing class and effortless style, and even managing to carry off the socks. The bastard. To cap it all he then capered effortlessly up the climb, and I watched the gap between us slowly widening, even as I was slipping past a long stream of grunting gutter pigs dragging themselves up the outer edge of the road.

One of Dapper Dan's spiritual forebears — One of Dapper Dan’s spiritual forebears

There was a general regrouping as we hammered our way on toward the café, then Crazy Legs kicked up the pace even more and strung everyone out with a massive pull on the front. We hurtled through a road junction, whipping past the amblers who were just emerging wide-eyed and shell-shocked, but otherwise unscathed from their journey into the darkest rural-wilds.

Our group carried its speed through a left and then right switchback before hitting a couple of short, sharp ramps. The Red Max roared up the first, but then sputtered and died as the second incline bit. Having been the first to jump onto his wheel, I swooped around him with a despairing “Noooooo!” and found myself out in front much too early for either my own self-preservation or carefully cultivated wheel-sucking tendencies. (Well, he did warn me he was having a bad day).

With nowhere to hide I kept going, surging over the crest to pelt full-gas down the descent onto the final climb. As we rounded the dog-leg onto the last series of dips and rises G-Dawg and Son of G-Dawg zipped away engaged in their own private battle. A bit further on and Dapper Dan whirred past, and then … nothing … no one else was challenging. I think at this point Shouty was comfortably camped on my rear wheel, but for whatever reason she took pity on an old man and stayed there as we pushed on to the café.

With the amblers still trailing someway behind we had were able to nab first place in the queue and we were on to our refills before they eventually rolled in. An incident free run for home then capped a hugely enjoyable ride.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 3,189km/ 1,981 miles with 35,422 metres of climbing.

Helmet-head and riding the thin line between the cycle paths and the psychopaths …

Club Run – Weekend of 13^th to 14^th of June, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 112.7km/70.0 miles with 1,015 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 14 minutes

Group size: 32 cyclists at the start. 1 (returning!) FNG.

Weather in a word or two: Surprising.

Main topic of conversation at the start: The emerging new sport of eBay style sniping Cyclone Sportive entries to see just how close to the deadline we can get – perhaps an evil, but seemingly uncoordinated plan to give OGL conniptions that no one from the club is going to ride? Queries, (and I’m not sure if these were related), about how long it takes to wear out East European wives and whatever happened to the Tuxedo Princess. The Tuxedo Princess was a seedy nightclub entombed in the rusting bowels of a ship that even the most heartless Libyan people-smuggler would think twice about using. Much like Mos Eisley spaceport, or even my old school you would be hard-pressed to “find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

Note: I was once roundly castigated for comparing my old school to Mos Eisley spaceport, and strangely enough not by those upstanding, fictional inter-stellar denizens. I will apologise in advance therefore for any offence caused.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Whether Sir Bradley Wiggins (OBE) will follow through on his threat promise to marshal one of the corners at the Beaumont Trophy road race next week. OGL’s continuing search for a pillion rider brave enough to serve as official timekeeper on the back of a motorbike. (If you want to apply you must provide your own helmet and chalkboard, we however should be able to find some chalk). We discussed if a pub blackboard would be an adequate substitute and possible consequences of inadvertently revealing this week’s dessert specials instead of the time back to the chasing bunch. This was followed by the horrible and shameful confession from The Red Max that he ordered the monkey-butler, slave-boy to “ease up” last week, and in the process destroyed many patient years of relentless parental programming. Finally, is helmet-head better or worse than helmet-hair?

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

When does a FNG become a full blood-brother of the club cycling fraternity? We obviously haven’t been making the new guys unwelcome enough, as one brave soul actually returned two weeks in a row. Our Ex-Ex-Pat, The Last Air Bender, reappeared having fully recovered from grinding in the wind, bonking and baptising himself in lukewarm coffee. If he keeps this up he may even earn a nickname. (Oh!)

Rather worryingly he was wearing a jersey from his previous club in New Yawk, sponsored by what I assume was their LBS, the “Montclair Bikery.” Bikery? Hmm, isn’t that where our Australian cousins buy their pastries? Begad sir! When will those uppity colonists stop mangling the Queen’s English, eh what?

Helmet-head or helmet hair – you decide which is worse

33 brave lads and lasses pushed off, clipped in and set out into the maw of the brand, spanking-new Great North Road cycle path. This is a very narrow ribbon of tarmac designed solely to protect all the other rightful and righteous road-users from us pesky cyclists. To achieve this, the roadside edge is studded with a series of hefty rubberised tank traps the like of which haven’t been seen since Hitler’s panzers threatened these shores. Deviating even slightly from a straight line and clipping one of these protruberences is likely to catapult the unfortunate cyclist over the kerb and onto the pavement, where, lying dazed and bruised, he’ll be easy prey to packs of vengeful, marauding pedestrians. As if these obstacles weren’t enough, and in keeping with the WW2 theme, every so often along the perimeter someone has thoughtfully dotted some “Rommelspargel” cheerful, candy striped poles at just the right height to catch on your handlebars.

I’m all for providing sensible segregation for cyclists where it’s not substandard, but this narrow, fenced in canyon leaving no room for manoeuvre and nowhere to go if the path is blocked feels more dangerous than the open road.

Anyhow, out onto the actual open roads we sped, the weather proving to be much kinder than the forecast had suggested, with only the slightest hint of rain, sunny interludes between high broken cloud cover and the barest breath of wind. Absolutely perfect.

Things went smoothly until we split onto one of my least favourite routes, the draggy climb up to Rothley Crossroads, where I resolutely camped behind G-Dawg and Son of G-Dawg’s wheels. I grimly hung there through the white-knuckle descent and scamper along to Middleton Bank, and was still there at the top of the climb. I’ve got no idea who else was with us at that point, I couldn’t hear because of the asthmatic death-rattle in my lungs and the blood pounding in my ears – and had absolutely zero interest in looking back to find out.

After a general regrouping I stayed on Son of G-Dawg’s wheel as The Red Max’s predictable “Forlorn Hope” attack went briefly clear, pulling a few other riders along. As the road climbed along with the pace, Son of G-Dawg started picking off the back-markers one by one. I refused to budge from his wheel, making sure any late attacks would have to come around us both, and if I’d had any breath to spare I might have been tempted to cackle maniacally in glee. Then Plumose Papuss put in a searing uphill attack, Son of G-Dawg accelerated in response and I was slowly disengaged and cast adrift to fall back to Earth like the spent, burned out stage of a Saturn V rocket. Still, I was far enough ahead of most of the group to roll in 6th (but who’s counting!)

Road rage (male) — Beware RIM encounters

The post-café run for home came replete with two Random Indignant Motorist (RIM) encounters. The first barrelling toward us down a narrow country lane in an over-sized pick-up truck, hogging fully two-thirds of the road and with absolutely no intention of stopping or even slowing. Given no time to single out I bumped up hard against the FNG and luckily we both stayed upright as the truck wing mirror whistled inches past my skull. Yikes! Incident number two came when a dozy bimbo overtook me, only to pull in sharply and then turn immediately left into a shopping centre car park causing me to haul hard on the brakes. Aargh! What was the point of that? I have to say, that although these are the incidents that stick in my mind there were many more motorists who pulled over and stopped, gave us plenty of room or waved us cheerfully through. One bad apple, and all that.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 2,827km/ 1,757 miles with 31,088 metres of climbing.

Blowin’ in the wind, Marmite bashing and bonking badly …

Club Run – Weekend of 6^th to 7^th of June, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 117.4km/72.9 miles with 1,251 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 39 minutes

Group size: 23 cyclists at the start. 1 FNG

Weather in a word or two: Blowing a hooley.

Main topic of conversation at the start: Ed Milliband’s laughable tablet of stone, the “Ed Stone” and where it might be now? David Cameron’s equally pompous and patently nonsensical pledge to enshrine his election promises in law. (Obviously not a waste of time, money and effort because we simply don’t have enough stupid laws already.)

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: It was alleged that both elephants and horses can only swim in a straight line, which led to the supposition that if you pushed either into the North Sea they wouldn’t stop until they hit Denmark. This was followed by a claim that hippopotamuses don’t float because they have heavy feet! Finally if you spread a thin layer of Marmite onto a hard surface and bash it enough times with a spoon it will turn white. Someone even had a technical term to describe the phenomena, but that was way out of my league.

Disclaimer: I have no idea if any of the above is true. Oh, except for the Marmite thing, because on a very slow news day one of us has actually tried it.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

The wind was blowing so hard this morning that, although I left at the normal time, I was at the rendezvous a full 15 minutes before the scheduled meet up. You will realise by now if you know cyclists, or you’ve had the misfortune to read any of this blog, that 15 minutes before the start is a good half an hour too early. Of course the same wind that had propelled me to a handful of Strava PB’s on my way to the meeting point was the same one that was going to be in my face (and forecast to increase in severity) on my lonesome way home.

22 brave lads and 1 lass* pushed off, clipped in and set out full tilt into a hooley.

*The ever cheerful Libby on a farewell tour, as this is her last ride with the club. She leaves us for the far more civilized climes and the much flatter topography of Cambridge and (eek!) first time employment.

Back on a thankfully silent Reg – with the LBS having disassembled, cleaned and reassembled the bottom bracket only to finally discover (after a great deal of trial and error) that the creaking was in the fork crown. Strange stuff this carbon! – I lurked shamefully at the back and tried to find shelter wherever I could.

The Red Max had gone off with the juniors to personally supervise the final touches of casting the monkey-butler, slave-boy, Red Max Jnr. in his father’s image and ensuring the necessary attack parameters were correctly input so he’ll chase and bring down other cyclists, random cars and lost causes like a rabid hunting dog.

With the juniors taking a different route, at a different pace (i.e. generally faster than us) we were left without Max’s legendary wind-breaking propensities (make of that what you will). Crazy Legs and Son of G-Dawg set the early pace, then Taffy Steve and the FNG took over for their stint of battling manfully with the elements.

It seemed to be that anyone taking a turn on the front was likely to burn out and bonk such was the severity of the headwinds. The first one down was the FNG who fell further and further behind on the first series of sharp climbs we hit after splitting the group. Crazy Legs and a few others dropped into escort mode to guide him home while we pushed on. Feeling pretty good, I scampered up the Quarry climb only to look down and realise I’d climbed it in the big ring. Once I’d recovered from the shock, I found I was with the front group as the pace got wound higher and higher.

A pheasant attack at a white-knuckle 35mph plus almost caused a stack, as the bird burst from the side of the road and whirred, clattered and clawed its way skywards inches from the lead riders face. I’m used to male pheasants and their poorly-timed, kamikaze chicken-runs in front of cars, never thought the female of the species was as stupid, and could be attracted to cyclists like a wobbly and feathered, heat-seeking missile. Guess we’re going to have to add them to the list of the hazardous wildlife we sometimes encounter; along with dogs, cats, deer, squirrel, sheep, horses, geese, and Tri-athletes. (Only kidding, everyone knows the squirrels aren’t a hazard).

Birdstrike! An unexpected hazard lying in wait for the unwary cyclist.

When Son of G-Dawg went for the final push, I stayed with him and rolled in a close 4^th with plenty left in the tank. “A very moderate success for most, a major achievement for me”, I intoned in my own head like some cut-price Neil Armstrong. Little was I to know that the sternest test of the day was yet to come.

With the café pretty full and British Summer Time still being officially “on” we felt obliged to sit outside – all except one shameful turncoat who declared it was too chilly and will be ostracized and stricken from the records forthwith.

Luckily I decided to use the inside of my helmet as an impromptu tray, dropped my cake inside it, grasped my coffee mug firmly and headed out. The wind whipping around the corner had stolen half my coffee and super-chilled the rest before I’d even sat down. The next rider out was even more unfortunate, with cake, coffee, helmet, change and a wallet all loaded up on the regulation tray. The wind snatched at the tray, which flapped and cracked like a loose spinnaker in a gale. By some miracle he managed to save about a third of a cup of coffee, but everything else was forcefully jettisoned and flew off into the bushes.

Flying coffee! An even more unexpected cycling hazard.

Having salvaged all we could, we were huddled protectively around a circle of trays swimming with a good proportion of our drinks, clutching half empty mugs of cold coffee. Then the FNG strode manfully out to show us his passable impersonation of the Last Air Bender, making his coffee leap forcefully out of his mug, twist impossibly in the air and shower down all over him. I suspect he’ll not make the record books though, as the attempt looked heavily wind-assisted.

Now came the hardest test of the day as we struggled back to the café for refills in relays. I had to develop a very odd backward shuffle-dance, while trying to balance 2 cups of coffee, shield the contents with my hunched over body and moonwalk backwards in slippery cleats. Still, it was worth it!

For some reason OGL wanted to loop the group north of the airport on the return leg, so a handful of us broke off and took our usual route to the south. Once I turned off for home I was then able to wave nonchalantly at the second group through gritted teeth as our paths crossed, with them whipping past me courtesy of a strong tailwind while I started my 5 mile up-hill climb to the river into the same damn wind.

Until next week …

YTD Totals: 2,636km/ 1,539 miles with 28,936metres of climbing.

Man Down!

Club Run – Saturday 30th May, 2015

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 110.2km/68.5 miles with 1,099 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 16 minutes

Group size: 33 cyclists at the start. A handful of FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Bright, breezy, chilly. (Okay, 3)

Main topic of conversation at the start: Half Man Half Biscuit and the Dukla Prague away kit, the Sausage Festival and answering lots of sensible questions for one of the young FNG’s, who turned out to be super-fit and well able to handle himself without any of my blather.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: One of the girls is swimming the Channel next week and we were all shocked to learn the rules outlaw wearing wetsuits. Here I was thinking the UCI had the monopoly on arbitrary, asinine rules that lack all credibility, common sense and compassion. It may also explain why she’s been ordering industrial sized tubs of Vaseline recently. Or not.

Ride Profile

The Waffle:

Man down!

32 brave lads and lasses set out under mainly bright skies, laced with a chill and occasionally debilitating westerly. A day warm enough for shorts and arm warmers as long as you kept moving, although one rider was rather bizarrely dressed in a bandana, helmet, shades, jersey, arm warmers, full length gloves, a gillet, a rain jacket, shorts, leg warmers, shoes and overshoes. Who was that masked man? What did he know that we didn’t? Were we due unheralded bad weather of Biblical proportions? Was it the Invisible Man? Was he allergic to sunlight? A vampire? All eminently sensible questions that, sadly, remain unanswered.

With Reg convalescing, I had the opportunity to take the no name winter bike out for a spin, and we slotted in to the back of the group where I got the chance to catch-up with super-fit, twinkle-eyed octogenarian Zardoz. He’s not really that old (allegedly) but carries with him the aura of a benevolent, white-haired, Bernard Cribbins-style good natured and avuncular grandfather. This however merely serves to hide a psychopathic killer instinct to put the hammer down just when the hills start to bite. Which is fine, and you accept it, because all the while he’s smiling sweetly at you through your pain.

We were tootling along quite merrily until we hit one of those small innocuous hills, get halfway up and find the road blockaded by a tangle of supine riders and bikes. As I’ve already outlined, going up hills are where things can quickly become a bit sketchy on club runs, amidst jostling, switching position, bad choices and inattention. I was too far back to see exactly what happened, but depending on who you spoke to, someone either shipped their chain or accidentally “uncleated” at an inopportune time. There was a wobble and perhaps a bit of barging and a touch of wheels. Seizing the opportunity to get out of a solemn promise to spend the afternoon shopping for a new kitchen, Dab Man hurled himself to the tarmac with a few others. His shoulder pinged. Or maybe it ponged. Either way, it ended up pointing in the wrong direction, and by the time I got up to the accident he was sat quite cheerfully on the side of the road, seemingly oblivious to the pain, lamenting his bad luck and starting a long, long wait for an ambulance. OGL, Szell and a few others hung back to keep him company while we rode on.

8443857716_9e8631c956 — Nothing good ever comes from a chute dans le peloton

I hope the Dab Man makes a swift and speedy recovery and is soon back riding from what turns out to be a broken clavicle. I should also, I guess, take this opportunity to apologise for calling him a wuss when he tumbled on black ice during one of our winter club runs earlier this year and had to call for the broom wagon to sweep him up from the café. Ok, ok, in retrospect maybe having a fractured wrist and being unable to brake are acceptable excuses for abandoning a ride after all.

The group split, then split again and Crazy Legs took the opportunity to drive us into the teeth of the wind at a murderous pace. I drifted back off the front and slotted in behind our very own Plumose Papuss, a 44kg bundle of youthful energy and seething enthusiasm, laced with wicked potential and armoured in long green socks(!) Well, I say bundle, but only in the sense of taking a bundle at both ends and twisting and twisting until it forms a whipcord thin, razor-wire of muscle and sinew. I tried sheltering from the headwind behind his back wheel, but he has so little body mass it was as ineffectual as standing in the middle of a raging torrent with an umbrella up and hoping to stay dry.

I dropped further back until I was just about hanging on as we made the haul up Middleton Bank, where Zardoz attacked and young Papuss floated up after him. Crazy Legs and G-Dawg dutifully followed and I dropped down to my own pace, sliding around The Red Max, who was loudly and roundly cursing Sir Isaac Newton for having the temerity to ever invent gravity(?)

We had a general regrouping at the top, and from there I watched The Red Max manoeuvre into position for his customary “Forlorn Hope” a massively long break for the café, or as he likes to think of it a short, 5 mile sprint. A bit heavy legged I couldn’t catch the wheels, and became slightly detached. I thought I might pull a little back as the road climbed, but the gap stayed resolutely the same and I was forced to coast into the café sur la jante and in splendid isolation.

After an uneventful ride back I turned off for home and a draggy climb of 4 or 5 miles into the headwind to cross the river. Then with the wind thankfully behind I scuttled along the valley at a fairly decent clip to the bottom of Heinous Hill. 1.2 miles long with an average gradient of 7% and ramps of up to 16%, on paper it doesn’t sound too hard, but it’s a bit of a leg shredder at the end of a long ride. Makes me wonder why I choose to live up here, although if the catastrophic weather the Invisible Man was expecting ever arrives, perhaps I’ll be safe from all but the worst flooding.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 2,477km/ 1,539 miles with 27,096metres of climbing.

Afterword: For those who are as much in disbelief as I am, the snappily titled Channel Swimming and Piloting Federation rules quite clearly state: “No swimmer in a standard attempt to swim the Channel shall be permitted to use or wear any device or swimsuit that may aid his/her heat retention such as wetsuit. The swimmer is permitted to grease the body before a swim, use goggles and one hat. Nose clips and earplugs are permitted. Caps may not be made from neoprene or any other material which offers similar heat retention properties.”

Does one FNG a summer make?

My Ride (according to Strava)

Club Run, Saturday 23rd May, 2015

Total Distance: 115.8km/71.9 miles with 1,080 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4 hours 24 minutes

Group size: 42 cyclists at the start. 1 FNG

Weather in a word or two: Summer?

Main topic of conversation at the start: How everyone was now in full summer mode, no matter what, meaning shorts and short sleeve jerseys for the next few months and resolutely sitting outside in the café even when the temperature plummets down to frigid again.

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Chain maintenance, replacement and cleaning. Why several riders hibernate over winter, come out at the first hint of warmer weather and then bitch like hell because they have zero fitness, too much body fat and keep getting dropped. It doesn’t take a genius, guys …

Ride Profile.

The Waffle:

Flippin’ New Guy borrowed one of his Dad’s classic steel bikes and came along to see if he’d enjoy a club run. Predictably got one or two “nice bike” comments. Struggled, but made it to the café stop, and presumably home before his mother got anxious. May return?

A very large mixed group of 44 lads and lasses met up at our rendezvous point, under warm sunshine and clear blue skies. The arm warmers were abandoned early and we rolled out in high hopes for our weekly dose of fun and merriment.

Approaching a small incline, Mini Miss was getting a lecture from OGL about chain wear and how hers looked in need of replacement. OGL suggested replacement at least every 3,000 miles. Riding behind Taffy Steve I could almost see him counting down on his fingers and toes and doing quick calculations in his head. He changed gear for the climb ahead, pressed hard on the pedals and I heard a suitably metallic “spang” as his chain parted with precision timing. Ah, the secret of good comedy.

As he fixed the problem, OGL held an impromptu inspection and we were all deemed to be in deep disgrace due to inappropriate chain maintenance and summarily stripped of our reserve energy gels.

With repairs made we pressed on and before too long we hit another incline to the accompaniment of a light metallic tinkling sound. With a “bump-badump” I ran over what I at first thought was some mutated roadkill – a shiny, black spineless hedgehog of some kind, lying curled up protectively in the middle of the road. With much shouting and confusion, and at least one rider hitting the deck, we all pulled over to discover the Prof’s saddle had shed its bolts and he’d jettisoned it as he jumped up onto the pedals to stomp up the hill.

Having been re-assured this wasn’t some deliberate, too-clever scheme to lighten his bike for the climb ahead, we gathered all the pieces and the Prof set about fixing his saddle back on.

With two mechanicals to slow us we were running a little late and to save time we split the group on the fly. It them all got a bit chaotic, the groups all jumbled with different riders of different abilities.

Mad Colin took control of our group and whipped us into an almost workable pace-line. Only half of the group were working through and off though, so as the speed ramped up all the riding was being done the same handful.

We hit the Quarry Climb at speed and I heard Reg bitching and moaning and grinding his bottom bracket in complaint. We re-assembled briefly and then the flyers took off. I tried to pull a few mad, desperate fools across the gap as the road dragged up, then tipped us over into a crazed descent, but the gap wasn’t narrowing.

2748419271_ba0917f342 — Rounding the corner with brake blocks smoking.

Rounding the corner with brake blocks smoking, I dug in again on the next hill and pulled clear with 3 or 4 others. An ill-advised Paris-Roubaix train moment at the crossroads earned me a small gap, and assured me of a decent place in the café queue – or at least would have done if the groups hadn’t been all mixed up. Some of the faster riders had gone on the amblers shorter route and beaten me to the punch. Foiled again.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 2,314km/ 1,438 miles with 25,079metres of climbing.

“Fuggar, cumma rubba, ronts!”

My Ride (according to Strava)

Club Run, Saturday 9th May, 2015

Total Distance: 117.2km/72.8 miles with 739 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4:46 hours

Group size: A Dirty Dozen. No FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Dreich

Main topic of conversation at the start: How it’s always the same hard core (sad core, maybe?) of a dozen or so lunatics who turn up for club rides, no matter how bad the weather is

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: The unfeasible, unlikely and unattainable weight of the pro peloton “grimpeurs extraordinaire.” Domenico Pozzovivo, 53kg soaking wet! Over-the-top cakes featuring various countline confectionery bars in their entirety; Mars cakes, Snickers cakes, Rollo cakes et al.

I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think Snr. Pozzovivo and the triple layer chocolate and fresh cream, Mars bar brownie cake, with the Malteser topping have ever been formally introduced.

The Profile:

The Waffle:

A small group, the Magnificent Seven were bolstered by a few late arrivals to form (very fittingly, judging by the end results) a Dirty Dozen brave lads and lasses who met up at our rendezvous point under cold leaden skies and a never ending supply of rain.

Off the leash without OGL we set our own route and travelled down roads a little less known and travelled, even foregoing our usual café stop for pastures new. Such an offence is usually worthy of excommunication, a public flogging with knotted inner tubes and having your micro pump snapped in disgrace.

Two random indignant motorist (RIM) encounters. The first over-taking impatiently on a blind bend, only to have to stamp ferociously on the brakes as an on-coming vehicle, (also travelling much too fast for the horrible conditions), came barrelling into sight. I hate these encounters because I can almost feel the driver wondering just how much damage would be done to his shiny automobile if he just slid the wheel, ever so slightly left to avoid a car on car incident and took out a bunch of skeletal blokes on plastic bikes instead.

Encounter number two had a driver making a slow pass (no, not that kind) so his passenger could lean out the window red-faced and apoplectic with rage and jabber incoherently at us; “Fuggar, cumma rubba, ronts!” We naturally gave him a very happy, cheery wave and a hearty thumbs-up. Unfortunately he didn’t take the opportunity of stopping so we could discover his nationality, and what strange dialect he was speaking. A shame really as I’m certain we could have broken down the language barrier, helped him with whatever his problems were and parted as new best-friends.

No mad heroics, long breaks or mad sprinting this week, but lots of sensible riding as a group and selfless riding by the stronger ones to shelter everyone else from headwinds. All in all, a grand day out.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 1,957km/ 1,216 miles with 20,379 metres of climbing

Longer! Harder! Faster!

My Ride (according to Strava)

Club Run, Saturday 2nd May, 2015

Total Distance: 108.7km/67.5 miles with 1,035 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 4:17 hours

Group size: 45 cyclists at the start. No FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Chilly

Main topic of conversation at the start: The Tour of Yorkshire (sorry, I’m too ashamed to call it the Tour “de” Yorkshire. Nonsense. The only thing I found more embarrassing were Gary Verity’s yellow pants. Just NO!)

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Tweaking gears until they’re irreparably broken, (a little knowledge IS a dangerous thing). Strava Flyby’s and whether they had the potential to inspire some bizarre cyclist/“gang-banger” drive-by’s. Verdict: probably not, but watch this space…

hinault — Tour OF Yorkshire podium, Scarborough. The Badger goes on the attack against Gary Verity’s minders as he reacts to the insult of “les pantalons jaunes.”

The Profile:

The Waffle:

A very large mixed group of 45 brave lads and lasses met up at our rendezvous point, under mainly grey skies with the odd sparkling patch of brilliant blue.

Although things did warm up a little on the rare occasions when the sun managed to prise a fissure in the cloud cover, the day was still cold enough to ensure anyone without gloves generally regretted the choice. Dry though – so no complaints, right? Well, almost.

A generally incident free ride followed, with no real encounters of note with the random indignant motorist (RIM) and only a single solitary puncture (thankfully not mine). As usual we completed a planned split, disintegrating like a MIRV with each group independently locked onto the café, but each travelling a different path and trajectory to get there. I rode with the middle group taking a slightly longer, harder and faster route than the amblers, but steering well clear of super-hard, super-fast flagellation of the young and brash racing snakes.

As we closed on the café I chased down the lone early break across a couple of hills dragging the main bunch behind me, and with that job done retired from the final mad sprint to roll in comfortably (sur la jante, naturellement.)

A surprisingly even-paced and orderly ride home followed, without the usual mad attacks and jumping about.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 1,780km/ 1,106 miles with 18,885metres of climbing

A start of sorts…

Club Run – Satruday 25th April

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance: 69.6km/43.2 miles with 316 metres of climbing

Ride Time: 2:32 hours

Group size: 25 cyclists at the start. No FNG’s

Weather in a word or two: Monsoon

Main topic of conversation at the start: How the weather would hold dry until at least 1.00pm (Ha!)

Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Bear Grylls (consensus = nutter), the Darwin Awards and the (very) contentious issue of “the club jersey”. Don’t ask.

The Profile:

The Waffle:

A mix of 25 brave lads and lasses met up at our rendezvous point, under the high white clouds and intermittent sunshine of a typical northern spring day.

The usual meeting place is a bus station, or to give it its more fanciful name a “transport interchange centre.” Here we can take a last breath of therapeutic diesel fumes to harden our lungs, before riding out to the clean, clear air of the countryside. As an added benefit we also get to annoy the bus drivers (although to be honest it doesn’t take much – it must irk them seeing us laughing and joking while they sit in a cramped glass cubicle, entombed inside a diesel spewing bus, engulfed in miles of traffic all day). We also seem to take a perverse delight in blockading the pavement with thousands of £’s worth of shiny carbon fibre, titanium and aluminium, sort of a polite bourgeois street protest or cycling flash mob. What’s that all about?

The weather was chilly, but bright and every last forecast assured us things would be dry until after midday. We set out with high hopes, waving a cheery goodbye to the bus drivers and finally releasing a backlog of pedestrians to flood across the footpath. 10 minutes in and everyone was diving to the side of the road to pull on rain jackets. 5 minutes after and with nary a mudguard amongst us (the winter bikes were put away weeks ago) my shoes were full of water, gloves wringing wet, and icy cold water had enveloped me from the waist down. My brand new, pristine-white socks had turned a dull and grimy shade of grey, a particularly difficult test-case I challenge any detergent manufacturers to accept.

One of our number on a vintage Ciocc peeled off shortly afterwards to head home, complaining his brakes and wooden rims(!) weren’t the most effective stopping combination in wet weather. I don’t think he appreciated one wags suggestion that he needed wet and dry sandpaper on his brake pads.

Through rain clogged specs I spend the next 30 minutes swinging from side to side, vainly trying to avoid the geyser of filthy, freezing water spraying off the wheel in front, and failing miserably as it seemed to follow me across the road with unerring accuracy. By the time the rain stopped everyone was pretty much soaked through and cold, but, as ever the ride went on.

A short sharp climb and general re-grouping was followed by the usual suspects making a long break for the café, and a mad chase ensued to guarantee everyone arrived wet and overheated at the stop.

Coffee and cake fuelled the ride home, and perhaps made the task of pulling on cold, wet gloves, caps and helmets slightly less unpleasant. Yet more torrential rain returned just to decrease comfort levels, but I guess once you’re wet you’re wet, so naturally everyone agreed it had been a good ride.

Until next week…

YTD Totals: 1,613km/ 1,002 miles with 16,889metres of climbing

Sur La Jante

The Chronicles, Confessions and Idle Musings of a Club Cyclist

Category: Club Runs

The pipes, the pipes were calling …

TWOCing ‘copters and the consternation of choice …

Stems, scrotums and the melancholy winking dog ride…

Helmet-head and riding the thin line between the cycle paths and the psychopaths …

Blowin’ in the wind, Marmite bashing and bonking badly …

Man Down!

Does one FNG a summer make?

“Fuggar, cumma rubba, ronts!”

Longer! Harder! Faster!

A start of sorts…