Pleasure in Pain. Lots of pain

The 3peaks cyclocross race is intense. Ridiculous, unique. Amazing. 60km with 2000m of ascent. And technical descent. Yes. Up. Up. Up. Down. Fast. Up. Down. Fast. Up and Down. On a road bike with skinny knobblies.

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Pen-y-Ghent is the last and most draining effort. Arriving with a clear sky, tents pitched. It's off to the pub to eat with friends and to meet like minded souls. People you know from other times/places. January dinner in Strathpeffer 2008? Surely not? Yes. Important? No. No it is not.

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The last effort hurt. Ingleborough and Whernside have depleted energy/increased lactic build. Road explosions have only served to ring cramp alarm bells. Pain is good. Pain has been ok all day - my head is well. My body is weak. That's easy to fix.

End

It's all tarmac and tarmac is met with as much explosion as I have left. The slight incline has me going backward. The finish line in sight, I let my vision go and just go.

2008: 4hrs 33mins.

2010: 4hrs 22 mins.

2011: sub 4hrs and NO punctures! Huge respect to anyone who got close to 3 & 1/2 hours.

The Pits at Mayhem

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Without the fitness or head for racing at Mountain Mayhem, I was delighted when a friend announced his solo entry. I don't want to race, but can pit for Grant and throw an all-nighter, drinking in the atmosphere. After the essential and random email trails, another friend Gavin accepted a late request/offer to stand in on the Singletrack team so Grant, Gavin and me amounted to a road trip. Friday came and after packing, then re-packing and finally doing that **oocha** full force boot shutting we were on our way. Rock on! Ah ... I'll just switch over from Radio 4 to Holy Fuck on the CD. Where ARE they going with that name? Such a quality, innovative band, super tight on stage.

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Pat Adams knows a thing or two about putting on a mountain bike race. Original Source Mountain Mayhem is more than that; it's a weekend community event. It's my Mecca of 24 hour endurance racing. Four years ago, riding through the SAAB event village in gathering dusk, a full orchestra was playing and fireworks erupted, just as I gained the ridgeline overlooking the event village ... Special magical memories burnt onto my soul. Like Seb exiting the Bombhole, perfectly siloutted by a huge moon. The Diprose brothers doing 24 hour DJ and the Gorilla in 2007 With other events, it is the Thetford singletrack trails of Dusk till Dawn, the slick delivery of Mike Wilkens' Trans Wales in 2006. Detail events and my own event, Raasay Rumble. Many, many special people met and moments hardwired onto my brain through riding and racing bikes.

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As always happens on the Mayhem morning, 08:00 cheekily becomes 09:30 and before you know it; 13:55. You are standing in the starting group, heart pounding at 170bpm. All kinds of euphoria spikes and belly churning doubt going on. Only, I'm shouldering women and children out the way on the 'wrong' side of the barriers so that I can see Grant come back from his run and get my hand on his saddle to secure his bike. How do I feel? Do I want to be racing? Dunno, yes. Maybe, ah! Here's Grant and there he goes. We decided on a two lap strategy so there is time to go and take some photos, bump in to Jim and D of Rat Race and mooch some more. Grant comes back in to pit in a good time, buzzing from the exertion and the fast final flow over the finish line. Bam! In, out off he went. Now I have the tummy churns and can feel the endorphin and adrenaline running through his system. Outside Rob Lee, John Pitchers and Rob Dean's easy-ups are buzzing with activity. James Leavesly and Anthony White are the other side of the exit strip. Grant makes two more pit stops and is still strong, but then we are sitting at 23:30, Grant's knee has popped. We (he more than me) are gutted but hopeful. I've administered as much anti inflammatory in as is sensible. A gentle rub, hot sweet tea and then he's back out. Judging from the locality of his problem, we both know that his leg's not going to fall off but equally know it is unlikely that the inflammation will decrease to an acceptable burn; rather than escalating to seething, sharp agony. Whilst waiting for Grant to come back round, a new and interesting style of heckling is introduced:

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Heckler: 'What's your name?'Rider: 'what?' or '     '

Heckler: [one voice] 'murmur, grumble'

Heckler: 'What's your name?'

Rider: 'James?'

Heckler: [one voice turns into 20] 'GOOAAAN JAMES ­ WOOOO!!!!'

James' face turns from grim determination and masked pain through shock to elation. He coughs back a chocking sob of happiness, pride and joy then painfully raises his left hand in acknowledgement and turns to smile. I'm savouring his moment.

Around midnight, Grant came limping back into the Pits. Race over. We both know that continuing will almost certainly leave lasting damage. Earlier, Rob Dean made the correct choice to end his race, having crashed out of 2nd place on his fourth lap; in a sportsmanship style, he buzzed about until the adrenaline left, then accepted reality, had a shower and looked forward to reading his book and being able to sleep. The race has already taken casualties and will take more. Chatting to Zoe and Chrissie, Rob Lee and John Pitchers are both doing well. I watch as the top riders pit and ride with the same pace and efficiency as 1400, the day before. It is an education, My experience of 24 hour racing has always been the sharp end, where lap counts can get confused and pit stops lost in a haze of fatigue and pain (re-read the last sentence –  and this is my passion because? answers on a postcard).

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Eventually, the desire for an all nighter dwindles so it's time to poodle off to bed. Through the night, Rob Lee and James Leavesly both left the race (respecting their bodies in the same way that Grant and Rob did) and I don't know any of the other soloists now, but know of them, Anthony White is metronomically tapping out laps ­ amazing. And then 14:00 arrives and my friends are trickling in. I want to be one of the slack shouldered, deep chested riders. I need to have the horror and pain, the ecstasy and exasperation, the giggles and incredulity that an endurance racer feels at the end of 24 hours of racing.

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Back in the car, we trundle on down a weary road. Watching from the pits and on the course has been wonderful for me. I've learnt so much by watching rather than doing. So Mayhem 2011, Grant is going to revise the mixed Brighton Jey Pride team and Iím coming back solo, come rain or shine. Shine please.

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XCPro3 - back to my roots

 

After much pondering and some pauses, my decision to get back to hardtail had been taken for me. Fed up of lugging a sluggy, heavy full suss round short, sharp and precise courses and on an uber-offroad commute* it was time. So I duly received a piece of my history (I owned a Maxlight 'some' years ago), only the right size this time** and so, so much better! The only part missing for the build was a headset ... nothing serious then ... but that was sorted quickly. Thursday night saw a quick build with Reba SL, Chris King wheels, XT everything and USE post/stem. Nice. 0515, alarm clock set. Up and out to tweak and tighten on a 40 mile off road commute. 

 

 

The Ride?

 

The Superplastic Formed Tubing delivers a gorgeous integrated head/downtube gusset. The phat BB tubing keeps things tight there too. The carbon wishbone seatstays? 40 miles of off road commuting. Arrive at the garage and, rather than the stalled and slow attempts to straighten my back, it was straight off and, after few touchy toes/quad stretches, all was well. 

 

Light

Precise

Sharp

Laterally Stiff

 

 

And did I mention the graphics?

 

 

It is nice to buy things that have been designed in a quiet, undulating rural part of Britain. The kinds of places that cycling folk would naturally be. 

 


So today, I fitted Small Block Eights and blasted round the Stanmer Big Dog course. The XCPro3 doesn't beat you up on the long ride and equally is huge amounts of twitchy, accurate and quick fun on tight crazy singletrack. 

 

* The Uber On road commute scares the hell out of me - too many 07:43 cardiac moments of angst youth, 10 feet behind, pumping into the turbo/nitro bands of some rocket ship with bumpers. 

 

** Just because a bike is cheap 2nd hand, it doesn't miraculously make a 17" frame fit a 19" body.

 

Ashes to Ashes

We finally got round to it, putting dad's ashes in the ground. He's in a fine location, overlooking Loch Tulla and upwards to Stob Ghabhar. Volcanic ash in the sky forced me to drive, but driving facilitated two great meetings. Serendipity, maybe? I think so.

A group of friends and family celebrated his life and now look forward. We'll meet again, I'm certain of that so in-between times, I've got a family business to look after and adventures to be made. I've also got some miles to get in before the Brighton Big Dog and the launch of the Feed your Faith jersey/campaign, hopefully! 

I'll be getting my xcpro3 soon, already been excitedly collecting the requisite parts - forks, front mech, headset ... trying to have everything ready for a fun build. What will be the missing, all important part ... Really looking forward to getting back to hardtail and giving myself one less excuse for being slow and far more to be quick and flicky.

So, best feet forward, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the liquor don't get you, the women must. 

It's the wrong shoes, Gorrick

So, I'm starting to ride a bit. A lot actually - as much as I can. I had committed, then swithered about the Gorrick Enduro. Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. Ach what's the point? Repeat. Like a magician's illusion cup set. Which one is the answer under and, you know what? I'll choose anyway. Rubbish I know. The pitiful lounge lizard is being drowned in derision. The racer and rider is coming out of his malaise - yes. 

Text messages and a certainty that I must get out have me packing my bags on Saturday night, with a racer's meticulous manner. Forecast isn't good so it includes arm/knee warmers, gloves x 3, socks x 3 and race jersey x ... ah, I only have one that I want to wear. Ok. Gore gilet, good. Shoes. Why is the left cleaner than the right? Shrug, stuff in bag. Clothes sorted, I get water, and food, tools and bike ready and go to bed with an excited expectation of what will happen tomorrow. I'd thought (sensibly) that, having only ridden 20 miles hard the weekend before, maybe I should just double that? But seven laps of the 10 mile course is the enduro, and, well ... that's what I do, isn't it? I'm not a whippet; I warm up, ride hard and do ok against my own expectations.

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So we arrive in good time at Swinley forest, Lorraine, Deano, Steve-the-Ringer, Charlie, Jenn, Ian, Rob … I fit here. Rory and me have 30 minutes to set up our pit, get into race clothes, test bikes, register and the other stuff. But everyone is chilled. The last minutes are always at least five. It's the cycling way. While changing and gaffing to Rory about this and that, I reached for my shoes ... ah. One is just far too much cleaner than the other. Turn it over. No, I haven't. I couldn't! I have. Look at my watch, back down at the Look cleat starting back from my left road shoe. Look right at my spd’d mountain bike shoe … they are almost identical. It’s 08:10. 20 minutes. Damn! 65 painful pounds later I have cleats in a reasonable semblance to my normal position and I'm in the bunch. 10, 9, 8 ... my commutes would be so much faster if I was in a group ... 7, 6, 5 ... Christ, get on with it, I’m freezing ... 4, 3, 2, 1, go.   

The first turn down is singletrack and after a few blunt overtaking maneuvers, I've split myself from Rory, having suggested that he goes harder than it feels sensible from the start and then settle into that pace. I’m making sure Rory is around and pushing the pace. Ah, this looks like I need to go right but too fast … mud, ruts, bars fling left – over I go. Ouch. A fine lead out man, I am. The Gorrick course is a mixture of lung busting and impossible climbs, amazingly bermed descent shoots and sweet singletrack and the first lap is dry and fast. I can’t remember exactly when it started raining, but I arrived back from my first lap, placed 40th and aware it was getting sloppy. The emotional and financial controllers in my head had already had their bored meeting – ‘he’s going to do it anyway?’. Yes. ‘Ah well, release the endorphin equity? Ok’. I can see Rory heading up the hill, if I could ride up to him and wheel about, maybe it’d help? Joolze is there. This is like old times.

Rory is riding the pace I’d advised, just a bit more than I can settle into or match. I blame the stupid bike, but then the stupid bike is my daft choice and … SHUT UP!!! I start to anticipate the climbs with more precision, there are fast tracts of land and wheel sucking mud, position on the bike is everything. The descending demands your full attention, to gain as much speed and adrenaline thrill as possible. The berms are holding up well. I’m trying to remember, is it push the outer bar and keep your wrists bent low or the other way round? Whatever, it seems to be working!

Lap three, Rory has disappeared off my horizon so I’m no longer looking to wheel about and settle into a punishing pace. Hungry? Here, a mouthful of wet Haribo mixed with sand and dirt … I’m doing this for fun?

Fourth lap. Not feeling so good. I can’t use my knowledge to ride any of this faster. There is no more power available I pull levers in an arbitrary fashion and gears change, sort of. Brakes slow me on an unknown contact substance although the most likely is metal on metal. Not being able to push into the higher heart rates is starting to frustrate and freeze me then, without reason, it all becomes quiet and surreal – removed. ‘1410?’. ‘Hi Dad, it’s me, the race I’m doing today? It’s all got very gloopy, wet and hard, not really enjoying this – it’s sandy, not rocky and I have to tell you about my shoes …’. My mind captures and enjoys Dad’s whooping laughter and smiling eyes. Derek Purdy’s telephone exchanges where always a source of great amusement to dad and I like to think my exploits got close to those high echelons. ‘Bye dad, see you soon’. ‘Bye Phil, take care.’

God my knee is sore. If I pull my brake levers I still slow down. Hrm. There really is no glory in this … och; if I stop I’m only going to have to wait for Rory. Coming through on my fifth lap and I’m placed 8th. From 40th!! Blimey. Joolze informs me that the race is being called after six laps, so I have no choice really. The last lap is ghostly, a few whippets skip past but mostly silence, my gears settle into a reasonable state and tap out the last few miles, not really racing, but riding hard enough. I’m glad to finish and astounded/delighted it’s in third place, although finishing third out of three is really coming last. Hey! I’l take the podium, thanks. Lies, damned lies and statistics.

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Driving back with Rory, we share some good time. Reflect. Rory had a good feeling on his fourth lap, I had my ephemeral conversation with dad at the same time. Later that night, I share good company with more like-minded souls.These are my people. I don’t understand or want to understand others. Some say ‘it’s mad, your commute!!’. ‘You’re addicted to riding your bike’. These people drive to work in the same commuting time that I can make. Who is mad and who is passionate? Who is addicted and who is committed. I know where I want to be.

Feed your Faith. Don't accept a diagnosis. Look further. 

www.canceractive.com

www.credence.org

 

 

Vet Racing. Coffee'n'Cake

I'm not an ageist, sexist, racist, fascist, nationalist or masochist ... well, maybe the last one is true. But standing in the eerie gloom of misty Goodwood, I'm eying up the grey haired brigade. My competition. This is my first race as a Vet. My first race since ... Raasay Rumble? Can't be surely. The Goodwood Spring Challenge is a low key, indeed grass roots, cross country race and with five miles to drive before arriving, I start to feel the pre-race sensations, perhaps a little refined over the years – my four score having instilled some decorum. Arriving, I'm directed to my parking slot, one youth, one adult. It always amazes and delights me – the willing enthusiasm of volunteers at these kinds of event, in fact all events. Without that human quality it would be impossible. One of my most memorable 24 hour events was a sunny Sleepless in the Saddle, not so much for the course, but for the young TA girls belting out 'is this the way to amarillo' - all through the night!

I've prepared properly, hydrating the night before and early to bed after packing the clothes bag, sorting the tool kit (including track/shock pump) and tweaking the irritating rub of the front disc rotor. Claire and the kids were due to come with me, but a sleepover scuppered that plan. No bad thing as the weather looks pretty nasty. Next door to me, a mum, dad and three kids are fussing about their people carrier. The young daughter (Aimee's age) is totally up for it - anything, running about, riding her bike, wanting daddy to win. Two sullen sons (either teen or close to it) have a different agenda. One is determined to get as much mud on the back seats as possible; the other to decapitate mum with the frisbee. Dad snaps, 'oh for Christ's sake!!'. I feel for him, but secretly thank the big man upstairs for sending Kitty and Bea to us for a sleepover. The phone rings just as I see Nigel's Bongo appear out of the thickening mist. Phew. 

We have both neglected to bring arm warmers, embrocation, waterproofs even but head out on a practice lap, it's soon apparent that this is not a problem – out of the wind, it's warm and slightly damp. Perfect. As our 08:00 plan for leaving didn't work out, we have to scope the course in the parent and kid 'race'. I'm not sure that competition is such a good idea for this group - why not just have controlled, event village fun stuff: 'best spokey dokey formation'. Inclusion is the main issue. It's not a technical course by any means, but there is a four foot drop followed by a sharp right and left onto squiggly lines. One poor wee soul has clearly hit the same tree root that I nearly did and gone over his bars, sobbing gently at the side of the track with a worried and guilty looking dad. We rattle on using the slow pace to check out a piece of lovely, tree lined, descending singletrack. Given the chance, we pass the competitive dad/boy clusters and open the taps to skoot on through some forest trail and hit a series of well-bermed turns. No traffic, so I check out the lines at race pace. The course also boasts some comical grass descents - faster, faster, off cambre 180 deg turn coming up nowwwwww - oops. Straight on.

Soon enough, I'm standing on the start line. The surprise of turning to my left and seeing Paul smiling back is amazing but not unexpected. Like chatting to Mike on the startline of Mayhem ... two? three? years ago. Maybe. Like so many other occasions where I've been in the same place and time as like minded souls. This is what it's about. Five, four, three, two, one - Go! My gearing is perfect and we're off, sprinting from a middle position, I take the lead. Ah. Ok. I'll keep this if I can! Careering into the drop, my speed launches and takes me further than my practice potter did but correcting, I heave the bike into an immediate right turn then snap it back left to enter the squiggly singletrack. This is good. I'm feeling strong. Everything is perfect, the trail is dampened and grippy, I know the turns and twists, the tight singletrack trail riding faster and faster, Paul's breathing almost on my neck. Faster and faster; then the tricky double tree-gate looms. At five miles per hour, this posed no problem. At probably 20-25, it's a different story. I brake, correct, try to pedal out of the negative camber before mounting one tree and starting to pin ball the chain of tree trunks, finally throwing my chain, spinning at 300rpm, stuck to a tree. Pride destroyed!

First priority: clear my carnage off the trail.

Second: get chain back on.

Third, get back on the trail – all the grinning greyies flit past and I curse my stupidity, see the gap and flick back in.

The race is on, eeking every ounce of traction from the course; hitting the singletrack hard and with conviction, powering into every climb and screaming through the second section of tree-lined singletrack. Where is everyone? Crossing the Goodwood tarmac hillclimb, I start the grassy giggles – gently heading way out left and more gently flicking right, 30 foot higher than the apex of the grassy off camber descent. The second lap is hard. My energy and conviction are draining as the sun bursts through the trees. Why dad? I asked you to take me instead? [shut up shut up shut up] A group of three riders are ahead - one I know as being 'tasty'. Slap on the launch control and head down. I merge with the group on the first grassy descent – they have all taken the far left line. I like this. They all flick carefully right to pre-empt the apex. Yes. Roadie style, I trust and sit on a wheel (it turns out, belongs to Andy). His conviction is obvious. We wheel about, chase into the tight descending turns and ride hard through the singletrack. Andy is clearly the stronger rider and I start compensating ('he's got a scandium hardtail, i've got this stupid 130m full suss - god I hate the cockpit length on this bike ...'). Crossing the line, I was surprised to find that I'd made the top 10 – just. It hurt but pain was good. 

Later that afternoon, I took the kids to the park. At ages seven and (coming on) six, you can simply open the gate and make sure neither of them have hurdled the fence - let them get on with it. I always wonder what to do – as a parent. The balance of discipline and love, encouragement and rapprochement ... how do you get it right with each perfectly formed individual? Ben interrupts by howling that Aimee is about to be thrown off the vortex blue disk-thing, so I casually save her plunge into sand and we head to the cafe. Ben tells me, enthusiastically, all about Poptropica, drums and Captain Underpants while Aimee carefully details the complex nature of how Grace and Shirley and her had arranged to sit together at lunch [stern looks to make sure I understand the nuances and complexities] and ... yes. Perfectly formed individuals.

God, Hove park do good coffee and cake. 

 

Feed your Faith

www.canceractive.com 

Bright Sun Shiny Days

 Walking with the kids yesterday, I got them to be as quiet as possible in-between skirmishes and giggles. 'Look' I said, 'no trails or clouds in the sky, no noise at all. Isn't it amazing?'. Clearly not, as the younger is too busy wrestling the elder's flint rock out of his hands with the inevitable howls of indignation and belly chortles. I wander off and leave them to their interpretations of enjoying the outdoors and let my thoughts wander – yes there are significant financial repercussions and many hatches, matches and dispatches have been missed, but then should we be such a disparate society? Shouldn't we all just stay put? What utter nonsense ... strains of the youngest's beautiful voice singing '...allll obstaklllls in ma wayyyyy, gooone are the...' remind me of the fact.

I remember desperately trying to get onto Mull for a funeral, but being cast off by the gale force weather, no ferries running. But that wasn't a solo effort, Steve drove me through atrocious conditions from my island. It all swings round and is about. Raasay Rumble was on his trials. It'll happen again. And if we were to live in splendid and very local isolation, my mum and me wouldn't have shared a giggle, only hers perhaps a little more innocent than mine. Drop the 's' and change 'pick' for 'grow'? Ahhhh. 

But then commutes. Now. three weeks into my bi-weekly South Downs/Surrey Hills commute and I'm feeling good. The first week was ok - not happy with form, but ok. The second; double puncture two miles from work. Now that's not fair. A friendly face popped out of his car, 'can I give you a lift somewhere?' After thanking him profusely whilst he pulled away, I unravelled my two short valve tubes that somehow had to fit into the deep section rims. Bugger! Look cleats are plastic and expensive. Visiting the LBS later that day and I'm back in the 80's, in Clarkston - it's wee Alec the framebuilder with roll-up in mouth ... only it's not, same body, similar face and reek of stale tobacco, just no fags on show. 62mm valves x 2. Look cleats. Thanks. 

Since the commute of irritating valve fail, there have been three uneventful rides; other than when the chip shop owner in Horsham bodily grabbed me off my bike and, forcing £1.30 out my hand, replaced it with a bag of chips. The metabolic change keeps on catching me unawares – 'I'm fine, I'm fine, I've hit the wall!'. It feels better immediately after every effort, but with diminishing endorphin returns, sometimes finding myself in the garage – tapping on top tubes and looking for my next fix. There is running and the gym, but they are extreme and not sustainable efforts. Swimming. Hrm. swimming. It's obvious to me that I'm a trail junky and an endorphin fiend. Frankly, you can stuff your adrenaline, It's ok in blasts, but not sustainable for the long, beautiful sensation. I need to be in the outdoors and seeking the thrill of singletrack, the agony, dispair and exuberance of endurance r..rid...rac... ach!

The kids sniff out and run down some local secret singletrack, in perfect condition. Momentarily I regret not having a bike, but it is the briefest of moments - they have devised a stop, go, weeeee! ... crunch ... game and I'm being reprimanded for not joining in. 

Quite early the next morning, I get time to head out and over to that secret single track. The long way of course and let it all out. Amen. Riding back home, there is a comical and quite rude (grim stare forward, FSR Carbon) overtake. Now I wasn't pushing it, only just ambling along. Obviously, I take his wheel. I mean he's a great windbreak (stop it!). Then a shambles of metal and garish rugby shirts thunder past at the roundabout. Grr. All around there is the grinding of big Ullrich-esque gearing, Rugby shirts and grim-faced man-men. This is just plain silly and annoying. I slip the Launch Control on ... or is it off? Not sure, turn shock to pro-pedal and pounce like a coiled python (in the right gear of course). My break is a good'n. Grim-faced FSR man catches me in a while, but not so quick as to induce utter despair. Darn. More commutes and Tuesday night rides required. I may even get my racing socks out soon to receive a truly massive drubbing. But I like that too - one drubbing = massive gain in form. What am I saying! I just want to be fast ... er.

I suppose I'm feeding my faith, but that is about much more and will become obvious soon. As soon as I can create something that makes sense. Another good outdoor person has just been diagnosed. Similar and unhelpful prognosis. If only the same effort that went into nuclear fusion and space exploration, went into cancer research and treatment. But even breast can't sex it up enough, apparently. Heaven forbid we should talk about men wobbly bits.

What was meant to be a charitable (thank Christ he's going to be ok/thanks NHS for your accurate early diagnosis) charity Land's End to John O'Groats has drifted by one year and will be on dad's birthday - May 7th 2011, only I recon 50 hours now, not 60. So those who have donated will not be disappointed, just I'll be a year late. 

I'm gonna make you bleed

I remember the guy from Glenmarnock. So much promise and power but so little self-confidence. I tried, I really did, to get him out on training rides. Every time I’d wait 10, 15, 30 minutes. No show. He was consistent and had a furious sprint in our inter-club races. Why didn’t he follow the sport? So many charlatans and wheel huggers did.

On this day, I had my carbon/alu mix bike, the first road bike in a while. My folks’ house is in a dip so I eased up onto the road and set a pace gently east. The hill past Eastwood Roundabout is a classic leg warmer. Not steep, just demanding and consistent. Ignoring it, I  cruise on down to the other roundabout with a dip and sharp climb up the Stewarton Road. Hard out of the roundabout and then harder still, kicking and kicking again. No ipod just aggression, not angry but determined to show this familiar training circuit that I’ve not forgotten its demands and peculiarities, up and onto the Fenwick Moor. This hurts a lot but I’m traveling fast. Crossing over the big road, the descent via Eaglesham starts and I know the effort is over. But is it? I’m out the saddle at every opportunity, kicking and dancing into every corner. Sprinting for each line. Finally gliding into Carleton Drive, Dad is heading out for a walk. We exchange greetings, I can taste blood. Dad understands.

Dave was leading a ride – four of us. I was new to the Southern crowd. Friendly and inclusive. Nice. We started out toward the Kemp Town racecourse on a Tuesday night ride at a pace I knew. It grew, then grew and became amazing. I hadn’t ridden so hard since … since … Christ, it’s hot. I’m still on his wheel. He’s still accelerating on this churned up rubbish? I’m still on his wheel. I can taste blood. I understand.

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We met for Rory’s 42nd. I’ve missed the last few birthdays. Missed quite a lot really. There are wonderful faces from the past, friends whose stories are equally as important as my own, just that they haven’t been shared in a while. The ride to Selsey is calm and social – good time to catch up on what is going on. We pick up one of the most enthusiastic and wonderful people I have ever met in Chichester … only he manages to pinch flat and split his tyre in under a mile. It’s raining and cold. What do we do … taxi? Halfords (with five minutes to get there?) … gaffer tape? Hell yes! Wrap the contents of Nigel’s gaffer tape round the tyre and off we go. It wouldn’t have been right to do it any other way.

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We all bleed. Bleeding is good.

PORC

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I went out on Saturday morning for a blast. Kind of warming up to big efforts again and various pain zones are getting under control. Quads and calves seem to behave. But, well, you know those kind of days when you can’t really be bothered? It’s outdoors and, well, warmish in recent comparison but I’m not really kicking or digging it. Same old trails. Blah blah … so I get home quick and give the bike a good clean. This works as a diversion tactic but then, what am I going to do now? Plenty of work to get on with, but there always is. I could pick up a book or switch on the telly. It is the weekend after all. The possibilities are endless.

Without really making a conscious decision, I’m in the car and have Penshurst plugged into the satnav. Penshurst Off Road Cycling is proper old school (back in the day etc etc). I only know of it via a friend whose guidebook I’m poking my nose into. Gary stopped during a recent chat and reminisced about PORC. The subconscious always has reference points.

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 So I arrive at the kind of car park and venue that is synonymous with any Scottish or Welsh trail centre – stacks of this and that, purposeful looking machines and huge piles of wood. Only this is in the Kent countryside, stunning in its setting, but not mountainous. Getting out the car, there is clearly something I've forgotten. A bike. Hrm. Wandering about, the retarded progress is immediately obvious. A grand building with chestnut trunks thrusting through its floors. Not supporting but defiant. A well-packed main trail running through and under a bridge that is blocked at one end with a tree trunk. There are launch ramps and tabletops, berms and a wonderful looking bowl, full of fall lines. Now I’m really narked at myself for not bringing a bike.

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The ubiquitous green portacabin has a guy chatting through its window, so I hang awkwardly for a while, feigning interest in the chestnut building before heading back over. ‘Eh, do you do tea?’. It seems like a good opening gambit. Mike Westphal is holding a kettle, ‘it would appear so!’. I start asking when the chestnut building will be finished and introduce the guidebook that I’ve brought with me. Minutes later, I’m in the portacabin and enthralled by Mike and his business partner Paul’s stories of determination in the face of adversity and 100% commitment. Some classic tales of derring do (that are clearly true) ensue and my heart opens in a moment. So many similarities to another such slightly anarchic, yet passionate and professional member of the outdoor industry, Raasay Outdoor Centre.

 After more stories, wonderfully up-beat chat and sharing contact details; it is clearly the right time to leave so I get up to shake hands. An excited father, who I saw earlier photographing his son, pops his head in the window. ‘Can you tell me a bit more about mountain biking?’. Mike and Paul are both on their feet, out the portacabin and showing what PORC land has to offer while talking about bikes, technology, safety ... If you knew nothing of PORC don’t google Mike Westphal + PORC, just go and visit and buy a cup of tea. Oh, and take a bike. 

 

The Uber Commuter

 

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I think it was Tim Hilton who suggested a cyclist's ideal commuting distance is 26 miles, otherwise (and especially in winter) the kitting up and then changing at work negates the benefit of the whole experience. My cycling power is much more that of Ullrich than Armstrong, a big plodding diesel and tends to need a 10kg mallet of coffee to spark up in the morning. Thud ... thud ... thud ... going now. So for me, 26 miles is just getting going, really. During my formative years of road racing, I remember the misery of riding a short distance from work to my local swimming pool then changing out of and back into wet lycra ...

Two ears ago, I had the wonderful opportunity of commuting from Hove to Hampshire eight times a month for approximately a year. It was with a fair amount of trepidation that I first starting this considerable distance and incredulity from people that work with me. 56 miles there, 56 miles back. 'But they are flat miles – perfect spinning, it's great'. Blank stares. During the first month I would arrive late for meetings; disheveled and still buzzing from some caffeinated drink that I'd guzzled to battle a particularly ferocious headwind. Other days, I'd arrive fresh and hardly breaking a sweat. Most days it was an average 17-18mph of nice steady effort with good tunes. Before long, I learnt to check the forecast and have my 25 minute buffer either way. 

Some days, I would leave the house and arrive at work without really being aware of riding. On one such winter morning, traffic calming road furniture had been added from one ride to the next. BAM BAM!! One new set of wheel later ... Other mornings, especially when the weather was gloriously warm and sunny or particularly vicious, I would arrive fresh and vibrant or cunning. Surprisingly, I had very few commuter races - only one that sticks in my mind, Mr. Grey socks. Grumpy sod. 

Starting from April 1st, I will be commuting to Guilford two days a week. When the announcement came at work I almost let out a yelp of excitement. Two days of riding over rolling Downland and into kicking Surrey Hills to arrive at an office with showers and a gym ... why on earth wouldn't you? Especially as I have specific events to train for starting with May 7th (dad's 74th birthday). I'll be riding the coast-to-coast route as fast as I can do it. The following year on May 7th, I'll go from Lands End to John O'Groats in something under 60 hours. There are other rides and races being planned in between. Feed Your Faith is about awareness of cancer treatments, both conventional and alternative and having the complete knowledge to make informed choices. I don't claim to be an expert, but have seen what knowledge is not freely available. 

So. My commutes will start on the disused railway line over Devil's Dyke, up the winding sleepy Sussex lanes, into sharp Surrey hills and onto work. Not a bad start or end to the working day in my book.