Leeful Weapon

Leeful Weapon

Club Run, Saturday 30th March 2019

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance:111 km/69 miles with 1,211 m of climbing
Riding Time:4 hours 11 minutes
Average Speed:26.5km/h
Group Size:30 riders, 2 FNG’s
Temperature: 15℃
Weather in a word or two:Rinse and repeat?

Ride Profile

In terms of the weather, it was almost like a rinse and repeat of last Saturday, dry, bright, but bitterly cold. Ideal conditions, especially if you could survive that first hour or so until the chill burned off. To help in this regard, I pulled my super-lightweight, Galibier Ventultra windproof over everything and away we went.


Main topics of conversation at the meeting point:

I arrived at the meeting point in what I thought was good order.

“New jacket?” Crazy Legs enquired?” looking at me somewhat askance. I told him it wasn’t, it had accompanied us to the Pyrenees last year and I’d worn it several times since. He was still looking at me in an oddly disapproving way though.

“Did you dress in a hurry?” he asked, tilting his head to one side to take me in from a different angle.

“Err, no…”

“You look like the village idiot, ” he finally decided, your zip’s all twisted and off centre.”

“It’s a design feature … apparently,” I told him, although, I must admit, without a great deal of conviction. To quote from the manufacturer’s website: “we have chosen an offset zip as it will be worn over an ‘centered’ jersey zipper, thus avoiding doubled up zips, on top of each other.” I have to admit I didn’t realise doubled up zips on top of each other was a particular problem until I read that.

“It still makes you look like the village idiot,” he concluded, then …

“You’d better not crash,” he warned, “If the paramedics see that they’ll probably think your back’s been twisted and snap your neck trying to realign it again.”

Ha ha. I took the jacket off, bundled it into a tight fist, like a magician preparing and endless hankie gag and dropped it into my back pocket.
It had served it’s purpose. Besides which, I didn’t want to encourage any paramedics to snap my neck to align it with an off-kilter zip in the event of an accident.

The Garrulous Kid took issue with last week’s blerg, insisting he had actually gone down the Ryals, but had left before the two groups had met and merged. Despite leaving at a different time, riding solo and taking a completely different route to everyone else, he claimed he had, without doubt, won the sprint to the cafe and beaten us all fair and square.

The Garrulous Kid then stripped off his teeny-tiny track mitts, insisting they were making his hands too hot. It reminded Jimmy Mac of a Family Guy episode, when Peter defended driving gloves with an open back because of that well known family trait of “sweaty knuckles.”

“Anyway, you should be wearing shorts,” the Garrulous Kid insisted.

“I am,” I told him.

He looked at me with blank incomprehension.

“Eh?”

I twanged the hem of my shorts where they ended over my knee warmers, “It’s just that I’m also wearing knee warmers.”

“Well, what’s the point of those?” the Garrulous Kid demanded to know.

Beside me, Jimmy Mac sighed heavily, “Even my six-year old was able to work out the purpose of knee warmers,” he suggested, “Just from the name alone.”

We’d had one of our regular social nights on Thursday evening, trying a brand new bar that at least gave us another watering-hole option. OGL expressed concern that it had been quite quiet for an opening extravaganza, before suggesting it was perhaps intentional and “they’d had a bit of a soft opening.”

“Doesn’t everyone like a soft opening?” I ventured.

Ah look, I’m not proud of myself, but it was an open goal, who could have resisted.

Crazy Legs outlined the route which would include a descent “down Curlicue Hill, or whatever it’s called” (the name seems to have stuck) and then a quick turnaround before riding back up the Trench. He then said we were going to be taking the Magic Road before Middleton Bank, a route only a select few have ever ridden and many of us weren’t even aware existed.

He called for a split into two groups, with a rendezvous at Dyke Neuk for realignment and split into shorter and longer groups. Everything seemed clear, until he announced he wanted to do the longer ride and was looking to form a slower-longer group to supplement the usual faster-longer and slower-shorter splinters. Eh?

No one has asked yet for a faster-shorter group, but it’ll come and I’m already confused …

Then, like a bolt from the blue and to all round stunned silence, a mere 121 days after declaring he would organise one “soon” – months beyond the promised date and officially 7 or 8 years late , OGL voluntarily mentioned a soon to be realised date for a club AGM.

OMG! OGL GRC AGM! WTF?

(SMH TBH …)

With that particularly shocking rifle-shot still resounding, we pushed off, clipped in and rode out. I found myself at the back of a 15 strong front group as, for once in living memory, we’d actually conspired to split our numbers exactly into two. What is going on? All the little certainties in my carefully ordered world have just been turned upside down.


The front group was seemingly intent on getting to the rendezvous in super-fast time and we made good progress, with Caracol, the Garrulous Kid, Monkey Butler Boy and Rab Dee in particular driving along the pace. It was so fast and so contained, that when when we reached the top of Bell’s Hill and looked back to pick up stragglers, there were none.

I suspected we were minutes ahead of the second group as we began the ascent up to the meeting point at Dyke Neuk. Everyone else attacked the climb and went romping away as I sat up and drifted backwards. We were going to stop and wait at the top, so I didn’t feel the need to flog myself to keep up.

As the steepest gradients bit, I was just behind a similarly soft-pedalling Colossus, when he tried to shift onto the inner ring and his chain just sighed and gave way without a fight.

I climbed to the top and begged a chain tool from the Cow Ranger, before rolling back down with G-Dawg to meet the Colossus walking upwards, pushing his broken bike. The Cow Ranger’s tool proved useless without an Allen key as a handle, but I remembered I probably had a multi-tool in my soft-case tool tub. I pulled this out of my bottle cage and unzipped it. Sure enough, there nestled between two spare tubes, two tyre levers and a mini pump was the probably unused, definitely forgotten about multi-tool, complete with a chain-tool attachment.

A bit of pin pushing and re-setting later, the Colossus had a workable, if potentially delicate chain that would see him home. We rejoined our group at the top, where we found them mingling with the Prof-led, Back Street Boys, in what the Cow Ranger would later dub a GRC-BSB mash-up. I understand the accompanying video is a surprise YouTube hit.

“The Boys” (if I may call them that without incurring the wrath of the Advertising Standards Authority) were planning on riding a similar route to us, so the Prof issued an open invitation for any of our group to join them.

Someone tried to persuade the Garrulous Kid to go and he asked me what I thought. I told him I thought the combination of him and the Prof riding together would be potentially lethal and G-Dawg suggested we’d need to issue a public safety warning before deciding to take things any further.

“Hur-hur, like Leeful Weapon,” the Garrulous Kid announced, but I think we’d done enough to dissuade him.

The Back Street Boys departed, possibly taking a few of our number with them, perhaps not. Thankfully, the Garrulous Kid was not among their number and we were soon reunited with our second group. Options were discussed, routes were agreed and new groups were formed before we set off again.



I found myself riding beside a very disgruntled Big Yin.

“The Trench,” he started, “Why’s it called the Trench? It’s not a trench, it doesn’t look like a trench and, as far as I know, there were no battles in the area that would have seen anyone needing to dig a trench.”

What can I say, I guess some people are more pragmatic than poetic.

As we pushed on toward the drop down “Curlicue Bank” I found myself alongside Zardoz’s daughter.

“Has that cruel old man made you ride with him again?”

She puffed out her cheeks in resignation, “Oh, he said, we’ll just go with the slower group and then it was, oh, we’ll just do the Trench. I think we’re along for the whole ride.”

Down we dropped, before a sharp left, quick scuttle along the valley floor, then another sharp left to begin climbing the Trench. As the slope bit, we were spread across the left hand lane and, I was following G-Dawgs’ wheel as we momentarily strayed over the white line to haul our way past some of the early stragglers.

A driver behind wasn’t very impressed, either with us clogging the inside lane, straying onto the other side of the road, or simply because of our general lack of form. Of course, the most constructive way of showing his displeasure was to lean heavily on his horn for a good half a minute or so, before driving slowly past, frothing, swearing and wildly gesticulating.

G-Dawg paid him back in kind and as the car slowed, I thought we were actually going to have some kind of physical confrontation, but the driver obviously did a quick headcount and realised the odds were 20 to 1 in our favour, so accelerated away.

He’d probably spent longer remonstrating with us than waiting to pass, but I guess the former is maybe more satisfying?

We followed our successful assault on the Trench with a swoop and burn down the dip and through Hartburn as we made our way toward the Magic Road and then Middleton Bank. There we passed a big bloke carrying an even bigger scythe.Hopefully just a local yokel and not a post-modern incarnation of the Grim Reaper dressed in beige corduroy trousers.

We were relying on G-Dawg now to find this mystical road and sadly, he wan’t up to the task. Insisting the road was somewhere on the left, he rejected the first candidate as being nothing more than a gravel strewn and heavily potholed farmers track. And then … well, and then there were no more options as we reached the turn-off proper to Middleton Bank.

Jimmy Mac and Caracol blasted away off the front, while I preferred a more leisurely approach to the climb, easing through the steepest section before starting to haul in the Garrulous Kid.

Over the top we coalesced into a small group as we joined Biden Fecht, Goose, the Garrulous Kid and a couple of others, accelerating toward the cafe.

When Biden Fecht pushed on at the front, I immediately followed, thinking we could get a bit of through and off working and see if we could close down those off the front. It wasn’t happening though and no one came through to take a turn.

Then Biden Fecht swung wide and jumped away and still no one came through for a pull, so I just kept plugging away at the front. I took the group past the junction to Bolam Lake and then I was done, sitting up and slowing, while trying to find some way of drag more air into oxygen-starved lungs.

Goose led the others through and I accelerated to latch onto the back, to try and recover a little in the wheels. In no time at all though, we hit the Rollers, so I attacked. Just because. I’d caught onto Biden Fecht’s rear wheel before the second crest and then just kept going, dragging everyone over the last bumps, through the downhill and around the corner for the last climb to the cafe.

Here the attacks came thick and fast, but I felt I’d done my bit, so just swung to the side of the road and made my way upwards at my own pace.


Main topics of conversation at the coffee stop:

We found the Red Max, comfortably ensconced in the cafe, feet up and enjoying some well deserved cake and a coffee, having taken a shorter-slower route, or, who knows, maybe a faster-longer route to the cafe.

As we came through the door he pointed a finger at the Garrulous Kid and announced, “I beat you!”

He saw me behind, pointed and repeated, “I beat you!”

Then Goose, “I beat you!”

Biden Fecht, “I beat you an’all!”

And finally, some little, grey-haired old lady, who’d just parked up and looked somewhat bewildered as the Red Max pointed an accusatory finger at her and loudly declared, “I beat you!”

I found a table in the back and was joined by the Garrulous Kid, seemingly enamoured by the vision of himself and the Prof as diametrically opposed, scofflaw, bike-riding, anglicised cop buddies in the vein of Riggs and Murtaugh.

“Hee-hee, Leeful Weapon!”

We were joined by Captain Black, slumping heavily down into his seat and suffering from a severe case of winterbikeitis. He was not enjoying being out on Treacle, the name he’s given to his winter bike – not out of any sense of affection, but “because it makes me feel like I’m riding through treacle.”

Taffy Steve and Crazy Legs filled in the corners of the table, with Crazy Legs remembering it was the same spot we’d occupied when a cantankerous old radgie (mad, lunatic, angry) gadgie (bloke, feller, man) took him to task for laughing too much and far too obviously enjoying himself!

I enquired about the Magic Road and learned that their group had found it, although apparently there had been no pot of gold at the end. Crazy Legs suggested it was like Brigadoon and only appears once every 100 years.

We discussed how interesting it would be to have 100 years of history pass for every day you lived, but the Garrulous Kid couldn’t see the attraction and thought the idea was rubbish. I’m pleased we got that sorted, anyway.

Talking about Plumose Pappus and his love of hills, the Garrulous Kid announced, “He reminds me of Jimmy Cricket.”

Though struggling with the actual comparison, Crazy Legs was quite impressed that the Garrulous Kid could remember the ancient, Irish comedian, best known for wearing wellies with a big R incised on the front of the left hand one and a big L on the right. (Yes folks, that was the acme, the very pinnacle of his humour.)

I’m surprised you can recall him …” Crazy Legs started.

“Hold on, hold on,” I interrupted, “Do you mean the Irish comedian, or the Disney character?”

“The Disney character, you know that little ant feller.”

“Ant feller? You mean Jiminy Cricket,” Crazy Legs rebuked him, “He was a grasshopper, not an ant, you know – the clue’s in the name.”

“Kind of like knee-warmers,” I suggested.

Shrugging off his mistakes, the Garrulous Kid announced he’d worked out precisely when his last club run would be before he left to go to university and he demanded to know what we would do to mark the occasion.

“Celebrate?” I suggested.

“We could all line up and salute you with upraised mini-pumps,” Crazy Legs said, before deciding this would be a less than spectacular demonstration.

“Or, we could douse you with our water-bottles?” he decided.

“No, energy gels,” Taffy Steve amended, “We’ll anoint you with energy gels, like a cycling version of the Hindu festival of Holi, but using gels instead of paint. We’ll have plenty of time to find the most luridly colourful and disgusting ones, like Bilberry with added Caffeine.”

“Pink Grapefruit and Avocado,” I added.

Ladies and gentleman, I think we have a plan and, yea verily the anointing with gels shall come to pass. The fact that the Garrulous Kid’s last club ride coincides with a weekend where we typically see a massive increase in angry wasp activity and he’s going to be coated in sugary-sweet, sticky goo is just going to add to the fun.


We manged to escape the cafe without being accosted by any radgie-gadgies and set off for the ride home.

Once more I found myself at the back, where I had a chat with one of the Flippin’ New Guys, an Irish CX rider, more than strong and fit enough to keep up with our lot. As usual the pace kicked up as we stared up Berwick Hill and I clung to his wheel as we worked our way from the back of the group toward the front.

Over the crest and starting down the other side, we were still some way off the leading group, so I set off in pursuit. I’d managed to close the gap but wasn’t convinced I’d make it all the way over before the slope levelled out, then the Monkey Butler Boy blasted past on his TT-bike in full aero-tuck. I dived onto his back wheel and he dragged us across.

Somewhere along the way we picked up a couple of EMC riders and, with testosterone flowing freely, there presence probably contributed to the high speeds we attained as we pounded through Dinnington, hammered around the airport and I was unleashed into the Mad Mile to start my ride home.


YTD Totals: 1,984 km / 1,232 miles with 27,072 metres of climbing

Ozzie Rules

Ozzie Rules

Club Run, Saturday 2nd September, 2017

My Ride (according to Strava)

Total Distance:                                   108 km/67 miles with 1,105 metres of climbing

Ride Time:                                           4 hours 30 minutes

Average Speed:                                   24.0 km/h

Group size:                                           31 riders, 0 FNG’s

Temperature:                                      19°C

Weather in a word or two:              Pleasant


 

2 sep
Ride Profile


The Ride:

You can’t say I hadn’t been warned and I should have known what to expect, after all I’d already managed two bike commutes into work during the week. On both occasions the cold had made me grateful for the light, long fingered gloves (my favourite and highly recommended, Galibier Roubaix Vision 4’s) that I’d used both mornings, before switching to mitts for the considerably warmer return journey.

But, Saturday morning looked bright and breezy and I was setting off an hour later than I do when travelling into work – surely it wouldn’t be so cold that I’d need to supplement arm-warmers with gloves? It was though, and dropping down the Hill at high speed didn’t help. The cold attacked my hands, especially through the chilled metal of the brake levers I had covered throughout the descent.

Along the valley floor I tried to find some relief and to break the wind chill – hands positioned on the very tops of the bars, just before the warm tape gave way to icy metal, fingers curled up tight and bundled together like cold kittens, with only the runts of the litter, my two thumbs, still exposed to the air flow and slowly turning numb.

Despite the frigid, early morning conditions, it looked like being a great day once the air warmed up a little, the pale blue above only lightly smudged with milky ripples and whorls of cloud, like a giant had left his fingerprints across the sky. It was simply a case of surviving until the suns warming influence could be felt, perhaps one of the last, fine days before the dark, cold, winds and rain of late autumn descend and so, not to be missed.

The promise of decent weather was a real incentive to get out for the Saturday Club Run, overcoming the twin challenges of illness and a sore knee. I’d missed time at work on the Tuesday, feeling sick – high temperature, nausea, stomach cramps and a headache. I still wasn’t fully 100% but had determined to try and ride through it.

Then on Thursday I’d noticed my right knee was sore, especially when climbing. I’d shared the first half of my evening commute with Mr. T (aka The Man with the Van and the Plan) on Friday. He’s trying to reach his annual mileage target, so wanted a longer route home. During the ride he wondered if I’d done anything to actually injure the knee, but nothing came to mind.

It wasn’t until later, when climbing the Heinous Hill with little stabs of pain sparking in the offending joint, that I remembered slipping on the office stairs on Wednesday morning. Perhaps that was the source of the injury? I hope so, as it beats the alternative, that my aged and decrepit knee joints are just worn out, crumbling and terminally failing.

Still, as I crossed the river, admiring a small flotilla of single-sculls arrowing downstream, I felt fine, any knee pain was at least temporarily quiescent and the bike was whirring along smoothly and quietly. All seemed well with the world.

I reached the meeting point in good time and in good order and drew up to wait for everyone else alongside the early arrivals, Crazy Legs and the Garrulous Kid.


Main topics of conversation at the meeting point:

The Garrulous Kid reported great success with his GCSE exams, especially Chemistry, Physics and Maffs. Apparently he’d passed his English too and with flying colours, causing me to enquire if there was an oral element to his testing and how well he’d fared at that part. (There wasn’t).

Crazy Legs thanked Zardoz for his moral and very vocal support during last week’s 4-Up Team Time Trial. Apparently Zardoz’s bellowing of, “you’ve almost caught your minute-men!” halfway around the course had been invigorating and motivating, even as Crazy Legs immediately realised it was a complete and utter lie.

Aether rolled up and we awarded him a full ceremonial fanfare as this week ride leader. We all genuflected in his august presence and I’m sure, out of the corner of my eye I even saw the Garrulous Kid attempt an awkward curtsy.

With another good turnout spilling across the pavement, Aether recognised the need to split us into two, but we still haven’t quite got the hang of this and we ended up with a pair of very lopsided groups, one of about twenty-strong, the other of no more than a dozen. Sadly this was just an excuse for those who don’t agree with splitting into groups to complain that it doesn’t work. And they did. A lot.

A small few of us hung back to form the core of the second group, even rolling up to the lights on green and refusing to go through them in order to allow the bunch out front plenty of time to get clear.

The lights finally cycled round to green again and we pushed off, clipped in and rode out.


Crazy Legs and Taffy Steve took to the front for the first part, while I slotted in behind them, alongside the Garrulous Kid, with Big Dunc and Zardoz following in turn and in our wheels. On past Dinnington, the front two peeled off, I pushed through with the Garrulous Kid and Zardoz, realising he was getting perilously close to the front immediately called for a pee stop, so he could slip quietly back down the order. We naturally ignored him and pressed on.

We drove the pace on, up past the Cheese Farm, trying to see how many “ease up!” cries we could generate on the climb, but they were disappointingly scarce. Passing under the A1 just outside of Morpeth, we ceded the front to Zardoz and Big Dunc. A large contingent of Grogs slipped away off the back to head straight to the café and when Moscas turned early for home shortly afterwards, there was just the front group and OGL left – a Malignant Seven – average age about 50, or if you exclude the Garrulous Kid, about 56.

We swung round a sharp corner onto the bottom of the Mur de Mitford, I changed down and attacked the slope. Ouch, big mistake, as someone introduced my knee to a little needle of niggling, sharp pain. Ah! So that injuries still there, then …

I tried to spin up, putting as little force as possible through my right leg, which felt a bit odd. It wasn’t hugely painful, but uncomfortable and the joint felt weak and somewhat femmer – definitely not something I wanted to put too much strain through.

We regrouped and pressed on. The weather had started to warm up, the sun was high and bright and I was able to abandon the arm warmers. It was, finally, a glorious day. All around us the countryside was blooming richly and riotously. Glossy blackberries dotted all the hedgerows and while a few fields had already been shaved back to a dry stubble, in the Font valley the maize was already reaching over head-height.

We swung left, onto the Coldlaw Wood Climb running parallel to the Trench and took the opportunity for a pee stop, while OGL shipped and stowed his gilet. The Garrulous Kid complained there was nowhere to pee. Crazy Legs raised a quizzical eyebrow and looked around the shady, secluded country lane, lined with a wall and hedge to one side and tall trees to the other?

“What more do you want,” he asked, somewhat exasperated, “A Dyson air-blower to dry your hands?”

“We’ve got one of them.” I added nodding back down the lane, where OGL was shoving a gilet into his back pocket.

“Nah,” Crazy Legs concluded, “Dyson’s need to be able to produce at least 100 watts.” Oh, dear … average age of 50 and we’re still such shockingly childish, immature and caustic bitches.

As the climb levelled off we swung left, while OGL, looking for a shorter, easier route went right. Rolling round a bend we passed our first group, all clustered at the side of the road while the Red Max worked feverishly to fix a rear wheel puncture.

We had no intention of stopping and rolled past, now forming the clubs advance party, or tête de la course, if you prefer, travelling down toward Dyke Neuk on a road we more typically travel up. Slow-witted as usual, it took me an absolute age to realise I actually knew where we were!

Just before dropping down the dip toward Hartburn, OGL was spat out of a side road ahead of us – now our virtual leader on the road. Once again though he didn’t press his advantage, taking a different, shorter route at the top of the climb, while we followed the less well-travelled ride plan, up to Scots Gap, before starting to close on Middleton Bank.

I drifted off the back of the group as we rolled toward the climb, happy to ride  at my own pace and nurse my sore knee along, only to find I’d acquired a pilot fish, as Crazy Legs dropped back to check on me.


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The group splintered apart, Zardoz and Big Dunc riding off the front, with the Garrulous Kid in hot pursuit, while I spun up the climb alongside Crazy Legs, slowly closing the gap to Taffy Steve.

Over the top, Zardoz and Big Dunc were pressing on for home without regrouping. Crazy Legs took over on the front, checked I was happy with the pace and set off for home. “All aboard the gimp express!”

We caught Taffy Steve in short order. “All aboard!” I called, easing back to open a space behind Crazy Legs’ back wheel. Taffy Steve slotted in, Crazy Legs blew an imaginary train whistle … and then we started to eat into the gap up to the Garrulous Kid.

The Garrulous Kid appeared to be lost in a daydream and seemed a bit startled as we thundered past, but managed to respond to the call, “All aboard!” tagging onto the back of our line.

We never did catch the rampaging Zardoz, or the only slightly-less rampaging Big Dunc, but then again, despite all expectation, our erstwhile front group of runners and chasers never caught us either.

We managed to keep our small group all together until the rollers just after the Milestone Woods, when Taffy Steve drifted off the back. I hung on down the descent and around the corner to the final climb, before Crazy Legs and the Garrulous Kid romped away to contest the minor placings in the sprint.

Ahead of me, OGL emerged yet again from another side road and I swooped around him and then eased to roll up to the café.


Main topics of conversation at the coffee stop:

The café has new coffee mugs, which are, apparently easier to carry, so I think the staff quite like them.  Or at least they did –  until they had to contend with a bunch of awkward, obstreperous cyclists insisting – beyond all reason and even after practical demonstration – that they were smaller than the previous version and we were all being short-changed.

We took advantage of the good weather to sit outside in the garden, reasoning there can’t be many more opportunities to do that this year.

Perhaps though, we should be more thankful we live in such a temperate climate, it is after all just a matter of perspective. OGL related how one of our club members was currently living in Las Vegas and didn’t seem too happy about it – perhaps because he can’t walk the dogs in the afternoon as the pavement (sorry, sidewalk) is so hot their paws blister.

Not that he can even get out himself either, as his steel gates expand so much in the heat they jam closed. Apparently the strict grid-like layout of American urban areas and the surrounding blank, flatness of Nevada ensure that all his Strava routes could be easily replicated by a child on an Etch-A-Sketch.

Crazy Legs recalled riding with the guy on one club run, in mid-autumn when it was typically wet, blustery and cold and everyone was complaining about the weather, apart from our ex-pat, who positively revelled in it and couldn’t have been happier. You see, perspectives.

Gazing into a nearby field, the Garrulous Kid seemed excited to see a black lamb amongst all its snow-white brothers. (He doesn’t get out much.) OGL revealed this was the field he was planning to use if he’d won the charity auction for Sean Kelly’s donkey at one of the Braveheart dinners. Luckily he was outbid at the last.

(I’ve yet to discover what possessed him to even think about bidding to win Sean Kelly’s donkey, or perhaps more accurately how much alcohol you have to consume before bidding for Sean Kelly’s donkey seems (even remotely) like a good idea.)

I felt duty bound to ask if OGL hadn’t felt a bit of an ass, while Crazy Legs wanted to know if the donkey had later wandered up to his room and “brayed on the door.” Well, it kept us vaguely amused anyway.


Coming out of the café and setting off home, the Garrulous Kid and Monkey Butler Boy got into a bitch-boy slap-fight, which the Monkey Butler Boy seemed to win, simply by virtue of his well-honed, rapier-sharp wit, as evidenced by his final retort – “Blah-blah, bler-bler-bler.”

“Blah-blah, bler-bler-bler?” I enquired.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Your scintillating wit, bon-mots and clever word-play really would put Oscar Wilde to shame.”

“Who?”

“Oscar Wilde?”

“Never heard of the feller.”

I cocked an imaginary pistol, Contador-style, pointed it at the Monkey Butler Boy’s head and (figuratively) shot him dead.

“You’ve never even heard of Oscar Wilde?”

“Well, you’ve got to remember, I’m only young … I wasn’t around in the ‘80’s.”

Sigh.

The Monkey Butler Boy rode away to continue his fractious discussions with the Garrulous Kid, leaving me in splendid isolation, where I found I was continuously yawning. I mention this because it seemed so utterly incongruous – I can’t remember ever needing to yawn while cycling before – and now I couldn’t seem to stop.

I also began to feel nauseous and strangely displaced. This wasn’t good. At the next junction, I baled, swinging right to track through Ponteland for a shorter route home, while the bunch sped left. I started to feel chilled, even though I was sweating, but it was the clammy cold sweat of not being well, rather than the good, honest sweat of a hard workout and my speed began to drop away.

I stopped to throw up and pull on my arm-warmers – completely separate actions I’m afraid, I’m not that good at multi-tasking – before pushing grimly on.

At one point I suffered a too-close pass by a learner driver and started to wonder what exactly they were teaching them these days – but more or less forgave the driving-instructor when the car then bounced off the verge in a puff of dust and I saw him wrestling with both the wheel and the driver, trying to centre the car back into the middle of the road.

I finally made it to that Hill and crawled up it using gears I haven’t troubled since L’Alpe d’Huez, managing to make it home before an unfortunate attack of the Dumoulin’s. Well, that scuppered any chance of riding out Monday to catch the Tour of Britain – not that it was heading anywhere particularly scenic mind …


 

SWP_OVO_ENERGY_TOUR_OF_BRITAIN_0017x-1024x681
In a picture stolen from the OVO Tour of Britain website, the peloton rides past Bamburgh Castle, en route through one of my favourite places, the remarkably beautiful, Northumberland coast.


Actually, now that I think about it, the familiar scenery is about the only thing the OVO Tour of Britain has going for it – what an incredibly dull … I was going to say race, but “series of  unconnected sprints” would be a better description – they’ve managed to make it almost as uninspiring as the women’s version.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for both races as an opportunity to see professional cycling on British roads. I want them to succeed and spread the appeal of the sport and I’d rather watch even this level of racing ahead of just about any other sport you care to mention … but … what remarkable lack of ingenuity was employed in designing this race and does anyone want to see a GC largely decided among sprinters on bonus seconds?

How come the Tour de of Yorkshire (despite its sad, naming pretensions) can come up with an interesting parcours and compelling competition based on a couple of days of racing in just a single county, yet our National Tour, which should be the showcase event for cycling, has the whole, infinitely variable landscape of the British Isles to choose from (and a super-strong start-list), yet is so completely lifeless? Got to hope for better next year.

Right, time to rest up the knee and hopefully get better before next weekend.


YTD Totals: 5,253 km / 3,264 miles with 60,111 metres of climbing

Galibier Mistral Foul Weather Jacket Review


To be totally transparent from the off, I really like, own and very regularly use lots of Galibier kit including; shorts, tights, leg warmers, gloves, overshoes, a headband/bandana and a rain jacket. In fact they are responsible for my favourite lightweight gloves and their winter ones are pretty damn good too.

I find their products to be of good quality and durability at very affordable prices, although I feel they are sometimes let down by some strange aesthetic designs and decisions.

When I was looking for something a bit better at coping with the rain than the usual lightweight, waterproof but unbreathable rain jacket, they were my natural first choice.

From their website I discovered the Mistral being marketed as a foul weather jacket. This seemed to tick all the boxes in terms of breathability and triple-layer wet weather protection. Most comparable jackets were 2 or 3 times the £72 price, and the design of the Mistral promised “the wind, rain and cold protection of a jacket, but with the comfort of a jersey.”


 

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The Galibier Mistral Foul Weather Jacket


Galibier state that the specially sourced fabric of their jacket was designed for use by the German military, and given the traditional quality of German Army materiel, (think MG42 or Panzerkampwagen V), this sounded like a ringing endorsement to me.

With their usual efficient delivery service the jacket was soon in my hands. The first thing I noticed was the packaging – the Mistral came very neatly and impressively folded into its own, perfectly serviceable Galibier musette and one of their buffs was included free for good measure.

Perhaps this latter addition was Galibier’s way of addressing one of my own slight gripes with the jacket, but more of that later.


 

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Classy packaging


 

The product itself looks very well made, double-stitched throughout and with the Galibier name prominently embroidered on the left hand breast – a big quality step up from the usual short-lived, less than durable transfers they typically use to brand their gear.

In minimalist black with a contrasting red cuffs, collar and zip and a matching red “skunk stripe” down the back, the design is neat, serviceable and looks the part, although it’s not especially distinctive in either cut or colour and is never going to engender any “I want one of those” product lust.

The material of the jacket is the interesting stuff, it does feel akin to pulling on a jersey, but the fabric is thicker, somewhat stiffly elastic and quite smooth and slick to the touch.


 

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The triple membrane construction


 

There are 3 very deep pockets with reflective trim and mesh bottoms, presumably because the fabric is so waterproof water would pool in the pockets if they didn’t have an outlet.

These pockets are excellent – one of the best features of the jacket because although deep and wonderfully capacious, the taut elasticity of the fabric means they don’t lose their shape and hold everything safely and securely with very little bulging or movement. Ideal for winter rides where I tend to carry a few more tools, kit and spares.


 

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The pockets are just fabulous


 

Pulling on the jacket feels very much akin to pulling on a winter weight, race-fit jersey, and you do have to actively pull it on – it’s close cut, with no excess material to flap around in the wind. Once on it feels very warm, supportive and enfolding.

The jacket has what Galibier refer to as a diaphragm cut, quite short on the torso, so there’s no uncomfortable bunching up of loose material once you’re tucked into a riding position.

This had me somewhat self-consciously tugging the front down when I first tried the jacket on, but it comes into its own once you swing a leg over your bike. In contrast the tail is slightly dropped to give additional protection for your lower back.


 

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The cut comes into its own once you’re on the bike


 

The sleeves appear long enough to cope with even my gibbon-like limbs with material to spare, so there’s no excuse for having any annoying gap between cuff and glove. As with the body the sleeves are quite close fitting and supportive – you will inevitably have to pull them inside out as you take the jacket off.

The inner cuff, in the contrasting red fleecy material, seals the sleeves effectively from the wind, but experience has taught me these cuffs are not made of the same water resistant material as the shell, and, if accidently exposed, will soak up and retain water like a sponge.

The zipper appears to be of good, robust quality and sits in front of a windproof “storm flap” of protective material. There’s also a neat “zip garage” built into the top of the collar, which would perhaps be a good idea, except I don’t think I’ll ever use it. This is because, (my one criticism of the cut of the jacket), I find the collar too tall, restrictive and uncomfortable so never zip it fully closed. I’ve often wondered if this is a recognised shortcoming and the reason Galibier supply a free buff with the jacket!

First impressions are overwhelmingly positive, so how does the jacket actually perform?

My first few rides in the Mistral are short commutes to work where I paired the jacket with just a thin base layer. To wear, the garment is supremely comfortable, so much so that you forget that you’re actually wearing it and I can’t think of a better endorsement than that.

It’s also impressively windproof and warm – almost too warm in any temperature over 11°c to 12°c especially, though not surprisingly, when climbing hills. It also pleasingly shrugged off any showers or light rain, and when caught in a sudden downpour I could see the water beading on the surface and running away without soaking through the fabric.

I’ve since comfortably worn the jacket with a double base layer in temperatures (taking the wind chill into account) of -1°c to -2°c, and feel it will cope with just about anything the British winter can throw at me just by regulating what I wear under it.

The jacket is also highly breathable, so even if I’ve worked up a sweat I’m confident this will eventually dissipate through the material so you’re not left with a cold, clammy and chilled feeling for the rest of the ride.

My one disappointment has been with how the Mistral performed when faced with heavy and persistent rain. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect the jacket to keep me totally dry throughout the ride, but I wasn’t expecting for it to surrender quite so meekly and quickly.

To be fair I think you’d struggle to find more testing conditions than the very heavy, very persistent rain we faced on our club run of 7th November. A list of the Strava titles my companions used to label their rides may give some indication of what we faced; “Biblical Rainfall,” “Ou Est Mon Bateau?” “The Life Aquatic” and “Yo, Noah, Where Art Thou?” being just a few selections.

By the time I reached our meeting point after about an hour of riding into the downpour I could already feel cold water slowly creeping through the jacket, especially down the arms and back.

Now Galibier are perfectly honest and don’t claim that the Mistral is 100% waterproof, in fact there website clearly states that “The softshell is highly water resistant, but due to the superior body stretch of the material, the seams cannot be internally taped, so in a downpour, the rain will eventually get through.”

This being the case it makes me wonder why they then inserted the contrasting red skunk stripe down the back of the jacket, effectively adding two full length, unprotected seams to one of the most exposed areas and sacrificing functionality for aesthetics.

After another couple of hours of prolonged, unrelenting driving rain and high pressure road spray, the Mistral was pretty much soaked through and everything under it was decidedly damp. The jacket was surprisingly heavy when I took it off in the café to try and let my inner layers dry out a little, and not particularly comfortable to pull on again when it was time to leave. Despite this however it did serve its primary function – keeping me warm throughout the ride.

In conclusion then, the Galibier Mistral is a well-made, very competitively priced and supremely comfortable winter jacket. Although it isn’t going to keep you dry in the most demanding of conditions it should be able to cope with all but the heaviest rainfall and, no matter what, will remain windproof and keep you reasonably warm.


 

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The Mistral jacket, not quite as waterproof as I would have liked, but fast becoming an essential piece of winter kit


 

I’m happy enough with its water-resistant properties enough to forgo carrying a separate waterproof, although I would probably look for a different solution or additional protection if I’m likely to face prolonged and very heavy rain throughout a ride.

Its versatility has meant that I’ve pretty much abandoned all other winter jackets in favour of my Mistral and I guess that means I’ll soon find out how durable it is too.


Mistral foul weather jacket – £72.00 from Galibier (www.galibier.cc)

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All photos from galibier.cc