This past week has been a pretty tough and traumatic one for me. The option of voluntary redunancy was offered at work to those who had really had enough. Let's be honest, I thought I had, and even went as far as getting the figures and putting my hand up. Work has been hell, stressful long hours a relationship destroyed at home and no real life to speak of, I was on the verge of getting off the merry-go-round.
Cut to Ide Hill in Kent's north Downs, approach this hill from the south and it drags on for several kilometres, winding up the side of the escarpement that marks the beginning of The Weald.
I start out ok, always steady constant rythmn about 90rpm on the pedals, then it kicks up a little, into false flat then upwards ever upwards. The head wind makes the going harder and the sun dries the sweat on my face turning my skin to sandpaper, every rub of my gloves a stinging reminder of the effort. To keep my rythmn, I stand up and drive at the pedals, the bike leaps forward, until the effort of my heart deafens my ears, my vision clouds and I sit, the hill seems to suck me backwards. All the while thinking about getting off, giving up or turning round and going the easy way. But I fight on, standing, sitting, weaving, swaying, my legs weary, muscles crying out for a break in the gradient. Suddenly your arrive at the top, the road widens in the bend and the reward for your efforts is laid before you, the Weald of Kent, lit through clouds with sun beams highlighting the waters of Bough Beach reservoir, dappling the fields with golden light and giving a sense of fulfilment after the stress.
It was looking back on this ride that made me - at 4 minutes to deadline of midnight - write an email to my boss saying that I would stay in my current, to fight on through the stress and pain because I am sure that a good thing will come of it. I know this decision has caused some of my friends to resent and reject my progress and others to look at me and say that I did the right thing. I know that I can only go my way through this life I know my way isn't always right and that some look on and shake their heads but I only know one way to live my life and that is to fight, battle and strive for the unreachable goals. To my friends, and one in particular, who doubt my decision, I say that for every ounce of love and support you have shown me I am truly grateful, I only hope that you dont have to turn round and say "I told you so."To those who continue to support me I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Monday 31 May 2010
Saturday 22 May 2010
The tan lines
One of the nice things about cycling is being out in the fresh air, the sun beating down you, your brown legs a blur, your face trying hard to look graceful under the suffering you inflict on yourself. The rest of your body still and quiet in the summer heat.
Those brown legs look great dont they? Smooth and hairless, the muscles defined, rippling as you move through your pedal strokes. Standing out of the saddle a different set of muscles dance under your glowing skin.
Your arms too, lightly gripping the bars, sunblackened, more delicately muscled, but still the look great as they extrend from your figure hugging lycra kit.
I spend half my life on my bike and I like to think I look pretty healthy, not too skinny, not too fat, reasonably defined for a 42 year old but not pumped up. Finely balanced is how I'd best myself and healthy looking.
That is until I go for a swim with my son, then hours on the bike turn me from a finely tuned athlete (ha yeah right!) to a figure of ridicule and embarressment.
When I am in the pool I look like I have fallen on all fours into a tin of Cuprinol wood varnish. The tan stops abruptly mid thigh and just below my shoulders and around my neck The lines so sharp it looks like my limbs have been glued on from a confusion of body parts at Playmobil world.
The rest of my body has a pale flourescent glow that shines like a glow-in-the dark sticker.
There are obviously some quick fixes needed but the simplest must be dont ever wear speedos when swimming, wear a full body suit instead - like the ones the victorians wore perhaps a fine stripy number in wool?
What causes this ridicule? Well like every dedicated cyclist I have followed the euro rules - well most anyway. http://www.bikeradar.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=14734316
As you will see from rule 5 - A prominent line where your kit ends and where your tan begins is essential to your image. Artificial tanning is BANNED. The tan SHALL reflect the level of training commitment.
This rule in particular brands the cyclist as if he were a lunatic.
I was out riding with a friend the other day and he has a lovely colour to his legs all sunkissed and even. My shins never tan. He gave a rueful smile and proudly displayed more of his leg after my tiptoeing questions about his bronzed physique. I was baffled did he cycle naked? God forbid he put his turbo trainer in the garden and rode like a maniac in his birthday suit, surely that was above and beyond the call of any cyclist?
He has the good fortune to have a partner that doesnt want him to be a figure of fun on the beach or in the pool she advised him to "help himself to a little bit of summer sun" in their bathroom and hence he has the tan of a thousand hours on the bike without the dipped in cuprinol contrasting body stripes.
So do I now go to Boots and part with my hard earned cash for "a little bit of summer sun" or do I position the turbo trainer in sunniest part of my garden and shock the neighbours?
Damn thos euro rules!
Those brown legs look great dont they? Smooth and hairless, the muscles defined, rippling as you move through your pedal strokes. Standing out of the saddle a different set of muscles dance under your glowing skin.
Your arms too, lightly gripping the bars, sunblackened, more delicately muscled, but still the look great as they extrend from your figure hugging lycra kit.
I spend half my life on my bike and I like to think I look pretty healthy, not too skinny, not too fat, reasonably defined for a 42 year old but not pumped up. Finely balanced is how I'd best myself and healthy looking.
That is until I go for a swim with my son, then hours on the bike turn me from a finely tuned athlete (ha yeah right!) to a figure of ridicule and embarressment.
When I am in the pool I look like I have fallen on all fours into a tin of Cuprinol wood varnish. The tan stops abruptly mid thigh and just below my shoulders and around my neck The lines so sharp it looks like my limbs have been glued on from a confusion of body parts at Playmobil world.
The rest of my body has a pale flourescent glow that shines like a glow-in-the dark sticker.
There are obviously some quick fixes needed but the simplest must be dont ever wear speedos when swimming, wear a full body suit instead - like the ones the victorians wore perhaps a fine stripy number in wool?
What causes this ridicule? Well like every dedicated cyclist I have followed the euro rules - well most anyway. http://www.bikeradar.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=14734316
As you will see from rule 5 - A prominent line where your kit ends and where your tan begins is essential to your image. Artificial tanning is BANNED. The tan SHALL reflect the level of training commitment.
This rule in particular brands the cyclist as if he were a lunatic.
I was out riding with a friend the other day and he has a lovely colour to his legs all sunkissed and even. My shins never tan. He gave a rueful smile and proudly displayed more of his leg after my tiptoeing questions about his bronzed physique. I was baffled did he cycle naked? God forbid he put his turbo trainer in the garden and rode like a maniac in his birthday suit, surely that was above and beyond the call of any cyclist?
He has the good fortune to have a partner that doesnt want him to be a figure of fun on the beach or in the pool she advised him to "help himself to a little bit of summer sun" in their bathroom and hence he has the tan of a thousand hours on the bike without the dipped in cuprinol contrasting body stripes.
So do I now go to Boots and part with my hard earned cash for "a little bit of summer sun" or do I position the turbo trainer in sunniest part of my garden and shock the neighbours?
Damn thos euro rules!
Wednesday 19 May 2010
I can see clearly now.....
I'm always pretty careful about what I wear when I'm cycling - generally black, I dont do day-glo jackets. Recently I became the proud owner of a Team Sky cycling Jersey, I like it a lot, the tapered white panel on the back makes me look quite slim! My shorts are black lycra, and sock generally white but I'm becoming a convert to black. Now tell me why do people wear the following items: 1, White lycra shorts - especially in the rain and 2, cheap thin black lycra shorts in any weather.
There I was heaving my bike up Polhill the other day and I see two cyclist in front of me, catch them I thought to myself - in a totally non competitive way (Ha) - of course I did catch them and they were both bent double over the bars. As I got closer, I notice a silver like shine from the back of both of them, when I was on their wheel I suddenly realised I could see straight through the material, both men could've been naked, the sunlight reflected of their white buttocks, the effect enhanced because of the polarised lenses in my glasses. I have to admit to being a bit shocked and offended by their display.
A few days after my trauma, I am riding to work in the rain I caught up with another cyclist this time in white shorts - I originally thought they were pink but no that was just the cold wet flesh showing through his dirty white shorts, I'm only glad I closed my eyes as I shot passed. I tell you dear friends I am scarred for life from these experiences. So I say to you all - buy good quality black shorts dont ride in white shorts ever ever, it is wrong, just like Marmite!
There I was heaving my bike up Polhill the other day and I see two cyclist in front of me, catch them I thought to myself - in a totally non competitive way (Ha) - of course I did catch them and they were both bent double over the bars. As I got closer, I notice a silver like shine from the back of both of them, when I was on their wheel I suddenly realised I could see straight through the material, both men could've been naked, the sunlight reflected of their white buttocks, the effect enhanced because of the polarised lenses in my glasses. I have to admit to being a bit shocked and offended by their display.
A few days after my trauma, I am riding to work in the rain I caught up with another cyclist this time in white shorts - I originally thought they were pink but no that was just the cold wet flesh showing through his dirty white shorts, I'm only glad I closed my eyes as I shot passed. I tell you dear friends I am scarred for life from these experiences. So I say to you all - buy good quality black shorts dont ride in white shorts ever ever, it is wrong, just like Marmite!
Sunday 16 May 2010
The Raid
Some time ago I read French Revolutions by Tim Moore, although inspired and somewhat amused by his account of his version of the TDF, it was the mention of a coast to coast ride that captured my imagination - The Raid Pyrenean. He mentioned a man, Nick Flanagan, who ran a B&B somewhere near a huge mountain and how helpful he was and that he was the font of all knowledge about this epic ride. In about 6 weeks I'm going to tackle this monster ride with Nick, who has proved to be very helpful and patient with panicked emails and worries. I also picked the brains of Graeme Fife, renowned cycling author, who conveniently lives round the corner from me in Kent. Graeme's book "Great Road Climbs of the Pyrenees" has become my bedtime bible.
The Raid originated in 1952 - although the dream started long before that in 1912 for an enthustiastic young French cyclist called Maurice Bugard who imagined a Pyrenean trip though the mountains which would link the Atlantic Ocean it was nearly 40 years later that his dream became a reality.
After the first world war, he had worked out a project, drawn the itinerary, assessed the mileage and calculated the differences in level – in total, 18 passes staggered over 710 kms for 11,000 meters of climbing. He worked for years to finalise his plans and in 1939 the war broke and he plan was abandoned.
In 1949 another cyclist Paul Mathis took up Bugard’s project again he attempted the first crossing from Hendaye to Cerbere with another cyclist They had to give up because of the heat. But in June 1950, Mathis lined up again for the start and managed to do the crossing from Cerbere to Hendays.
After Mathis's he put the finishing touches to his work. He designed with great care the badge that he wanted worthy of the event. He also drew a route maps, devised compulsory checking points, put in extra sign posts to compensate for the inadequacy of the official road signs and printed various documents, and in the spring of 1952, the organization of the “Raid Pyrenean” was ready to operate.
The basic rules are that you ride from Hendeye on the Atlantic Coast to Cerbere on the Mediterranean Sea in 100 hours or less.
Raid Profile
The Raid originated in 1952 - although the dream started long before that in 1912 for an enthustiastic young French cyclist called Maurice Bugard who imagined a Pyrenean trip though the mountains which would link the Atlantic Ocean it was nearly 40 years later that his dream became a reality.
After the first world war, he had worked out a project, drawn the itinerary, assessed the mileage and calculated the differences in level – in total, 18 passes staggered over 710 kms for 11,000 meters of climbing. He worked for years to finalise his plans and in 1939 the war broke and he plan was abandoned.
In 1949 another cyclist Paul Mathis took up Bugard’s project again he attempted the first crossing from Hendaye to Cerbere with another cyclist They had to give up because of the heat. But in June 1950, Mathis lined up again for the start and managed to do the crossing from Cerbere to Hendays.
After Mathis's he put the finishing touches to his work. He designed with great care the badge that he wanted worthy of the event. He also drew a route maps, devised compulsory checking points, put in extra sign posts to compensate for the inadequacy of the official road signs and printed various documents, and in the spring of 1952, the organization of the “Raid Pyrenean” was ready to operate.
The basic rules are that you ride from Hendeye on the Atlantic Coast to Cerbere on the Mediterranean Sea in 100 hours or less.
Raid Profile
1 Col St Ignace 169 m, 2 Col Pinodeita 176 m, 3 Mont Urzumu 213 m, 4 Col d'Osquich 500m,5 Col d'Aubisque 1709m, 6 Col d'Soulor 1464m, 7 Col du Tormalet 2115m, 8 Col d'Aspin 1489 m, 9 Col de Peryresourde 1569 m, 10 Col deArres 797 m, 11 Col de Portet d'Aspet 1069 m, 12 Col de Port 1249 m, 13 Col du Puymorens 1915 m, 14 Col de la Perche 1570m, 15 Col Ternère 200m. There are 18 Cols on the route but 3 aren't listed because apparently they are pass by largely un-noticed!
Anyway there you go a little insight into what I'll be aiming for in July this year. I'll be recounting my training and the journey through these pages over the coming weeks, I hope you wont get bored.
The info in this post was cobbled together from various websites : http://www.dromaracc.co.uk/ http://www.bikepyrenees.com http://www.takenote.co.uk/cycle/ http://www.pyractif.com
Graeme Fife http://www.graemefife.com/ books available from http://www.rapha.cc/the-rapha-guide-to-the-great-road-climbs-of-the-pyrenees/
Tim Moore's French revolutions http://www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/frenchrevolutions/
Friday 14 May 2010
Anti Social Behaviour
What a lovely morning, sun shining a light breeze, little or no traffic in places and a steady ride to work. You will have heard of cycling tribes - The Lycra crowd (of which I am a member), the messenger: cool and fixie, the commuter: brompton and briefcase etc. They were all out in force smiling in spring sunshine. All the lights were on green too, super bonus points. My morning bliss was shattered by the word C**t! as a man on what can only be described as a shopping bike hurtled out of a side street over a red light, swerved in front of me and gave me the bird! I looked round, a picture of innocence, shocked of Sevenoaks. I caught up with him, dragged along by the large hole he perforated in the morning breeze, pulled along side and looked at hime through the Orange Oakleys. "C**t, watch where you're going" he sprayed at me. "What?". "Right of way t**t, f**k you" and he wobbled off. I'm stunned by this behaviour, I only wish I'd pushed him under a bus. I'm not one who regularly runs the red lights or abuses pedestrians - in fact the lights were green for me and there wasn't a car to avoid or a jay walking pedestrian to salom passed.
I'm not surprised that cyclists get a bad reputation.
Manners cost nothing, a nod of the head, a smile, even a jaunty wave all help ease the world on it's journey round the sun. But is there a need to abuse the innocents in life. I'd love to urge a bit of patience with our fellow man and road users of all kinds. Cycling is meant to lower stress and blood pressure, be good for your heart and leave you feeling good. Leave the road rage at home
I'm not surprised that cyclists get a bad reputation.
Manners cost nothing, a nod of the head, a smile, even a jaunty wave all help ease the world on it's journey round the sun. But is there a need to abuse the innocents in life. I'd love to urge a bit of patience with our fellow man and road users of all kinds. Cycling is meant to lower stress and blood pressure, be good for your heart and leave you feeling good. Leave the road rage at home
Thursday 13 May 2010
Mind over Matter
Last night I lay awake worrying pretty much all night. Work pressures are getting the better om, with redundancies, budget cuts and now the election has gone what to present for the Page One image tomorrow. I hear the church bells tolling every hour through the night, stood in the dark listening to the noises my son makes as he sleeps. The last hour before dawn chimed and I must have dropped off. I woke at 5.45am, then lay staring glassy eyed at the ceiling as the sunlight crept across it. I felt like death, kind of hungover but without the booze - I've stopped drinking in the week. Tea, I need Tea, more tea, BBC news, Sky and radio four all droned away washing me in a news wrap that would see me through the morning. I dropped Noah at school, went back home and stood looking at my bike. It starred at me through it's cateye, leering. "Get on if you dare - loser" I hated my bike. I unlocked the car, guilt got the better of me. Dragging on my kit, cursing about how much I hated cycling, life, work and fresh air I hauled the bike out of that garage and kicked into the pedals. Anger at my lack of sleep, lack of breakfast and general emotional state surged through me. I shot out of my road and towards work, my pulse accelerated in my ears and I was flying, powering up the long drag to Pollhill standing on the pedals I found a sudden peace in my rythmn. The journey blurred streets, buses, commuters, towns - Knockholt, Bromley, Catford, Lewisham one long blurred road a tunnel of quiet in a mad world. I could only hear my heart pounding in my ears. Suddenly I was at work. I stopped the computer - amazingly I had destroyed my best ever time by over 4 minutes, including stopping at red lights - I'm a polite social cyclist afterall. As I locked my bike in the underground car park, I smiled at it lovingly - "Who's a loser?"
Tuesday 11 May 2010
What defines a cyclist?
I'm wondering how I got here. It's Tuesday and I am off work today, some compensation for having done 70+ Hours last week. However in the madness of general election week I still cycled 400km. That's not me bragging, it's me being amazed. I am a cyclist, not a pro or even an amateur racer - no just an ordinary cyclist. What's a cyclist?
In my book it is someone who loves riding a bike, whatever shape or make that is. It's a person who derives pleasure from the metronome rythmn of turning the cranks to get from A to B and back and no other form of transport will do. Yes you love the gadgets, the bikes even the Lycra but it is all about the freedom.
Cycling is the first form of independence we get from the moment our training wheels are removed by our proud parents, the bike offers freedom.
I love the escape, I probably do too much, push myself too hard. I'm fitter now at 42 than I was when I was 20 - odd that my desire to improve comes midway through my successful life.
I've got the best job in my profession, I'm picture editor of the times - a job I wanted since I first taking pictures. Have a wonderful son and I'm healthy - I won't talk about my home life suffice to say it's not great.
But it's when I ride I get an etheral buzz. I can be exhausted after 12 hours at my desk and I'll climb in a numb way over the crossbar but after only a few spins of the pedals in the direction of home I feel the pressure lift. I always ride towards the station, testing myself, flirting with the public transport home. It's only a tease to see if I've got the mental strength to resist a seat on the train. I know I'm going to ride, to burn the stress and anxiety of another on the road home. The 26 mile journey sets me free, I do it pretty much everyday and I'm never bored, the smell of the changing seasons, the wind and rain in my face or the sun on my back. Cycling, it's what I do, somehow it defines and describes my life perfectly. I still wear the same expression when I ride as I did when I first set off through the lanes of Warwickshire as a boy - one of utter joy and exhilaration. So therefore I am a cyclist not a great one or a fast one, but I am a cyclist.
In my book it is someone who loves riding a bike, whatever shape or make that is. It's a person who derives pleasure from the metronome rythmn of turning the cranks to get from A to B and back and no other form of transport will do. Yes you love the gadgets, the bikes even the Lycra but it is all about the freedom.
Cycling is the first form of independence we get from the moment our training wheels are removed by our proud parents, the bike offers freedom.
I love the escape, I probably do too much, push myself too hard. I'm fitter now at 42 than I was when I was 20 - odd that my desire to improve comes midway through my successful life.
I've got the best job in my profession, I'm picture editor of the times - a job I wanted since I first taking pictures. Have a wonderful son and I'm healthy - I won't talk about my home life suffice to say it's not great.
But it's when I ride I get an etheral buzz. I can be exhausted after 12 hours at my desk and I'll climb in a numb way over the crossbar but after only a few spins of the pedals in the direction of home I feel the pressure lift. I always ride towards the station, testing myself, flirting with the public transport home. It's only a tease to see if I've got the mental strength to resist a seat on the train. I know I'm going to ride, to burn the stress and anxiety of another on the road home. The 26 mile journey sets me free, I do it pretty much everyday and I'm never bored, the smell of the changing seasons, the wind and rain in my face or the sun on my back. Cycling, it's what I do, somehow it defines and describes my life perfectly. I still wear the same expression when I ride as I did when I first set off through the lanes of Warwickshire as a boy - one of utter joy and exhilaration. So therefore I am a cyclist not a great one or a fast one, but I am a cyclist.
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