Isle of Wet

Waiting to board at Yarmouth

“Do you think I need to carry a gillet today?” was the question I asked Mike and Henry as we we’re taking the bikes off the car in the car park close to the Lymington ferry terminal. With hindsight it was a poignant question and one that I’m glad I listened to Mike’s sensible answer that it was worth carrying just in case, rather than Henry’s “I’m not gonna bother, you need to man the F$%k up.”


The skies looked grey, confirming the promised forecast of showers, as we rode the short distance to collect tickets, banana and chocolate biscuit at the ferry terminal. It’s the first time I’d ever entered a calendared Audax event and I was excited at the possibilities that lay ahead. Sportives have usually been my thing but recent entries have rocketed up in price and in some cases, failed to deliver. An event for £17 that promised three ferries and some refreshments was an absolute bargain in my eyes. Mike assured me that the term “ferry” should be used loosely with regards to the chain ferry at Cowes but I remained optimistic.

We left port and set sail for the low seas, catching up on recent news and wondering what lay ahead. I hadn’t visited the island (as Henry a “local” from Southampton calls it”) since I was a 10 year old boy, bar an incident involving my friend’s speed boat, Yarmouth harbour police and a lot of alcohol. I hope this visit was more pleasant than the one my 10 year old self endured when my mate and I were called “arseholes” by a bunch of girls passing our hotel and David (every school had one – you know the type) chucked up, splashing sick on my trousers.

After a short time, we docked at Yarmouth and waited eagerly as the landing ramp lowered to reveal a wall of rain. On with my gillet and out onto the road as within minutes I was as wet as I have ever been.

I’d like to say the views were magnificent but I had the option of either wearing my cycling glasses and wiping them every 30 seconds to reveal a partial strip of tarmac or removing them and squinting ahead, holding back the tears as the rain savagely stung my eyes. The climb up to the needles was welcome to get some warmth into my body and we were amongst the first people there, which made life a bit tricky on the descent as we dodged those ascending behind us. With the constant rolling roads, it was hard to settle into a rhythm, made more difficult by my eccentric chain, which decided to jump out and scream for attention whenever I shifted up to the big ring. It was like having a Shimano version of Graham Norton spinning between my legs.

There comes a point on a wet ride that I like to call “total saturation” where you reach a point where you can’t get any wetter, usually followed by a shake of the head and a laugh. I thought I’d reached this point several times.

We arrived at the control café and warmed up over a cup of coffee. Henry had thought Mike and I had signed up for the full 200km ride but we’d only signed up to the 150km Century ride. After we mocked him and he told us to toughen up, talk turned to how much more rain we’d endure before we packed.

Henry was determined to finish but Mike and I had decided that we were at about an 80% chance of packing after 100km back at Lymington and conveniently close to the warm, dry car, containing warm, dry clothes.

We set off again into the rain, evidently at the right time, preceding the power cut that was yet to blight the café when water leaked through the roof. Henry was in good form and so after a few more miles we sent him on his way as it looked more and more likely that we were going to quit. Even though we had GPS tracks to show the way, rain and steamy glasses was making navigation difficult and it was hard to enjoy the ride because of the concentration of just staying upright. Grit washed onto the quieter lanes got the better of my rear tyre as it hissed air at me. We stopped and changed the tube, aided little by my new Lezyne pump which exploded into pieces in my hand. The new tube was defective which led to more delays and a further replacement as a kind stranger came out of their house to offer a track pump.

On our way again, Mike’s Garmin decided to fill with water and stop working which made for an expensive day for him. My chain was still being silly and so shortly before the chain ferry we decided that 80% was 100% and there are some times when you just have to admit you’re not enjoying it.

With the weight of finishing lifted from our shoulders, the sun emerged as we arrived back into Yarmouth and we made the ferry crossing to return home, 100km under our soggy belts.

A wet me, happy to be quitting at Yarmouth

We called John to say thanks for organising the event and to make sure he knew we would be DNF. I will be back to complete the full route on a sunnier day and to sample the refreshments at the finish HQ. In my opinion, Audaxes offer a cheaper, nicer alternative to the overpriced sportive market and I look forward to sampling more in the future.

I think I’ve had my fair share of bad luck on this ride and hope that at future events, Lady Luck will give me a wink……

Tour Time Baby

Have had a bit of a spending spree this week (more exciting news to follow at a later date) and have picked up a rack and panniers for the Sirrus in the hope of planning some light touring and cycle camping. I'll post some pictures when I fit the bits to the bike but I have a few more bits to get before i'll consider it ready for it's first trip.

Watch this space...

“Un café, s’il vous plait avec un jus de pomme de terre”

There are very few places that I’ve been to where I can honestly say that I would be happy to live there. After spending nearly three weeks in Annecy, in the foothills of the French Alps, I’ve found a place that I can put to the top of the pile. As a cyclist, if you imagine your dream location….. It would need mountains wouldn’t it? Preferably the Alps as they are the greatest stage in the theatre of cycling. You’d obviously need a lake too so you can enjoy the vista and cool off with a swim after those long rides.

Not every day would be a mountain day though. You would want some flat roads so you could recover those weary legs and perhaps head out on leisure rides with the partner and family. How does a 40km off road, smooth paved cycle track sound to you? Good? What if that track was closed solely to cyclists and rollerskaters, dogs were banned from it and pedestrians and runners were forced to the gravel edges? You’d think I was making it up wouldn’t you?

If you want all of the above, Annecy is the place for you.

We’ve just returned from a three week family holiday in France and decided on Annecy for the simple fact that it looked like a promising destination where I could ride my bike and the rest of the family could have fun. It way exceeded my expectations.

My only regret was not taking my road bike. With limited space on/in the car due to the fact we were camping and taking bikes for the whole family, I was allocated one space on the rack for a bike and I didn’t want to put a child seat on the road bike and so I’d recently bought a tag-along bike from a clubmate (thanks Nick!) but my son is just too young to use it for longer rides for a few months yet. I decided that my best option would be to take the child seat and use the opportunity to get a new bike – a Specialised Sirrus Sport hybrid.

My thinking behind this was that I could use the bike for family duties where necessary and it would withstand the abuse of having a childseat bolted to it and I would also not be afraid to leave it locked up in towns when we went sightseeing. On the flip side, it should also be fast enough and pleasant enough to ride that I could go off on my own and conquer some cols…..

Ah, the cols…….. I like to think that after a few years in the saddle and several thousand miles of riding, I’m a pretty competent cyclist. Not amazing but good enough to hold my own and consider myself a proper cyclist. Riding a mountain humbled me. In fact, it nearly made me want to throw in the towel. I now have the utmost respect for every professional cyclist.

I think the problem was my first choice in which one to launch my vicious power on. I’d opted for the Col de La Forclaz from the Montmin side which I’d read was a bit of a challenge. Regardless of how much you cycle in the UK, I don’t thing anything can prepare you for what it is truly like to cycle uphill for nearly an hour. I was in bits by the time I reached the top but happy that I had got there. After several beers that evening, the mental anguish disappeared and I rode 4 other cols over the space of the holiday, loving it so much that I did one twice…..

The best part about riding on the continent is the coffee shop culture where religion dictates that every ride must include an espresso stop. My GCSE French is on the hazier side of perfect but even I managed to get what I wanted, thankfully except for the time I ordered potato juice……..

Hell of the north....

It felt like I’d been punched in the head. A sudden impact, followed by a throbbing pain. It took a few seconds to register what had happened, which ordinarily, would have been ok but at this particular moment, I was travelling downhill at over 35 miles an hour.

A bee sting, just what I need when I’m suffering like a dog on the hardest single day I’ve ever had on the bike. Why did I sign up for this ridiculous event where the organisers are determined to break people? I’m on the 107 mile route of the Northern Rock Cyclone sportive and as you can probably make out by now, it’s not a nice place to be.

It all seemed like a good idea at first. I got an invite from my friend Lee, for a reunion of the London 2 Paris 2010 group. The format was perfect. We were to arrive at Lee’s on Friday, watch the evening criterium races, do the sportive on the Saturday and then catch some of the National Championships on the Sunday. I’ve done a fair few miles this year already and was looking forward to notching up my first century of 2011.

Saturday began wet, with a constant fine drizzle on the three mile ride to the sportive that had us soaked before we even arrived at the starting line. Never a promising start to a century ride but not as bad as the poor soul who hit a traffic island after immediately exiting the car park and was promptly collected by the St John’s Ambulance crew.

The first 20 or so miles flew by. I got into a group and was travelling at a fair pace before I saw sense and eased off a little. This was going to be a long day after all. Soon, we were in the quieter lanes but the damp conditions made for some cautious riders which only added to the difficult conditions. Once again, I was disappointed by the standard of riding I saw. It was as if some people had never ridden in a group before and I would witness several crashes over the course of the day as tired riders weaved across the road.

As the route progressed, the hills came thick and fast as we crossed several valleys and onto the moors, close to military ranges. The distant gunfire adding to my own personal battle. The roads dried but by 60 miles I was really suffering and was greeted by a long single track road that snaked into the distance as far as the eye could see. Did I mention the head wind? I was now at a pitifully 8mph crawl, wishing I’d opted for the shorter route, cursing the organisers for their sadistic ways.

Mile after mile stumbled by as faster riders continually passed me. My only saving grace was that I tackled every climb and refused to walk as some others around me resorted to pushing their bikes up the hill. Compact gears were my saviour.

I created games in by head to pass the time and promised myself jelly babies as I reached milestone markers but it was a struggle to stay motivated. If someone had offered me a ride home at 70 miles, I’d have bitten their hand off.

The century mark came and went and it was a final drag for home. My thighs started to cramp. I hadn’t consumed enough fluids but I was so close, I just had to push on. I’d speed up on the flat and tear away, only to be passed again as soon as the road went skywards when the pain in my thighs became too unbearable.

The finish line arrived and for me, it couldn’t be soon enough. It was done and I carried on back to Lee’s house where the unanimous verdict of “a day in hell” was agreed.

Would I do the ride again? Probably.

Stats for the day (lap 2 for the sportive):

Northern Rock Cyclone

Amateur Home Mechanics Part 3

Following my ridiculous stack on the weekend, I bought some bar tape and had a go at some home mechanics. I went for black this time as the red colour gets dirty pretty quickly. It's taken me a little while to get used to it but I think it makes the bike look more stealthy.

I'm surprised to say that things went smoother than I thought. There were no fires, no injuries and it looks like a visit to the local bike shop won't be necessary. I'm pretty pleased with the results. It's not "bike shop" perfect and there are a few little bits i'm not happy with but for a first attempt, it's not too shabby and I've got that warm glow inside of a DIY job gone well.

I certainly won't be worried about fitting new tape in the future and will change tape more often as it really freshens up the look of the bike.

An alternative way of thinking....

I love being in a bike club. There's always a ride of some description going on and a great sense of inclusiveness. It always feels me with pride to see a group of us in the club kit, it's just a shame I don't get to ride with the club as often as i'd like.

I had a window of opportunity today to get out for a ride with the club on a Saturday. It's not something I always get a chance to do. Usually, a hectic family life means that I fit my weekend riding in around the other weekend activities, often snatching a couple of early morning or late evening rides.

This weekend though, the in-laws are down to stay. This was made obvious by the teapot being carefully brought down from that high shelf at the back of the cupboard and given a thorough clean - it's usually the sign of an impending invasion, followed closely by an enormous shopping list packed full of things that we don't usually buy.

Anyway, they fought their way across the moat and avoided the archers to arrive at the front door. I must have done something right for a change because I was gifted a pass from the Natural History museum and offered the freedom of a Saturday ride with the club. The weather looked ominous but I thought i'd sooner take my chances with it, although to be honest i'd probably have agreed to swim with sharks to get out on my bike this weekend.

I'm a fan of the club run. It does what it says on the tin and offers a head down, bum up ride to the cafe in Charlwood but I fancied a change from the norm today and a bit more of a sociable ride so decided to head out on Pete's Alternative club run.

I was a little bit worried at first as to what alternative meant and whether  these rides were alternative through personal choice rather than shunned by the rest of the club but I need not have worried as although the bunch was a mismatched bunch of misfits, they were all very welcoming and friendly.

10 of us set out and it quickly became apparent that anyone was fair game and the order of the next few hours was to take the piss out of eachother as much as possible.

We sped through the country lanes, some of which i've never seen before, which added to the beauty of the ride. It's nice to have that little edge of not knowing exactly where you are and the fear of being dropped that could result in lost days trudging round Surrey, trying to find a route home.

No fear of that with Pete and Co really though as we all waited at the top of the climbs and made it to the cafe destination of choice - Tulley's Farm where we were greeted by coffee, cake and mystical hovering goats.

The ride back was an eventful mix of rain showers and an off-road excursion along a wooded cycle track. Brilliant stuff, although i'm surprised we didn't get more punctures.

We finished off nicely with a return climb up to the top of Farthing Downs where I managed to complete the most spectacular of bicycle moves and crash whilst standing still. The usual thing of being clipped in with one leg on an adverse camber. Scuff to leg, pride and bartape although I think the guys did very well to stifle their laughs.

Haven't pulled off that move for a long while but I guess i'm still not as proficient on a bike as I like to think.

So, I have the annoying situation now of a slightly scuffed bike (not too bothered) and ripped bar tape (very annoying). I called into the bike shop on the way home and they said they could do it today but then wanted £15 on top of the £12 for the tape so i'll have a go at fitting new tape myself before ruining it, being a tit and taking it to the bike shop for a professional job....

Talk with the legs.....

The sun sets lazily in the background as I survey my surroundings. This is alright.

Today’s been a hectic day. It seems everyone wanted a piece of me. Deadline this, deadline that, help with this, help with that. I don’t have a stressful job and I’m a relatively relaxed person but sometimes it can be draining.

The tension’s drifting away now though, neck loosening and the strains of the day disappearing into space. I take a deep breath and get a lungful of the humid, dense air. There’s a slightly different smell in the air tonight, a mixture between the sweet smell emanating from the flowers and the faint smell of an incoming storm. The air feels heavy around, perfectly balanced ahead of the thunder to come.

It’s good to be out, perched up high on the North Downs, close to civilization but a million miles away from the humdrum of every day life. This is the best part of the year, before the heat of a full summer but with warm, light evenings where I can snatch a ride after work.

Sometimes it’s good to stop for a while. So much can be lost by simply keeping my head down and turning a pedal. I think that sometimes I concentrate too much on times and speeds and forget to actually enjoy what I’m doing, I spend my time talking with my legs more than listening to my head.

Up here I can relax and forget about life for five minutes. A guy on a mountain bike cruises past. We exchange nods as he carries on, carving a path and enjoying his own adventure. Nothing comes close to an evening ride in the early summer sun. He knows it and I know it.

Next time you’re out on a ride, take a break somewhere nice and survey your surroundings. Breathe in the experience around you and escape the rat race.