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.