Has anyone ever told you it was "too cold for snow"? Mad as it seems, there is some meteorological truth in this, apparently something to do with less water vapour in the air at very low temperatures. But it is just a myth. Likewise it is NEVER too hot for cycling, and it was that thought going through my head as I drove down to Devon on Saturday afternoon.
I love Devon. I lived there for seven years as a child, I mean I was a child when I lived there, rather than acting out the role of a child in some weird psychological experiment. That's a whole other blog. July 1972, while we were waiting to move into our house in Torbay, we even stayed in a cottage outside Bovey Tracy for 6 weeks. I own some trees nearby now, part of a woodland trust reserve. I just hope my trees are mighty oaks or beech and not ash. The only thing I hate more than bad driving are self-seeded ash trees.
Right, sorry, Devon. Yes left in 1979, and when people ask me where I'm from, until recently, Devon was one of the options. It was until recently, pretty much the longest I had lived in any anywhere. Now I say the Mendips, "where?" is the usual response.
So the chance to do one of the best Sportives in the country was one not to be missed. It is, or was, my last big ride before the Raid Pyrenean in September, and the 10K plus feet of climbing in a day would be a good test of my fitness. The organisers, Mid Devon cycling club, advertise it as "Not the biggest, but certainly the best" (no, it's too obvious) and judging by the "Event village" I would have to agree. Of course the jazz band helped to set a mellow atmosphere, the abundance of marquees selling cycling-related paraphernalia, the healthy pasta meal I had pre-booked, CTC, a folk band, free bananas, all helped. Even the incongruous Falconry centre helped give the children present something to think about-well keeps them from running off I guess, every parent should have one.
For those of you who followed Miss Cumming of the Mid Devon cycling club on the Cheddar sportive, well, I didn't see her, but I mentally thanked her for inspiring Bunny's performance that day, and my polka dot sock choices thereafter.
Just to round things off, there was loads of racks for all the bikes in the morning, plenty of "facilities" and lots of shade from the blazing heat. As I was chatting to a man from the local bike shop I asked if it got a bit cooler up on the moors during the day. "Oh no" he said, "much hotter, it's so exposed see, and there's no shade in most parts neither". I couldn't wait for the morning.
I decided an early start was preferable, get as much done as I could before the temperature took its toll. So after leaving my travel inn at some ungodly hour, there I was back at the village at 7AM. Over 2000 people had entered one or other of the two rides, 100 miles and 62.5 miles, oh all right, 100km. The start was impeccably organised, with riders released in batches of about 100, through holding pens. It was 7.15 and already the temperature was pushing 20 degrees. I normally err on the side of caution and take a pack away rain jacket of sorts, but for once I figured like Phil Collins and gave it a miss.
The impeccable organisation was a deciding feature of this ride. On just about every junction, and certainly all junctions on main roads or difficult corners, there were two or three marshalls with red flags stopping the traffic and telling riders when it was clear, all of which helped with the safety, but also with momentum. Short of closed roads it is the closest I will get to professional riding.
Right from the start it was solo cycling or very small groups, as everyone found a natural rhythm. Of all the cycling I have done in this country I can not think of any more beautiful rides than this one. Early Sunday morning there was hardly any noise,except for that wonderful sound of gears changing, and those wheels that click, and as we slowly climbed out of Bovey Tracy towards Manaton, I looked down at the folds in the contours of the land, light mist in the valleys, and marvelled about how special this moment was. Looking up too, at the lycra-clad snake of riders wending around the hill, I could think of few more wondrous sights to behold. I was doing OK too, not speedy, but not many were going past me on the climbs, and on the flat I was fine.
Up and up we went until we reached the top of the Moor, near Hound Tor, some say an inspiration for Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes tale. Even better is the story of the ice-cream van that parks nearby: The Hound of the Basket meals. We used to go up to the moors a lot when I was a child, and Hound Tor was one of our favourite places to visit. So it was a trip down memory lane for me, and a lot harder on a bike I can tell you. Also nearby is Jay's grave, and i tipped my hat to her, just in case:
http://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/kitty_Jay.htm
Eventually the climbing stopped, to be followed by a breakneck descent all the way to the Dart valley, just north of Ashburton. From there the road would its way along the sides of the valley, before the steepest, but not toughest climb of the day outside Holne.
By now the temperatures were starting to sizzle, just like the campfires at the campsites we passed near Hexworthy. A very nasty 25% descent down in the village saw me nearly take out one young would-be Contador, darting on my inside with no warning. I later saw him do the same to a car in Tavistock, followed by a sight of him walking, his bike sadly broken.
After Hexworthy it was onto the open moor and a slow gradual ascent to Princeton, feedstop and prison. I chose just the former, and was quickly on my way, down the fantastically open road off the moor, about 1000 feet in three miles, it was here I must have reached my top speed of the day. There was time for one hill before Tavistock, and then onto the road that Bunny and I had missed last year. This proved a tough section of the route, two or three grinding 5-6% hills and sharp descents, round the back of Lydford gorge, then past Brentor church, where i took advantage of the emergency water stop.
And very glad of it too. For now came the hardest part of the day, at around midday we were faced with a long climb back up to Princeton, in the open sun, pushing 30 degrees. Well I was using the water to pour on my head, down my top, I was hotter than an overheated oven in Timbuktu. Eventually I made it, and after a further re-fuelling, including a gel or two for extra caffeine, I was on the home straight. It was straight too, about 10 miles up and down, with each down carrying me over the next up, until a descent to Mortonhampstead. Buses and grockles notwithstanding, there was time for one last steep hill, before a flat run in back to the finish.
I had eaten just a couple of energy bars, a few jelly babies and a flapjack, but had drunk four bottles of electrolyte and taken a few gels, it was too hot for solid food. A couple of people had finished their days in an ambulance with heatstroke, but I was amazed it wasn't more. I suspect that those people, a few hundred I heard, who suffered a similar fate at Glastonbury, brought it on by imbibing a bit more than an energy gel. After all, how can you overheat standing around in a field?
I had vague notions that I might finish within the 7 hrs 5 minutes required for a silver medal, but I ruled that out after doing just 13 miles in the first hour. In fact it was only a very quick last 35 miles that brought me in 7 hours 44 for a bronze, not real bronze, but an actual bronze-coloured medal, to go with the lump of Dartmoor granite that all finishers got. A great goody bag too, and a very warm welcome from some terrific hosts.
When you look at the speed profile, you get more of a sense of the ups and down, reflected in the spikes and troughs. The total distance was 106 miles, and given the conditions an average of just over 14 mph is pleasing to say the least. A stone kicked up by another bike contrived to hit the magnet on my front wheel, and despite my fettling, the Cateye computer remained temperamental for most of the day, until packing up completely after 79.8 miles. Charlie was OK for most of the day, except I forgot to switch him back on after the first feedstop, so although the map is OK, he's missed about 3 miles of distance and speed.
So yes, the best sportive I have done i think, just faultless organisation, great scenery, apart from one idiot, some great company, friendly folk, and it was in Devon. What Moor could you want?
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/38363340
Monday, 28 June 2010
Friday, 25 June 2010
Easy does it
I seem to be saying this type of thing a lot this year, but Sunday is a big day. Not the longest day's cycling I have ever done, but the most climbing in a single day I think. Tops 10K feet (I'll leave the metric till I'm in France, till then it's feet, miles per hour and the odd perch and chain thrown in for good measure. Just think about that last one.) For it is the Dartmoor classic.
This time last year I was entering my first solo sportive, down in Devon and challenging for me, so it's a mark of how far I have come in 12 months to think I could have the temerity to enter one of the big sportives on the calendar. So today, on my ride into and from work, I didn't want to push it too much, just spin the legs a bit, enjoy the sunshine, bobs your uncle. (In case you are wondering, it's something to do Lord Salisbury according to some etymologists).
Of course Sunday is the day of England's forthcoming encounter at the World Cup with our traditional foes. Most likely an exit awaits via a penalty shoot-out, but then as Mrs MMAM pointed out, "at least we win when it matters". Another friend of mine reckons that our national sports are drinking and fighting, and if you look at our history that's not a bad assessment, and these have become entwined with football to a degree. Cycling is definitely not something we have had a good track (pun intended) outdoor record in, and so I'm wondering what the attendance will be like on Dartmoor.
In honour of the event i wore my Foska 3 Lions/Cross of St George top today, with some red arm warmers for the early morning chill. Apart from a few midge bites it was a pretty uneventful ride in, although the sunshine and the cool breeze was more inviting than the all-day meeting I had booked in. At 4.30PM I picked up a message to say that 9 year old son was playing in a football match up at the school sportsground, did I want to go? It was less of a question really, more of an implied command. I did want to go actually, but the key word in that sentence was "up". No choice, I had to spin as gently as i could up to Failand, watch the match (an unfortunate 1-0 defeat, with a very, very dubious piece of refereeing for the goal, and you will be pleased to know I was a seething but silent Parent who behaved impeccably. Unlike son who was all for giving ref a piece of his mind-where does he get it from).
After that it was back on the bike and a chance to practice my descending skills down Belmont Hill, before a lovely evening flat ride home in the sunshine.
The weather forecast for Sunday is hot, so it will be a challenge all right. Practice for the Pyrenees then. And it's better than rain and wind in my view. If I'm quick enough on Sunday I may get back for the match, watch it somewhere on the way home maybe. Fingers crossed and let's hope for the spirit of 66. I know there are not enough West Ham players in the team, but if you look at the players on the pitch the other night, about 7 of them had West ham connections (James, Johnson, Terry, Upson, Lampard, Defoe, J Cole), so it would be like us winning the World Cup again. West Ham I mean.....
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/38137130
This time last year I was entering my first solo sportive, down in Devon and challenging for me, so it's a mark of how far I have come in 12 months to think I could have the temerity to enter one of the big sportives on the calendar. So today, on my ride into and from work, I didn't want to push it too much, just spin the legs a bit, enjoy the sunshine, bobs your uncle. (In case you are wondering, it's something to do Lord Salisbury according to some etymologists).
Of course Sunday is the day of England's forthcoming encounter at the World Cup with our traditional foes. Most likely an exit awaits via a penalty shoot-out, but then as Mrs MMAM pointed out, "at least we win when it matters". Another friend of mine reckons that our national sports are drinking and fighting, and if you look at our history that's not a bad assessment, and these have become entwined with football to a degree. Cycling is definitely not something we have had a good track (pun intended) outdoor record in, and so I'm wondering what the attendance will be like on Dartmoor.
In honour of the event i wore my Foska 3 Lions/Cross of St George top today, with some red arm warmers for the early morning chill. Apart from a few midge bites it was a pretty uneventful ride in, although the sunshine and the cool breeze was more inviting than the all-day meeting I had booked in. At 4.30PM I picked up a message to say that 9 year old son was playing in a football match up at the school sportsground, did I want to go? It was less of a question really, more of an implied command. I did want to go actually, but the key word in that sentence was "up". No choice, I had to spin as gently as i could up to Failand, watch the match (an unfortunate 1-0 defeat, with a very, very dubious piece of refereeing for the goal, and you will be pleased to know I was a seething but silent Parent who behaved impeccably. Unlike son who was all for giving ref a piece of his mind-where does he get it from).
After that it was back on the bike and a chance to practice my descending skills down Belmont Hill, before a lovely evening flat ride home in the sunshine.
The weather forecast for Sunday is hot, so it will be a challenge all right. Practice for the Pyrenees then. And it's better than rain and wind in my view. If I'm quick enough on Sunday I may get back for the match, watch it somewhere on the way home maybe. Fingers crossed and let's hope for the spirit of 66. I know there are not enough West Ham players in the team, but if you look at the players on the pitch the other night, about 7 of them had West ham connections (James, Johnson, Terry, Upson, Lampard, Defoe, J Cole), so it would be like us winning the World Cup again. West Ham I mean.....
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/38137130
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Real Country
Just as last year, Bristol's Biggest Bike Ride 2010 fell on Father's Day. An invention of the card industry I'm sure (Father's Day not BBBR) it is nonetheless nice to feel that there is one day out of 365 where I get some attention instead of the other way around. Maybe Dads everywhere should celebrate this role-reversal by not flushing the toilet, playing football with no shoes on, and dropping crisps all over the kitchen floor. I decided to head up the A38 and take part in the biggest mass-participation bike ride in the West Country.
It is a great atmosphere. I picked Skip up in the car and we drove up early and parked in the car park at work. It was eerily empty and dark in the car park, instead of being full of the usual BMWs, Mercs and Range Rovers. For office car parking is a status thing my friends and in my experience, third to dress codes and holiday entitlements as the cause of office arguments and in-fighting.
None of that today as we wheeled over the footbridge to Millennium Square and hooked up with Skip's Dad (The Captain [I'll tell you when I see you]) and RPM. Our ride, the over elaborately-named "Clevedon Challenge" was the longest of the five on offer, and it was all very informal, as several hundred cyclists rolled out of the square and along the beautifully-closed Anchor Road towards the also shut Portway. To be honest, there absolutely nothing challenging about the route, and I know this sounds patronising but I guess for those city folk, used to cycling to the pub or shops, maybe things are different.
Maybe it is a challenge to remember there is life outside a city. My grandmother, born and bred in Bedminster (although the daughter of generations of Yeovil folk) had a lovely expression when referring to those from outside the city limits-"real country", and I did get the feeling today that for some of the participants it was a journey into the unknown. It actually makes for a fun ride, although can also test your riding skills when they don't signal or stop for no apparent reason. The Captain found this out last year to his cost, crashing into a MTB as he suddenly got his quaint gearing wrong.
Anyway back to the traffic-free Portway. That is one of the other attractions of BBBR-no cars for about 8 miles of riding, and I took the compulsory opportunity to cycle on the other side of the road. I was the only one who did this, as everyone else was sticking to the left, despite the complete absence of cars on the right. What is wrong with you? How could you NOT want to do this?
Anyway the four of us steamed along, forming a nice line, overtaking all the MTBs, hybrids and quite a lot of roadies too. We were considerably quicker than last year, and it is a sign of how much you can teach an old dog new tricks. Like drafting, pedalling properly, nutrition, blah, blah blah.
Next it was over the River Avon on the footbridge adjacent to the M5. Should be wrong, but strangely pleasurable to be cycling next to a motorway. A bit of an illicit pleasure I think. By now RPM and I had become separated from Skip and The Captain. Just as we darted down the short stretch of the main road from Pill to Portbury, the bloke in front (from Dursley Road club) of me contrived to get his front wheel in a pothole, and cartwheeled down the road.
I was immediately behind him and RPM and I stopped along with another woman, to check if he was OK. She had the presence of mind to check if he was compos mentis, by asking him his name and the date. We knew he was OK when he asked about his bike.He was pretty badly shaken, and had a few nasty cuts and bruises, along with a dent in his helmet. I'm not going to rant about helmets, it's a personal choice etc. Potholes do not discriminate, and I have no doubt he would have been badly hurt if he hadn't been wearing one.
We telephoned for first aid to come and get him, and left him to lick his wounds. There was a fair amount of the red stuff and I was glad none of it got onto me or my bike, and by now Skip had joined us. We caught up with The Captain and continued to Clevedon, where we re-grouped again, before heading over the levels and up Brockley Coombe.
After the final re-grouping there I bombed down into Bristol as fast as I could, getting home in an average speed of 16.4mph. Unfortunately Skip arrived soon after with her crash tale-an idiot on a mobile had caused a bit of a pile up and her finger looked as if it may have been broken. Then the Captain arrived with his tale of children running in front of him and a gashed shin from his crash. The moral here is if you want to stay safe on a bike, take that family with you as they seem to draw trouble to them on this ride!
Fortunately a trip to Casualty confirmed no broken bones, so it will just be a bit of soreness but no ban on riding.
A great way to spend Father's Day, which I hope will get repeated for many years to come. Just hope we can avoid the crashes next year!
Charlie below:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/37541185
It is a great atmosphere. I picked Skip up in the car and we drove up early and parked in the car park at work. It was eerily empty and dark in the car park, instead of being full of the usual BMWs, Mercs and Range Rovers. For office car parking is a status thing my friends and in my experience, third to dress codes and holiday entitlements as the cause of office arguments and in-fighting.
None of that today as we wheeled over the footbridge to Millennium Square and hooked up with Skip's Dad (The Captain [I'll tell you when I see you]) and RPM. Our ride, the over elaborately-named "Clevedon Challenge" was the longest of the five on offer, and it was all very informal, as several hundred cyclists rolled out of the square and along the beautifully-closed Anchor Road towards the also shut Portway. To be honest, there absolutely nothing challenging about the route, and I know this sounds patronising but I guess for those city folk, used to cycling to the pub or shops, maybe things are different.
Maybe it is a challenge to remember there is life outside a city. My grandmother, born and bred in Bedminster (although the daughter of generations of Yeovil folk) had a lovely expression when referring to those from outside the city limits-"real country", and I did get the feeling today that for some of the participants it was a journey into the unknown. It actually makes for a fun ride, although can also test your riding skills when they don't signal or stop for no apparent reason. The Captain found this out last year to his cost, crashing into a MTB as he suddenly got his quaint gearing wrong.
Anyway back to the traffic-free Portway. That is one of the other attractions of BBBR-no cars for about 8 miles of riding, and I took the compulsory opportunity to cycle on the other side of the road. I was the only one who did this, as everyone else was sticking to the left, despite the complete absence of cars on the right. What is wrong with you? How could you NOT want to do this?
Anyway the four of us steamed along, forming a nice line, overtaking all the MTBs, hybrids and quite a lot of roadies too. We were considerably quicker than last year, and it is a sign of how much you can teach an old dog new tricks. Like drafting, pedalling properly, nutrition, blah, blah blah.
Next it was over the River Avon on the footbridge adjacent to the M5. Should be wrong, but strangely pleasurable to be cycling next to a motorway. A bit of an illicit pleasure I think. By now RPM and I had become separated from Skip and The Captain. Just as we darted down the short stretch of the main road from Pill to Portbury, the bloke in front (from Dursley Road club) of me contrived to get his front wheel in a pothole, and cartwheeled down the road.
I was immediately behind him and RPM and I stopped along with another woman, to check if he was OK. She had the presence of mind to check if he was compos mentis, by asking him his name and the date. We knew he was OK when he asked about his bike.He was pretty badly shaken, and had a few nasty cuts and bruises, along with a dent in his helmet. I'm not going to rant about helmets, it's a personal choice etc. Potholes do not discriminate, and I have no doubt he would have been badly hurt if he hadn't been wearing one.
We telephoned for first aid to come and get him, and left him to lick his wounds. There was a fair amount of the red stuff and I was glad none of it got onto me or my bike, and by now Skip had joined us. We caught up with The Captain and continued to Clevedon, where we re-grouped again, before heading over the levels and up Brockley Coombe.
After the final re-grouping there I bombed down into Bristol as fast as I could, getting home in an average speed of 16.4mph. Unfortunately Skip arrived soon after with her crash tale-an idiot on a mobile had caused a bit of a pile up and her finger looked as if it may have been broken. Then the Captain arrived with his tale of children running in front of him and a gashed shin from his crash. The moral here is if you want to stay safe on a bike, take that family with you as they seem to draw trouble to them on this ride!
Fortunately a trip to Casualty confirmed no broken bones, so it will just be a bit of soreness but no ban on riding.
A great way to spend Father's Day, which I hope will get repeated for many years to come. Just hope we can avoid the crashes next year!
Charlie below:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/37541185
Friday, 18 June 2010
Glad to be Alive
Books. I love books. So much so, that I strongly resist all attempts to dispose of any book whatsoever from our house. When the pressure to clear space on our six bookcases (and a couple of them are floor to ceiling) I insist on sending them to a charity shop so that at least someone can have the pleasure of reading them. This even applies to crap books, just can't bear parting with them.
My other habit is reading a lot of books at the same time. Not the same second, but say during 2010, I'll read a bit of book A, then a bit of book B and so on. I'll probably read as many as the next man, just not in a sequential way. The book I'm reading at any given moment depends on my mood. So at the moment, I'm reading 8 books- Bury my Heart at wounded Knee, Freakonomics, Cochineal Red, 101 Philosophers, a book of short stories, a novel, and for the cyclist- the Time-crunched cyclist and finally at last, A dog in a hat. You can look them all up on Amazon, but they are all good, I'm enjoying them all and hope to finish them by Christmas.
Well today the two cycling books had particular resonance. First, I have realised that I can use the journey into work as a kind of interval training session, and the journey home to practice doing hills. Second, the journey home was so like a Belgian classic-more on that later.
I left early today, had a meeting scheduled for 8.30AM, so wanted to be showered and changed in plenty of time. I fair belted in along the predominately flat route. Had I not decided to detour up Jacob Wells Road and down Park street my average speed would have been over 17mph, not bad considering there was no wind to speak of. Coming down Park Street at 7AM at 35mph was fun. Until someone pulled out of a side street without looking. This involved a diversion on the outside of a car waiting to turn right, into the path of oncoming traffic, and an elevated heart rate.
Said driver caught me up at the next lights and I was unbelievably polite, no really I was, and asked her if she had seen me coming down the hill. The look of absolute shock and contrition on her face almost made me feel guilty and she apologised profusely. Maybe I should try that approach more.
It had been a lovely ride despite that, blue skies and fluffy clouds. One of those days when you wish you could just carry on cycling all day. Still, work to be done and all that so in I toddled and it was a good day.
I was a little concerned about the clouds banking up in the afternoon, but the forecast was for dry weather with a possible chance of a drizzly, light, short shower.
Oh no. It started to rain as I pulled out of the car park, and didn't stop for an hour. Drizzle? Oh no. Big fat drops of heavy rain, in bucketloads. By the time I had gone a mile I was drenched, my shower proof jacket being just that. I was on the A38 and realised that with my summer gear on, I had to go up to keep warm. I also had to get off the main road, because the spray from the hordes rushing home to watch England at the World Cup, wasn't helping.
I veered off towards Felton, and kept trying to find roads that went up. Eventually though I was going to have to go down. It was still raining, and because it was the first rain for a few days, there was a bit of a greasy surface, and the rivers of water running down all the slopes had washed all kinds of muck into the road. If I went slowly, I'd freeze, if i went to fast I ran the risk of a tumble. What to do?
I decided to get on with it, peddle like mad and hope I didn't meet any traffic on the road down to Wrington. I decided on one last hill up to Rowberrow and Shipham, down to Cheddar and back home. By the time I crested Shipham Hill the rain had stopped, in fact the road was still dry indicating it hadn't rained there. So I bombed down, and as I hit the final corner I put everything I had into it, topping out at around 43mph. Great fun. Like a Belgian classic perhaps?
Charlie stats below:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/37314913
One final plea, I realise you get requests all the time, so please feel free to ignore this one. My son's classmate died recently from leukemia, and to honour his memory and raise money for the Bristol Care appeal, raising funds for the Oncology and Haematology centre where he was treated, I will be cycling from Bristol to Land's End over three days in September. I'm hoping for a large fit cyclist to follow, but in the absence of that, your donation, no matter the amount, is very welcome.
If you are able to sponsor me, the best way to do so is via the attached link. Thanks.
http://www.justgiving.com/Guy-Buckland
My other habit is reading a lot of books at the same time. Not the same second, but say during 2010, I'll read a bit of book A, then a bit of book B and so on. I'll probably read as many as the next man, just not in a sequential way. The book I'm reading at any given moment depends on my mood. So at the moment, I'm reading 8 books- Bury my Heart at wounded Knee, Freakonomics, Cochineal Red, 101 Philosophers, a book of short stories, a novel, and for the cyclist- the Time-crunched cyclist and finally at last, A dog in a hat. You can look them all up on Amazon, but they are all good, I'm enjoying them all and hope to finish them by Christmas.
Well today the two cycling books had particular resonance. First, I have realised that I can use the journey into work as a kind of interval training session, and the journey home to practice doing hills. Second, the journey home was so like a Belgian classic-more on that later.
I left early today, had a meeting scheduled for 8.30AM, so wanted to be showered and changed in plenty of time. I fair belted in along the predominately flat route. Had I not decided to detour up Jacob Wells Road and down Park street my average speed would have been over 17mph, not bad considering there was no wind to speak of. Coming down Park Street at 7AM at 35mph was fun. Until someone pulled out of a side street without looking. This involved a diversion on the outside of a car waiting to turn right, into the path of oncoming traffic, and an elevated heart rate.
Said driver caught me up at the next lights and I was unbelievably polite, no really I was, and asked her if she had seen me coming down the hill. The look of absolute shock and contrition on her face almost made me feel guilty and she apologised profusely. Maybe I should try that approach more.
It had been a lovely ride despite that, blue skies and fluffy clouds. One of those days when you wish you could just carry on cycling all day. Still, work to be done and all that so in I toddled and it was a good day.
I was a little concerned about the clouds banking up in the afternoon, but the forecast was for dry weather with a possible chance of a drizzly, light, short shower.
Oh no. It started to rain as I pulled out of the car park, and didn't stop for an hour. Drizzle? Oh no. Big fat drops of heavy rain, in bucketloads. By the time I had gone a mile I was drenched, my shower proof jacket being just that. I was on the A38 and realised that with my summer gear on, I had to go up to keep warm. I also had to get off the main road, because the spray from the hordes rushing home to watch England at the World Cup, wasn't helping.
I veered off towards Felton, and kept trying to find roads that went up. Eventually though I was going to have to go down. It was still raining, and because it was the first rain for a few days, there was a bit of a greasy surface, and the rivers of water running down all the slopes had washed all kinds of muck into the road. If I went slowly, I'd freeze, if i went to fast I ran the risk of a tumble. What to do?
I decided to get on with it, peddle like mad and hope I didn't meet any traffic on the road down to Wrington. I decided on one last hill up to Rowberrow and Shipham, down to Cheddar and back home. By the time I crested Shipham Hill the rain had stopped, in fact the road was still dry indicating it hadn't rained there. So I bombed down, and as I hit the final corner I put everything I had into it, topping out at around 43mph. Great fun. Like a Belgian classic perhaps?
Charlie stats below:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/37314913
One final plea, I realise you get requests all the time, so please feel free to ignore this one. My son's classmate died recently from leukemia, and to honour his memory and raise money for the Bristol Care appeal, raising funds for the Oncology and Haematology centre where he was treated, I will be cycling from Bristol to Land's End over three days in September. I'm hoping for a large fit cyclist to follow, but in the absence of that, your donation, no matter the amount, is very welcome.
If you are able to sponsor me, the best way to do so is via the attached link. Thanks.
http://www.justgiving.com/Guy-Buckland
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Know Your Place
What does it mean to be English? This was one of many thought drifting through my brain today as we stormed around the levels in the ever-diminishing Axbridge Cycling Group peleton. Why diminishing? Well, we started as a group of ten, all of whom would consider themselves part of the "fast" group. This is relative, oh yes. After today, it's very relative, because by the end, there were only five of us left, and two of those, including Mr MMAM, were very definitely there to make up the numbers-if, big if this, we could stay on the wheel of the three Super-beings from South Africa (originally) who came with us.
Of course there are all kinds of national stereotypes. The Italians? All style no substance. Efficient and methodical Germans? Passionate French? Stoical Russians? The world is full of this sort of nonsense. But what are we English about? Are we more like Cavendish or John Major? Gary Lineaker or Gordon Brown?
(Actually, in the case of the Italians it's true-I had an Alfa Romeo once and it certainly looked good, and had a beautiful engine. But the electrics were shocking, it caught fire in the end from a dodgy fuse box. And my Italian cycling kit is also great to look at, but the zip on my gilet is always getting stuck.)
Know your place, yes, in more ways than one. Fortunately, these cycling gods from the rainbow nation are not used to our ways. Literally, they don't know the roads yet, so they have to slow down at junctions and wait for us. Then of course, had you not noticed, the FIFA World Cup is going on at the moment, in South Africa. I have drawn said nation in the office sweepstake, along with those crazy Dutch boyz, and the Black Stars of Ghana (that is their nickname, not as good as the indomitable Lions of the Cameroon, but still pretty good). West Ham used to have a player from Ghana-John Paintsil- but he's gone to Fulham now.
Anyway, our route was a flat visit to the seaside and I was a bit worried about not really getting any training value from this. Fortunately, everyone else must have been concerned too, for they let me go on the front all the way, pretty much, into the stiff westerly breeze. When we reached the last turn before the cafe, it was just me and the (cycling) Divine family, so they all raced off for family honour for the last mile, and the rest of us rolled in, dribs and drabs.
There was much talk of the Marmotte, sportives and Contador over coffee, and I also had the pleasure of the most thickly spread marmite on toast I had ever had. Gorgeous.
Back on the road, it was down the coast, past the lovely Brean complex, and across to Brent Knoll. We lost Doc, his first trip out for a while after an injury, and J and I (I'll think of some names soon), who also headed back to Axbridge by a direct route. This was tough, because I, (as in the initial for the person to be named rather than my personal pronoun-got it?) had been route-plotter in chief. It didn't matter because we were just trailing in the wake of Superboy and his parents. And Superboy was feeling sick today as well, heaven help us when he is fit.
I'm just going to divert a bit to tell you about my Grandma- she's been dead nearly 20 years, but she was a lovely lady, quite short, and very pleasant to all who met her. Except on the sports field, when she could have been playing for Cameroon, she took no prisoners and showed no mercy. In her latter years, she played bowls. It's not time for me to play that sport yet, but if I do, I shall play it like she did. Fierce, she was. Not above firing all the bowls all over the park if she could gain a slight advantage from it. The competitive streak lurks in me somewhere, and I think it comes from her.
Well today I was wondering if some of her genetic material had been implanted in South Africa, way back, for despite my best efforts I was never going to out sprint them. "Nice try" Skip laughingly told me as Superwoman breezed past me on the road into Cheddar. "I used to race" she told me. Earlier, Skip and I had realised that we are now unquestionably the domestiques of the ACG, we know our place.
The English bit? Well, my Gran was always criticised for being too competitive, but she didn't care. And Superwoman and Superboy proudly display their South African flags on their bikes. The England football team lived down to expectations again last night, and somehow i think our culture could do with a bit more of the spirit of Elsie May and the Super family.
In Cheddar there was just time for me to give some driving advice to a man with a trailer who tried to overtake us as we approached a junction. Skip asked me about my blood pressure for some reason. I wasn't polite but nor did I swear, and to be frank, it's our duty to educate people who drive like numpties. Maybe not the best attitude, but better that than dead!
By the time we got back to Axbridge, Skip and I remained, RPM and Boots being the last to disappear off the back. It was a great ride, and I hope they stick with us, because I can learn a thing or two from them, and if nothing else, fetch bottles of water from the team car on the Cheddar Sportive in September. A fast ride, a sunny ride (as my rapidly developing cycling tan will testify), but most of all, a ride where I knew my place.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/36686050
Of course there are all kinds of national stereotypes. The Italians? All style no substance. Efficient and methodical Germans? Passionate French? Stoical Russians? The world is full of this sort of nonsense. But what are we English about? Are we more like Cavendish or John Major? Gary Lineaker or Gordon Brown?
(Actually, in the case of the Italians it's true-I had an Alfa Romeo once and it certainly looked good, and had a beautiful engine. But the electrics were shocking, it caught fire in the end from a dodgy fuse box. And my Italian cycling kit is also great to look at, but the zip on my gilet is always getting stuck.)
Know your place, yes, in more ways than one. Fortunately, these cycling gods from the rainbow nation are not used to our ways. Literally, they don't know the roads yet, so they have to slow down at junctions and wait for us. Then of course, had you not noticed, the FIFA World Cup is going on at the moment, in South Africa. I have drawn said nation in the office sweepstake, along with those crazy Dutch boyz, and the Black Stars of Ghana (that is their nickname, not as good as the indomitable Lions of the Cameroon, but still pretty good). West Ham used to have a player from Ghana-John Paintsil- but he's gone to Fulham now.
Anyway, our route was a flat visit to the seaside and I was a bit worried about not really getting any training value from this. Fortunately, everyone else must have been concerned too, for they let me go on the front all the way, pretty much, into the stiff westerly breeze. When we reached the last turn before the cafe, it was just me and the (cycling) Divine family, so they all raced off for family honour for the last mile, and the rest of us rolled in, dribs and drabs.
There was much talk of the Marmotte, sportives and Contador over coffee, and I also had the pleasure of the most thickly spread marmite on toast I had ever had. Gorgeous.
Back on the road, it was down the coast, past the lovely Brean complex, and across to Brent Knoll. We lost Doc, his first trip out for a while after an injury, and J and I (I'll think of some names soon), who also headed back to Axbridge by a direct route. This was tough, because I, (as in the initial for the person to be named rather than my personal pronoun-got it?) had been route-plotter in chief. It didn't matter because we were just trailing in the wake of Superboy and his parents. And Superboy was feeling sick today as well, heaven help us when he is fit.
I'm just going to divert a bit to tell you about my Grandma- she's been dead nearly 20 years, but she was a lovely lady, quite short, and very pleasant to all who met her. Except on the sports field, when she could have been playing for Cameroon, she took no prisoners and showed no mercy. In her latter years, she played bowls. It's not time for me to play that sport yet, but if I do, I shall play it like she did. Fierce, she was. Not above firing all the bowls all over the park if she could gain a slight advantage from it. The competitive streak lurks in me somewhere, and I think it comes from her.
Well today I was wondering if some of her genetic material had been implanted in South Africa, way back, for despite my best efforts I was never going to out sprint them. "Nice try" Skip laughingly told me as Superwoman breezed past me on the road into Cheddar. "I used to race" she told me. Earlier, Skip and I had realised that we are now unquestionably the domestiques of the ACG, we know our place.
The English bit? Well, my Gran was always criticised for being too competitive, but she didn't care. And Superwoman and Superboy proudly display their South African flags on their bikes. The England football team lived down to expectations again last night, and somehow i think our culture could do with a bit more of the spirit of Elsie May and the Super family.
In Cheddar there was just time for me to give some driving advice to a man with a trailer who tried to overtake us as we approached a junction. Skip asked me about my blood pressure for some reason. I wasn't polite but nor did I swear, and to be frank, it's our duty to educate people who drive like numpties. Maybe not the best attitude, but better that than dead!
By the time we got back to Axbridge, Skip and I remained, RPM and Boots being the last to disappear off the back. It was a great ride, and I hope they stick with us, because I can learn a thing or two from them, and if nothing else, fetch bottles of water from the team car on the Cheddar Sportive in September. A fast ride, a sunny ride (as my rapidly developing cycling tan will testify), but most of all, a ride where I knew my place.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/36686050
Friday, 11 June 2010
Crime and Punishment
Dostoevsky, not a cheerful sort and I doubt if ever did much cycling, mainly because he died shortly after the bicycle was invented, and because unlike Camus, he never wrote or talked about sport in general. I think he dabbled a bit with existentialism though, much like I dabble with serious training-it's an interesting concept and I can see the value, but it's not me really. Old Fyodor was more at ease with morality, politics and psychology if you ask me, but what do I know? My degree was Biochemistry.
The point of this ramble is that today started with a heinous crime. Maybe not as bad as murdering a pawnbroker, but pretty serious. It all relates to the weather forecast. Friday=commuting day, and the added complication that the courtesy car from the garage (although car is a loose description, think cardboard box with wheels and lawnmower-sized engine), well it had to be swapped over, so therefore I had to leave it at home anyway.
So last night then, what was going through my mind? Weather, yes, weather forecast was shocking. Torrential rains, strong north-easterlies, maybe brighter in the afternoon. Riding on Sunday with ACG, and never fancy washing the bike on a Friday night, I know I'll take the winter bike. What's more I better pump its tyres up, check it over, bit of lube and grease, Bob's your uncle. While I was about it I'll make my bottles up the night before, and what colour is the winter bike? A sort of silvery blue, so dig out the blue water bottles for good measure.
This morning dawned grey, bit blowey, but, dry. As a bone. And forecast to be hot in the afternoon. So Light waterproof to keep chill off, and as a contingency (you can't trust the Met office these days), out to the shed and I'll ride the black, lovely, light sleekness that is my P & J. With blue bottles.
I confess, no need for the thumbscrews, guilty as charged of a crime of colour dis-co-ordination. Or something.
The ride? You want to know about the cycling? well it was good, no it was fab. The old maxim of "It doesn't get easier, you just get faster" seems to be true at the moment. Nearly 16mph into work, into a 18mph headwind too, and then above 15mph on the way home, despite a couple of reasonable (600 foot each) climbs. Once up to Failand from central Bristol, and the other up Brockley Coombe to the airport.
There wasn't any punishment to speak of. Today I focused on upping my cadence, which seemed to work, maybe that's why I was so quick. Or that I'm very relaxed this week.
Round trip of about 40-45 miles, and I really enjoyed it.
Charlie worked, the bike worked, it's cleanish for Sunday and the weather forecast looks good. Uh-oh, you know what that means....
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/36488578
The point of this ramble is that today started with a heinous crime. Maybe not as bad as murdering a pawnbroker, but pretty serious. It all relates to the weather forecast. Friday=commuting day, and the added complication that the courtesy car from the garage (although car is a loose description, think cardboard box with wheels and lawnmower-sized engine), well it had to be swapped over, so therefore I had to leave it at home anyway.
So last night then, what was going through my mind? Weather, yes, weather forecast was shocking. Torrential rains, strong north-easterlies, maybe brighter in the afternoon. Riding on Sunday with ACG, and never fancy washing the bike on a Friday night, I know I'll take the winter bike. What's more I better pump its tyres up, check it over, bit of lube and grease, Bob's your uncle. While I was about it I'll make my bottles up the night before, and what colour is the winter bike? A sort of silvery blue, so dig out the blue water bottles for good measure.
This morning dawned grey, bit blowey, but, dry. As a bone. And forecast to be hot in the afternoon. So Light waterproof to keep chill off, and as a contingency (you can't trust the Met office these days), out to the shed and I'll ride the black, lovely, light sleekness that is my P & J. With blue bottles.
I confess, no need for the thumbscrews, guilty as charged of a crime of colour dis-co-ordination. Or something.
The ride? You want to know about the cycling? well it was good, no it was fab. The old maxim of "It doesn't get easier, you just get faster" seems to be true at the moment. Nearly 16mph into work, into a 18mph headwind too, and then above 15mph on the way home, despite a couple of reasonable (600 foot each) climbs. Once up to Failand from central Bristol, and the other up Brockley Coombe to the airport.
There wasn't any punishment to speak of. Today I focused on upping my cadence, which seemed to work, maybe that's why I was so quick. Or that I'm very relaxed this week.
Round trip of about 40-45 miles, and I really enjoyed it.
Charlie worked, the bike worked, it's cleanish for Sunday and the weather forecast looks good. Uh-oh, you know what that means....
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/36488578
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Hikers, horseboxes and hills
Just a short ride, my only one for the weekend too. I decided that I needed to rein back in a bit, and take some rest while I could. I have a busy few weeks ahead of me, both at work and on the riding front, and a few other weekend engagements too.
I decided to do something systematic. I picked a route in advance to incorporate as many short busts of hill as I could find, with one steep moderately long hill (Canada Coombe) in the middle. I then tried to go up those hills as fast as I could for as long as I could, rather than just amble up them. It was also pretty blustery, which mitigated against riding on the flat, and as I headed along Sandford Road, into the wind, I managed to get a tow from a nice big horsebox with a backend the size of a bus. Lovely.
I also remembered that it was the day of Weston Hospicecare's Mendip Challenge Walk. I did it four times in a row 2003-2006, when I was really into hill-walking. The bike has since become my main form of exercise, but I take my hat off to those that did it today, 30 miles on foot, up the Mendips six times (that would be about 5000 feet of ascent), and into the wind to boot. My route today crossed their several times, and I had to shout a restrained warning a couple of times as they couldn't hear me coming.
Chapeau too to Skip, a fantastic ride in the Dragon Sportive by all accounts, which you can read soon on her blog.
Here's my route today:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35921692
I decided to do something systematic. I picked a route in advance to incorporate as many short busts of hill as I could find, with one steep moderately long hill (Canada Coombe) in the middle. I then tried to go up those hills as fast as I could for as long as I could, rather than just amble up them. It was also pretty blustery, which mitigated against riding on the flat, and as I headed along Sandford Road, into the wind, I managed to get a tow from a nice big horsebox with a backend the size of a bus. Lovely.
I also remembered that it was the day of Weston Hospicecare's Mendip Challenge Walk. I did it four times in a row 2003-2006, when I was really into hill-walking. The bike has since become my main form of exercise, but I take my hat off to those that did it today, 30 miles on foot, up the Mendips six times (that would be about 5000 feet of ascent), and into the wind to boot. My route today crossed their several times, and I had to shout a restrained warning a couple of times as they couldn't hear me coming.
Chapeau too to Skip, a fantastic ride in the Dragon Sportive by all accounts, which you can read soon on her blog.
Here's my route today:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35921692
Friday, 4 June 2010
Don't get even, get angry!
Today being a Friday it was commuting day, the weather forecast was for a lovely sunny day so despite:
1. The bike not having been washed post last 2 days of Tour of Wessex
2. Some strange swellings on each side of my ankles, about the size of half an apple
3. Lethargy and tiredness like you can't imagine (still-although also to do with some work I have been doing)
4. Odd numbness in my two little toes on my left foot (like the film) and my right hand being a bit numb still
5. To cap it all the wind forecast was for a north easterly in the morning and a south westerly in the evening, not just a cyclist's moan, it actually turned out like that-headwind in both directions, class.
it just had to be done.
And this morning I felt rough, slow, weak etc. etc. And yet when I looked at the stats for the trip I was amazed to find I had actually done an average speed of 15.7 mph, faster than usual despite everything. The evening run is generally slower as after a day at work and with little food since lunchtime it's hard to keep it up. So to speak. [I do love a good double entendre, don't you, not that that was a particularly good one].
So an average 14.7mph was a bit surprising. I think the momentum was helped significantly by an encounter with a driver who nearly took me out while talking on her mobile phone. I think that anger turned itself into adrenaline which gave me a boost when it was most needed. Hence the title of the post.
My heart rate was also down too, so perhaps I may be gaining a bit of power. If I could organise myself and train systematically I might actually get faster up hills too. While i remember I was 207th out of the 278th who finished the ToW. But of course sportives are not races. The medal was great too.
One final thought, cycling, like most sports, has a huge amount of psychology attached to it. For instance, I doubt if Cadel Evans will ever win a Grand Tour. I just don't think he is mentally tough enough. Another example. After every sportive I have ever done, even the short ones, I'm always pretty tired and feel it the next day. I feel pretty sluggish now and I've only done 45 miles in two trips today. Is it because i know I'm having a day off the bike tomorrow? My brain allows my body to feel tired.
When Bunny and I did LEJOG last year, and then again on ToW last week, we were getting up in the morning saying, "we shouldn't be able to do this", but every time we were able to get on the bike and off we went. Hard, yes, but far from impossible. In Bunny's case actually, fairly easy, but then he is a cycling God.
Any way, voila Charles:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35667427
1. The bike not having been washed post last 2 days of Tour of Wessex
2. Some strange swellings on each side of my ankles, about the size of half an apple
3. Lethargy and tiredness like you can't imagine (still-although also to do with some work I have been doing)
4. Odd numbness in my two little toes on my left foot (like the film) and my right hand being a bit numb still
5. To cap it all the wind forecast was for a north easterly in the morning and a south westerly in the evening, not just a cyclist's moan, it actually turned out like that-headwind in both directions, class.
it just had to be done.
And this morning I felt rough, slow, weak etc. etc. And yet when I looked at the stats for the trip I was amazed to find I had actually done an average speed of 15.7 mph, faster than usual despite everything. The evening run is generally slower as after a day at work and with little food since lunchtime it's hard to keep it up. So to speak. [I do love a good double entendre, don't you, not that that was a particularly good one].
So an average 14.7mph was a bit surprising. I think the momentum was helped significantly by an encounter with a driver who nearly took me out while talking on her mobile phone. I think that anger turned itself into adrenaline which gave me a boost when it was most needed. Hence the title of the post.
My heart rate was also down too, so perhaps I may be gaining a bit of power. If I could organise myself and train systematically I might actually get faster up hills too. While i remember I was 207th out of the 278th who finished the ToW. But of course sportives are not races. The medal was great too.
One final thought, cycling, like most sports, has a huge amount of psychology attached to it. For instance, I doubt if Cadel Evans will ever win a Grand Tour. I just don't think he is mentally tough enough. Another example. After every sportive I have ever done, even the short ones, I'm always pretty tired and feel it the next day. I feel pretty sluggish now and I've only done 45 miles in two trips today. Is it because i know I'm having a day off the bike tomorrow? My brain allows my body to feel tired.
When Bunny and I did LEJOG last year, and then again on ToW last week, we were getting up in the morning saying, "we shouldn't be able to do this", but every time we were able to get on the bike and off we went. Hard, yes, but far from impossible. In Bunny's case actually, fairly easy, but then he is a cycling God.
Any way, voila Charles:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35667427
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
I wish I was Mark Cavendish-Tour of Wessex 2010
You may think this is an odd title for a post, and of course I am really quite happy being me. But there are lots of reasons why I would like to have some of his life, sometimes. That was the thought going through my head at about 4.35PM yesterday afternoon as I zoomed, yes zoomed, down South Hill towards the finish of three days of the Tour of Wessex.
For starters I could celebrate properly as I crossed the line. Actually, for starters I would have been across the line about three hours before, steaming in at rapid pace pursued by some despairing Europeans, and yet still fresh as a daisy. Second, I could hand my bike to someone else to wash and fix, not worry about the new gloves or brake blocks I now need, or the fact I've used up all my chamois cream. For in Mark's world, all those things just appear like magic, along with fresh, nutritious food that you don't have to buy yourself or even cook. And of course someone would massage those barely-aching super-toned thighs. (Is this becoming a bit too homoerotic?).
For all his wealth, talent, model girlfriends and all round chirpiness, there are two things I have in common with Cav. His honesty (Bunny said I'm too honest-how can that be so, when certain others are always telling me I'm lying?), and the other is a sheer joy of cycling. So as I came down that hill, weary though I was after 23 hours and nearly 23 mins, 45 secs (my total elapsed time for all 329 miles in three days, I had a little sprint. Not much, just enough to show I could still cut it. No v-signs or "up yours" gesture, but I did take my hands off the bars as i crossed the line.
But enough of the philosophy, what about the ride?
DAY 1
Well Saturday dawned, almost, through the rain and mist and as we drove towards Somerton we hoped it would brighten up in the afternoon. The weather forecast predicted as such, and it was one of the thoughts that sustained us on Saturday, as we headed over familiar territory around Glasto, the levels, Wedmore and onto Cheddar. No sprinting today mind, as i was out to conserve energy.
It had been a fast start, but the pace slowed amid the tourists and buses in Cheddar gorge. All combined together with the rain and spray to cause a couple of bumps and crashes on that steep corner, which Bunny got caught up in. One car driver tried to overtake all the resulting traffic jam, only to reverse in the face of oncoming traffic. Chaos. Fortunately I had avoided it all, and we continued up to the top of the Mendips.
Where I got confused as the route had changed to head straight past Priddy, rather than down Burrington. I was delighted to have avoided Harptree Hill though, as I explained to anyone who'd listen at the feedstop. Which was nicely perched in an exposed layby at the top of the hill, subjected to the southerly wind and rain. I nicknamed it "The coldest feedstation in Britain". We didn't linger.
We ploughed on to Wells and up to Shepton (the steep way) before heading down the main road towards the showground-more chaos as some riders had skidded and crashed half-way down the hill. By the time we got to Bruton it was easing, and we arrived at another small village with a less-exposed feedstop. It was here we encountered "The angriest farmer in Wiltshire", complaining that the cyclists would not stop for his cows or when he parked his tractor across the road. The organiser did his best, but lacked the right tone and tact, ("these guys have got to cycle 106 miles, they are not going to stop") and the farmer roared off in his van, narrowly missing some cyclists, having uttered the immortal lines "I don't care if they've got to cycle 1000 miles, I want to move my cows". It was cooling again, so we went to do battle with King Alfred's Tower- a very nasty little hill, that peaks at 25% I believe.
Groups formed, disbanded and re-formed all day, and I was following advice to suck those wheels and save energy, as we looped almost to Warminster. Across the rolling downland we headed through the grounds of Stourhead House and down to Castle Cary, before a final 10 miles across the flat, into the wind back to Somerton. One chap pulled into the middle of the route, asking me to take a turn on the front, only to latch onto another, faster group after I had done my stint. I saw him do a similar thing on Monday too.
Just as we arrived back in Somerton after 7 or so hours of cycling and 106 miles of Somerst and Wiltshire's finest roads, the heavens opened and we were deluged again.
My average moving speed was 15.3 mph, there was about 6K feet of climbing, and the reliable Cateye says 106.36 miles. My total time is likely to be around 7-10, moving time, 6-56. Charlie was a bit temperamental, but you can see the route here:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/34958099
So it was a wet day, a windy day and a tough day. But it seemed to go surprisingly well and both Bunny and I felt reasonably OK when we got home. If it hadn't of been for the rain it would have been a lovely day, so we duly washed our bikes, stuffed our faces and went to bed early, ready for Day 2.
DAY 2
It was off to the seaside Sunday was 118 miles long, down to the coast of Dorset and back to Somerton. The weather was bright and breezy and we made good time out towards Sherborne. From there we headed across the rolling Dorset countryside, the wind at our backs, and some pretty fast groups streaming though delightful villages. We eventually arrived at the first feedstop, at the layby where you can see the Cerne Abbas giant in all his glory. Some say it was something to do with Cromwell, others a strange fertility rite, but I think he's an early cyclist with an ineffective pump (sorry).
Next on it was on towards the coast, peaking over the cliff towards Lulworth Cove, before steaming down to sea level and back up again to the tank training centre and up a beautful ridge above the tank firing range at Lulworth, burnt out tanks there were, but no shells overhead. Would have been exciting.
Next was my favourite castle in the world at Corfe, sadly not as deserted as when I used to go with my parents back in the 70s and 60s, so we didn't linger. By the time we reached the second feedstop it was into the headwind, and despite trying to keep with a fast moving group I couldn't do it. I ended up betwixt and between again, too slow for the fast, too fast for the slow, so ended up riding solo. Story of my life some might say.
Another steep hill at Bulbarrow, and once down from its technical descent it was a rolling effort back to Somerton. For the last 20 miles I fell in with a group of nice South Africans (there's a lot of them about at the moment), before stuffing a few gels down my throat and limping to the finish.
A bit slower but still respectable, 15.1 mph moving speed, about 8hrs 20 mins in total Charlie's stats are still a bit temperamental, but here's the route:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35091230.
Day 3
The biggie. My strategy was simple, get to the base of the hills in a reasonable time, and then limp home. The weather was glorious, not too hot, but very sunny, little or no wind, and bone-dry. Glad it was that way round to be honest.
We raced (not literally for a sportive is not of course a race) across the levels through Langport and wended our way past Bridgwater to the base of the Quantocks. It was the fastest start of the three, and the 20 miles took only a shade over an hour as a group of 20 or so co-operated to barrel us along. Don't worry, I did my turn for about a mile, but it was when Bunny hit the front that I knew I'd had it. Up Broomfield Hill we went, where I was trailing most of the field, only to overtake lots of them as the feedstop was not where it was supposed to be.
I ploughed on without refreshments, relying on my own supplies, of which I was getting very sick, and Bunny past me again on Quantock common. That was the last I saw of him, as i got slower and slower. The Quantocks have no flat bits at all, I bet even the people have different sized legs to cope with all the slopes. But we were soon on the coast road, amongst the tourists and I managed a fair lick on my own down the long straight past Dunster castle and all the tourist traffic heading for a nice day out at Butlins.
A holiday camp was far from my mind as I took on board another cake-bar and a gel for good measure at the base of Dunkerry Beacon. If I had won an award for wheel-sucking on Saturday, I would have been world champ at gurning on Monday as I heaved, spluttered and zig-zagged up the toughest hill I have ever cycled up. Tougher than the Andes on an MTB. Or the gliding club. It probably didn't help that I had 55 miles done on the day and over 270 for the two days by that point. But never was I so pleased to see a photographer, for that means the end of the hill is nigh.
Quick stop on the top for a drink, then down, down, mainly down to Bishop's Lydiard, before a final sting in the tail-Cothelstone Hill. 17%? They are assassins.
Then it was a long flattish run back to Somerton, south hill and my Cav-cum-zen-like musings. A really lovely day, and Bunny was enthused by the wonderful wild garlic smell in the woods and on the moors. The views from the top were fabulous and had i not been so exhausted I would have loved every minute of it.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35246479
Yet again Charlie not too accurate, although I clocked about 103 miles at 13,9 mph. Not too bad all told, I was happy to finish in an overall time of 23-23-45, (bunny did 21-50, he truly is a cycling god, but does he enjoy it as much as me?) including stops, a bit less without. I could find out, but that would miss the point for me really. It was enough to finish, and ride every inch of the way, to not push (in these shoes?) and amazingly given the amount of food i ate-to not barf! Is that too Cav-like again?
A nice medal too, certificate and apart from the one mix-up, excellent food, signage and organisation. Still don't know what the NEG do though.
Best of all I have surprised myself. Cycling pleasure still outweighs the pain I'm afraid, and though this may have some unfortunate consequences peripherally, what's the alternative? Troughing in Minehead on a Bank Holiday, or struggling up to the Beacon on a black carbon road bike? No contest my friends, no contest.
For starters I could celebrate properly as I crossed the line. Actually, for starters I would have been across the line about three hours before, steaming in at rapid pace pursued by some despairing Europeans, and yet still fresh as a daisy. Second, I could hand my bike to someone else to wash and fix, not worry about the new gloves or brake blocks I now need, or the fact I've used up all my chamois cream. For in Mark's world, all those things just appear like magic, along with fresh, nutritious food that you don't have to buy yourself or even cook. And of course someone would massage those barely-aching super-toned thighs. (Is this becoming a bit too homoerotic?).
For all his wealth, talent, model girlfriends and all round chirpiness, there are two things I have in common with Cav. His honesty (Bunny said I'm too honest-how can that be so, when certain others are always telling me I'm lying?), and the other is a sheer joy of cycling. So as I came down that hill, weary though I was after 23 hours and nearly 23 mins, 45 secs (my total elapsed time for all 329 miles in three days, I had a little sprint. Not much, just enough to show I could still cut it. No v-signs or "up yours" gesture, but I did take my hands off the bars as i crossed the line.
But enough of the philosophy, what about the ride?
DAY 1
Well Saturday dawned, almost, through the rain and mist and as we drove towards Somerton we hoped it would brighten up in the afternoon. The weather forecast predicted as such, and it was one of the thoughts that sustained us on Saturday, as we headed over familiar territory around Glasto, the levels, Wedmore and onto Cheddar. No sprinting today mind, as i was out to conserve energy.
It had been a fast start, but the pace slowed amid the tourists and buses in Cheddar gorge. All combined together with the rain and spray to cause a couple of bumps and crashes on that steep corner, which Bunny got caught up in. One car driver tried to overtake all the resulting traffic jam, only to reverse in the face of oncoming traffic. Chaos. Fortunately I had avoided it all, and we continued up to the top of the Mendips.
Where I got confused as the route had changed to head straight past Priddy, rather than down Burrington. I was delighted to have avoided Harptree Hill though, as I explained to anyone who'd listen at the feedstop. Which was nicely perched in an exposed layby at the top of the hill, subjected to the southerly wind and rain. I nicknamed it "The coldest feedstation in Britain". We didn't linger.
We ploughed on to Wells and up to Shepton (the steep way) before heading down the main road towards the showground-more chaos as some riders had skidded and crashed half-way down the hill. By the time we got to Bruton it was easing, and we arrived at another small village with a less-exposed feedstop. It was here we encountered "The angriest farmer in Wiltshire", complaining that the cyclists would not stop for his cows or when he parked his tractor across the road. The organiser did his best, but lacked the right tone and tact, ("these guys have got to cycle 106 miles, they are not going to stop") and the farmer roared off in his van, narrowly missing some cyclists, having uttered the immortal lines "I don't care if they've got to cycle 1000 miles, I want to move my cows". It was cooling again, so we went to do battle with King Alfred's Tower- a very nasty little hill, that peaks at 25% I believe.
Groups formed, disbanded and re-formed all day, and I was following advice to suck those wheels and save energy, as we looped almost to Warminster. Across the rolling downland we headed through the grounds of Stourhead House and down to Castle Cary, before a final 10 miles across the flat, into the wind back to Somerton. One chap pulled into the middle of the route, asking me to take a turn on the front, only to latch onto another, faster group after I had done my stint. I saw him do a similar thing on Monday too.
Just as we arrived back in Somerton after 7 or so hours of cycling and 106 miles of Somerst and Wiltshire's finest roads, the heavens opened and we were deluged again.
My average moving speed was 15.3 mph, there was about 6K feet of climbing, and the reliable Cateye says 106.36 miles. My total time is likely to be around 7-10, moving time, 6-56. Charlie was a bit temperamental, but you can see the route here:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/34958099
So it was a wet day, a windy day and a tough day. But it seemed to go surprisingly well and both Bunny and I felt reasonably OK when we got home. If it hadn't of been for the rain it would have been a lovely day, so we duly washed our bikes, stuffed our faces and went to bed early, ready for Day 2.
DAY 2
It was off to the seaside Sunday was 118 miles long, down to the coast of Dorset and back to Somerton. The weather was bright and breezy and we made good time out towards Sherborne. From there we headed across the rolling Dorset countryside, the wind at our backs, and some pretty fast groups streaming though delightful villages. We eventually arrived at the first feedstop, at the layby where you can see the Cerne Abbas giant in all his glory. Some say it was something to do with Cromwell, others a strange fertility rite, but I think he's an early cyclist with an ineffective pump (sorry).
Next on it was on towards the coast, peaking over the cliff towards Lulworth Cove, before steaming down to sea level and back up again to the tank training centre and up a beautful ridge above the tank firing range at Lulworth, burnt out tanks there were, but no shells overhead. Would have been exciting.
Next was my favourite castle in the world at Corfe, sadly not as deserted as when I used to go with my parents back in the 70s and 60s, so we didn't linger. By the time we reached the second feedstop it was into the headwind, and despite trying to keep with a fast moving group I couldn't do it. I ended up betwixt and between again, too slow for the fast, too fast for the slow, so ended up riding solo. Story of my life some might say.
Another steep hill at Bulbarrow, and once down from its technical descent it was a rolling effort back to Somerton. For the last 20 miles I fell in with a group of nice South Africans (there's a lot of them about at the moment), before stuffing a few gels down my throat and limping to the finish.
A bit slower but still respectable, 15.1 mph moving speed, about 8hrs 20 mins in total Charlie's stats are still a bit temperamental, but here's the route:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35091230.
Day 3
The biggie. My strategy was simple, get to the base of the hills in a reasonable time, and then limp home. The weather was glorious, not too hot, but very sunny, little or no wind, and bone-dry. Glad it was that way round to be honest.
We raced (not literally for a sportive is not of course a race) across the levels through Langport and wended our way past Bridgwater to the base of the Quantocks. It was the fastest start of the three, and the 20 miles took only a shade over an hour as a group of 20 or so co-operated to barrel us along. Don't worry, I did my turn for about a mile, but it was when Bunny hit the front that I knew I'd had it. Up Broomfield Hill we went, where I was trailing most of the field, only to overtake lots of them as the feedstop was not where it was supposed to be.
I ploughed on without refreshments, relying on my own supplies, of which I was getting very sick, and Bunny past me again on Quantock common. That was the last I saw of him, as i got slower and slower. The Quantocks have no flat bits at all, I bet even the people have different sized legs to cope with all the slopes. But we were soon on the coast road, amongst the tourists and I managed a fair lick on my own down the long straight past Dunster castle and all the tourist traffic heading for a nice day out at Butlins.
A holiday camp was far from my mind as I took on board another cake-bar and a gel for good measure at the base of Dunkerry Beacon. If I had won an award for wheel-sucking on Saturday, I would have been world champ at gurning on Monday as I heaved, spluttered and zig-zagged up the toughest hill I have ever cycled up. Tougher than the Andes on an MTB. Or the gliding club. It probably didn't help that I had 55 miles done on the day and over 270 for the two days by that point. But never was I so pleased to see a photographer, for that means the end of the hill is nigh.
Quick stop on the top for a drink, then down, down, mainly down to Bishop's Lydiard, before a final sting in the tail-Cothelstone Hill. 17%? They are assassins.
Then it was a long flattish run back to Somerton, south hill and my Cav-cum-zen-like musings. A really lovely day, and Bunny was enthused by the wonderful wild garlic smell in the woods and on the moors. The views from the top were fabulous and had i not been so exhausted I would have loved every minute of it.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/35246479
Yet again Charlie not too accurate, although I clocked about 103 miles at 13,9 mph. Not too bad all told, I was happy to finish in an overall time of 23-23-45, (bunny did 21-50, he truly is a cycling god, but does he enjoy it as much as me?) including stops, a bit less without. I could find out, but that would miss the point for me really. It was enough to finish, and ride every inch of the way, to not push (in these shoes?) and amazingly given the amount of food i ate-to not barf! Is that too Cav-like again?
A nice medal too, certificate and apart from the one mix-up, excellent food, signage and organisation. Still don't know what the NEG do though.
Best of all I have surprised myself. Cycling pleasure still outweighs the pain I'm afraid, and though this may have some unfortunate consequences peripherally, what's the alternative? Troughing in Minehead on a Bank Holiday, or struggling up to the Beacon on a black carbon road bike? No contest my friends, no contest.
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