Tag: cyclists

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

Club Run – Weekend of 13th to 14th 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
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 hair
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 6th to 7th 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
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.
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 4th 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.
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.

Random Rambles and Esoteric Observations, Part#2

When my much beloved Fausto Coppi mug didn’t survive a recent office move, developed hairline fractures and started weeping hot java all over my desk I took it as sign from the cycling gods that I needed a new way of holding and imbibing this semi-precious, live-enriching beverage.

While there was a strong temptation to go for a straight up replacement, or even one of the other fabulously fantastic designs available from The Handmade Cyclist , I thought there was an opportunity for something a bit different and more creative.

So in a fit of unbridled megalomania and an utterly shameless act of self –promotion I decided to make my own SLJ mug. Quietly pleased with the end result, and certainly generating several quizzical looks throughout the office.

2015-06-05 07.52.39

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
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.”

Rolling with the Raphalites

I was making my way home from the club ride last weekend, nursing tired legs, Reg and a poorly bottom bracket, when I was stopped at the lights leading onto the bridge and noted a couple of serious looking cyclists, game-faces most definitely on, coming in the opposite direction. The lights changed and I crossed the river and began wending my way home, expecting any moment to be overtaken in a whirr of spinning wheels, a flash of bright colours and a hearty, “How do?”

Nothing.

I slowed to cross the railway lines and let a van out of side road. Still nothing, I began to think they must have taken a different route and not crossed the bridge.

Pushing on I skipped up the short, but steep rise to the road junction, stopped and unclipped at the red light and waited. First one, then the other dragged themselves up beside me, panting like an asthmatic, overweight Darth Vader when the turbo-lifts on the Death Star malfunction.

“How do?” I dutifully enquired, the recognised, UCI approved and universal greeting of cyclists everywhere.

“Going far?” one asked in reply, perhaps not quite realising it was almost 2.00 in the afternoon, the best part of the day had come and gone, and I’d been out since 8.00 o’clock that morning. I mentioned I was on the fag-end of a 70 mile club run and he mumbled something about a planned 100 miler. Ah, I was in the exalted presence of Raphalites.

One glance across showed me a beautiful, painfully expensive and acutely niche Italian carbon frame, deep section carbon wheels, and prominent Rapha logos adorning the necrotic, fag-smoke blue of heavily tattooed limbs.

I rolled off down the hill, soft pedalling somewhat because of Reg’s and my own fragile state, expecting the two to whiz past at any moment. Again, nothing and I became convinced they’d turned the other way at the junction.

They did finally catch me when I was held up busy roundabout, and we rode through the town centre together – just long enough for them to cast a few disparaging glances down at Reg. At another busy roundabout they dared more than me, and I watched them ride slowly away.

I hit the final, steep climb home, and there they were in front of me. Despite 70+ miles, a creaking bottom bracket and legs shredded by Mad Colin’s impromptu paceline (see here), I was closing on them with every pedal stroke. They turned left at the first junction, opting for the slightly easier, longer, twisting, but much less busy and infinitely preferable climb to the top.

I followed, expecting to overhaul them on the steeper lower section, but they turned left again and freewheeled down to a well-known cyclist’s café, obviously needing to stock up on triple shots of espresso and apple flapjacks to fuel their 100 mile epic. I hope the wholegrain goodness and industrial strength caffeine super-charged their ride, because if they couldn’t lift their pace beyond what I’d seen I couldn’t see them getting back before dark.

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 …

23 24 may ride profile
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.

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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.

Wooler Wheel Borderlands Sportive – Saturday 16th May

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance:                                     172.6km/107 miles with 2,593 metres of climbing

Ride Time:                                             6:58 hours

Group size:                                            8 less 2 (then 5, then 2, then 1)

Weather in a word or two:               Changeable

wooler wheel

No Club Run this week, as a bunch of us found ourselves getting up at an unfeasibly early, God-forsaken hour of Saturday morning to travel Even Further North™ in order to start the Wooler Wheel Borderlands Sportive at 7.30am.

For those who are geographically challenged, or lacking an encyclopaedic knowledge of the hidden rural enclaves of deepest, darkest Northumberland, Wooler, according to the event manual, is located in the far north-west corner of England, “perched perilously between the steep foothills of Cheviot and the Milfield Plain”. Strange, it didn’t seem all that dangerous a place when we got there, and I don’t recall much seismic activity in the Border Region from my Geography ‘A’ Level. Mind you, since I achieved that I think we’ve actually entered a completely new geological time period, so maybe things have changed.

Climbing out of Wooler, the route bends east to the North Sea, then turns quickly north before we get our feet wet, to run parallel to the beautiful Northumbria coastline for a while. Climbing over the border into Jockland, it then runs west along the Tweed Valley, climbing steeply to Scott’s View, dropping down into Teviotdale, and then climbing again, up and over the Cheviots to return to Wooler. Hmm, I’ve used climbing four times in that paragraph – that seems about right.

The Event HQ was located in a cattle market, which, although providing plenty of space and parking, did leave me with a somewhat sacrificial feeling, as we were herded through the dark and empty cattle pens to sign on, slipping and sliding down the same concrete ramps that I’m sure give our hooved bovine friends a similar feeling of nervous uncertainty.

From parking, to sign on, to fitting numbers to the bike, to lining up at the start gate, I managed to find, lose, find again, partially lose, search for and then find all 8 of the club lads and lasses set to ride, as well as a few others who were doing the shorter 100km route. Organising cyclists is an utterly thankless task, much akin to herding spooked cats in a thunderstorm. It was unsurprising therefore that by the time we’d rolled through the start gate minutes later our numbers were already down to 6, with 2 riders AWOL and never to be seen again. Maybe they fell foul of the hidden perils of the Milfield Plain?

The weather was bright and breezy for the most part, occasionally interspersed with sudden heavy showers, and a westerly wind that seemed to gather in strength as the day wore on. This necessitated several stops to pull on and take off rain jackets as the squalls blew past. Other than that the day was warm enough to go without overshoes and just arm and knee warmers.

Out on the road, and one of our number started romping up the first serious hills like a supercharged and enraged Armstrong chasing a Simeoni break, but I wasn’t remotely tempted to join in. It’s been over 30 years since I’ve ridden over a hundred miles so I adopted a much more cautious and conservative approach, dropping to the back and matching pace with our slowest rider as I tried to casually spin out a low gear. It was surprising to find cyclists already walking up the hills, I hope they were on the shorter route.

We hit the coast for some spectacular views of Holy Island and the Farnes, and our first headwind, slowing progress and demanding a bit more grunt, but were still clipping along at a decent pace and chattering merrily as we crossed the border into Scotland.
The first water stop was an opportunity to recharge bottles. Luckily mine was still fairly full as the group taste-test concluded the replacement water was “minging” and tasted heavily of chlorine. The contents of several bottles were summarily jettisoned when we called a quick pee stop.

Our first marker was at around 36 miles, where I reckoned we’d completed the first third of the course. It was at this point that I realised just how far 107 miles actually is and how long the ride was going to take. It was around this time that we lost the first of our number who, deciding the pace was too high, sensibly dropped off the back to continue in a more leisurely manner.

50 miles came and went, and the chatter in the group became less and less while legs became heavier and heavier.

75 miles and we’re mainly riding in companionable silence, occasionally stopping to don or doff rain jackets as the weather couldn’t make its mind up. We’re now faced with a series of ramps that lead us onto the climb up to Whitton Edge and the 301 metre highpoint of the route. Up ahead, in what appeared to be an argyle chequered jersey of white black and purple, a rider was weaving across the road trying to keep his momentum going as he struggled with the incline. He ran out of road and shuddered to a halt on the verge. I rode around him and followed his companion, also clad in argyle like a Garmin-Cannondale negative. This rider had bright pink fluorescent socks (why?) that looked so absurd that I was momentarily distracted from the pain in my legs, and I followed him to the top.

A quick chat with a photographer at the water station there confirms there are only a couple of serious climbs left, and we tip over the summit for a scary-mad, narrow twisting, descent down to the valley floor. For the first time all day I’m in the big chain-ring  with enough momentum to carry me over the a few minor hills without changing down and I take a long pull on the front.

Now I’m fixated on my Garmin and the slow countdown, always having to add 7 to the quick calculation of 100 minus however many miles the computer shows that we’ve done. I’m beginning to really hate those extra 7 miles, and whoever was so untidy or just too lazy to devise a ride with a nice round number, and I’m becoming a little too fixated on them.

Several cruelly hard ascents follow. They would normally be nothing to fear, but given the distance we’ve covered already and the “grippy” road surface, they have us slowing to a sustained and painful crawl. 100 miles come and go under our wheels, and there’s just that awkward, bastard, tail-end, untidy, cast-off, the uncalled for and damned inconsiderate runt of 7 miles left.

I note 102 miles tick past, ride some more, look down and the screen still resolutely shows 102 miles. I ride some more, telling myself not to look, and then I do, and it still says 102 miles. Maybe I’m cracking up?

Finally, agonisingly the screen ticks over to 103 and we’re on the last leg. We’re strung out along the road now, heading in and burning whatever meagre supplies of energy we have left. I’m clinging to the rear wheel of the first rider in our group as the miles squirm past. 104-105-106 miles and now the road is pan flat, but there’s a savage headwind. I’m slowly detached from the wheel in front, but as I turn into the finish strait my companion has slowed and is waiting (what a gent!) and we freewheel across the finish line together reminiscent of LeMond and Hinault conquering L’Alpe in ‘86 – although I suspect our ride was much harder.

lemond-hinault-alpe-d-huezhinaultlemond-
The Wooler Wheel – like Alpe D’Huez, only harder.

All that was left was to collect our (rather tasteful) T-shirts (immediately bagged by daughter number#1) and enjoy a traditional pie and peas meal (haute cuisine to us Northerners, and a welcome savoury break from sickly sweet gels and energy bars.)

All in all a great day out, and a fantastically well-organised event with clear sign posting and marshalls on all the major junctions to not only point the way, but control what little traffic we encountered. The countryside was somewhat wild and remote, but beautiful and the weather decidedly changeable – I was very surprised to find I had sunburned calves at the end – thankfully tiredness numbed the pain.

YTD Totals:         2,160km/ 1,342 miles with 23,474 metres of climbing

Bitchin’ Climbs#1

 

Whenever I get the opportunity I like to take in one of the behemoth’s featured in the book “100 Greatest Climbs” to see how much strain I can put my on ancient knees before they explode in a welter of bone, sinew and blood, like a feral alien bursting out John Hurt’s chest cavity.

A recent holiday in Keldy Forest, North Yorkshire saw me travelling with Reg to tackle the fearsome Rosedale Chimney – the climb the recent Tour de of Yorkshire wimped out of.

The books author Simon Warren, who just happens to have competed in National Hill Climbs, helpfully explains his rating system in the book is an amalgamation of gradient, length and the likely hostility of the riding conditions. He concludes, “all the climbs are tough, therefore 1/10 is hard and 10/10 is it’s almost all you can do to keep your bike moving.”

Rosedale Chimney is a 1.4km climb rated 10/10 with gradients reaching 1-in-3, and Simon cheerfully goes on to recount how he snapped his chain “not once, but twice while trying to conquer this vicious stretch of tarmac.” Oh my.

Oh, well…

The top and bottom of Rosedale Chimney.
The top and bottom of Rosedale Chimney. That’s not Reg by the way.

My allotted day arrives and I kiss goodbye to an anxious wife, say a final farewell to the kids, and we’re off. The weather is pleasantly mild and quite bright, but there’s a noticeably stiff breeze whenever the road is exposed.

A 25 kilometre or so loop gets me warmed up, and as I ride along the valley approaching the climb I can look over to the left and see a daunting picture of the road snaking its way up to the top of the North York Moors.

I slow down deliberately, gathering myself and coasting pass the big sign at the bottom of the hill. The road twists and turns a few times then spits me out past the last building and now we’re going resolutely uphill. Out and exposed, with the road clinging precariously to the side of the moors, and the “noticeably stiff breeze” has turned into a capricious, gusting blast that seems to come from all directions at once.

I hit the 33% hairpins and suddenly I’ve run out of gears and my legs are barely moving. I now have an image from a Ted Hughes poem lodged firmly in my brain, and I’ve become a “black-back gull bent like an iron bar slowly.” My mind keeps repeating the line over and over, to the rhythm of my straining, shuddering, agonisingly slow pedal strokes.

The gusting wind has me going from almost a standstill, to skeetering nervously across the road and swerving wildly to avoid running out of tarmac. And upwards, always upwards. A protracted crawling and dragging upwards.

I’m fighting the bike and the incline now, legs and lungs burning, zig-zagging back and forth across the surface and praying there’s no traffic coming the other way. I want to sit on the saddle, but when I try the road is so steep that the front wheel keeps lifting and I’m barely keeping control.

And then slowly, agonisingly I’m past the hard bit, the road straightens out and the climb goes from suicidal to just plain hard. I reach the top and crawl into a gravel strewn lay-by to unclip, breath again and admire the majestic, but rather bleak and threatening views. A quick photo and I turn around for the descent.

It’s only now that I realise my ordeal on the hill isn’t over yet. The sign usefully suggests that “cyclists dismount” and the road seems to drop away into emptiness. I creep down slowly, gingerly, brakes almost full on, knowing if I gather any momentum it’s going to be difficult to reach a controlled stop, uncertain on an unfamiliar road and sketchy surface.

Twice on the way down I have to pull over to the side of the road to shake out and flex my aching fingers back into some semblance of life. Then the incline eases and I can sit back and wheel merrily the rest of the way, off the climb without looking back.

rosedale chimney
That big, isolated bump at around 30km, like the topography flipping you the finger, is Rosedale Chimney. It laughs in the face of aged cyclists.

Well that’s that one ticked off. It was one hell of an experience, but I can honestly say I don’t ever see myself going back for another attempt.

Random Rambles and Esoteric Observations, Part#1

I have to admit to being a bit of a cycling dandy – as my teenage daughter might say, “he loves him some cycling jersey” – although if she saw I’d just written that she would instantly, and quite rightly, disown me (inheritance be damned!)

Anyway, an unfortunate and unexpected change of bike last year has opened up a radically new colour palette and gear rethink as, like any rational cyclist, I attempt to perfectly blend and co-ordinate man with machine like some Borg-infested Gok Wan. Resistance is futile, girlfriend?

I now have the perfect excuse to add to my bulging drawers (sorry, that not only carried all the wrong connotations, but a rather unpleasant mental image), ahem, to add to my ever growing collection of cycling jerseys. With this in mind I recently sent off to the sweatshops of the Far East for a jersey reportedly inspired by the Bundisliga. Yes, we’re talking football, and German football at that. I still don’t quite understand the connection or thinking here, but the colours perfectly match my new bike, so it works for me.

Not only was the jersey well-made, a good fit and excellent value for money, but according to the tag it had quite startling features beyond my wildest imaginings, promising “high elasticity Lycra” to “cultivate one’s morality version of joint human body.” Even Rapha or Assos don’t give you that.

eighteen
By the way, I’m by no means the worst offender when it comes to bike styling – I once caught a club mate changing his usual drink from blackcurrant to orange so the faint blush of colour through the plastic of his bidon* would complement his new bar tape.

* faux posh for water bottle