Coming up with the title of a post can be hard work, so this week I've reverted to the tried-and-tested formula of re-using someone's else creativity, i.e. a song title. Though for a change, it has actually got some pertinence to the subject...
If you're one of those superstitious types who think that things tend to occur in clusters of three (though who knows, statisticians and probability theory experts might tell us there's no superstition involved, and there's empirical evidence to support it as a fact), and I think I might be, then I'm hoping that yesterday marked the end of an unwanted and indeed unwonted sequence - falling down or falling off. In previous weeks I'd fallen over twice when running - the first on ice, the second through a combination of tiredness and clumsiness - and yesterday I made it three, coming a right cropper on, or rather off, the mountain bike.
I was at Llandegla Forest in north Wales with my mate Neil, and we'd decided to do its Red mountain bike run. The Forest is a dedicated mountain biking site, and the trails are excellent. The Black run is seriously technical and quite scary, and you need to be younger/better/more confident/more regular mountain bikers than us to deal with it competently. Blue's a bit straightforward, whereas Red is the Goldilocks' porridge route - just right; some technical bits, quite a lot of 'berms' (which I now know to be banked corners, having ridden hundreds of the things in previous ignorance of their nomenclature), some nice gradual ascents, some brutal ascents, some boardwalk, quite a few humps to provide opportunities for 'getting some air' (hey there kids), some forest and some moorland. Super. And although Neil had ridden the Red many times before, and I had a couple of times before, a new section was opened just before Christmas which has improved what was already a nice and challenging ride.
So having parked just outside the centre because there seemed to be a problem getting into its car park, which we wrongly assumed to be ice as there's quite a ramp to the entrance (it turned out to be just a bit of lateness on the part of the car park opening-people), we started our first climb just after 9. The flurries of snow we'd been having since Friday had organised themselves into something a bit more coherent overnight, and the forest was delightfully white. More icing sugar-dusting-on-a-Victoria sponge than thick layers of white Christmas cake icing, but it had subsequently frozen which made it sound like you were riding on bubble wrap.
Anyway, all was going tickety-boo. One of those nice gradual ascents, notable only for the grouse that flapped out of the undergrowth a few feet in front of me, was followed by the first technical section in the forest. I went for it. But on the first rocky corner a layer of ice had formed that even hefty mountain bike tyres couldn't handle. What made the subsequent crash unusual was that quite often you know you're going to hit the deck, even if only for half a second before you actually do. This time I had no warning; one moment I was upright and the next I was crashing down on my left hand side. For the first time in my cycling life I was glad I was wearing a helmet; it took a fearsome bang on some rock. Had I not been wearing it I suspect the headache I had for 24 hours after would have been quite a lot worse.
I hopped back to my feet and carried on with the other 75% of the route, convinced there was no damage other to my dignity, which seems to have taken a few bashings recently. However, as the day wore on and the adrenalin wore off, the hip, thigh and shoulders started stiffening and now are all throbbing quite nicely, dammit.
What's sobering is that I suspect the first week of the Tour de France, and probably the other grand tours, sees the pros hit the ground as hard as I did yesterday, and they just have to get up and carry on, and quite often chase back to the pack. I'm not sure I'd have fancied a 100 mile ride today. Instead, I can admire the bruises and gravel rash that now adorn right shin, right thigh, left thigh and left hip.
All I can say is that it's definitely time winter moved on and gave spring a chance. The snowdrops may be out, but they ain't kidding anyone; it's still ineffably cold, and you still need your four layers and fleecy longs on every time you get on two wheels. Be banished you evil season!
Monday, 25 February 2013
Sunday, 17 February 2013
The Male vs Whale Sunrise Express Audax
I love fish and chips. I also love riding my bike. But which one would win in a fight? There's only one way to find out...
....eat a vast quantity of fish and chips (I'll describe exactly how much in a moment), and less than 12 hours later attempt to ride a 123km audax. As it happens, the timing of the events was coincidental, rather than planned; we decided to avoid going out to eat in Valentine's Day, and went on Friday night instead. Mrs Monmarduman had been to a posh fish and chip restaurant (it's not necessarily an oxymoron) in Didsbury a few weeks ago, and decided to treat me at the nearer Alderley Edge branch as my Valentine's treat. She also happened to mention that this particular establishment had what it called the Male vs Whale Challenge.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen Man vs Food on some obscure TV channel, the kind you happen across accidentally when there's nothing much on, but it's basically a programme about one guy working his way through eating challenges at American (where else?) restaurants. I've been itching to have a go at something similar for some time, so given my love of fish and chips, and an event the day after to work off the excesses, Friday night seemed like the ideal time.
Things didn't augur well when we took our seats in the restaurant - there were three late teenage boys having a go at the challenge, and failing miserably. And looking quite ill. The challenge is this: eat the following in 45 minutes: 1 large portion of chips, 1 medium portion of chips, 1 large pot of mushy peas, 3 slices of bread and butter, and a 25 ounce battered cod with tartare sauce. To give you an idea of its size, a regular cod is round about 8-10 ounces. It actually doesn't look too bad when I write it down, but on a platter the size of a dustbin lid, it was quite daunting. The fish I managed quite easily, ditto most of the mushy peas and bread, and frankly, all the warm chips. However, by 30 minutes the remaining chips were getting tepid at best, cold at worst; not the most palatable of things when you're hungry, and frankly quite disgusting when you've basically got three portions of regular fish and chips inside you. So, I'm afraid I failed, though I did keep going till the clock ran down, unlike the teenage lightweights, who were pushing their plates away with seven or eight minutes to go. The £20 voucher and t-shirt will have to wait for my next attempt.
Reader, I'll spare you the ordeal I endured for three hours after I finished the challenge, though its better bits did involve kneeling down, rocking gently and emitting low moaning noises.
And so when the alarm went off at 5.22am yesterday (I can't set an alarm for 'round' times like 5.30 or 7.00; not sure why; never have done), it was with no great vim and vigour that I rose to drive to Hartlebury in Worcestershire for the Sunrise Express audax. Breakfast was out of the question - a pint of squash and a small mug of coffee (for intestinal management purposes) was the best I could manage.
So, a quick word on the Sunrise Express. It's actually one of two events (the other being the Snowdrop Express) run on the same day by the same people, that both start and finish in the same place, on the same route. In fact the only differences are that the Snowdrop starts half an hour later than the Sunrise, and goes round the course anti-clockwise to the Sunrise's clockwise. Which makes for some good banter at the controls (as the scheduled stops are known on audaxes) and lots of waving at people going in the other direction. It takes in the towns of Evesham, Pershore and Upton-on-Severn, and lots of pretty Worcestershire villages.
The first hour yesterday was, it has to be said, not very enjoyable. It was very foggy (which constantly condensed on my riding glasses), it was -2c, it was wet, and despite trying I couldn't hold the pace of the fastest few, particularly up the hills, where my legs howled at me. It was one of those days, however, where the longer you were out the better things got - it warmed up, the fog burned off, and best of all my legs started working. Having got in a group of seven club cyclists (from a variety of Birmingham clubs) I spent miles 22 (where I picked them up) to 48 just hanging on for dear life frankly. But then in the last 25 miles I'm not sure what happened - maybe the benefits of Male vs Whale were coming through, or maybe the effects had just worn off - but when we hit rises in the road I seemed to work my way up the group another position until I was at the front. For the last 20 miles or so we held a chaingang-type paceline with me on the front all the way. We never caught the fastest three riders, but it was still really nice to have a couple of the others ride up alongside me in the last half-mile, shake my hand and say thanks. And 4th out of 260 is ok. (Repeat after me, it's not a competition, it's not a competition...)
The downside of riding like that is you don't get your head up and take in the countryside and surroundings as much as perhaps you should do, but equally for a non-club rider like me it's great to get in a group of mature, experienced bike handlers and experience the joys of riding as one unit, and much faster than you would on your own. Nearly as great in fact as when we got back to base and getting a choice of bacon sandwich, beans on toast, or cake, all with tea or coffee (proper coffee). Given that base was a really nice garden centre cafe, the £6.50 entrance fee represented stunning value for money.
Audaxes are definitely changing. There are still a few beardy weirdy types, but the majority of participants yesterday were not of that ilk; they were regular club or strong leisure riders. Quite a good proportion were women too, which hasn't always been the case on audaxes. Anyway, yesterday, with my knackered old Ribble bike and route sheet pinned to the my bars rather than a Garmin beeping at me, I felt quite the Luddite myself. I'm pleased I've finally ordered my Charlie/Laurens/whatever name I bestow on said unit when it arrives; I'm less pleased it's taking Wiggle forever to despatch it - guess that's the price you pay for ordering a new model just after it's launched.
There's only one question remaining I think: would I juxtapose an eating challenge with a cycling challenge again? Hell, yeah.
....eat a vast quantity of fish and chips (I'll describe exactly how much in a moment), and less than 12 hours later attempt to ride a 123km audax. As it happens, the timing of the events was coincidental, rather than planned; we decided to avoid going out to eat in Valentine's Day, and went on Friday night instead. Mrs Monmarduman had been to a posh fish and chip restaurant (it's not necessarily an oxymoron) in Didsbury a few weeks ago, and decided to treat me at the nearer Alderley Edge branch as my Valentine's treat. She also happened to mention that this particular establishment had what it called the Male vs Whale Challenge.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen Man vs Food on some obscure TV channel, the kind you happen across accidentally when there's nothing much on, but it's basically a programme about one guy working his way through eating challenges at American (where else?) restaurants. I've been itching to have a go at something similar for some time, so given my love of fish and chips, and an event the day after to work off the excesses, Friday night seemed like the ideal time.
Things didn't augur well when we took our seats in the restaurant - there were three late teenage boys having a go at the challenge, and failing miserably. And looking quite ill. The challenge is this: eat the following in 45 minutes: 1 large portion of chips, 1 medium portion of chips, 1 large pot of mushy peas, 3 slices of bread and butter, and a 25 ounce battered cod with tartare sauce. To give you an idea of its size, a regular cod is round about 8-10 ounces. It actually doesn't look too bad when I write it down, but on a platter the size of a dustbin lid, it was quite daunting. The fish I managed quite easily, ditto most of the mushy peas and bread, and frankly, all the warm chips. However, by 30 minutes the remaining chips were getting tepid at best, cold at worst; not the most palatable of things when you're hungry, and frankly quite disgusting when you've basically got three portions of regular fish and chips inside you. So, I'm afraid I failed, though I did keep going till the clock ran down, unlike the teenage lightweights, who were pushing their plates away with seven or eight minutes to go. The £20 voucher and t-shirt will have to wait for my next attempt.
Reader, I'll spare you the ordeal I endured for three hours after I finished the challenge, though its better bits did involve kneeling down, rocking gently and emitting low moaning noises.
And so when the alarm went off at 5.22am yesterday (I can't set an alarm for 'round' times like 5.30 or 7.00; not sure why; never have done), it was with no great vim and vigour that I rose to drive to Hartlebury in Worcestershire for the Sunrise Express audax. Breakfast was out of the question - a pint of squash and a small mug of coffee (for intestinal management purposes) was the best I could manage.
So, a quick word on the Sunrise Express. It's actually one of two events (the other being the Snowdrop Express) run on the same day by the same people, that both start and finish in the same place, on the same route. In fact the only differences are that the Snowdrop starts half an hour later than the Sunrise, and goes round the course anti-clockwise to the Sunrise's clockwise. Which makes for some good banter at the controls (as the scheduled stops are known on audaxes) and lots of waving at people going in the other direction. It takes in the towns of Evesham, Pershore and Upton-on-Severn, and lots of pretty Worcestershire villages.
The first hour yesterday was, it has to be said, not very enjoyable. It was very foggy (which constantly condensed on my riding glasses), it was -2c, it was wet, and despite trying I couldn't hold the pace of the fastest few, particularly up the hills, where my legs howled at me. It was one of those days, however, where the longer you were out the better things got - it warmed up, the fog burned off, and best of all my legs started working. Having got in a group of seven club cyclists (from a variety of Birmingham clubs) I spent miles 22 (where I picked them up) to 48 just hanging on for dear life frankly. But then in the last 25 miles I'm not sure what happened - maybe the benefits of Male vs Whale were coming through, or maybe the effects had just worn off - but when we hit rises in the road I seemed to work my way up the group another position until I was at the front. For the last 20 miles or so we held a chaingang-type paceline with me on the front all the way. We never caught the fastest three riders, but it was still really nice to have a couple of the others ride up alongside me in the last half-mile, shake my hand and say thanks. And 4th out of 260 is ok. (Repeat after me, it's not a competition, it's not a competition...)
The downside of riding like that is you don't get your head up and take in the countryside and surroundings as much as perhaps you should do, but equally for a non-club rider like me it's great to get in a group of mature, experienced bike handlers and experience the joys of riding as one unit, and much faster than you would on your own. Nearly as great in fact as when we got back to base and getting a choice of bacon sandwich, beans on toast, or cake, all with tea or coffee (proper coffee). Given that base was a really nice garden centre cafe, the £6.50 entrance fee represented stunning value for money.
Audaxes are definitely changing. There are still a few beardy weirdy types, but the majority of participants yesterday were not of that ilk; they were regular club or strong leisure riders. Quite a good proportion were women too, which hasn't always been the case on audaxes. Anyway, yesterday, with my knackered old Ribble bike and route sheet pinned to the my bars rather than a Garmin beeping at me, I felt quite the Luddite myself. I'm pleased I've finally ordered my Charlie/Laurens/whatever name I bestow on said unit when it arrives; I'm less pleased it's taking Wiggle forever to despatch it - guess that's the price you pay for ordering a new model just after it's launched.
There's only one question remaining I think: would I juxtapose an eating challenge with a cycling challenge again? Hell, yeah.
Sunday, 10 February 2013
The good, the bad & the ugly
It was raining when I woke up this morning. It's still raining now. And after yesterday's exertions today is definitely not a Rule #9 day (www.velominati.com/the-rules), and it's too cold for the garage, so a bit of stretching and core work later will have to suffice.
It was no less cold yesterday, and I'd done a Coggan 2x20 minute special on the trainer on Friday, so I decided to run rather than ride. This is where the good, the bad and the ugly start.
The good first:
This was the view about half an hour into my run, looking across towards Macclesfield Forest. At home there wasn't a snowflake in sight, but I only had to climb up a few feet up the first hill to cross the line where Friday night's rain had fallen as snow. It was slightly bizarre really, running through puddles and greenery one moment, and then thick cloud and untouched snowfields just a couple of miles further on. It was very pretty though, and through a combination of the cold and the fact it was a Saturday (rather than a Sunday) the trails were deserted, which suits me just fine.
So that was the good...I was out just under 2.5 hours, covering 15.5 miles and 3,500 feet of ascending. It was hard work though, and on just a couple of gels and some water, I got quite tired. Just a couple of miles from home there were a couple of dogwalkers (with dog obviously) occupying the whole pavement, so I nipped on to the road to go past. Unfortunately my lack of energy had an impact on my co-ordination, and as I tried to leap back on to the pavement I caught my foot on the kerb, and went the proverbial A over T, landing for maximum humiliation at the bottom of a hedge, having done a bit of tarmac surfing on my right leg to arrive there.
The bad, therefore. As well as embarrassing myself (made worse by the middle aged lady dogwalkers genuine sympathy), I ruined my lycra running trousers:
Still, it gives me an excuse for a trip to Decathlon....
And so to the ugly; I didn't feel it until I got home, but under the ripped trousers was a bruised knee and rather ugly hole in the leg:
That stung a bit in the bath. And to think that part of the reason I run is to avoid falling off the bike on icy roads...
Unlike last Sunday's mountain bike ride though, the bad and the ugly didn't spoil the good. It was a cracking run; it probably didn't do anything for my climbing abilities on the bike, but it was a hoot in the hills and the forest slipping and sliding around in the snow. Winter's not all bad it seems.
It was no less cold yesterday, and I'd done a Coggan 2x20 minute special on the trainer on Friday, so I decided to run rather than ride. This is where the good, the bad and the ugly start.
The good first:
This was the view about half an hour into my run, looking across towards Macclesfield Forest. At home there wasn't a snowflake in sight, but I only had to climb up a few feet up the first hill to cross the line where Friday night's rain had fallen as snow. It was slightly bizarre really, running through puddles and greenery one moment, and then thick cloud and untouched snowfields just a couple of miles further on. It was very pretty though, and through a combination of the cold and the fact it was a Saturday (rather than a Sunday) the trails were deserted, which suits me just fine.
So that was the good...I was out just under 2.5 hours, covering 15.5 miles and 3,500 feet of ascending. It was hard work though, and on just a couple of gels and some water, I got quite tired. Just a couple of miles from home there were a couple of dogwalkers (with dog obviously) occupying the whole pavement, so I nipped on to the road to go past. Unfortunately my lack of energy had an impact on my co-ordination, and as I tried to leap back on to the pavement I caught my foot on the kerb, and went the proverbial A over T, landing for maximum humiliation at the bottom of a hedge, having done a bit of tarmac surfing on my right leg to arrive there.
The bad, therefore. As well as embarrassing myself (made worse by the middle aged lady dogwalkers genuine sympathy), I ruined my lycra running trousers:
Still, it gives me an excuse for a trip to Decathlon....
And so to the ugly; I didn't feel it until I got home, but under the ripped trousers was a bruised knee and rather ugly hole in the leg:
That stung a bit in the bath. And to think that part of the reason I run is to avoid falling off the bike on icy roads...
Unlike last Sunday's mountain bike ride though, the bad and the ugly didn't spoil the good. It was a cracking run; it probably didn't do anything for my climbing abilities on the bike, but it was a hoot in the hills and the forest slipping and sliding around in the snow. Winter's not all bad it seems.
Sunday, 3 February 2013
Errors in profusion
A few years ago there was an outdoor equipment shop in Ambleside, run by a slightly mad and certainly quite stroppy Welshman, which advertised its wares using homemade signs in the window. My favourite was "anoraks in profusion". You can imagine a Welshman with a fondness for words and Dylan Thomas, but a head for retail, coming up with that. Today, I could have done with one of his anoraks. As it was, I made errors in profusion in planning and executing my mountain bike ride.
I decided to go out on the mountain bike partly for a change, and partly because I'm riding it three weeks today round Llandegla in North Wales with Neil, and seemingly every time I ride with Neil something breaks or falls off the bike, so I thought I'd give it chance to fail today so that I had time to get it mended if need be. I planned to do my normal 22 mile route through Macclesfield Forest, up to the Cat & Fiddle, across moorland and down to Wildboarclough, back through the Forest and home. I looked at the weather forecast last night, and it said it would rain overnight and be cloudy and milder by this morning. I then didn't look at the forecast this morning. Error number 1.
Error number 2 was failing to remember that whatever it's like down here at 600 feet above sea level, it's quite a lot worse nearly 1000 feet higher at the Cat & Fiddle. So there were no overshoes, no rain jacket, a bandana rather than fleecy skullcap, and thin gloves rather than heavy-duty winter ones. It all started fine - the rain was only a fine drizzle, and I was climbing rather then descending so working quite hard.
But then came error number 3 - forgetting that if there's any meaningful snow and ice down here, it can take up to a fortnight for it to disappear up there. Charity Lane is a mile long stretch of gradual ascent and descent along a rocky, rutted and hard-to-stay-upright-at-the-best-of-times kind of path. Today, however, the streams of water that flow gently in each direction from its summit were frozen, meaning that I had a choice: walk on ice, or ride on ice. (OK, there was a third choice - turn round and go a different way, but that was never going to happen). I opted for a bit of both, and after about 10 minutes of staggering around like a lamb that's learning to walk I exited unharmed.
Then came the climb to Cat & Fiddle, and there weather hell truly began. It was raining hard, the wind was piercing and still the paths were strewn with ice and cold puddles. Error number 4 - going out without clear lenses in my cycling glasses; I could hardly see a thing for the muddy water being sprayed into my eyes. Now I was beginning to get cold. The rain intensified, everything I was wearing was wetter than it would have been in the washing machine, and I was on the downhill section of the route. I can honestly say I've never been more uncomfortable, even on some of my wet descents in the Pyrenees.
I changed route, sticking more to the roads in an attempt to pedal harder and warm up, but to no avail. By the time I got back to Macc Forest, my hands were indescribably cold. I did something I almost never do - I cut my planned route short and headed home. Again, it was downhill, and you know what it's like when one part of you gets cold; the rest of you gets cold as the body tries to divert blood to retain what little warmth it's got. But I made it back, and was in the shower with 90 seconds of walking through the door, and the pain of the warm water on my hands as they thawed was like the worst kind of pins-and-needles.
Quite often on here I talk about how marvellous a run or a ride has been, indeed sometimes I think I sound like I'm protesting too much. Today, however, the ride wasn't marvellous or even enjoyable after the event, as some can be. It was miserable, horrible, and without any virtue at all as far as I can see; I don't even think it was worth much in training terms. Still, I've got no-one to blame but myself. Back on the road bike I think next weekend.
I decided to go out on the mountain bike partly for a change, and partly because I'm riding it three weeks today round Llandegla in North Wales with Neil, and seemingly every time I ride with Neil something breaks or falls off the bike, so I thought I'd give it chance to fail today so that I had time to get it mended if need be. I planned to do my normal 22 mile route through Macclesfield Forest, up to the Cat & Fiddle, across moorland and down to Wildboarclough, back through the Forest and home. I looked at the weather forecast last night, and it said it would rain overnight and be cloudy and milder by this morning. I then didn't look at the forecast this morning. Error number 1.
Error number 2 was failing to remember that whatever it's like down here at 600 feet above sea level, it's quite a lot worse nearly 1000 feet higher at the Cat & Fiddle. So there were no overshoes, no rain jacket, a bandana rather than fleecy skullcap, and thin gloves rather than heavy-duty winter ones. It all started fine - the rain was only a fine drizzle, and I was climbing rather then descending so working quite hard.
But then came error number 3 - forgetting that if there's any meaningful snow and ice down here, it can take up to a fortnight for it to disappear up there. Charity Lane is a mile long stretch of gradual ascent and descent along a rocky, rutted and hard-to-stay-upright-at-the-best-of-times kind of path. Today, however, the streams of water that flow gently in each direction from its summit were frozen, meaning that I had a choice: walk on ice, or ride on ice. (OK, there was a third choice - turn round and go a different way, but that was never going to happen). I opted for a bit of both, and after about 10 minutes of staggering around like a lamb that's learning to walk I exited unharmed.
Then came the climb to Cat & Fiddle, and there weather hell truly began. It was raining hard, the wind was piercing and still the paths were strewn with ice and cold puddles. Error number 4 - going out without clear lenses in my cycling glasses; I could hardly see a thing for the muddy water being sprayed into my eyes. Now I was beginning to get cold. The rain intensified, everything I was wearing was wetter than it would have been in the washing machine, and I was on the downhill section of the route. I can honestly say I've never been more uncomfortable, even on some of my wet descents in the Pyrenees.
I changed route, sticking more to the roads in an attempt to pedal harder and warm up, but to no avail. By the time I got back to Macc Forest, my hands were indescribably cold. I did something I almost never do - I cut my planned route short and headed home. Again, it was downhill, and you know what it's like when one part of you gets cold; the rest of you gets cold as the body tries to divert blood to retain what little warmth it's got. But I made it back, and was in the shower with 90 seconds of walking through the door, and the pain of the warm water on my hands as they thawed was like the worst kind of pins-and-needles.
Quite often on here I talk about how marvellous a run or a ride has been, indeed sometimes I think I sound like I'm protesting too much. Today, however, the ride wasn't marvellous or even enjoyable after the event, as some can be. It was miserable, horrible, and without any virtue at all as far as I can see; I don't even think it was worth much in training terms. Still, I've got no-one to blame but myself. Back on the road bike I think next weekend.
Monday, 28 January 2013
A Mere 200 Audax
There was a moment on Friday night, as I drove my car between Ashbourne and Leek, when I wondered if I'd be (in ascending order of melodrama), a) thawed out enough to ride on Sunday, b) sufficiently trusting of the state of the roads to want to ride, and c) alive. Yes, I got caught in the snowstorm from hell - I was the first person along the A53 going west, and it was virtually impossible to identify the road, let alone keep the car from sliding around on it, such was the depth and ferocity with which the snow came down. Just after Leek the snow turned to rain bizarrely (as it was still -3c), but at least getting home was less of a challenge.
Rolling the clock on 36 hours, and I thought things would be fine for the annual running of the 'A Mere 200' audax. There are actually two events run on the same day; the '200' (km) starts at 8 am, and the Mere Century (miles) starts at 8.30. I - foolishly after not riding 100 miles since October, and then in balmy autumnal French sunshine - elected to do the 200km. Or 206km according to the route sheet. Or 210km as it turned out after two diversions, one through a minor map reading mistake and one because there was one flood that defeated even the most foolhardy of us. More of that in a moment...but first, a word on the cunning name of the event. There are many places in these parts that have 'mere' in their name, meaning basically a lake (this proved very prescient in the middle part of the ride), and the ride is a carefully constructed tour of most of them.
Anyway, the ride starts in Cheadle, just south of Manchester, takes a westerly route through Cheshire and Shropshire down to Ellesmere (not Ellesmere Port, just Ellesmere), and an easterly route back from there. Very nice it is too under normal circumstances. And for the first 50km yesterday, we had no reason to believe circumstances were anything other than normal. Then came the twin challenges however - ice and floods. The route, like many audaxes, is predominantly on back lanes, of the sort that don't see much salt and grit when the weather is bad. And the sheltered ones don't see much sunshine either, meaning that despite the above-freezing temperatures, there was about 30km of icy dreadfulness in south Cheshire and north Shrops. It was also windy, meaning that eight of us were working together to get some shelter and respite. That was great, and the group was really good in calling out the ice, potholes and other obstacles, but there were still occasions when your front wheel would catch a patch of ice, and some frantic bike handling was needed to stay upright. Fun, it was not.
And then...after the turn north at Ellesmere we started encountering another hazard: flooded roads. The water must have covered the road a good two dozen times, and on five of those occasions, I was deeper in water than I'd ever been before on a bike. The flood was such that you had to pedal to get through it rather than freewheel with your legs out of the way, and to give you a better idea of its depth, both of my waterbottles were, as it were, under water, as were my knees on the down pedal stroke. It was astonishing, mad, and quite frankly a miracle that I didn't stall, fall or puncture. On reflection, however, unlike the ice, it was fun - there being no danger of imminent collarbone breakage.
There was one flood, however, that did defeat us, at Wybunbury (pronounced Wyn-berry) in Cheshire, where the water was bottom of the ribs-high. I know the area quite well so was able to divert easily, and others followed either my lead or their Garmin's instructions. One hardy soul though, who 'won' the event (you don't win audaxes or sportives, but there is a competitive element to be sure), was out in front on his own without a map, so elected to wade through with his bike held aloft. (He confessed this to me at the end over a hot soup, which had almost never been more welcome).
The wind was a pain in the you-know-what in the morning, but moderately helpful in the afternoon, and I managed to not stop for three hours on the run in to the end partly as a consequence. I was pretty pleased with my overall performance - I did the 131 miles in 7 hours 50 riding time, 8 hours 15 start to finish; just under 17mph average was a fairly respectable effort in the conditions and over that distance. As ever, I felt rubbish quite a few times in the middle of the ride, and dropped behind on a few of the climbs (though my fellow riders didn't have a none-too-streamlined Carradice saddlebag), but kept going and gradually hauled in everyone apart from the Burnley-based, floodwading nutter. The two of us managed to finish ahead of all the 160km starters too.
Anyway, some days challenge your mental stamina, some your physical stamina, or your route following skills, or your bike handling ability, or your judgement...you get the idea. Yesterday, apart from aptitude at roadside mechanicing, it felt like the lot. But it was all the better for that. A good January runout.
Rolling the clock on 36 hours, and I thought things would be fine for the annual running of the 'A Mere 200' audax. There are actually two events run on the same day; the '200' (km) starts at 8 am, and the Mere Century (miles) starts at 8.30. I - foolishly after not riding 100 miles since October, and then in balmy autumnal French sunshine - elected to do the 200km. Or 206km according to the route sheet. Or 210km as it turned out after two diversions, one through a minor map reading mistake and one because there was one flood that defeated even the most foolhardy of us. More of that in a moment...but first, a word on the cunning name of the event. There are many places in these parts that have 'mere' in their name, meaning basically a lake (this proved very prescient in the middle part of the ride), and the ride is a carefully constructed tour of most of them.
Anyway, the ride starts in Cheadle, just south of Manchester, takes a westerly route through Cheshire and Shropshire down to Ellesmere (not Ellesmere Port, just Ellesmere), and an easterly route back from there. Very nice it is too under normal circumstances. And for the first 50km yesterday, we had no reason to believe circumstances were anything other than normal. Then came the twin challenges however - ice and floods. The route, like many audaxes, is predominantly on back lanes, of the sort that don't see much salt and grit when the weather is bad. And the sheltered ones don't see much sunshine either, meaning that despite the above-freezing temperatures, there was about 30km of icy dreadfulness in south Cheshire and north Shrops. It was also windy, meaning that eight of us were working together to get some shelter and respite. That was great, and the group was really good in calling out the ice, potholes and other obstacles, but there were still occasions when your front wheel would catch a patch of ice, and some frantic bike handling was needed to stay upright. Fun, it was not.
And then...after the turn north at Ellesmere we started encountering another hazard: flooded roads. The water must have covered the road a good two dozen times, and on five of those occasions, I was deeper in water than I'd ever been before on a bike. The flood was such that you had to pedal to get through it rather than freewheel with your legs out of the way, and to give you a better idea of its depth, both of my waterbottles were, as it were, under water, as were my knees on the down pedal stroke. It was astonishing, mad, and quite frankly a miracle that I didn't stall, fall or puncture. On reflection, however, unlike the ice, it was fun - there being no danger of imminent collarbone breakage.
There was one flood, however, that did defeat us, at Wybunbury (pronounced Wyn-berry) in Cheshire, where the water was bottom of the ribs-high. I know the area quite well so was able to divert easily, and others followed either my lead or their Garmin's instructions. One hardy soul though, who 'won' the event (you don't win audaxes or sportives, but there is a competitive element to be sure), was out in front on his own without a map, so elected to wade through with his bike held aloft. (He confessed this to me at the end over a hot soup, which had almost never been more welcome).
The wind was a pain in the you-know-what in the morning, but moderately helpful in the afternoon, and I managed to not stop for three hours on the run in to the end partly as a consequence. I was pretty pleased with my overall performance - I did the 131 miles in 7 hours 50 riding time, 8 hours 15 start to finish; just under 17mph average was a fairly respectable effort in the conditions and over that distance. As ever, I felt rubbish quite a few times in the middle of the ride, and dropped behind on a few of the climbs (though my fellow riders didn't have a none-too-streamlined Carradice saddlebag), but kept going and gradually hauled in everyone apart from the Burnley-based, floodwading nutter. The two of us managed to finish ahead of all the 160km starters too.
Anyway, some days challenge your mental stamina, some your physical stamina, or your route following skills, or your bike handling ability, or your judgement...you get the idea. Yesterday, apart from aptitude at roadside mechanicing, it felt like the lot. But it was all the better for that. A good January runout.
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Mopping up...
Realised I missed a few things writing yesterday's post, plus today's exertions.
The latter first. The side roads round here were way too dangerous to cycle on today, leaving me with a choice of mountain bike or running. Running won, mainly because it was easier to get ready. We were out last night for the 6th Saturday on the bounce (we could nearly be accused of having a life), and because we were at my mother's, we were fed royally; five courses indeed, if you count the sorbet. So there was, yet again, some excess to work off, not least the fantastic, homemade sticky toffee pudding. Um um.
I decided to run for a couple of hours, which turned into 137 mins as I felt ok after about an hour and a half. The stats actually are 14.8 miles run, 2480 feet of climbing, 1969 calories used. That only tells half the story really though. The route I chose is a tough run at the best of times, with two really steep climbs into Teggs Nose country park and Macclesfield Forest respectively. Add in today's terrible underfoot conditions (ice in many places [I took a comedy tumble on black ice on Crookedyard Road] and knee deep snow in the fields), and the wind that whipped across the exposed parts, and it was a real challenge. I really enjoyed it, but I'm not sure I'd have managed a second circuit. It's taken three bowls of hearty homemade pea-and-ham soup, a couple of pints of coffee, and a hot shower to ward off the early signs of exposure. Good training though.
Meantime, back to yesterday. There are a few things I missed. First, why am I doing this - commissioning, spec'ing and paying a small fortune for a steel bike. Having seen the final bill yesterday I'm tempted to say 'I don't know'. I do though. It's a whole mixture of reasons, some of which are good and positive, and others which are less admirable. Of the latter: whilst I love it that cycling has taken on a new prominence in recent times, I'm still turned off by the johnny-come-latelys. I imagine I'm going through the same feelings as the diehard fans of Premiership football clubs did during the 1990's when they saw grounds filling with those new supporters, attracted by success and the newfound glamour, who thought they understood everything of the present, but didn't because they had no sense of the past. My way to re-claiming the past is to not buy a Pinarello, but to create my own piece of cycling history by owning a handbuilt Rourke frame - individually numbered, individually made, and made to fit one individual - me.
As to the other reasons - well, I'd challenge anyone who said this was a mid-life crisis, but it is the equivalent of the middle aged man's shiny red sports car. I don't want it because it'll make me look youthful, or to attract the opposite sex (are women really attracted to men because of the car they drive in any case?), but because I want to own something that's beautiful and individual; it's more like buying a non-reproduction piece of art in that sense. And before I get too pretentious, the other reasons I want it are a) because I want to go as fast as my ageing, creaking body will allow me, and b) because I want to do so in comfort.
In any case, it was a privilege being in that shop yesterday. Yesterday's post had pictures of Sean Kelly's latest bike, one that Tony Pulis (the Stoke City manager) rode Land's End to John o'Groats on (and has paid for he liked it so much, but has yet to collect), a world champ's shirt dedicated to Brian ('Rourkie') from Mark ('Cav'), and one of the frames Nicole Cooke won her world championships on. I didn't have space for Rourkie's bike that he won the UK road race title on, or the photograph of Muhammad Ali being presented with his Rourke bike. There are other framebuilders in England of course - many of them. I hope their order books are as full as Rourke's, for that's the biggest indication that the culture of cycling is alive and well, not just participation levels.
Although...all the boys in the shop yesterday were bemoaning the lack of mutual acknowledgement between cyclists once you get out of the hills and hit the flatlands of the Cheshire Plain. Still, cyclists have always enjoyed a good moan.
And finally, the only moment where I felt truly daft yesterday. We were discussing which bottle cages to add to the bike, and I mentioned I'd never really got on with the Elite ones I currently use. A glance was thrown in the direction of my current bike. "That's because they're on upside down" came the withering reply....
The latter first. The side roads round here were way too dangerous to cycle on today, leaving me with a choice of mountain bike or running. Running won, mainly because it was easier to get ready. We were out last night for the 6th Saturday on the bounce (we could nearly be accused of having a life), and because we were at my mother's, we were fed royally; five courses indeed, if you count the sorbet. So there was, yet again, some excess to work off, not least the fantastic, homemade sticky toffee pudding. Um um.
I decided to run for a couple of hours, which turned into 137 mins as I felt ok after about an hour and a half. The stats actually are 14.8 miles run, 2480 feet of climbing, 1969 calories used. That only tells half the story really though. The route I chose is a tough run at the best of times, with two really steep climbs into Teggs Nose country park and Macclesfield Forest respectively. Add in today's terrible underfoot conditions (ice in many places [I took a comedy tumble on black ice on Crookedyard Road] and knee deep snow in the fields), and the wind that whipped across the exposed parts, and it was a real challenge. I really enjoyed it, but I'm not sure I'd have managed a second circuit. It's taken three bowls of hearty homemade pea-and-ham soup, a couple of pints of coffee, and a hot shower to ward off the early signs of exposure. Good training though.
Meantime, back to yesterday. There are a few things I missed. First, why am I doing this - commissioning, spec'ing and paying a small fortune for a steel bike. Having seen the final bill yesterday I'm tempted to say 'I don't know'. I do though. It's a whole mixture of reasons, some of which are good and positive, and others which are less admirable. Of the latter: whilst I love it that cycling has taken on a new prominence in recent times, I'm still turned off by the johnny-come-latelys. I imagine I'm going through the same feelings as the diehard fans of Premiership football clubs did during the 1990's when they saw grounds filling with those new supporters, attracted by success and the newfound glamour, who thought they understood everything of the present, but didn't because they had no sense of the past. My way to re-claiming the past is to not buy a Pinarello, but to create my own piece of cycling history by owning a handbuilt Rourke frame - individually numbered, individually made, and made to fit one individual - me.
As to the other reasons - well, I'd challenge anyone who said this was a mid-life crisis, but it is the equivalent of the middle aged man's shiny red sports car. I don't want it because it'll make me look youthful, or to attract the opposite sex (are women really attracted to men because of the car they drive in any case?), but because I want to own something that's beautiful and individual; it's more like buying a non-reproduction piece of art in that sense. And before I get too pretentious, the other reasons I want it are a) because I want to go as fast as my ageing, creaking body will allow me, and b) because I want to do so in comfort.
In any case, it was a privilege being in that shop yesterday. Yesterday's post had pictures of Sean Kelly's latest bike, one that Tony Pulis (the Stoke City manager) rode Land's End to John o'Groats on (and has paid for he liked it so much, but has yet to collect), a world champ's shirt dedicated to Brian ('Rourkie') from Mark ('Cav'), and one of the frames Nicole Cooke won her world championships on. I didn't have space for Rourkie's bike that he won the UK road race title on, or the photograph of Muhammad Ali being presented with his Rourke bike. There are other framebuilders in England of course - many of them. I hope their order books are as full as Rourke's, for that's the biggest indication that the culture of cycling is alive and well, not just participation levels.
Although...all the boys in the shop yesterday were bemoaning the lack of mutual acknowledgement between cyclists once you get out of the hills and hit the flatlands of the Cheshire Plain. Still, cyclists have always enjoyed a good moan.
And finally, the only moment where I felt truly daft yesterday. We were discussing which bottle cages to add to the bike, and I mentioned I'd never really got on with the Elite ones I currently use. A glance was thrown in the direction of my current bike. "That's because they're on upside down" came the withering reply....
Saturday, 19 January 2013
Brian Rourke: the experience
These posts have in recent times veered off cycling and running subjects. Not this one. This one is, to not coin a phrase, all about the bike, for today I have spent a blissful 5 hours at Brian Rourke Bikes in Stoke getting measured up for a new bike. I've never had a bespoke suit, let alone a bike, so this was a novel and at times, slightly uncomfortable experience. I wouldn't say I felt like Prince Charles, who allegedly has a lackey to squeeze the toothpaste on to his toothbrush, but I did wonder if I was losing the plot a little at the point where I was giving serious consideration to which font to have my name in on the top tube.
Anyway, back to the start. Brian R himself, an ex-UK road race champion, has been making frames, and had a shop in Stoke, for 40 years. He's semi-retired now at the age of 74 (though he wasn't in the shop today as he's cross-country skiing in Austria at the moment), and it's his son Jason who's the actual frame builder, and who features in the marvellous Made In England (see here: www.pushprojects.net). I saw Gareth, who does most of the measuring up now. And is a very patient man. He has to be, with the likes of me around, though I don't think I can be blamed for not knowing which headset I wanted, which must have taken 10 minutes debate.
The Rourke approach to measuring you up is a unique one. There are no theories, no computer programmes, no jigs and no measuring - it's all about starting on your existing bike and adjusting the fit till it's perfect. In my case, that meant fitting new handlebars, and changing the saddle angle and position, but nothing else; my fit was reasonably good. That said, the trial-and-error that we went through took nearly 3 hours with seemingly infinite combinations of angles, heights and hand positions. Writing up the results for Jason to work from in the construction of the frame took another half hour.
Then it was on to discussing components and colours. The saddle choice took half an hour, though Rourke offer a no-quibble exchange policy if you're not entirely happy with the one supplied, as their core aim is to provide the most comfortable bike possible for the money you're prepared to spend. Which brings me to that difficult subject. I'm not going to divulge what the damage is going to be to my bank account, and I'm not even going to reveal my choice of wheels and groupset, because that will give clues. I'll say two things. First, this ship ain't gonna be spoiled for a ha'porth worth of tar. And second, I've gone for the Reynolds 953 steel tubing, the canine's genitalia for frame making. If you're going to keep it real, you may as well keep it mighty real. Oh, one more thing; I've always wanted some Mavic wheels, and they will indeed feature.
The worst bit now - apart from the paying - is the waiting. Mid-July is the delivery date, which I've got mixed feelings about. On one hand, I'd love to have the new beast to go play in the Pyrenees with in July, when Mendip Rouleur and I are there. On the other, I'd be petrified of Easy Jet damaging the thing on its first outing. At least with the BH I'll be able to relax.
Finally, a selection of photos of famous customers: their shirts, frames, or current bikes.
Anyway, back to the start. Brian R himself, an ex-UK road race champion, has been making frames, and had a shop in Stoke, for 40 years. He's semi-retired now at the age of 74 (though he wasn't in the shop today as he's cross-country skiing in Austria at the moment), and it's his son Jason who's the actual frame builder, and who features in the marvellous Made In England (see here: www.pushprojects.net). I saw Gareth, who does most of the measuring up now. And is a very patient man. He has to be, with the likes of me around, though I don't think I can be blamed for not knowing which headset I wanted, which must have taken 10 minutes debate.
The Rourke approach to measuring you up is a unique one. There are no theories, no computer programmes, no jigs and no measuring - it's all about starting on your existing bike and adjusting the fit till it's perfect. In my case, that meant fitting new handlebars, and changing the saddle angle and position, but nothing else; my fit was reasonably good. That said, the trial-and-error that we went through took nearly 3 hours with seemingly infinite combinations of angles, heights and hand positions. Writing up the results for Jason to work from in the construction of the frame took another half hour.
Then it was on to discussing components and colours. The saddle choice took half an hour, though Rourke offer a no-quibble exchange policy if you're not entirely happy with the one supplied, as their core aim is to provide the most comfortable bike possible for the money you're prepared to spend. Which brings me to that difficult subject. I'm not going to divulge what the damage is going to be to my bank account, and I'm not even going to reveal my choice of wheels and groupset, because that will give clues. I'll say two things. First, this ship ain't gonna be spoiled for a ha'porth worth of tar. And second, I've gone for the Reynolds 953 steel tubing, the canine's genitalia for frame making. If you're going to keep it real, you may as well keep it mighty real. Oh, one more thing; I've always wanted some Mavic wheels, and they will indeed feature.
The worst bit now - apart from the paying - is the waiting. Mid-July is the delivery date, which I've got mixed feelings about. On one hand, I'd love to have the new beast to go play in the Pyrenees with in July, when Mendip Rouleur and I are there. On the other, I'd be petrified of Easy Jet damaging the thing on its first outing. At least with the BH I'll be able to relax.
Finally, a selection of photos of famous customers: their shirts, frames, or current bikes.
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