Thoughts.

I’m sitting on the train back home from London and the realisation of what I’ve achieved finally sinks in. I smile to myself as I glance out of the window at the houses rushing past and then again as I look at my bike resting against the inside of the train.
What an amazing piece of machinery. Not as flash or expensive as other bikes on the trip but special to me in it’s own way. Each mark, scratch, dollop of dried on energy gel it’s own story.
The lady sitting across from me looks at me quizzically, wondering why I’m so smug. I want to tell her, hell, I want to tell everybody sitting on the train about what I’ve done but it’s satisfying to let her wonder and wallow in my own happiness.
Three days previously, I am on the same train, just in the opposite direction. My bike gleaming and a million worries rotating inside my head. Full of self doubt, nervousness, but excitement at the prospect that lay ahead.
I’d arrived at the hostel/prison for young men to meet the others with a feeling not too dissimilar to that of a first date. I had a picture of the people from chatting on the forum, some I’d even met on other rides but it was still a great unknown and I stood quietly for a while as last minute preparations were finished.
I won’t bore you with details of the route, a breakdown of the 302 miles or what I ate on any particular day because I don’t think you need to know and likewise there are some things that happened that I don’t want to share because those memories belong to me and nobody else.
I’m not an arrogant or big headed person so please don’t take this statement as such but I found the ride easier than I thought it would be. I am not saying it was a breeze because three rides of that distance will never be easy but I assume that the training I did made it easier for myself.
When embarking on the trip, I expected pain, suffering, misery and a challenge that I would struggle on. It sounds strange but I feel cheated that it didn’t hurt more. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the trip, quite the opposite in fact but when I arrived at the Eiffel Tower, there was an anticlimax to the whole event, more a release rather than a chequered flag.
I thought I would be emotional. Writing my final blog last week, I felt choked and I assumed that those feelings would stay with me until I reached Paris. I don’t really know what I was expecting but what I felt wasn’t what I thought I would. I suppose the easiest way to express it would be to say that I ticked the box, job done.
I couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to go away with. Each individual had their own story and I think I shared some moments that will lodge in everyone’s memory for a lifetime.
I think we all shared a reality check when we visited the War Grave Cemetary at Etaples. Here we are, riding across France when in the not too distant past men of my age were fighting for their country. It was touching to watch as my friends walked around the graves paying respect to those who gave so much for so little.

Apologies, if you’re reading this and thinking that I’m depressed. I’m not, it’s just I’ve had a lot of time to think about things and realise that I am a lot more fortunate than some.
I achieved what I set out to do. Prepare for a trip and follow something through for the first time in my life. The problem is that I am left with more questions than answers and a hunger for bigger, better things. I thought it would close a chapter but it’s opened a door and given me a taste of things that I can do with my life.

The trip brought an abundance of highlights, the long, hair-pinned descent on day two, the steady climb on day three. Cobbles, the Champs Elysees. Riding in the tyre marks of my heroes. Not just the professional ones or the casualties of war but the other 21 who did something amazing in their own way.

Redemption

I feel like a cliff diver standing on the edge looking at the white water below as it crashes against the rocks. I know what it will feel like if I jump, that moment of freefall as my mind goes blank and the air around me goes silent.
The whistle of the wind as my senses overload and my heartbeat quickens. The adrenaline pumps as the fragile body plummets, placing all faith in destiny and the outcome of life and death with chance.
Like a poker player, you plan, plot, scheme and prepare as best you can but in the end it all comes down to fate. As the dealer flips the final cards, will it be a triumphant punch in the air, like the diver returning to the surface or will it be that one gamble too far, the soul destroying sink to the ocean floor?

7 months of training have come to this. Tomorrow, my grand depart on my own Tour de France. I know now that I have done all I can and I feel ready, stronger. I still feel like I’m standing on the edge, on the brink of something special, something defining. A challenge.

To some, a challenge that may not seem that mean a feat. I’ve had it all over the last few months. The supporters, the disbelievers, the questioners, the mocking. 300 miles? That’s easy… oh I did that last year. Not much of a challenge is it?

I am not doing this for anyone else. Not for a charity. Not for a group of people less fortunate than myself. Not for a jolly. Not for a laugh or because it’s there. I’m doing this for me. I find that for some people this is the hardest thing that they fail to understand. The selfishness of it all.

I don’t care about anything else. I need to do this to prove it to myself that I can. That for once, I follow through with something that I set out to do. For once, I don’t take the easy option. For once, I train and I put in the hard work and I deserve every bit of goodness that comes out of that hard work.

For the times when I’ve said no to the alcohol, no to the chocolate bar, for the double training sessions when all I want to do is rest. The early starts, the look on my girlfriend and children’s faces when for the umpteenth weekend in a row I’ve put on my cycling gear and said, “I’ll see you this evening.”

Cold, wet, hot, dry miles. Miles on my own, miles with friends, miles with strangers. Miles when the wind is blowing in my face and the rain is clinging and dripping in equal measures. When it’s so hot that you just can’t take any more and question, “Why did I agree to this?” Days when I’ve felt like I can’t turn the pedal one more time, when my lungs hurt so much on that final climb that they feel like they must be filling with blood. The days when I’m flying, invincible and that hill that I walked up last year felt effortless this year. The days when I could take on the world and days when I want to curl up in a ball and sob so that the world can forget about me.

These are the days that make me stronger, the days that define a person, the days that I must go through to better myself and become the person I want to be. The days when I can puff out my chest and scream at the top of my voice, “THE REASON I AM HERE TODAY IS BECAUSE OF ME”

Me, 300 miles, 3 days and the start of the rest of my life.

Let’s finish the game.

Fantastic Mr Fash

I was watching the new version of Gladiators the other day and I think that Ian Wright is trying to be the new John Fashanu.

I like Ian Wright, I should really, being an Arsenal fan but I don’t really think he’s good enough to live up to the Fash.

For starters, Fash had the catchphrase. “Awooooga!” * Sure, it was silly and a little out of place and a bit pathetic but the fans lapped it up like a tiny kitten at a saucer of milk.

Fash is the ultimate professional too. He comes across all nice and fun on Gladiators but I’ve seen the darker side to the man when he was manager for the reality TV series Fash’s Football Challenge. He can be one mean, moody guy and never hesitated to put players in their place. He rolled up at training with the big manager’s coat and the attitude of a man who facilitated the Wimbledon glory days, sort of Big Ron meets P.Diddy.

These are qualities that I don’t think Ian Wright will ever aspire to. Wrighty’s too cockney wide boy to rival the Fash.

I wondered what the Fash is up to now (briefly) and so googled him to find out. Wikipedia claim he’s hosting the Nigerian version of Deal or no Deal. I guess the same title could have been given to the contract to appear. Is that a step up or down?
Does he get to wear Noel-esque jumpers?
Is the Nigerian banker the same one that keeps emailing me to cash a banker’s draft for him and take a massive cut?

That would be fantastic for the winner of the show. “Here’s your banker’s draft for a million pounds. You can take the money or you can have this draft for $4,000,000 which we require to be moved outside of the country. Your assistance is required by the Bank of Nigeria and for completing the transfer, you will receive 50% of the funds as commission….”

So Fash, you’re a hero, a gent and a scholar. Keep up the good work and maybe one day you’ll aspire to the genius that is Kris Akabusi MBE. He’s an inspirational corporate speaker now, if you’re wondering and has his own Facebook page “The Kris Akabusi Sex Stories……..”

*There is some contention as to who coined this particular catchphrase as both Fash and Akabusi utilised it throughout appearances on Gladiators.

Pearson 150 Sportive

What’s the best recovery for a 112 mile Friday? A 94 mile sportive on the Sunday.

It was always my plan to have a big weekend of riding to try to mimic some of the distance I would be completing in June.

The Pearson 150 seemed like a good idea and all for a good cause so I signed up.

When Sunday morning actually arrived, I had little wish to do another long ride but gave myself the option of changing to the shorter route if I really felt bad after starting out, although this was never really an option……

After the first few miles, I felt pretty good and joined onto a group of riders from the South West Road Club. They were a bit too leisurely for my liking though so I upped the pace and found a faster group up the road.

The route was really nice and almost identical to the one that the British Heart Foundation use for their annual London to Brighton route. It seemed like no time at all when I arrived at the bottom of Ditchling Beacon.

I’m happy to say that the Beacon wasn’t too much of a challenge and I got up it without too much drama. I spent most of the time laughing at the guy in front of me riding up on a singlespeed….

I would have loved to forget the ride back and stay at the seaside. The weather was really hotting up and it seemed a much better prospect than riding back. I continued on though and reached the feed stop just outside Brighton which was really well stocked.

I think for a ride of this distance, only one stop is necessary as sometimes it’s all too easy to stop when it’s not really needed.

The route back was a mixture of quiet lanes, most of which I’d seen on Friday. This was quite fortunate as the signs were a bit on the small side and not very prominent in places. The blue writing on a white background was not very eye catching!

A final sting in the tale came with the climb up to Headley followed by a descent and a final climb up over Epsom Downs. The little energy I had, quickly evaporated from me.

I think Pearson’s first sportive was a success. Well organised, fast registration. A good HQ with parking and food stands, chip timing and a goody bag with a few food products to go along with the warm glow of some of the money going to charity….

The good (my first century), the bad (solo), the ugly (me for the rest of the evening)

With the Paris trip looming on the horizon it looked like only a weekend filled with misery and suffering would pave the way to a successful journey. I’m not talking about a Desperate Housewives boxed set or an afternoon watching Beaches, I’m talking about manly miles, on the road, in the heat.

One of the nice things about having a forum with the guys from the London to Paris trip is the ability to chat and get to know each other before the big off. One of the not so nice things is seeing all the mileage that others are clocking up and feeling inadequate. Information brings it’s own pressure…

I had decided that I wanted to complete a century ride in the hope that it would take away some of the anxiety I was feeling.
The route I planned was a quiet, country lane route down to Shoreham and then along the coast towards Brighton and back up and past Charlwood onto a reverse of the “club run” route. I figured that seeing familiar roads towards the end of the ride would spur me on.

I loaded up with plenty of snacks and set off at a relaxed, steady pace of around 17mph on the flats and less on the hills. No heroics, no out of the saddle efforts and the granny ring for any climbs to conserve energy.

By the time I got to Shoreham after 50 odd miles, I was feeling pretty fresh. It was pretty warm and I had been looking forward to an ice cream on the seafront for miles but arrived to find the only part of the UK coastline that prides itself on it’s industry. I ended up sat on the floor outside a newsagent eating a mini tub of Pringles.

Pushing disappointment aside, I carried on and started the climb back up onto the South Downs towards Devils Dyke. I then proceeded to take a wrong turning into the A27, down the big hill I’d just climbed and then looped back up, going 3 miles out of my way. Words can’t describe how low I was feeling at this point.

Coming off the Downs was a nice respite and I saw over 45mph on the speedo as I descended. My shorts almost saw similar trajectory speeds as tipped the bike in for the left hander at the bottom of the hill.

Miles ticked on and on as the route looked like it was never going to end. Riding solo is definitely a real challenge. The boredom is something that you just have to get used to. I found myself making a rhythm out of my pedal revolutions as my mind failed to think of things to amuse me.

70 miles was another low point. I guessed that I still had 40 miles to go and by now the heat was a nightmare. If someone pulled up in a car and offered me a lift, I’d have taken it.
The day progressed and as I got closer to home, it became beyond the point of quitting. What’s the point of giving up at 80 or 90 miles?
When I reached Charlwood, the familiar roads did help and I managed to carry on until the end.

I passed the 100 mile mark just after Reigate. I didn’t really know what I was expecting but the odometer clicked past 100 without celebration. What was I expecting? A bottle of Champagne to parachute down from the sky? My phone to ring and a personal “well done” from the Queen? I’d have settled for a little tune from my speedo but Garmin can’t even manage that…..

In total, I rode 112 miles and feel happy that I can now consider myself a proper cyclist….

SWRC May Flyer Review

Last year, I took part in my first sportive – the SWRC May Flyer. It was the first time that I had attempted a 50 mile ride and although I found it difficult and walked up several of the hills, I found it enjoyable.

This year, I was keen to have another go and see how much I had improved.

Grey filled the skies above Cobham as we signed on in the morning. I’d opted again for the shorter route as I was riding with a couple of friends. The registration was well organised and only took a few minutes. I was a little disappointed that there were no free gels like last year.

The route starts nicely and soon we were into a steady rhythm. We were all looking for the photographer on the first climb to style out the shots for the camera but he wasn’t there and caught us by surprise on the first hairpin of the descent.

Potholes were a frequent problem to avoid but that seems to be the norm for most UK roads at the moment. The ride was mainly traffic free and I’m pleased to say that the hills proved little of a challenge this year and were quite enjoyable!

Unfortunately, some of the route markings disappeared around the halfway mark which meant that we lost some time checking the maps and confirming the route at some junctions. The organisers have stated that this was only a problem on the short circuit.

Overall, I found it a pleasant day and one I shall be repeating next year, although I’ll probably go for the longer route. I think the organisation wasn’t as slick as last year and hope that SWRC make more of an effort next year to make things run without a hitch.

Nemesis

An elephant in the corner, a monster in the room - call it what you will but for some time now i've been avoiding the subject. Nemesis.
Since I started out on my bike, i've come to realise that my body and style of riding don't suit hills. Little ones, I can power over. Long gradual ones, I can stick it in the granny ring and gently roll over. Short sharp ones, I curl up in a ball and cry.
Recent months have brought some success on the hills and i've had some good experiences in Wales and other more recent events and rides. There's one hill though that has been talked about for some time amongst my friends and one that I always route to avoid. Nemesis.
Talk this week between us centred around which hills were the worst. It was agreed that some are worse than others for gradient, some for hitting you at the end of a certain route when you're already tired and some because they are just so ferocious they punch you in the groin and then urinate on you as you lie shaking uncontrollably at their feet. Nemesis.
I decided it was time today to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Kraken and dare to ascend it.
I set off this morning, having planned a 15 mile route out to Nemesis, the ascent and then a 12 mile route back. Today wasn't about rushing so I kept the pace sensible, all the while, thinking about what lay in wait for me at the end.
Kevin Spacey's words from The Usual Suspects kept ringing in my head, "How can you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss?"
I turned off the A25 and arrived at Chalkpit Lane - Nemesis. 453ft of ascending in 0.9 of a mile.
There are steeper, more renowned hills out there - Wynnatt's Pass, Mow Kop but they're not close enough for me to worry about or skirt around routinely. This was my challenge.
The road eased skywards and I set into a rhythm. This wasn't too bad.....
I passed a sign that warned 20% and I approached the hairpin. I was out of the saddle in my lowest gear, turning a pathetic cadence when my legs decided that they'd had enough. I stopped. Pathetic.
I felt like Rocky Balboa when he first ran up the 72 steps outside the Philadelphia Museum of Art, dejected, distraught. I was certain of one thing though - I was not going to walk.
My breath came back, I took a swig of water and climbed back on. I pedalled all the way to the top.
Why the negativity? "Why the shame," you ask? I made it up without walking didn't I? There's an unwritten rule in cycling. If you have to unclip on a climb, you haven't conquered it. I'd gone the distance with Apollo Creed, shown him what I was made of, taken it to the bell but he'd knocked me down in the second round and won on points.
I'm bruised, battered and my pride is dented but I demand a rematch....