Floating on a Magic Carpet

Saturday 21st October, and we were surfing on the coattails of Storm Babet that had dumped a shitload of rain on the region before pressing on northwards to bring death, destruction, flooding and misery to huge swathes of Scotland.

While the worst had passed, the morning was still engulfed in a suffocating, wet grey wall, as if the far side of the valley was being subject to some waterboarding under a layer of sodden cotton wool, and we would spend all day navigating new, unexpected waterways courtesy of the overwhelming amount of rainfall.

I’d passed the first of these at the bottom of the Heinous Hill, while a second, just before crossing a swollen, sullen river, was enough to breach socks, shoes and overshoes ensuring wet feet for the duration of the ride. Despite everything, it wasn’t especially cold, although to be fair that probably had a lot to do with the multiple layers and waterproof jacket I was wearing.

I was the first to arrive at the start point, diving into the multi-storey car park to shelter from the still lightly drifting rain while I waited to see which other brave souls would be daft enough to be venturing out on such a day.

“Hello boys,” I greeted the first to arrive, G-Dawg and his pair of canine companions as they rocked up just to see everyone off. G-Dawg has now been given a date for the procedure that will attempt to re-set his cardiac arrhythmia, much to the relief of his two labradors whom he’s managed to sicken of walking as he tries to compensate for limited riding opportunities.

OGL drove up as well, also in civvies and obviously needing to fulfil his traditional, breath-drawn-through-teeth, head-shaking, dire pronouncements of cataclysmic, life-threatening weather conditions out in the countryside. I must admit, it wasn’t looking good, with 5 souls huddled together in the gloom, looking out at the rain and only one of us either willing or capable of riding.

I confessed to G-Dawg that I would be quite happy if no one else turned up so I could just head home with a clear conscience, but naturally, I was just the first of the stubbornly willful and we soon had a sizeable group of eight riders all second guessing what they were doing.

Amongst the arrivals was Goose, astride the panzerkampfwagen, his iron horse touring bike, for the first time this winter. He declared himself pleased as punch with some of the servicing work he completed on the beast. A litany of new things included, a new cassette, new tyres and tubes, a set of silver brake blocks on the front and black ones on the rear. Goose was convinced the latter mismatch, whether intentional or not, gave his bike a certain stylish je ne sais quoi.

His most contentious upgrade however proved to be a new, rustless chain, the authenticity and merits of which were much debated.

“Perhaps they merely meant it was rust-free when you bought it?” someone suggested, but neither this nor any of the assertions that the chain would rust once the plating had worn off could dampen Goose’s enthusiasm for his new purchase.

Personally, I would have thought a bit of regular cleaning and re-lubing is more than sufficient to keep any chain rust-free no matter what conditions it’s used in. Today’s ride could be the ultimate test of this theory.

While we debated the merits of rustless chains and mismatched brake blocks, the Enigma cruised past as fluidly as ever – still in shorts, but he had made a concession to the weather with the addition of a long-sleeved T-shirt and some woolly gloves.

Then Not Anthony was fumbling around in his back pocket and trying to smooth out and read from what I at first thought was his shopping list, but was actually details of today’s ride. He used this not to remind us that he needed to pick up a pint of milk and half a dozen free-range eggs, but to outline the route we would be taking to the cafe at Capheaton. So armed, he briefed in the ride, only stumbling once or twice as he tried to decipher his own writing in the murky light of our makeshift shelter.

And then we were off, Goose and Not Anthony led us out while I dropped in behind them, joining Crazy Legs for some inane natter about The Professionals (CI5’s Bodie, Doyle and Cowley, not Remco, Van der Poel and Van Aert), The Bug Club, One Piece, the meaning of the word ‘boujee’ (ask your kids), mysteriously missing pine cones and ubiquitous acorns. Amongst other things.

Even our turn to take the lead didn’t perturb us too much, and at least gave us good sight of the huge puddles we were forced to traverse – like a latter-day Columbus setting sail accompanied only by blind faith that we’d find dry land somewhere on the other side of the corners we were circumnavigating.

It’s probably unwise to suggest things were going ‘swimmingly’ but we were doing okay as we made the turn on the lane toward Dalton, very much rowing upstream against the flow of water coming the other way. There we were brought to a sudden halt by a road-closed sign and reasoned the bridge was probably underwater.

We turned round, rode on for a while then stopped at the next junction with a decision to make. It was 7 miles to the cafe at Capheaton on our current heading, but we had the option of trying to re-join the planned route and loop around the cafe to add on a few more miles. As we tried to decide, a driver stopped for a chat and she told us the roads through Ponteland seemed the worst affected and we shouldn’t have too much trouble elsewhere.

Four of the group decided to take the longer route, while I joined Carlton, Crazy Legs and Cowin’ Bovril on the shorter run to the cafe. The rain had stopped falling directly on us by this time and it was a pleasant ride, marred only by the fact that Cowin’ Bovril, insulated in a cap, helmet and high viz, baggy helmet cover, had obviously lost all connection with the mothership and seemed to think he was now invincible to traffic.

We arrived at the cafe at the same time as another pair of cyclists – the only other riders we’d seen all day. “I hope you’re not going to hog all the seats,” they warned us. We didn’t, but sat and enjoyed our coffee and cake while waiting for the arrival of the rest of the group. They were finally led in by Not Anthony, who promptly bought and then quickly inhaled two whole slices of cake. Those additional miles must have been a lot harder than I thought.

Crazy Legs turned to Binder as the youngest member of our group and asked her if she could explain the meaning of boujee, which turned out not to be as pejorative a term as he thought. Having now uncovered a potential source to explain ‘yoof speak’ to all of us old farts, Crazy Legs next wanted to know about ‘gaslighting’ what it meant and why it now seems so over-used.

She explained it was when someone persistently puts out a false narrative in order to manipulate another.

Crazy Legs turned to me. “You bastard. That’s what you’ve been doing to me all these years!”

Luckily the conversation turned back to Goose’s upgrades to the iron horse, which he now revealed included Schwalbe Marathon touring tyres and slime-filled inner tubes, a combination he felt made him invincibly puncture-proof. Crazy Legs, Not Anthony and Carlton tried to persuade him he would be better off going tubeless if he wanted to avoid punctures.

Ever willing to learn (remember, discovering you could ride on the hoods and brake at the same time had been a life-changing revelation) Goose wanted to know the advantages of tubelss. Crazy Legs’ most forceful argument seemed to be that it gave you an excuse to carry a supercool tubeless repair kit, pulling out a CNC aluminium case and unscrewing the caps to reveal a reamer and fork as well as lots of bacon strips (apparently also known as worms) to plug holes that the tyre sealant couldn’t. This super-cool tool he explained was even available in a host of different colours and he tried to persuade everyone they should buy one. Just not in red, as Crazy Legs had already ‘bagsied’ this colour.

It was left to Carlton to try and explain the real benefits of going tubeless, with his suggestion that ‘it feels like you’re floating on a magic carpet’ proving a slightly more poetic and convincing argument. I have a feeling though that Goose remained unconvinced.

It was chilly when we left the cafe, but the day was brightening rapidly and we soon warmed up as we slid past West Belsay and through another road-spanning puddle on the way down to the Snake Bends. Heading down the heavily potholed Bomb Alley, Goose pulled off to the side of the road and we slowed to wait.

“Be bloody ironic if he had a puncture,” Crazy Legs suggested.

“Nah, he’s just checking his chain for rust.”

The latter seems more likely than the former, as he’s soon remounted and rejoined, but we never did find out why he’d stopped in the first place.

As we expected the lane through to Ogle provided another opportunity for some puddle surfing and once through I took the opportunity to have a chat with Goose.

“How’s the chain holding up?” I wondered.

“Still pristine.”

“Good. Just a shame you can’t get a rustless crown race and stem bolts too,” I observed.

“Shhhhh!”

And then we were brought to a halt in Kirkley Mill, where the River Pont had burst its banks, the bridge was awash with water and a bloke was working furiously to try and start his waterlogged car, rescued after he’d failed to make it through the flood.

“How deep do you reckon the water is?” Crazy Legs asked.

“It was up to about here,” the bloke replied, drawing a line across the top of his thigh, “But that was a couple of hours ago, and I think it’s gone down now.”

He felt he might have made it through, until he hit a pothole, “somewhere over there” he said, waving vaguely at where a steel fence post had been levelled and its tip barely protruded above the water.

We discussed what to do, although Crazy Legs was adamant he was going to ride through the flood no matter what and only Carlton seemed hesitant. In the end, we all went for it, water sloshing up over hubs and bottom brackets as we cautiously followed Crazy Legs, hoping he wasn’t going to suddenly disappear into some deep trench hidden in the murky water. He pointed out a barely visible breeze block and then submerged brick we needed to avoid as we followed in his wake and finally made it through at the cost of very soggy feet.

Now heading down the usually busy Berwick Hill, it took me a while to work out why it was so peaceful and pleasant until I noticed a complete absence of cars.

“We’ve either missed the zombie apocalypse or the road’s closed,” I told Carlton cheerfully as we rolled freely downhill. Perhaps I should be grateful it was the latter and we found the road had indeed been closed just after the turn for Dinnington.

We were joined there by another cyclist who said he’d tried going up past the Cheese Farm, only to turn back when he found the road over the humpbacked bridge flooded and an abandoned car on its side in an adjacent field.

With the road ahead closed, more cars were funnelling through Dinnington and we soon had a dozen or so tailing behind us. We pulled over into a layby to let them all pass and to give us the opportunity to appreciate the mouldering pile of garbage that some arse hat had fly-tipped there.

The sun was warming things up nicely and after leaving the group and striking out for home I stopped to finally take the rain jacket off. Then, for the second consecutive week, I was stopped a handful of miles from home when a local thorn (the ones with the depleted uranium tips) pricked my complacency and inner tube (just for the record: different bike and different wheel), sliding effortlessly through the thickest part of the tyre while the puncture protection strip raised a white flag of surrender. I changed the tube without too much time and effort, but the bike, the wheel, tyre and then my hands were black and filthy with road grime.

Through near superhuman efforts, I forced a masterful 20-30 psi into the tyre. It was enough to get me home, but maybe I need Marathon tyres and slime inner tubes, or … or… I could go tubeless and float on a magic carpet.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 21st October 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 35 minutes
Riding Distance:	98km with 909m of elevation gain
Average Speed:	21.4km/h
Group Size:	8 riders, 0 FNG
Temperature:	5℃
Weather in a word or two:	Stormy Weather
My year to date:	7,235km with 60,982m of elevation gain

Subliminal Sub-Bimble

Another infrequent, intermittent, and wholly erratic despatch from the club run front lines – I think we now have enough evidence to conclude that any hopes that the new unpredictability of blerg publications will add a frisson of excitement to my random ramblings are wholly misplaced.

Nothing of any great import has occurred since my previous posting. I was working a University Open Day on one of the weekends and nothing much happened on the other beyond a wholly unavoidable encounter with the deck. This occurred when a corner suddenly leapt out of nowhere and caught me by surprise (i.e. I was travelling too fast and the corner was much tighter than expected) – my wheels slid out and I came down like a bag of hammers. The road had a really good attempt to smooth off some of my rough edges and filed away anything that protruded down my left-hand side – ankle, knee, hip, elbow, and pinkie finger were all scuffed and abraded, and I developed a lump roughly the same size and shape as a small egg (UK standard/free-range, grade 5 to 7) on my temple.

Luckily the damage was purely superficial and I was able to remount and continue home, the bike unscathed apart from two rough gouges that cut through the bar tape and down to the metal. The same couldn’t be said about my jersey, which was shredded at the elbow, or my helmet which took a ding and will need replacing sooner, rather than later. Three weeks on and I’m largely recovered, the only visible marks being the bruising on my hip which has faded to a jaundiced, sickly yellow, and the black crater on my elbow the size and depth of something you wouldn’t be surprised to observe on the dark side of the moon.

This Saturday I set out under sullen clouds that looked leaden and laden, poised to unburden themselves of their heavy rain at any moment. It had tipped it down relentlessly all night and just across the Scottish border weather alerts were in place as they were subject to over 20 cm of rain in a few hours and some very severe flooding. I was convinced we were in for an enforced soaking too, but miraculously, not a single drop fell on our heads during the ride, although we still got a soaking regardless.

Approaching the bridge, the cones were out to control parking outside the rowing club and it was obvious that some event was planned, but there were few crews, team buses, or cars about. I later learned that a Long Distance Sculling event had been planned, but was cancelled due to a high and fast river flow and resulting debris.

Despite the ever-present threat of rain, the weather was muggily warm and I’d shed the first layer, my gilet, long before I reached the meeting place. It still wasn’t quite as temperate as Brassneck would have me believe, and I never did regret wearing tights, despite his ridicule.

I watched Crazy Legs emerge from the overcast gloom, his fluffy white hair shining like a beacon. Surely it wasn’t so warm that he’d decided he had to ride without a helmet?

“Have you forgotten something?”

“What’s that then?”

I indicated his bare bonce.

“Oh, shit,” he declared and scuttled back home to get his helmet. At least, unlike the Prof, he didn’t have to raise his hands and feel all around his naked head to realise he had indeed forgotten his helmet.

Meanwhile, the Enigma cruised past, going faster than I’ve seen, but looking just as calm and unruffled as ever.

The ride briefing concluded with the suggestion that we travel in one group and a note to look after the new riders, an excuse for OGL to vent his well-worn complaint that the rides were getting faster and faster (they aren’t), and his idea we should only ever travel at the pace the slowest rider could maintain. He concluded that he’d been discussing it with his ex-racing buddies and declared that our rides had become thoroughly anti-social affairs. Brassneck countered that he found the rides supremely friendly and very sociable, where everybody looked after everyone else, but apparently, his views didn’t count because he’d never put a number on his back and raced and he hadn’t logged ‘over 600,000 miles’ on a bike.

Having delivered his rant about our anti-social behaviour, OGL rode through a red light, up onto the pavement, and down the cycle lane in splendid isolation, leaving us all trailing in his wake to catch up if and when we could.

A few mile further on and approaching Dinnington, Brassneck accelerated up to the front to tell us that a small group were off the back and we needed to slow down. We duly slowed, and the group caught up, including OGL who immediately started screaming that, contrary to all the evidence, no one ever looked back, or waited for others to catch up …

A naturally incensed Brassneck confronted an almost always irate OGL and both forcibly suggested the other should travel until they were somewhere else and far removed from their present location … and on we went, but now in two distinct warring camps.

The rest of the ride was then a pleasant, but stop-start affair as we waited at the top of the hills for the new girl and were frequently slowed to negotiate numerous, massive, road-spanning puddles. It really had rained quite heavily the night before.

At one such stop, Mini Miss explained that the service of her winter bike had set her back over £700 as she’d had the chainrings, chain, cassette, and various other things she didn’t know the name of replaced.

“The thingamajig?” someone suggested.

“The dinger?” I added, remembering the time that the Garrulous Kid had been inordinately attached to a still somewhat mysterious dinger on his bike.

“Hmm, I’m getting a whole new winter bike for not much more £700,” Brassneck mused.

“This bike was just £160,” I countered, indicating the shiny bike, but ultimately losing the race to the bottom to Aether, who’d bought a frame for just £25 and built it up from bits and pieces he’d found just lying around – and apparently not, as Brassneck slyly suggested, “just lying around in a bike shop.”

As we closed in on the cafe, Brassneck noted that we’d averaged less than 15mph across the ride, which he declared was sub-Bimble pace. So, no rain, but my lower half was pretty much soaked through, and a very slow pace, but I was still tired and heavy-legged.

At the cafe, Not Anthony pounced on what he thought was a mega slice of ginger cake, only to find it was actually two slices. To avoid disappointment, he bought them both.

Meanwhile, Liam the Chinese rockstar enjoyed his cake choice so much that he went back for seconds and then insisted on sharing it with anyone nearby. I tell you, this sharing of cake is not the norm for anti-social club rides. Crazy Legs noted this perverse and unorthodox behaviour and suggested the club committee would be informed immediately.

As we left, I retrieved Crazy Legs’ gilet from where he’d forgotten it, hung forlornly on the back of his chair. I reunited it with its absent-minded owner.

“Thanks. I forgot my specs, as well,” he confessed.

“Oh, where are they?” I wondered, preparing to go back inside to retrieve them.

“In the shed back home …”

Riiiiight …

We split into two groups for the ride back, which was better as we could push the pace up and get the blood flowing again. We were even able to increase our average speed until it was firmly back into full-Bimble orbit, which I think secretly pleased Brassneck.

There were still two or three more inland seas to negotiate though and they must have fully washed my bike clean of any remaining lubricant, as climbing the Hienous Hill toward home, my drivetrain was starting to chirrupp like a sack of disturbed canaries telling me it was time to stop.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 7th October 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 51 minutes
Riding Distance:	110km with 1,049m of elevation gain
Average Speed:	22.7km/h
Group Size:	16 riders, 1 FNG
Temperature:	16℃
Weather in a word or two:	Unpleasantly mild
My year to date:	7,235km with 60,982m of elevation gain

Bodgered Badgers and British Buses

August 26th. It’s a British summer, so I expect the weather to be chilly and a Bank Holiday weekend to boot, so rain isn’t a surprise either. Don’t you just love it when the weather lives down to your expectations?

I eschewed joining the group forging a longer ride into the hills and wildlands south of the river to spend my 61st birthday on a more traditional club run. What could be finer?

Arriving at the meeting point I found G-Dawg in civvies and sans bike. His atrial fibrillation has been running erratically wild in recent days, and averaged about 240 bpm for the entirety of last week’s ride. Now, with Son of G-Dawg’s (a.k.a. The Colossus’) wedding looming ever closer, G-Dawg has been told in no uncertain terms that he’s not to die before this event, and has consequently been banned from all riding activities under Marital Law, at least until the nuptials are complete.

With one group off doing a longer ride and many on holiday, we only had enough bodies to form two groups this week and I found my rightful place embedded in the second of these, dropping in alongside Brassneck as Aether and Ahlambra led us out. They did a massively elongated pull on the front, until someone called a pee stop and they realised OGL had already dropped off the ride to follow an alternate route and so there was no longer any reason they couldn’t relinquish the lead and drop back …

On the front now, Brassneck was intent on adding to his panoply of shouted warnings and alongside the usual and prosaic “pots!” “gravel!” and “car!” had already given voice to the slightly more exotic “chicken!” “squirrel!” and “pheasant!” in between growling at his bottom bracket, which was growling right back at him. Sadly he reported no vibrations in his old crank …

Stamfordham was promoting its annual motor show, which Brassneck surmised was the day when someone drove a car onto the village green and all the locals gathered around to stare at it in silent wonder. I tried to determine where the village green was (in my defence, there were at least three possible candidates) and in doing so spotted the Bay Horse pub tucked away at the back of one potential site.

I’d almost forgotten about it and recalled my one and only time inside was when the 2011 British National Championships finished in Stamfordham and was won by a certain Bradley Marc Wiggins. Watching the race with Toshi San, we’d retired to the pub between laps for some food and it was here that we overheard one of the Sky domestiques chatting with a waitress about how he’d dropped out of the race early after he’d sacrificed himself for his team leader, doing a massive pull on the front to set up the winning break.

So, he had patiently explained, “I did my bit and then fell on my own sword.”

“Ooh,” she exclaimed in wide-eyed wonder, “Didn’t that hurt?”…

Brassneck also revealed he’d also been in the Bay Horse just once before as well, possibly for a wedding but he couldn’t remember the exact reason, or when, “but, it was when we paid for everything in real money.”

We then reminisced about the days when we used to carry money on club runs to pay for the absolute essentials (i.e., coffee and cake) whereas now all you need is a mobile phone and you’re good to go. The only time I need to resort to the inconvenience of cash these days is when I visit the barbers to have my ears flamed (!?) and I look forward to the day they too join us in the 21st century.

Brassneck though still carries an emergency fiver with him on all rides. I supposed this was useful and would get you a can of Coke and a Mars bar if you bonked somewhere out in the wilds with no Apple Pay (although you probably wouldn’t get much change back.)

Brassneck though contended it was enough of a cash reserve for him to hop on a bus and make it home.

“Would they let you take your bike on a bus though,” I wondered.

“I’d take the wheels off and it wouldn’t be a bike,” he assured me confidently.

“They’d probably still insist they can’t carry a bike, or make you pay for it,” I countered.

“I’d play the disabled card then. Think of all the bad publicity, they wouldn’t dare refuse me.”

He seemed to have it all figured out.

“But, have you ever seen a bus around here, I suspect they only run once every 3 hours on a Wednesday and when the moon is in the ascendant.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, “But there must be some bus routes around here. I mean, I know the British Transport System isn’t fit for purpose, but …”

In over a decade travelling on these roads, I could only recall encountering a bus on one single, solitary club run.

“Have you ever even seen a bus stop?”

Nope, neither of us could even recall riding past a bus stop.

Our exploration of the limitations of the local bus service were interrupted by a new opportunity for a different kind of warning call.

“Badger!” Brassneck complained.

Sadly dead. Hit by a car and flung abandoned to the side of the road.

A bit further on and we could see a large russet-coloured hump in the middle of the road.

“Hello, hello. What’s this then?” I wondered, somewhat confused by the red-brown fur.

“No idea,” Brassneck answered.

“No, I don’t think so, it’s more likely to be another badger.” (Old jokes recycled and repurposed free of charge).

It was, indeed another badger, this one showing us the violence of its death, trailing a long arc of bright blood from the impact point to its final resting place. All rather sad, as Arnold later commented, after he too rode past the pair of dead badgers (or at least I hope they were the same ones and not another two that had died under the wheels of local traffic.)

Leaving the bodgered badgers well behind, we climbed up the Quarry, then on to Capheaton for our coffee stop. Here we met the Red Max who, true to his word last time out, is looking to ride more regularly again and suggested that even the Monkey Butler Boy was looking to saddle up after a long absence.

Knowing the Red Max’s presumption that anything bike-related left in his shed rightfully belongs to him, especially if it’s of better quality than any existing components on his bike – I wondered what the MBB would have left to ride on his return, imagining (if he was lucky) a frame stripped to the bone. The Red Max confessed he’d bought the Monkey Butler Boys flash carbon wheels off him for a knockdown price when he decided to give up riding, but reported he’d happily agreed to lease them back to their previous owner and at what he determined was a “very generous” rate too.

Brassneck idly flicking through a copy of the local parish newsletter was delighted to find it included a copy of the local bus timetable and felt his emergency evacuation plan was now fully vindicated.

“There’s a bus stop at Bolam Lake,” he declared, obviously working out the finer details of any future abandonment, “I wonder where? Have you ever seen it?”

I had to confess I hadn’t and didn’t know where it could possibly be. A mystery for another day perhaps.

As we left the cafe the long-threatened rain finally hit us and anyone carrying a jacket stopped to pull it on. Unfortunately, one of our new guys was riding in just trainers and a white T-shirt and not carrying a jacket. Not great for a bike ride in Northumberland, but I guess it would have served him well if we’d decided to hold an impromptu wet T-shirt competition.

This particular rain shower was cold, intense, and a bit brutal, but at least it was short-lived and we were able to warm up with a fast run down through the Snake Bends. We crossed the main road and threaded our way down bomb-alley, slaloming around the numerous potholes that give it the appearance of having been subjected to a Paveway runway denial attack.

“Car!” someone called out as we reached the junction at the end of the lane and we stopped in a cacophonous, banshee squeal of wet disk brakes. The car we were waiting to pass actually turned out to be a local bus, obviously having just stopped somewhere around Bolam Lake for passengers. I’m pretty certain one could understand why its appearance had Brassneck and me quite so animated – I mean, it was just a bus wasn’t it?

The rest of the ride back was enlivened by a few sharp accelerations through Dinnington and around the airport, which was fun and set me up for a fast start to my solo run for home and the pile of presents and cards and, just maybe, even more cake that awaited.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 19th August 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 36 minutes
Riding Distance:	111km with 1,002m of elevation gain
Average Speed:	24.1km/h
Group Size:	20 riders, 2 FNG’s
Temperature:	11℃
Weather in a word or two:	Whoosh!
My year to date:	6,509km with 55,412m of elevation gain

One dead badger on A361 just north of Knowle by Roger A Smith is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

Giddy

Dry but very chilly weather at least gave us a break from all the horrible and wet Saturdays we seem to be enduring lately and the conditions were good enough to tempt a few more riders to opt for their summer bikes. Luckily, I’m still enjoying riding the Scott, which is just as well as the Holdsworth remains attached to the smart trainer, while the 13 has been pressed into service as an ad hoc TT machine, so it’s very much a Hobson’s Choice.

There was very little traffic on the route across to the meeting point, which may be why seemingly random encounters with a trio of Fiat 500’s seemed to stand out. These, one each in red, white, and green, had me speculating that perhaps I was in the middle of a shoot for a Latin remake of the Italian Job, which would obviously be titled Il Lavoro Inglese.

Dovresti solo far saltare quelle dannate porte! … if you believe Google Translate.

Feeling uncharacteristically enthusiastic, I took the route up Hospital Lane for a change and to test the legs. Everything seemed to be working as it should, which I always find helpful.

The most notable moment at the meeting point was when the Enigma stuck entirely to the main road for his cruise past, by-passing our silent, admiring homage to his grace and style. I worried that this might signal a permanent change in routine, but Jimmy Mac suggested it was simply that he’d hit the traffic lights just right, so hadn’t taken his usual sneaky shortcut through the ~~bus station~~ transport interchange to avoid stopping. Jimmy Mac explained that particular stretch of road is apparently a hotly contested Strave segment, awarded to the person who can best time their run to sync perfectly with the right sequence of green lights.

The BFG put in a rare appearance on his latest steel-framed, vintage velocipede, complete with tubular tyres and the same spare that had so confused the Garrulous Kid. The Kid couldn’t understand the concept of a tube within a tube and was worried that the BFG’s spare had a tread pattern on it while his was perfectly smooth.

Andy Mapp had designed another labyrinthian route for us, including cycle paths, dual carriageway hopping and borrowed bits of other routes cobbled together in odd, unforeseen, and novel combinations and directions. He was late showing up though, so once Carlton appeared and we knew time was nearly up, so G-Dawg stepped up and did his best with the Herculean task of briefing in the route. (I think I was lost by the second major turn). Then we got organised and set out.

I rode out in the middle group of three this week, alongside Mini Miss, who was almost as confused as I was by the intended route. We were already hoping our stint on the front would coincide with a long straight bit of road without any pesky decisions about which way we should be turning.

A rotation brought Brassneck onto the front alongside Captain Black and I was forced to issue a few easy tiger’s as the novelty of a first club ride on his summer bike had him upping the pace a little too enthusiastically. Mini Miss mentioned that he’d confided that his first impression on being reunited with his good bike was that he’d shrunk a little over the winter as it felt unfamiliar and “not quite right.”

I slid up alongside him. “Is that bike the right size?” I innocently enquired, “It looks a little large to me.”

Ooph. I never suspected he knew such salty words. Still, my intervention wasn’t enough to keep the big grin off his face for long.

Once through Belsay, we started to pass competitors warming up for the GS Metro time-trial, a rather hilly affair over 26 miles. Even with their game faces on, most of the competitors waved as we passed them, including one who simply acknowledged us with a cool, minimalist two-fingered salute (no, no, not that kind!)

“Is that what you do?” Crazy Legs enquired, part of his ongoing campaign to insinuate I’m some kind of TT fanatic. This is despite the fact he’s done far, far more events than I have and only one of us has ever bought an actual time-trial bike. (Hint: it’s not me.)

“Nah,” I told him, “I’m not cool enough.”

I then demonstrated my patented new salute, banging my fist over my heart twice in quick succession, then off the front of my helmet, before pointing to the far horizon. Now that was cool and might just catch on…

Alongside Mini Miss, we got our turn on the front on the approach to Whalton, facing into our first headwind of the day, but that was ok because at least we were on a long, straight stretch of road and didn’t have to think about the route and any turns.

We then dropped down toward Mitford, ceding the front to someone who at least had an inkling of the route as we followed the River Wansbeck past the foot of the Mur de Mitford, before turning right to climb up High House Lane.

Halfway up, Cowboy’s slid alongside me to tell me I had a very shiny bike (I’m not sure if it was a compliment or not) and then asked how much further the climb was. I was surprised he didn’t recognise it from the dozens of times we’d ridden it in the opposite direction to get to the Mur, although to be fair it’s a completely different beast and much, much harder and longer going up than you’d expect from the descent. (I’ll concede that’s probably a very obvious, universal truth of cycling).

A brief flirtation with the main A1 and we reached our coffee stop for the day, within the Moorhouse Farm Shop at Stannington Station. Here, already hyper-excited to be out riding his summer bike, Brassneck grew positively giddy with his first introduction to this cafe and its seemingly vast array of sandwiches, cakes, and sweet treats, bouncing from foot to foot, with his eyes wide and constantly flicking between the long, long menu on the wall and the counter wantonly spilling over with the temptation of selected wares. For one moment I thought he was going to be paralysed by too much choice, but finally pulled himself together enough to order without embarrassing us too much.

At the table, I couldn’t find any enthusiasm for the impending coronation of Chuck 3, just mild disquiet that the whole thing was going to limit the availability of coffee stops on the club run next Saturday. Needless to say, there was going to be no swearing of allegiance but maybe quite a bit of swearing at the lack of coffee and cake options. Luckily. I’ll be away next week so hopefully can give the entire thing a miss.

We routed home via Bell’s Hill and Horton Grange, where I pushed onto the front. By the time we were passing the airport, Cowboy’s told me we’d split the group and he sat up to wait. I was feeling cheekily strong though and that doesn’t happen all that often, so I just stomped on the pedals a little harder and started my solo ride home early.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 29th April 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 21 minutes
Riding Distance:	104km/65 miles with 914m of climbing
Average Speed:	23.9km/h
Group Size:	24
Temperature:	5℃
Weather in a word or two:	Chilly but dry.
Year to date:	2,781km/1,728 miles with 28,167m of climbing

Bubbles?

Au revoir Pug, the time has come to retire the Peugeot from active, front-line duty. The frame is starting to look tired, is blistering in places and its been ridden to death and back on my commute, so needs extensive refurbishing and servicing and I can’t be bothered with all that. To take its place I’ve just spent £160 for an old, Scott Speedster 30 on Gumtree.

This is the 2010 version in retro/throwback bright metallic blue, a frame that features some very round and pleasingly fat (phat?) aluminium tubes and a seemingly random and eclectic mix of 105, Tiagra and Scott’s own kit. I’ll probably swap out the brakes, saddle and wheels at some point and definitely change the skinny 23mm Continental tyres for my favoured 25mm Vittoria Rubinos, but in the meantime all I had to do was slap on some Look pedals and it was good to go – I didn’t even need to adjust the saddle height.

Thing#1 has christened the new bike Bubbles, apparently after Bubbles Utonium, “the blue one” in the Powerpuff Girls cartoons? (No, me neither.) I don’t think it’s a name that’s likely to stick. Hopefully.

The Saturday Club Run provided the ideal first opportunity to test the new bike out on the road and see if I’ve made a good or bad choice. The weather kept us in suspense with plenty of rain showers overnight, but although all the roads were wet throughout, at least nothing fell from the sky during the ride and, eventually we even enjoyed some occasional sunny patches.

The Scott seemed a pleasingly refined companion on the ride across and got me to the meeting point in good time.

Regular as clockwork, the enigma cruised by, this time adding to his air of general, wasted insouciance by coolly draining a bottle of beer as he pedalled past, then, without pause he rode into the Metro station only to reappear some moments later, maintaining the same stately progression but having obviously divested himself of his empty beer bottle in the nearest bin. I like to think he nonchalantly lobbed it in from distance, like the perfect basketball 3-pointer.

I told Aether we had 28 riders as he began to brief in the route. By the time he started to divvy us up into various groups we were up to 34 and they were still appearing.

Once again, I formed up with the 3rd group, pushed onto the front alongside Aether and away we went. If the 3rd group was a bad choice last week, it was an even worse one this time around as the planned cafe stop was at Kirkley, notorious for glacially slow service and long, long queues at the best of times. This was likely to be compounded by our sheer weight of numbers and by the fact that it was also serving as the HQ for a 2-Up Time Trial today. Oh well.

Out into the wilds of Northumberland and wasn’t long before we were closing on our first test, a little jaunt up the Mur de Mitford. The last time I’d tried this had been on the single-speed and it was a long, slow grind, trying to keep the legs churning while fighting both the slope and lack of traction from the slimy, cracked tarmac.

Almost at a standstill for the sharp left turn onto the climb, I swung wide and started upwards. Almost immediately a car coming downhill pushed me to the left where I found myself riding alongside Jenga. This is perhaps the first time I’ve ridden with her and I hadn’t realised she climbed with such ease. As the slope stiffened toward the top I stood out of the saddle and put some weight through the pedals and was pleasantly surprised as the bike seemed to leap eagerly forward, responding instantly to the change as I scampered over the crest. Well hello, the bike was making me feel dangerously sprightly. Should I be worried?

From the Mur we took in the long, rolling roads across the top of the Font Valley out toward Longhorsley, where we kept catching glimpses of the second group on some of the straighter stretches of road and seemed to be closing in on them every time we took on another climb.

It was here that a combination of serendipity and all those live sacrifices to the Puncture Gods began to pay off as we passed the first group, huddled by the side of the road to repair a puncture. Then, not much further on, we found group two similarly stopped, while we just kept rolling.

“From three to one!” G-Dawg called out as we zipped past him and the rest of group two. I saluted, more than anything just to hide the big grin on my face.

We finally started the descent down toward Netherwitton and the bottom of the Trench, where we were passed by James III and a couple of youngsters who’d detached from one of the “puncture groups” and were all tucked in tight and pushing hard. We had no need to chase as we were still safely ahead of the majority and didn’t want to fracture the group with a big climb still to come.

I surprised myself riding the Trench in the big ring and plonked firmly in the saddle all the way up, then we waited at the top to regather our group. Here we were passed by Caracol, Not Anthony and a couple of the youngsters, who didn’t seem inclined to wait for anyone. It looked like the race to the cafe was already on.

As we set off again, Deuce suggested that if we tried, we could probably catch Caracol’s group and then we could sit on and get a free tow back. It was either genius, or madness, but we took on the challenge, increased the tempo and slowly began to reel them in. Our madcap chase was finally successful, and we managed to tag them on the approach to Dyke Neuk.

I learned from Not Antony that it was Jimmy Mac who’d punctured in the first group and then unfortunately blown out the replacement tube using a CO2 canister, ripping through his tyre wall in the process. That didn’t sound too good, but apparently Jimmy Mac had managed to get mobile again and was nursing his tyre homewards.

We swept through Dyke Neuk and dived downhill at speed. As the rode started to ramp up on the vicious little climb to Meldon, Jenga shot past, declaring she was off “to show the youngsters how it’s done” and quickly opening up a sizeable lead. The youngsters apparently had no response, and I pushed onto the front alongside Caracol as we trailed her up the hill.

“Bet it’s a long, long time since you were called a youngster,” Caracol suggested. Hah!. He wasn’t wrong.

We caught up with Jenga as the road flattened out.

“Well, you definitely showed them,” I congratulated her.

“Yeah, but I’m finished now!”

“But they don’t know that.”

She swung in behind us to recover and we pushed the group along, Caracol adding more detail to Jimmy Mac’s tyre travails, including the surprisingly sensible suggestion from Goose that a £5 note could be used as an emergency tyre boot to plug the tear in the tyre. We naturally agreed that being Jimmy Mac, he probably didn’t carry any “small change”, and would end up sacrificing a £50 note instead.

We managed to complete the rest of the ride without being caught by anyone else, so only had to queue with half the contestants of the 2-Up Time Trial to get served. It was of course painfully slow service but much worse for those coming in behind us. All praise the puncture gods.

While we waited I admitted to Zardoz I’d been shamefully neglecting my running this year, but needed to get back to it as I felt I need the impact to maintain mineral bone density and hopefully avoid osteopenia.

“We could always beat you with hammers,” Richard Rex suggested, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for my liking.

Surprisingly, I didn’t totally dismiss his offer as I’m still weighing up if being beaten with hammers is any worse than going for a run…

We were finally served and found a seat outside where Zardoz was able to confirm the scones at this cafe are still well below standard and will remain on my embargoed list. The carrot and walnut cake was fine, though if a little crumbly.

Somewhat surprisingly Jimmy Mac had made it to the cafe, obviously intent on getting the full value out of his £50 and eventually everyone else turned up too, although some were still queuing while we were prepping to leave.

My ride back was as enjoyable as it was uneventful. I’ve got a feeling the Scott and me are going to get along just fine.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 15th April 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 51 minutes
Riding Distance:	112km/70 miles with 1,120m of climbing
Average Speed:	23.1km/h
Group Size:	34 plus
Temperature:	5℃
Weather in a word or two:	Adequate.
Year to date:	2,432km/1,511 miles with 25,676m of climbing

Picking Up the Gauntlet

Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain.

The Easter weekend brought a change in the weather and broke the long streak of successive rainy Saturdays. I can’t help feeling we’ve finally turned a corner. On Good Friday a group planned an excursion south of the river to Blanchland and I volunteered to act as official escort and interpreter. It was a hilly ride under bright but cold conditions and thoroughly enjoyable.

I left the group at Blanchland, facing the stiff 25% climb out of the village Goose demanded along with a route home that included at least one pub stop along the way. Meanwhile, I took the less demanding climb out of the other side of the village for a much shorter and beer-free route back. I was thoroughly enjoying my ride until I somehow managed to snap my chain dropping downhill toward Shotley Bridge and had to call the voiture balai for the drive of shame home.

Armed with a brand-new chain, I found the weather was just as good on the Saturday and it brought out a bumper crop of cyclists. They were still rolling in when we left in three large groups, and I’d already counted 33 of us by then.

Absent the past few weeks with chronic back issues, OGL put in an appearance in civvies, perhaps just to remind us he was still around. Working on the principle that we all secretly love a bit of cosplay, he’d turned up dressed in homage to Major Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man, which I’m sure everyone appreciated.

Brassneck had been out for yet another “never again” drinking session and exuded enough alcoholic vapours to have Crazy Legs physically repulsed and warning everyone against using a naked flame in the immediate vicinity. Brassneck swears this is the last time. For now.

The first dry day and sun of the year also brought the first opportunity to perch on the wall and survey the gathering throng. G-Dawg and Not Anthony took pole position, the latter clutching what at first I thought was an extensive shopping list but turned out to be all the key points of our planned route. I suggested to be truly pro this should have been taped to his stem, but I guess even Not Anthony has a stem that long. He also noticeably bore the marks of the past few weeks on his helmet which was heroically mud-caked and grubby. G-Dawg suggested it was in tribute to tomorrow’s Paris-Roubaix and he would only clean it after he’d earned a photo opportunity where he’d hoist a cobble high in victory.

“Well, maybe a pebble would be more appropriate in my case,” Not Anthony suggested, not unreasonably.

Zardoz arrived in a mighty pair of enormous, Hi-Viz gloves, perhaps borrowed from a Landing Signal Officer on a carrier flight deck. I foolishly asked him for a quick show of jazz hands and even when I closed my eyes the bright afterimage was so violently burned on my retina’s that I had to blink several times to clear my blurring vision.

We got ourselves organised and started to split into groups. It wasn’t until the second large group had set out that those of us left realised we’d be last in what could be a very long, very slow-moving queue by the time we’d all reunited at the cafe. Damn, this was bad planning.

Off we went anyway and I dropped in alongside Deuce for the early part of the ride, where we discussed the ultimate absurdity of all sport and sporting endeavours before I pushed onto the front alongside Captain Black as we started to climb Edge Hill and then the road up toward Stamfordham.

From there we took a right before the reservoir to pass the brewery just outside Matfen, before tracing a route from Great Whittington up the hill to the village of Ryal. Somewhere along this route, we passed group 2 working feverishly to fix a puncture and get back into the race for the cafe. I think our group was equally as determined not to let them catch us again and we pressed quickly on.

Regrouping and recovering after the climb to Ryal, it was here that Zardoz noticed he’d lost one of his gloves. Having found them much too hot for the conditions he’d taken them off and because they were too big and bulky to fit inside a back pocket, he’d shoved them up his jersey, with very mixed results as only one remained.

He canvassed for volunteers to ride back down the hill to locate the missing item, but as he couldn’t identify where in the past 10 miles or so he’d lost the glove, volunteers were in the sparse to non-existent category. I suggested it would probably still be there for pick-up next year when we might conceivably use this route again.

“Yeah,” the Hammer agreed, “As long as the Prof doesn’t get wind of it and decide to hunt it down to repurpose as a high-viz posing pouch or something.”

Good to know that several years after leaving the club the Prof and his various eccentric peccadilloes still live on.

A brief pause for our new social media secretary to capture a group photo, then G-Dawg reminded us that group two could be closing in and we needed to get underway again so we pressed on, scaling the Quarry and then turning left. Not Anthony had planned for this to give us a straight, 4 or 5km run to the cafe with, he hoped a tailwind. It was a good idea in theory but swinging out onto the road found us heading into a headwind instead, so it wasn’t going to be all that fast, or much fun either. I pushed onto the front regardless and started to wind the pace up. Ahlambra joined me in towing the rest, until I pushed harder on a grinding false flat, he slipped back and we singled out.

We tipped down toward West Belsay as I ran my chain down the block and just kept going until G-Dawg and Captain Black darted out to contest the sprint and I eased to the back of the small group remaining.

I was wrong, despite the headwind it was still fun.

Mission accomplished – we’d reached the cafe a long way ahead of group 2, who’d suffered two additional punctures on their run and were actually well adrift. In the café, it took some persuading, but we finally got Carlton to risk sitting out in the garden, where we found it had turned into a gloriously sunny and warm day, easily the best of the year so far.

For some reason we decided OGL was probably up on the hill, spying on us through his Six Million Dollar Man bionic eye, but lacking a bionic ear, for some reason we imagined him listening in using an ancient, antique ear trumpet.

Then word filtered through that someone had found and recovered Zardoz’s lost mitt. Anticipation built as Crazy Legs rode in, pulled off his gilet and started going through his jersey pockets. Hmm, if he’d ever had possession of the errant glove it looked like he’d lost it again. He started emptying the pockets, one by one, but to no avail, there was still no glove. He pondered a bit, slapped his forehead, and retrieved his gilet from the bench. There, carefully nestled in that garment’s back pocket was the missing glove which was finally reunited with its owner.

It was with some reluctance that we left the pleasantly warm garden for the run home, which was going well until, G-Dawg announced he had a puncture just as we crested Berwick Hill. Luckily his tyre only seemed to be slowly bleeding air and, having struggled to get the tyre off the rim the last time he’d had a flat, he decided to see if he could make it home without stopping. This added a little will-he-won’t-he tension to the last few kilometres, but he was still rumbling along when I left him, so I’m confident he made it back.

Hopefully, we’ve turned the corner now and broken the string of Saturdays with poor weather. Let’s see.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 8th April 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 37 minutes
Riding Distance:	108km/69 miles with 919m of climbing
Average Speed:	23.4km/h
Group Size:	33 plus
Temperature:	7℃
Weather in a word or two:	About time.
Year to date:	2,130km/1,323 miles with23,067m of climbing

String Theory

Saturday morning. Again.

Club run. Again.

Rain showers. Again. Naturally.

So, rinse and repeat.

Literally.

Ugh. So, here we go again then rain jacket on and heading out the door for another wet, showery ride across to the meeting point. Come on summer, where are you? You can do this …

The showers had passed by the time I arrived and so I asked Aether if I should consider taking off the jacket. He assured me there’d be no rain until the early afternoon, and it was perfectly safe to do so. Hmm … no. I’m not buying.

Brassneck, nursing one of those “never again” hangovers, was also revelling in his inner rebel, having spent a few sessions going “off piste” on Zwift, where he swears his explorations have uncovered some secret, James Bond supervillain-style base buried in one of the maps of Tokyo. Actually. now I think about it, maybe he’d meant he’d gone oft pissed on Zwift, not off piste and had imagined the whole thing.

Crazy Legs had set a route that included a descent of the Ryals and the climb out through Hallington, it’s usually one of my favourite roads, but perhaps this wasn’t really the weather for it’s narrow, broken-up and potholed track. Still, there were plenty of cut-off options we could use to shorten the route if things were proving too grim.

We split into two groups, I joined the first group and away we went, the rain as an ever present, if somewhat inconsistent companion.

“Is this not rain then?” we asked Aether at the point at which large drops started to audibly pock off our helmets and backs.

Apparently. it wasn’t we were just passing through some very low lying, super-saturated cloud. Still, a precedent had been set, so every time the showers returned, we would pester Aether with the same question. Childish? Annoying? Perhaps, but it kept us amused.

“Is this not rain then?” we asked for the umpteenth time and Aether wearily admitted yes, it was indeed rain and he then proposed a stop for those foolish enough to have shed their jackets to pull them back on again. Brassneck refused, reasoning that as soon as he did this the rain would probably stop and he’d suffer boil-in-the-bag-itis.

I took to the front alongside him as we turned right onto Stamfordham Road and started to climb. As we reached Stamfordham itself, we stopped briefly to discuss how England footballer and son of Plaistow, East London, Mr. Sulzeer (Sol) Jeremiah Campbell came to be living in a stately pile out in Hallington. At this point Brassneck finally relented and took the opportunity quick to finally pull on his jacket.

Instantly and miraculously the rain stopped.

Well, for 10 minutes anyway.

Perhaps inspired by his Zwift adventures in oft pissed rebelliousness, Brassneck proposed taking the right just before Fenwick so we could by-pass Matfen, chop a lump off our route and travel down one of his favourite bits of road. He asked the question of the group behind but was disappointed when staying on the main road was the consensus.

“Let’s just do it,” I told him, “They’ll follow.”

So, we did. Brassneck stuck out a right mitt, we swung off the road onto his favourite lane and everyone followed. Ah, we’ve got them well trained.

With the rain continuing and a few of those inadequately dressed for the conditions starting to suffer, I suggested we avoided going down the Ryals and instead climbed the Quarry and went to Belsay cafe. Cowboys suggested we could do the Quarry and then stick to the original Capheaton coffee stop, which seemed a much better option and the one that we quickly adopted and put into practice.

The cafe redeemed themselves from the debacle of the gluten-free Orange and Almond cake from a fortnight ago by serving up a solid custard and raspberry slice and all was well with the world.

Talk about Yet Another Paul’s travails with his broken spoke last week led Aether to reveal that he actually carried an emergency spoke for just such a contingency.

And it was made out of string.

Practical as this may be and Aether (and I) would direct you to any number of YouTube videos showing the emergency string spoke in practice, I’m afraid our shallow ignorance was to the fore, and we couldn’t help but find the concept rather absurd and amusing.

We imagined the retailer asking Aether what size spoke he needed, pulling a length of string from a huge spool and snipping off a length in exchange for a princely sum of money. Then, we wondered what other humble and natural materials could be sold at a premium and pressed into emergency service – maybe knitted wool tyre patches, or saddles carved from turnips.

We touched on bamboo bikes, which are apparently a thing and theperfect cue for me to sing “it even had a bamboo floor.” This reminded me when the BFG built a set of wheels using Italian, hand crafted wooden rims and fitted them to one of his vintage rigs. They were super-light, exotic and fantastic looking creations but applying the brakes only seemed to generate a high degree of smoke and only a very marginal and barely perceptible drop in speed. The experiment was then abandoned when at the first sign of moisture the wheels literally hurled themselves out of true.

Back to string spokes though, and Andy Mapp mentioned that you can now actually buy premium wheels with string spokes – except they’re not string but Ultra High Molecular Weight Polyethylene (UHMWPE). These are apparently beloved of the weight-weenies and hill climbers because they can potentially save you, ooh, almost 100gms per wheel and the “spokes” only costs $8 each.

“Do you think the emergency string spoke will work?” someone asked.

“I’m a frayed knot,” I suggested. Boom! My work here was complete.

The weather out the back of the cafe looked fine, but when we assembled out front it was raining again.

“I think we left through the wrong window,” someone muttered. They seemed to have that right.

“All good to go?” someone else called.

“Yep!”

“Yep!” came a chorus of identical, but otherwise un-coordinated replies, as we all shuffled into the road pushing our bikes ahead of us. Bloody hell, we sounded like a flock of cantankerous Emperor penguins reluctantly waddling toward the freezing sea for a quick dip. Those first few minutes leaving the cafe are always a little bleak when the weather is bad and this was definitely one of those days.

Then we were off – a run for home at a fairly decent pace as we needed to warm up.

As we passed through Dinnington a small cheer arose from the direction of Brassneck when he spotted the fish and chip van. Is this the official sign that summer has arrived and next week we won’t be getting rained on? I’d like to think so.

Things were going well until, just past the airport and about 500 metres from the junction where the group would turn off and leave me to ride home solo, we had a puncture and pulled to a stop. We felt duty bound to wait while repairs were affected, although those who were cold and wet through were excused. I didn’t mind – it was still fairly early in the day and provided yet another opportunity for endless blather.

We had a chat about TPU tubes, I’ve got a couple, but haven’t tried them yet and we learned that Mini Miss is running tubeless and doesn’t carry a spare tube but a “dart” you can stick in your tyre to close up any large tears. This sounded almost as intriguing as a string spoke, but we didn’t have the time to discover just how it works before repairs were complete and we were underway again. I’ll save that one for Google.

A few seconds carried along in the group and then I was cast out and alone, starting what would turn out to be a good run home. As a measure of the weather the rain jacket had stayed on for the entirety of the ride and even accompanied me into the shower in a lazy attempt to wash some of the bespattered grime and road crud from its surface. I think I’ve forgotten what dry roads look like.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 25th March 2023
Riding Time:	5 hours 35 minutes
Riding Distance:	101km/63 miles with 919m of climbing
Average Speed:	23.5km/h
Group Size:	19
Temperature:	5℃
Weather in a word or two:	Predictably showery
Year to date:	2,122m/1,319 miles with 19,254m of climbing

Tangoed!

So, a fortnight ago I set off for the usual club ride, dropped down the hill and was pushing along the valley when the Frankenbike developed a very annoying tic in the form of a very annoying tick.

… tick followed tock followed tick followed tock followed tick on every pedal stroke. It looked like I’d chewed through another bottom bracket and the sound was incessant and annoying enough to destroy any hopes I had for a pleasant ride. I made it to the river before stopping to wiggle and kick and prod and probe, all seemingly to no avail and faced with the aural equivalent of Chinese water torture I turned for home.

The following week it wasn’t so much this that kept me off the bike …

the local streets on Friday evening, but this …

Another little dance with the Covid devil and 5 days self-isolating.

What joy.

So last Saturday saw me heading out for a club run after two weeks enforced absence. With the Trek still waiting for the arrival of a new bottom bracket I chose to risk the summer bike, hoping there’d be little rain, the roads would be largely dry, and I’d be forgiven for riding without mudguards. Bad choice number#1?

It was a wet start, but the showers had passed by the time I made the meeting point and was able to ship and stow the rain jacket. In fact, the weather was, well, according to Brassneck anyway, good enough for shorts and a bit of early season leg exposure. My aged, brittle and fragile knee joints begged to differ, and I felt my views on the weather were somewhat vindicated when the Enigma cruised past wearing (much to our surprise) some kind of lightweight jacket instead of the usual cotton T-shirt.

Brassneck also revealed that as well as serving ideally for small frame repairs and protection, he’d found a veterinary use for the miracle that is gaffer tape, which he reckoned was ideal for strapping up canine tails when they were wagged so hard, they broke against pieces of common household furniture!

Our idle banter was interrupted by the high-volume automated voice issuing from a portacabin that had appeared in the multi-storey car park as a precursor to some work being done there. The portacabin had for some reason determined that the poor workman simply trying to open its door was, for whatever reason, persona non grata, intent on assaulting its integrity and was issuing all sorts of dire warnings about CCTV and emergency calls to the local constabulary.

Smart bombs, smart phones, smart watches, smart cars, smart TV’s, I can kind of understand, but smart portacabin’s? That’s surely a step too far?

Crazy Legs briefed in the route, we split the 18 or so gathered into two groups, delayed until 16 minutes past just in case Carlton was uncharacteristically late (he was, but by more than the minutes grace we allowed him), and away we went. I bumped down the kerb and fell into line alongside Ovis as we headed out.

We passed out through Ponteland and up past the cafe at Kirkley, somehow all managing to resist turning in for an impromptu coffee break, even when Biden Fecht cheekily called for a left turn. Somewhere along the drag up to the Gubeon we rotated onto the front of the group and I led with Ovis until we passed through Whalton and started to climb out of the village when I dropped back.

Just before Bolam a pee stop was called for and Goose demanded to know if we were all ready for a Malt Loaf appearance. Huh? We wondered if this was some half-arsed tribute to Meat Loaf that Goose had been working on and whether he was preparing us for the aural assault of the chorus of Bat out of Hell. I never did get to the bottom of what he was referring to, and if he was carrying some cakey, malt loaf treats in his back pocket they remained well hidden.

Someone mentioned the seriously asthmatic Meat Loaf had belonged to the fervid anti-vaxer and anti-masker brigade and had contracted and died of Covid. Being the deplorable human being I am, I couldn’t help but bark with laughter at someone who’d rather die than, in his own words “be controlled” by … err … politics? His choice I guess, but its my choice if I think that’s incredibly dumb.

I had a chat with Biden Fecht about that afternoon’s Milano-San Remo, my deeply insightful and invariably misinformed contributions being that I thought Wout van Aert was stronger than he looked at Tirreno-Adriatico and had a good chance, Mathieu van der Poel was way off form and had no hope in hell and that I didn’t understand why Pogačar was such a firm favourite. I reasoned there weren’t any climbs long enough or hard enough for him to make a difference and, while his sprint is great amongst other climbers, I wasn’t convinced he could beat the specialists and rouleurs in a flat finish.

I also couldn’t see any way that everyone’s favourite Irishman, Filipp O’Ganna would be in the mix at the pointy end of the race, just to prove how well I understand pro cycling …

The climb up to the cafe at Capheaton was taken with enough pace to make me think I’d earned my cake – a glistening, slab of moist, good looking, gluten-free Orange and Almond. Bad choice number#2?

Goose followed my lead and was able to confirm my initial impressions that it wasn’t a “good bake” and tasted rather unpleasantly rtificial – perhaps a little too heavy-handed on the orange essence?

It would however provide us with certain savage amusement later, as we watched the disgusted expressions that periodically wandered across the face of Zardoz every time he took a bite, as he too found the Orange and Almond cake didn’t taste anywhere near as good as it looked.

With no obvious connection to the conversation that preceded it, someone declared that Steven Spielberg regretted making Jaws because it had given sharks a bad reputation. And here was me thinking it was because of some deep, primordial instinct stirred up by their flat dead eyes, rows of sharp teeth and reputation for killing people.

As we were packing up to leave I noticed Captain Black’s voice had become very prominent above the general chatter in the room. Goose suggested this was quite a new phenomena and something he’d noticed recently too.

“I think he’s going a bid deaf,” he offered by way of explanation.

“I think he’s just spent far too much time in your company,” I suggested as an alternative theory.

“Eh? What?” Captain Black might have added. But didn’t.

Back on the bike and on the run down to West Belsay, James III took a flyer off the front and Biden Fecht followed, quickly opening up a big gap. Behind, Ovis finally set off in pursuit and I dropped as unobtrusively as I could onto his wheel and held station, letting him drag me up to Biden Fecht while I got a free ride. I enjoyed the moment he looked back and saw me lurking there, but I’m not sure Ovis appreciated it.

We reformed as a quartet through the junction and pushed on to Belsay, where Biden Fecht suggested amending our usual run home by routing back through Whalton and the Gubeon. I didn’t need the extra miles, so swung off and headed toward Ogle for a solo run.

I managed to stay out in front alone all the way until the descent of Berwick Hill, when Goose bridged up from a group behind and we rode the rest of the way together, before I went off to plough my lonely furrow back home.

So, just your average common or garden club run, but it was good to be back.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 18th March 2023
Riding Time:	4 hours 30 minutes
Riding Distance:	110km/68 miles with 977m of climbing
Average Speed:	24.5km/h
Group Size:	20 ish – accounting for the late arrivals
Temperature:	8℃
Weather in a word or two:	Yeah. OK.
Year to date:	1,668km/1,036 miles with 16,107m of climbing

A-La-La-La-La-Long

Short. Sharp. Shocked.

I was halfway down the hill, scowling at the bad weather when a burst of hail and icy rain suddenly engulfed me and blew straight through my light rain jacket. I was instantly wet through and cold and, if I hadn’t been closer to the bottom than the top, I might just have abandoned the ride at that point. Once again I felt betrayed by the weather forecasters and knew I’d made the wrong jacket choice.

The river as I crossed it was wide and still and empty, any rowers evidently off competing elsewhere, or doing the sensible thing and staying snug in bed. Or, maybe smug in bed? Hmm, probably both.

I pushed onto the climb out of the valley, warming up a little as the shower passed, the slope bit and I transitioned from wet and chilled to cold and damp and breathing hard. The relief was short-lived and as I reached the highest point on my journey across and started the gradual downhill run to the meeting point, the showers returned, this time with swirling snowflakes mixing it up with the spiteful, stinging hail.

Grim.

I fantasised that no one would show up at the meeting point and I’d be able to sneak home and go back to bed, but I knew it would be a forlorn hope and I wouldn’t be the only one daft enough to be out in this weather. Still, things looked promising when I first arrived, and taking shelter in the car park I enjoyed a good few minutes of splendid isolation while I danced from foot to foot to try and encourage the blood to return to my toes. Then Rab Dee turned up and spoiled things. He usually rides with Those Thou Shalt Not Call Tardy, but recognised they would all, almost surely, be taking the sensible option of staying indoors today, so he decided to throw his lot in with us.

It wasn’t long before we had gathered quite a cluster of fellow masochists to laugh at our own idiocy and wonder what we were doing out. Our numbers included G-Dawg with a medical all clear and the thought to see if he could somehow recreate his cardiac arrhythmia. Just for scientific purposes you understand.

The new girl turned up, shockingly without gloves. We’d noticed on her first couple of rides the lack of hand protection as she proved she was undoubtedly so much harder than the rest of us, but today, it seemed like gloves were a prerequisite. Perhaps she was intent on just embellishing her reputation a little though, because as soon as she stopped, she was reaching into a back pocket and (thankfully) pulling on a pair of gloves.

Crazy Legs noted the preponderance of peaks today, either on helmet visors, or trusty old casquettes, noting they’d be essential for a bit of “turtling” in the face of wind blown hail and ice.

Then we took a moment to appreciate the form of the enigma as he cruised by, stately and serene and seemingly unruffled by the awful weather, to which his only concession was the swapping the T-shirt for a long-sleeved sweatshirt. Still the same shorts and trainers though, and no gloves or hat or other poncey stuff.

There were eight of us, so no squabbling over groups as we were ready to ride as one, with the exception of Crazy Legs and G-Dawg who were thinking of calling at the Kirkley cafe, or Matfen, or maybe both, as well as the scheduled coffee stop at Belsay.

Away we went, pushing out past the airport and climbing up through Darras Hall to the Stamfordham Road. Dark clouds and rippling, tattered sheets of rain seemed to ring us in, but the weather around us had improved and was holding steady. In fact things were so much better that Crazy Legs moaned that he couldn’t possibly justify three cafe stops, and if things kept improving he might be down to just one.

Just outside the disused Ouston airbase, Crazy Legs called for us to “pull in at the corner for a piss stop” and from the raddled, foggy depths of my brain I dredged up the ghost of my parent’s favourite, Guy Mitchell, and started singing, “There’s a piss stop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania” while Crazy Legs looked at me with abject horror and no little concern for my sanity.

At Stamfordham the weather was deemed still bad enough to warrant at least one additional coffee stop and G-Dawg and Crazy Legs wheeled away to complete this rather onerous task. The rest of us pushed on past the reservoir at Whittle Dene. It was too cold for the fishermen to be out and too cold for much wildlife too, well, apart from one very large brown rat busy snuffling around the verges of the road for no apparent reason.

Onto the narrow lanes, and with a loud crack, Captain Black rode over a stick in the middle of the road. It seemed no damage had been done, until he rose out of the saddle on the ensuing climb and heard the dreaded tisk-tisk-tisk of mudguard rubbing tyre. He stopped to make some adjustments but found the mudguard had completely snapped and half of it had flipped over his wheel and was sticking straight up in the air. He removed the back half of the guard, pocketing any bits he thought were salvageable – although I suspect they’re beyond repair.

We got going again and were soon passing through Matfen.I took to the front alongside Ovis and led until the turn for the Quarry when the new girl replaced me. The final ramp of the Quarry was just a touch too steep to be comfortable, but luckily quite short and I ground it out still within the group. Over the top, Rab Dee startled me by politely asking if he was ok to just press on and when I acquiesced, he took Captain Black with him and they rode off the front while the rest of us paused a little to regroup. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me for permission to attack before, it’s quite a novelty. We got ourselves organised, Aether and Ovis took to the front and we followed on.

As we pressed toward the Wallridge crossroads the pace was lifted and we were lined out single file. When the road tracked upwards and the slope began to bite, I accelerated onto the front, slowly working away to reel in Rab Dee and Captain Black. I got within 20 to 30 metres before we passed through the junction, then road dipped down again and I quickly hit terminal velocity and the gap grew out again.

Swinging left at the bottom of the descent and heading toward West Belsay, I again tried using the rising road to claw back the front pair, and yet again manged to get within the same 20 to 30 metres before they passed through the junction and onto the fast road down to the Snake Bends. I made the turn and Ovis skipped past me in hot pursuit, but I was already pedalling as fast as I could and couldn’t latch onto his wheel. Still, that was a blast and it felt like I’d earned my coffee and cake as we finally rolled up to the cafe.

There we were re-united with G-Dawg and Crazy Legs, although the seat they’d secured next to fire wasn’t ideal after we’d worked ourselves to a lather on the run in.

Heading to the loo, I came back to find someone had delivered a bacon sarnie to the table and laid it down rather temptingly where I was sat and dangerously, in view of 5 or 6 very hungry pairs of eyes, which were staring at it intently, like a pack of starving lions circling the old and infirm springbok that had become separated from the herd.

Luckily Mini Miss arrived to claim her bacon sarnie before the predators pounced, but had to field the inevitable question of red sauce, brown sauce, or no sauce at all?

Mini Miss is apparently of the no sauce at all persuasion, which is of course the right choice, although I’m apparently an anomaly in not liking any sauce or condiment, not red, not brown, not mayonnaise, nor mustard, vinegar, salad cream, tartar sauce, barbecue sauce et al.

“Do you like jam on your toast?” Crazy Legs challenged, wondering just how far my seemingly fanatical and Puritanical tastes would stretch, and then, before I could answer demanded, “Which do you prefer, Strawberry? Raspberry? Blackberry? Blackcurrant?” he fired off each option in quick succession.

“Well,” I started, “I prefer boysenberry more than any ordinary jam.” Before adding, “I’m a ‘Citizen for Boysenberry Jam’ fan.” For the second time that day, Crazy Legs looked at me with abject horror and no little concern for my sanity.

The rest of the conversation was then taken up with us agreeing we were an out-of-touch bunch of old duffers not quite up with the nuances of woke culture and LGBTQ+ signalling, from blue hair to rainbow-coloured lanyards.

Ovis had the last word, capping everything with the tale of the 3-hour Equality and Diversity training for dentist’s he’d been forced to undergo. Apparently, uproar had ensued at the end when, asking for any questions from the floor, the bloke next to Ovis had stirred briefly from his slumber to enquire if the new guidance meant he should no longer select his next receptionist based on her being “the blonde with the biggest tits.”

Uh-oh.

As we ran with the gang on the road home, Crazy Legs reached some kind of personal nadir by briefly giving voice to the Bay City Roller’s “Shang-A-Lang”. I could only look at him with abject horror and no little concern for his sanity. Luckily Biden Fecht righted the ship with a touch of Barrington Levy’s “Here I Come” and the aberration was quickly glossed over.

Leaving the group and pushing homeward bound I was tempted to lose the jacket as things warmed up a little, but I resisted and endured one final shower to prove I’d made the right choice.

These “winter” routes are certainly not getting any shorter, and I was pushing past 70 miles by the time I made it back. Overall the timing was pretty good though, and I caught the last and decisive 30-40km of Omloop Het Nieuwsblad. Yes, the real cycling season has begun and there was almost too much choice this weekend with mens and women’s Omloop, Kurne-Brussels-Kurne, the UAE Tour, O Gran Camiño (in between the blizzards!) and the Faun-Ardèche and Faun Drôme classics.

Next up Strade Bianche, and then we’re quickly on to the meaningful stage races, starting with Paris-Nice. It should be fun.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 25th February 2023
Riding Time:	5 hours 32 minutes
Riding Distance:	118km/73 miles with 1,032m of climbing
Average Speed:	21.2km/h
Group Size:	8 riders, 1 FNG’s
Temperature:	3℃
Weather in a word or two:	An icy -1℃ with the wind chill. Brrr.
Year to date:	1,215km/755 miles with 11,940m of climbing

Bicycle Thieves

We have a late entry in the outsize packaging competition, so thanks Wiggle – not quite up to the standards of Bikester, but pretty impressive nonetheless. At least I won the Haribo lottery this time, although the how and why of who gets the elusive prize still confounds us, even after many in depth discussions on club runs. We know you don’t get a tasty Haribo treat with every Wiggle order anymore, and we know it’s not predicated on the value of your order, or the timing. So just how does it work?

First thing Saturday morning and my descent of the Heinous Hill is rudely interrupted by new temporary traffic lights half way down. That’s inconvenient, but hopefully they’ll be gone by the time I head home and I won’t have to attempt a standing start on the 14% ramps amidst a long line of frustrated drivers.

I hit the valley floor and turned west, directly into a strong, buffeting headwind that was going to plague us through much of the ride. It added a biting chill to the air too and knocked at least a couple of degrees off the temperature.

There were more traffic concerns on the approach to the bridge, where yellow cones had been deployed to marshal the spectator parking for the latest Tyne Head rowing competition. Boats and trailers were already piling up in car parks and rowers in an odd combination of skin tight lycra and sloppy wellies were generally milllig about. I wondered if rowers appreciated the tailwind they were going to get today and if it would produce fast times. On the other side I turned eastwards myself and got to enjoy a little wind-assisted boost myself.

I had a ‘should I/shouldn’t I’ moment, wondering whether to pull to a stop to let an ambulance pass, siren and lights working overtime. He was past before my brain reached any kind of conclusion, which is probably for the best. The long haul out of the valley seemed a little easier this week and I made it to the meeting point bang on 9.00 am.

Aether was there nice and early and ready to brief in a route of his own devising that included the climbs of the Mur de Mitford and the Trench. The latter wasn’t a particular concern, but the Mur would be accessed from a sharp left-hand turn that brought you almost to a standstill and while short was viciously steep with a rough, slimy and slippery surface.

“But, you’ve done it before on the single-speed,” Aether happily reassured me. It was true, but I was young and stupid then, or at least younger. Now I was old and stupid. Well, certainly older, hopefully not stupider. Maybe clinically insane though if I listened to Brassneck and Not Anthony?

One of these, Brassneck had now arrived and was deeply embroiled in a conversation with Mini Miss, which apparently centred around (I think) edelweiss petals made of metal? I never did get to the bottom of this rather random (even by our standard) event.

There was still time for the Frankenbike to attract some attention with its unusual combination of single-speed sprocket and rear derailleur. The latter was a brand new, ultracheap MicroSHIFT medium cage affair that had replaced the original Shimano set-up fitted by the venerable Toshi San. So far it was performing well, although I guess that’s not much of a recommendation given that it was only serving as a glorified chain tensioner.

Jimmy Mac brought the good news that G-Dawg had been officially cleared to ride, although he would be heading out later and taking things understandably easy. I had no doubt we would see him at the cafe, although somewhat sadly he would be back in cycling kit so there’d be no more appearances from what Crazy Legs referred to as his carpet-fitter trousers …

Even with his notable absence, numbers topped 30 for the first time this year and we split into three equal-ish groups before heading out.

I dropped into the third group, confident I’ could’ be able to climb more or less with the best of them and away we went. I slotted in alongside Brassneck, our conversation briefly straying to cover the devastating earthquakes in Turkey and Syria before we found our more normal groove of inconsequential blather. Here I learned that winter was over because the fish and chip van would re-appear at Dinnington and that the road through to Horton Grange had undergone recent repair. Neither of these bold assertions proved remotely evident to me and I wondered if Brassneck was having some kind of hallucinogenic episode.

He had been reminded that he was still in post-operative condition and needed to do less grinding and more spinning, especially on the climbs and he’d adopted an inner voice to remind him of this. I tried to bring his inner voice to life, imagining it speaking with first a Scottish and then West Indian accent, before he decided it sounded most like Ray Winstone at his menacing, Cockney-geezer/gangster best. Now that’s almost guaranteed to keep you in line.

“‘Ere, you muppet! Waddayafink yer doin’ ridin’ like that. Give it up yah wankah!”

So, spinning was the order of the day for Brassneck, first put into effect on Bell’s Hill that we took at, what seemed to me, a most relaxed pace, there was no sudden rush, or upping of the pace and we rolled over the top and slowed to a crawl to let any stragglers catch up.

Apparently, the climb hadn’t been relaxed enough and sparked a very tired and very predictable rant from OGL as we learned we were all, every single one of us without exception, incapable of riding on a club run, castigated for never looking back, all branded as weekend warriors and, we even had a reprise for that hoary old chestnut, that if we wanted to race, we should “put a number on our back.”

While Aether tried to calculate if he had the full card for this week’s game of buzzword bingo, OGL pushed onto the front and stomped away angrily on the pedals, upping the pace and never looking behind. If he had he may have noticed Zardoz off the back and seemingly struggling to catch on. You know, I could make this stuff up, but sometimes it’s easier to use what you’re given…

I dropped off to check on Zardoz, who assured me he was fine and just chilling. We had re-joined by the time we started the climb up to Tranwell, watching as a deer emerged from the treeline on the right, hurdled the hedge and skittered across the road just ahead of us. a cervidae shot across the bows if you will.

“Watch out,” someone called, “It’s the ones you don’t see that are the most dangerous.” Luckily, as a stampede, this proved to be very much a solo effort and we were otherwise untroubled.

Then, approaching the crest of the hill we were greeted with the unmistakable, almost irresistible aroma of frying bacon, that nearly drew Anders off his bike. He wondered if they’d cooked enough to share with a bunch of hungry, slobbering cyclists and if not, could we break in and steal it. I think he had this grand vision of us as a marauding, bad-ass biker gang that went around terrifying the locals and demanding to be paid tribute in bacon sarnies. Bicycle thieves, if you will.

Luckily, we were past before he could act on his baser instincts, dropping down to Mitford, where OGL offered to take anyone interested on a shorter loop, but found no takers and pedalled off in splendid isolation.

The Mur de Mitford was as gnarly as expected, but I managed to haul myself up with only minimal wheel slip. We then ranged across the top of the Wansbeck valley instead of descending to follow the river west, avoid a direct confrontation with a headwind at the expense of some rolling terrain and several stiff climbs.

At one point Zardoz slid out on a corner. He didn’t seem badly injured, but it was enough to persuade him to descend straight into the valley and pick his own way and pace to the cafe. Just outside Longhorsely at the most northerly point and the highest elevation of our route we stopped to regroup after another stiff climb and tried to determine if we could see the North Sea from our lofty vantage point.

I argued that we couldn’t possibly be close enough, but what do I know. Carlton’s Google Maps app showed we were only about 10 miles from the coast as the crow flies, so that grey wavery and blurry line on the horizon probably was the sea after all.

Back on the front with Brassneck, we agreed that sooner or later we would have a long descent to Netherwitton and we might get a little relief, but for now it seemed to be dragging on and for every slight drop there seemed to be a corresponding rise. Finally, after what seemed an age, we got our reward, a long sweeping drop down to the valley on super-smooth tarmac that was over much too quickly and then we were climbing again as we took on the Trench.

It’s a long climb, but at a relatively benign gradient, so a little easier to cope with then the Mur de Mitford and much less challenging. We regrouped at the top, waiting for Big Stu, there’s absolutely zero irony in the name he is a big, big unit and not at all suited to the hilly nature of Northumberland. He does make one hell of a wind shield though.

On to Dyke Neuk with one final, testing climb up to Meldon between us and the cafe at Kirkley. We were on the last leg now, with coffee and cakes tantalisingly close. Still on the front alongside Brassneck, we tried to pick up the pace for a fast run in, even as I voiced my doubt that we were not as close to the cafe than we thought. But it was too late for second-guessing and we were committed.

I was right, we were still some distance out and, as one final uphill drag bit, I couldn’t help vocalising the deep distress in my tired legs.

“Aye-yeye-yah!”

“I completely agree,” Aether riding just behind responded, before adding, “That’s not a phrase you’ll ever find in a dictionary, but I know exactly how you feel.”

We passed the Saltwick turn. We still had some way to go and I was approaching terminal velocity for my one single gear. Brassneck thought that if we took the last corner at breakneck speed we might get someone to overshoot and give us a split-second advantage in the sprint. It was a nice idea, but I wasn’t not sure either of us could pull it off. I knew I certainly couldn’t.

“Waargh!” Aether roared into my ear as he opened up his sprint and surged past me. Given adequate warning, Brassneck responded immediately and just managed to hold on for top honours. I had nothing left and couldn’t have sprinted anyway, I was wasting too much oxygen laughing out loud.

“Next time you try a sneaky attack, it’s probably best not to announce it by shouting in my ear,” I suggested to Aether. I’m sure it’s a lesson Mark Cavendish learned early on in his pro career.

By the time I’d swung off the bike at the cafe I’d already clocked up 50 miles of what would be an eventual 70 mile trip. Is it still winter? There’s no sign of good bikes and, despite Brassneck’s mystical divination, there’s still no sign the fish and chip van at Dinnington has returned from its annual migration to warmer climes. I’m inclined to think it still is winter then, so I wonder what happened to shorter, easier rides with everyone on equally crap and heavy bikes?

It was good to find G-Dawg had ridden to the cafe and he explained in simple terms (which is ideal for me), that if he was a boiler, the plumbing was all fine, but his electrics were a bit off. As such his heart was perfectly healthy and he had no higher risk of a cardiac incident than normal, it was just the impulses that controlled his heart could go a little haywire at times. Hopefully a minor ablation procedure to scar the tissue causing the incidents would be enough to prevent the rogue electrical pulses that bring on fibrillation. (I almost sound knowledgeable there. Thanks Google.)

Zardoz appeared shortly afterwards, having made it around largely on his own, but the front group were notably absent, having diverted to the cafe at Belsay, which at least allowed everyone there to find a seat indoors. As someone noted, despite us having the largest turnout for a ride in 2023, we’d seen very few other cyclists out on the roads and we had the cafe more or less to ourselves.

The ride home was generally uneventful and I even remembered to take the back roads up the Heinous Hill to avoid the traffic light on the bank. Tick another one off.

Day & Date:	Club Run, Saturday 11th February 2023
Riding Time:	5 hours 11 minutes
Riding Distance:	112km/70 miles with 1,107m of climbing
Average Speed:	21.6km/h
Group Size:	31 riders, 1 FNG
Temperature:	6℃
Weather in a word or two:	Fine. Again.
Year to date:	885km/550 miles with 8,811m of climbing

Sur La Jante

The Chronicles, Confessions and Idle Musings of a Club Cyclist

Tag: Garmin