Celebrating the wise, the witty, the weird, the wacky, the wayward, the wretched, the worthy and the worthless in the world of cycling – wimps, wafflers ,whingers, the wayward and the wonderful – from the famous to the futile, international hero to the unheralded, the omnipresent and those brief gadflies that occasionally flicker across our consciousness before disappearing forever.
Our award goes to:
Carl “Dabman” Dale
For unremitting cheerfulness while all the world crashes around you.
Total Distance: 113 km/70 miles with 1,021 metres of climbing
Ride Time: 4 hours 19 minutes
Group size: 26 riders with 1 FNG
Weather in a word or two: Chilly and blustery.
Main topic of conversation at the start: The Prof turned up on one of his vintage, small-wheeled convert-a-bikes, a pre-war, iron model that had somehow survived the cull of frying pans and railings in the drive for scrap metal to build more Spitfires.
This model came replete with a chainring the size of a Frisbee and after being repeatedly asked what size it was the Prof had to resort to counting its teeth. This kept him (and all his fingers and toes) occupied for a good 5 minutes.
He then took to covetously stroking his very worn, super-smooth saddle, and then the saddle of the bike next to him to compare the two. Unfortunately this bikes rider, our FNG, was sitting on his saddle at the time and I had to explain this wasn’t some weird, North East cycle club hazing, or initiation routine involving the fondling of each new guy’s posterior.
Taffy Steve, having wrapped his titanium love-child up in cotton wool and settled it down for a long hibernation, used some of the ire generated by having to ride his thrice-cursed winter bike to curse me in turn for gambling with the weather and having the audacity to turn up on Reg.
In my defence I explained my Peugeot winter bike had just given a very Gallic shrug and said, “Non.” He reminded me what happened last year when I pushed riding the good bike too long, and trashed it sliding out on a corner and taking him down with me.
Good point? Yes.
Prescient? Hmm, maybe.
Main topic of conversation at the coffee stop: Taffy Steve was extolling the virtues of the Rolo and Toblerone tray bake. I was expecting something that looked like a 3D Playstation controller, with little pyramids and spheres emerging like an exotic countline Venus out of a sea of chocolate, (□Δ○Δ○□), but it was flat and kind of dull, so I passed.
Discussing the case of a couple of local Sport and Psychology students who’d become seriously ill after OD’ing on massive quantities of self-administered caffeine, Ether suggested some very simple rules for experiments that even a Sport and Psychology student might be able to comprehend:
Step 1. Test on small furry critter. If adverse effects occur, stop.
Step 2. Test on a friend. If adverse effects occur, stop.
Step 3. If all previous indicators are positive, perhaps there may be a case for self-administered testing. If a positive outcome is indicated, make sure you understand how to calculate and measure out the right quantities, or have someone on hand (your Mum, maybe or another responsible adult) to help. Taking a small dose of caffeine to sharpen the mind enough to measure out the correct quantities is perhaps not recommended.
OGL stopped by to tell us that as the clocks were going back one hour to account for the rather strangely titled “UK Daylight Saving Time,” then club run times would also change. Sunday Club Runs will now meet up at 09.30 for a 09.30 start, although the time for Saturday runs will continue to be 09.00, obviously for a 09.15 start. Huh?
I await with great interest the miraculous change in cyclist behaviour that’s going to see our Sunday runs’ meet up at 09.30 and be anywhere near ready to roll out any time before 09.44.
Ride Profile
The Waffle:
I managed to commute by bike on four out of five days in a vain attempt to try and make up for missing the club run last week. With my ratbag MTB in the LBS for a desperately needed service, this was mainly achieved astride the Peugeot winter bike, although it did include a novel, but ultimately unsuccessful experiment with a single-speed hack that turned into an uphill duathlon when the chain kept slipping off under pressure.
My self-imposed duathlon had nothing to recommend it.
Having eagerly watched the weather forecasts change on a daily basis, Saturday dawned, cold, blustery and grey, with the threat of a few chilly showers, but without the likelihood of any prolonged rain. A gamble then, but having had enough of the Peugeot for one week I felt I was owed one last blast on the carbon steed.
Perhaps more by luck than good judgement I got the clothing right for once; long sleeved base layer and jersey, shorts, leg warmers, thick socks, Belgian booties and long-fingered gloves. I even defied the weather gods and decided against packing a waterproof for that “just in case” scenario.
“Non”
This week in the People’s Republic of Yorkshire, what the locals like to refer to as “Gods Own Country” –along with, oh at least a dozen other places that I know of dotted around the globe – (they may be the “chosen” of God, but they get no prizes for originality) – the venerable Toshi San is busy looking for a new club after bitter internecine fighting and a bloody coup of senior members ripped his old one apart.
One group he trialled uses its Faecesbook page to not only update ride information, but provide weather forecasts and recommendations about what to wear! Toshi San was somewhat bemused by this, declaring that he’s been able to dress himself since his schooldays and grown lads and lasses shouldn’t need to be told what to wear.
If he’d turned up at our meeting point he might well have reconsidered, there were at least 3 or 4 riders still in shorts, with legs marbled like corned beef, several more with bare hands tucked firmly into armpits, while the Prof wore a rain-jacket which he later admitted kept him constantly on the threshold of over-heating.
It was then a fairly decent turnout of 24 lads and lasses, several blatantly defying the elements, who pushed off, clipped in and headed out, with a couple of late comers tagging onto the back of our line as we rolled away.
These included the luckless Dabman, still less than sanguine about riding in a group after suffering a broken collar bone when he was brought off by another rider during our last “Man Down” incident. This had closely followed his recovery from a broken wrist when he went over on the ice on a winter run out. He later admitted he’d just come out for a confidence-building, solo ride, but saw us leaving and decided he might as well tag along anyway.
I slotted in alongside one of the university students who I didn’t recognise as a Saturday club run regular and got chatting to him about Amsterdam, Copenhagen, postgraduate law degrees (as you do) and (inevitably) the weather. Somewhere along the line he mentioned he was a little concerned about a mismatched rear tyre that didn’t seem to be affording him much grip.
The ride was visited by a few short lived light rain showers, that didn’t really dampen our enjoyment, but did just enough to make the road surfaces slimy and slippery. Rounding a fairly innocuous corner my companion was just telling me he could feel his rear wheel stepping-out on the bend when there was a clatter, a thud and a thump as three or four riders in a line behind us all went down.
I turned around to find several bikes strewn across the road and Ovis curled up around his wrist which had taken the brunt of his fall. I did a quick double-check – but thankfully there was no stray farmyard livestock around him needing to be cornered and corralled. I recovered his bike for him, to find both brake levers now pointing sharply inward like the converging guns on a fighter, giving him point harmonisation at about 30 metres from his front wheel, or an enemy bogie.
I was also somewhat concerned to see Dab Man had assumed an all too familiar position, sitting to one side of the road with his bike abandoned on the other and sporting a much muddied and streaked shoulder on an otherwise clean white jersey. He assured me he was ok and was at pains to explain that (again) it wasn’t his fault.
Luckily all of the damage seemed fairly superficial, although I suspect there may be a few sore bodies later on as a consequence of all the unbridled man-meets-road action. We managed to bang Ovis’s brake levers back around to give his bike some semblance of normality, and he wiped the blood from his brow, pocketed his smashed specs and pressed bravely on.
Not surprisingly at the split all those who had hit the deck opted for the shorter, more direct route to the café, along with the unlikely accompaniment of the Red Max. This had me wondering if the once irrepressible Red Max is starting to feel threatened by the improving strength and form of the Monkey Butler Boy, a.k.a. Red Max Junior. Dare I suggest he cut short his ride because he wanted to keep a little extra something back for their planned jaunt out together on Sunday?
As if relieved and reprieved from escaping the crash, the remainder of the group pressed on at some pace, occasionally splintering and reforming across a number of climbs and descents. At one point beZ skipped lightly past me on a hill and wondered aloud if I’d started a slightly worrying trend for wearing Belgian national colours.
Watch out, here come the Belgians!
Enough people then rode up to ask me if I’d gone down in the crash that I began to feel equal parts paranoia and survivors guilt. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on their part?
As I crested the Quarry Climb I could feel the rear wheel losing traction as I rocked out of the saddle, so eased off and decided instead to save a little for the last climb up to the Snake Bends. I tucked in behind the leaders as we swept down to the T-junction, then on the first rise after the turn I jumped over Keel, and left him behind as I pounded onwards, trying to to keep the momentum going on the long drag up to the next junction.
As I closed on the junction however Taffy Steve cruised effortlessly up alongside on the thrice-cursed winter bike, with a, “Is that it?” quizzical look and I realised I hadn’t dropped anyone and it wasn’t going to be my day.
Together with Taffy Steve we fruitlessly tried chasing G-Dawg down through the side lanes, while others took the more direct route to the café, the pressing need for cake outweighing the unpleasantness of battling with the high-speed traffic along the main road.
On leaving the café I dropped to the back of the first group on the road home, occasionally chatting with a still chipper, if slightly begrimed Dabman and Cushty. We were wondering where the rest of the group were, how much of a handicap they’d given us and just where exactly they would catch and overtake us.
It was actually later than we thought when an express driven by Shoeless and G-Dawg steamed past. I swung onto the back of this train and rode it through to my turn off, where I was dumped ungraciously into a stiff headwind for the lone grind home.
Hmm, winter bikes only next week? (Maybe.)
YTD Totals: 5,322 km/ 3,260 miles with 60,139 metres of climbing.
I guess I’m a marketeers worst nightmare – I’m not really all that interested in forcing my opinion on others and much happier to give someone the facts and let them draw their own conclusions. This makes me one of the worst brand advocates out there and could perhaps explain why, despite several appeals, Apple and Samsung so diligently shun my offers to test –trial their latest, bleeding edge products.
In fact as a professional market researcher, nothing irks me more than seeing a survey with that hoary, clichéd, dull and unimaginative question, “Would you recommend XXX to your friends and family.” This to me is very, very lazy research and completely misses the point that even if I found XXX wonderfully life-affirming and a sure-fire, can’t miss, can’t-live-without product I can’t say I’d actively recommend it to anyone. Of course if someone asks me directly what I think of something, I’ll gladly tell them as honestly as I can, but I’m just not comfortable foisting my opinions on others.
It wasn’t my intention on setting up this blog to review and opine on cycling “stuff” – there’s plenty of people out there on the web and blogosphere who will, and can do it a lot better than I can. The best will give you great, first-hand and honest, user reviews that I’ve greatly benefitted from in the past and no doubt will again in future. Brilliant. I’m just not wired that way though.
I will however make at least a couple of exceptions; one is for a review (eventually) of the foul weather jacket I bought a couple of weeks ago. I’m genuinely interested to see if it solves the age old cycling dilemma on keeping you dry from both the outside elements and the heat and perspiration your body generates under exercise.
The second is a simple app from the Road ID people that I’ve downloaded to my phone and started using for all my rides. I have no problem recommending this because I think it’s good, it works perfectly for me and it’s free.
But first, let me back-track with a little history. Road ID was started by a guy called Ed Wimmer who barely escaped being pancaked by a pick-up truck while training for a marathon. While lying in the ditch at the side of the road where his desperate evasive manoeuvre had dumped him, he finally realised his father was right all along (yes, my daughters, this moment will come to you too!) to insist he carry ID so family could be notified in the event of an accident.
In Ed’s own words, “Luckily I was OK. But, what if the truck had hit me? I would have been rushed to the local hospital as “John Doe.” Without proper ID, family members and friends could NOT be contacted. Likewise, my Medical records could NOT be accessed at the hospital. How long would I lay there unidentified? This freaked me out.”
From this experience the Road ID concept was born, a simple wearable id bracelet that could be customised with your personal details, emergency contact numbers and basic medical information, any known allergies et al.
I can honestly say this is the only bit of cycling kit I’ve ever bought that Mrs. Sur La Jante actually approved of and that didn’t make her eyes involuntarily roll heavenward in that long-suffering way. In fact when I lost my original one (Mrs. Sur La Jante helpfully filed it away with the paint tins and decorating equipment, where it lay mouldering for a couple of years) it was her insistent nagging that drove me to buy a replacement.
The original Road ID bracelet – it’s super-tough, secure, incredibly hard-wearing and near indestructible. Sadly Mrs. SLJ lost mine for me.
Originally I was attracted to the Road ID as I’d just got back into cycling, hadn’t yet joined a club and was doing a lot of miles out on my lonesome. The ID became an essential bit of kit that was comfortable, unobtrusive, but reassuringly always there – as the marketing blurb says – it is far better to wear ID and never need it than to need ID and not have it. I still wear it today on every ride and strapping it on has become as second-nature as pulling on my cycling shoes.
It was therefore as a registered customer that I was emailed with details of the Road ID App when it was launched. I’m sure there are comparable products out there, but this type of thing is not something I would ever have thought to look for, and my trust in the Road ID crew translated to this app and reassured me it would be worthwhile and reliable.
There are 3 parts to the app, an eCrumb tracker, a stationary alert and a custom lock screen creator. The eCrumb tracker is the clever bit. This can be set to send alerts to your contacts, informing them that you’re about to embark on an epic ride and telling them how long you expect to be away. They can then use a link from this message to follow you on your route, on a map and in real-time. Effectively they can track your progress and know exactly where you are at all times.
The eCrumb set up and screen
Once you complete your ride you get an email with a neat summary of your route, distance, speed etc. – all the usual stuff you’d get from your Garmin or other GPS device.
The optional Stationary Alert doesn’t actually tell you when office supplies are running low (check the spelling, guys) but acts as you might suspect, pinging an alert to your trackers if you become motionless for a set period of time.
Useful I suspect if you crash and are lying unconscious in a ditch, but not something I’ve trialled as we often have to stop for punctures, unexpected mechanicals and in consideration of certain club mate’s infinitesimally small bladder. Of course no club ride goes by without also the pressing need for a mid-ride halt for coffee and cake and that shouldn’t be enough to ring alarm bells.
The Lock Screen creator gives you a template for setting up your phone wallpaper/screen-saver with all the personal and emergency contact details you have on your Road ID bracelet. I use this, but must admit it was the hardest part to set up on my phone and required the expertise of daughter#1 to help me with editing and re-sizing the resultant image so it was a perfect fit.
Customised Lock Screen and Stationary Alert
The app is available on both Google Play and iTunes and downloading and installing it to my Moto E phone was a breeze, even for an old technophobe Luddite like me. As I mentioned, it’s completely free, easy and intuitive to use, and could be a real life-saver if you haven’t already got something that does a similar job. There you go – for once I’m not afraid to recommend something.
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 50th 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, 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 …
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.
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.
Club Run and Hill Climb, Saturday 3rd 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 cough1., 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 Sunday2., 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.
Prospect Hill and our TT course
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?
The original Holdsworth store
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 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 17th out of 33 riders and 4th 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.
My Hill Climb Times
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.
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!”
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 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…
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.
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. 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 withdeath 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.
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-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 …
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.
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.
For I am a rain dog too.
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.
“Come back Chuck, come back”
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.
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.
Exclusive!
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.
Huh?
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.
Eject! Eject!
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.
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.
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.
Sur La Jante 