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Coastal Culture Trail

September 5, 2015

For ages I’ve been meaning to do a ride from Brighton along the coast to Eastbourne to the Towner Gallery, and then on to Bexhill to the De La Warr Pavilion. Never quite managed to find a free weekend that coincided with exhibitions I really wanted to see. Then recently I discovered the Coastal Culture Trail via the Towner’s twitter feed, and had noticed there’s a ‘passport’ which you get stamped at each gallery, kind of like an audax brevet card, but for a 20 mile audax with no time limit. These kinds of things appeal to the collector in me. The timing was perfect, the Ravilious room at the Towner has been re-hung since I last visited and there was a Bridget Riley show in Bexhill that was coming to a close. Also I’m trying to have a few restful, easy weekends between what has been a fairly hectic riding year so far and more audaxing and racing in September.

My friend Lois and I had been planning an easy cafe ride the weekend before but ended up sitting in a coffee house for an hour nattering and watching a lot of rain fall from the sky. I mentioned the gallery ride so we aborted our planned ride and decided to try for the galleries the following weekend. We would get the train to Eastbourne, then work our way along the coast before jumping on a train back from Hastings. All week we monitored the ever-changing forecast and eventually decided it was worth risking. It was likely to be mild and grey, and we would probably get rained on after midday, but at least we’d have a gentle tail wind. Fortunately the forecast was completely wrong and it was a warm day with blue skies all day.

I had just arrived at Brighton station with the Singular Peregrine (always the bike of choice when not in a rush) when Lois rolled in on her Raleigh singlespeed. These two bikes hadn’t been ridden together since Bike Belle in May when we saw Belle & Sebastian in Cambridge and slowly rode home over couple of days. Amazingly that was actually the last time we’d ridden together…if you don’t count a damp mile around rainy Brighton the weekend before.

First gallery was the Towner in Eastbourne to the William Gear Curates show and the Ravilious room. The latter has become a bit of a favourite of mine after years of not really liking Ravilious’s work. However spending hours on end on the South Downs I’ve become more and more drawn to his work, and what I used to think was a bit washed out and vague I now see as a fine interpretation of the light and colour of the downs. After wandering the galleries we popped into the cafe. It’s neither a proper museum visit nor pretend audax without tea and cake. So far we’d ridden less than a mile. The cake to mile ratio was looking good. We sat on the balcony and listened to the syncopated thwacks of tennis games from a storey below at the club behind the museum.

I’ve never ridden the coast between Eastbourne and Pevensey Bay before. Whenever I’ve come to Eastbourne before it’s usually the end or turning back of a ride, and to get to Pevensey I would loop north of Eastbourne past Pevensey Castle. Felt odd to be riding somewhere familiar but completely unfamiliar. Lois talked about playing in concerts at the Winter Gardens pointing out a favourite childhood Italian ice cream parlour as sunlight warmed us and bounced off the white painted houses and pastel hotels. The aquamarine turquoise sea to our right was dotted with yatch sails of bright hues. It felt like being on proper holiday somewhere far away from Sussex.

Once we got to Pevensey Bay I would know the way, so we followed signposts and a mix of National Cycle Routes 21 and 2, which obviously meant every now and again there wasn’t a blue sign when you expected it and some guesswork and a dead end was inevitable. One set of route 21 signs seemed to send you into an eternal loop around a roundabout on a housing estate. After a bit of a wiggly meander we found ourselves riding past the caravans of Normans Bay and across the flat world of Pevensey Levels, the hills of the high weald on the northern horizon, and the flat sea of shingle disappearing into the waves to the south. Soon the iconic white Modernist De La Warr Pavilion glowed in the sunlight amongst the stone and brick of Bexhill.

The main show here were the curve paintings of Bridget Riley from the early 1960s right up to 2014. The last exhibition of Riley’s work I saw was at the old Towner Gallery in 2002 and still have the poster hanging on a wall at home. I knew much of the older works but not the newer paintings, which seemed more colour field than op art, and included a Sol Le Witt style wall painting. Right in the middle of the galleries was a room of smaller works and sketches on graph paper which were really beautiful. In the upstairs gallery was a montage of text and graphic works from the late 1960s to early 1970s from the Schmuck, POP, bRIAN and Assembling groups.

We decided not to opt for more tea and cake on another balcony but to crack on to the Jerwood Gallery a few miles along the coast in Hastings. I’d not yet been to the Jerwood so was interested in seeing the building as much as the exhibitions. Heading east from Bexhill we hit the first “hills” of the day with a couple of lumpy cliffs to get over. NCN2 has been tweaked along this bit of coast. After a section of sea front cycle path you used to have to join the main coastal road into Hasting, which was always a bit unpleasant. However they have now fixed a rubber mesh over the shingle so you can continue to ride along the edge of the beach sandwiched between the railway line and beach huts before joining the promenade in Hasting. It’s a weird surface to ride on, and it’ll be interesting to see how it fairs through the winter and if the shingle swamps it again. I was on cyclorcross tyres but Lois was on road tyres, and if it had been raining we probably would’ve risked the couple of miles of road into town. Past the ruined pier we headed towards the Old Town and the fishing quarter where the Jerwood sits camouflaged amongst the dark wooden fishing net huts. Being a sunny bank holiday Saturday the seafront was rammed, so we hopped off the bikes and walked the last mile to the gallery through the arcades and candy floss stalls.

The gallery houses a selection from the Jerwood Collection as well as spaces for temporary exhibitions, which currently include Quentin Blake drawings specially created in Hastings for the Jerwood, and the beautiful, sorrowful seascapes of L.S. Lowry. The space itself is a beautifully angular mix of stone, wood and glass that allows light to filter through the galleries. In it’s simplicity it reminded me of the Mies van der Rohe pavilion in Barcelona, except it was surrounded by chips and brash amusements. Also be warned Giro cycling shoes squeak like hell on the stone floors.

Afterwards we headed over the road for fish and chips and mushy peas at the Mermaid Cafe, before spinning back through the middle of Hastings to the station to collapse on a train home. Well you know, 20 miles in six hours takes it out of you.

Route: http://www.strava.com/activities/380099566
Mary Towneley Loop Cyclocross*

August 18, 2015

The Mary Towneley Loop is 47 miles of bridleway that forms part of the Pennine Bridleway, and straddles the border of Yorkshire and Lancashire. I was expecting this to be like the White Chalk Hills UCX but a bit tougher – though the distance is pretty much the same there’s an extra 2000 feet of climbing. However “a bit tougher” is an understatement, as I was soon to find out.

After collecting the brevet card and listening to the rider briefing (“don’t ride like a knob”, “we’re at the bottom of the pecking order so be nice to horses and walkers”) I trundle off into the unknown. Properly unknown. I’m very aware that I’m riding in hills I have no knowledge of and I don’t have a map. It’s a national bridleway so it will be sign posted all the way round but I know from experience it’s still possible that a sign can be misinterpreted or missing. If I go the wrong way then I may struggle to get back on track. At least back home if I get lost I’ll recognise place names on signposts. Here I won’t even know what county I’m in, and historically Lancashire and Yorkshire are not the best two counties to muddle up. Fortunately I only go wrong a couple of times and luckily both times spot other riders to get me back on track.

The bridleway has many surfaces, most of the them a challenge to cyclocross tyres; setts, broken and worn causeway, cobbles, rocks, rubble, gravel, and mud. Fortunately I’m running 29er tyres on the Peregrine. This means I roll over stuff with less trouble than narrower tyres, however this also means I can pick up more speed and quite likely to find myself in trouble more often…particularly as I have an unerring ability to pick not the right line. They offer a lot of grip scrabbling over rock strewn climbs but can also be a bit draggy. Some of the riders I speak to on CX tyres are suffering a bit of discomfort due to running at higher pressures to avoid pinch flats, so I’m glad I opted for the 29ers.

The climbing is steep and when combined with really broken, stony surfaces makes much of it unrideable. Now this could have been due my riding skills (and quite frankly the weight of my Peregrine) but I saw superior riders with lightweight CX bikes shouldering them and walking the climbs. And the climbs go on and on and on…

After (quite) a while I was thinking I must be getting close to the first control, which was good as I was starting to feel tired and hungry. I check my phone and realise I’ve only covered 10 miles. Ten miles! In almost two hours. Sh*t, this is going to take longer than anticipated and I had better start eating and drinking more regularly. It turned out to be one of those rides where you feel constantly on the edge of bonking, no matter how much food you stuff in your face.

I eventually arrive at the first control and eat as much food as I dare and wash it down with a cup of tea. The next section of the ride is quite different, much more barren and desolate. Up on the moors there’s a strong feeling of latent isolation. Even though I can see houses scattered across the valleys or whole towns, at various points I can see Burnley or most of Greater Manchester, I think (I can’t differentiate the parts that make up this conurbation but I hear other riders mentioning Rochdale amongst other names). If the weather closes in then these will disappear from view and all sense of direction will be confused. Fortunately for most of the potentially eerie parts I find myself in small groups or near enough to other riders to feel a sense of security.

The downhills judder and clatter you, offering no respite or relief after the climbs. Occasionally we briefly join a road to get to the next section and the tarmac is a godsend. Then we turn through a gate and it all starts again. Oh, the gates, the interminable gates. Any time you get a bit of flow going another gate spoils the party. Riding in groups allows a through and off gate opening pattern to evolve making things easier. After riding the 20 miles to the first control pretty much solo I ride the second half in small groups, linking up with other riders for a few miles at a time, a trio from Ilkley Cycle Club, a pair from Velo Club Beverly Cycle, plus some others.

The ride hurt a bit and I was hungry and slightly worried about getting lost most of the way round, but the landscape is beautiful and the views from up high incredible. It was, despite the hunger and aching legs and battered arms, a fantastic ride, absolutely ace. I’ll be back, but maybe with a slightly lighter bike.

Route: http://www.strava.com/activities/365234367

* a.k.a. The Circle of Reservoirs, a.k.a. The Tour of the Thousand Gates

More info about Mary Towneley Loop CX at www.mtlcx.com

If you want to find out more about the MTL then just google “Mary Townley Loop” and you can find lots of information and guides.
Rapha Rising 2015

July 19, 2015

Total Ascent 9371m

Ride 4: Thusday 23 July / 203km / 4111m

Gagnac-sur-Cere // Camps // >> D14 // >> D1120/D120 // Montvert // Bends, then long straight // << then imm. >> by pottery // D59 Crandelles // D59 Jussac // << D922 briefly // >> D59 Marmanhac // Laroquevielle // St Cirgues-de-Jordanne // << D17 (long climb) // Col de Pas de Peyrol/Puy Mary // << D680 (long descent) // Salers // D680 // over D922 // D680 // Ally // << D680 // Pleaux // >> D980 // St Privat // Argentat // over Dordogne // D12 to Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne // << D940 to Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne // over Dordogne // D940 to Biars // << D14 // Gagnac-sur-Cere

Ride 3: Tuesday 21 July / 87km / 1475m

Gagnac-sur-Cere // Biars // Bretenoux // >> D14 Prudhomat // over river // << then imm. >> D14 (climb) to Loubressac // >> at X-roads at top of climb, along edge of causse // D60 briefly then << to Magnagues // << D3 // >> D20 to Carrenac (hill from 1996 Tour de France) // << D43 through Carrenac follow Dordogne until bridge // >> over Dordogne towards St Denis // D803 hairpins up hill, over plateau to Martel (food, water) // << D840 to Gluges // >> over Dordogne // << D43 then >> D11, climb to Miers // << D91 towards Gintrac // << D60 to Gintrac (fast descent) // >> D30 to St. Cere // << D43 Prudhomat // << D14 Bretenoux // over roundabout, D3 (climb) to Glanes and Estal // << unmarked road to Moulicou (sketchy descent: steep, bad road surface) // Gagnac-sur-Cere

Ride 2: Monday 20 July / 80km / 2035m

Gagnac-sur-Cere // >> D14 // << D102/D33 climb to Mercoeur // La Chapelle-Saint-Geraud // over D41 // D33 fast descent to Argentat // << last turn before bridge over La Maronne // immediate << towards L’Hopital // << D116 along Dordogne valley // << D136 (effectively straight on), long climb // << D41 to La Chapelle-Saint-Geraud // continue on D41 // >> D13 to Camps // stay on D13 then D14 // long descent // Gagnac-sur-Cere

Ride 1: Sunday 19 July / 60km / 1750m

Gagnac-sur-Cere // << D14 to Biars // << D940 to Bretenoux // << at roundabout, over river, through town // << at roundabout, D3 long steady climb // Glanes // Estal // Teyssieu // >> sharp before Teyssieu // descent D40 towards St. Cere // over X-roads (stay on D40) // climb to Le Four // descent towards St. Cere // right fork D48 St Laurent Les Tours // >> at church // fast descent into St. Cere // through St. Cere // << at market square, D673 // long steady climb from 2012 Paris-Nice up towards Sousceyrac // long straight near summit then << D140 // long descent to Cornac // centre of Cornac >> to Glanes // short sharp climb // over X-roads // descent // Gagnac-sur-Cere
Tour de France Sojourn Day 4

July 14, 2015

Headwind. Headwind. Headwind. Three hour nap on a ferry. Headwind.
Tour de France Sojourn Day 3

July 14, 2015

Rest day. A book, a bottle of wine, sitting under a tree.
Tour de France Sojourn Day 2

July 13, 2015

The best thing about camping is being gently woken by the dawn chorus. The worst thing about camping is the dawn chorus starting at 5 a.m. And thus starts another long day.

A few hours later I am diverted by the first of many Route Barrée signs in Abbeville. I follow the trail of yellow signs, barriers and police vans until I find Le Village Dèpart. I lock the bike to a railing and wander across the road to try and figure out what’s what.

I walk past the media enclave and someone hands me a Guide Du Depart. I glance at the timings and realise I’m an hour or more earlier than I really need to be, the race isn’t due to start for another 3 or 4 hours. I blame the dawn chorus and the fact I’ve been working on English TV timings. I decide to stroll around town hung in red, blue, green and yellow bunting in search of breakfast. People are starting to collect on pavement edges., bars and cafes are making the most of the tour being in town.

Finding myself back at the Dèpart I wander along the road as I see the Caravanne Publicité starting to assemble ready for the off. I decide I don’t need to be bombarded with noise and tat again so find a tree to sit under whilst Abbeville fights over free hats, carrier bags and assorted nik-naks. From where I’m sat I see the team buses arriving in the temporary paddock, fenced off from those without VIP passes. The crowd is getting thicker and noisier, there’s still more than an hour to go but anticipation is growing. The Caravanne continues. Greater numbers of people elbow their way into the already dense rows on the barriers. Rider sign-on is due to start soon.

The noise emanating from the commentators on presentation stage gets more excited and animated as sign on starts. It seems that riders poke at their name on a screen rather than actually sign on, some chose, or are chosen, to speak to the commentators, their image televised to the big screen to the side of the stage. Riders are coming up one by one from different teams as if a single rider from each team is being sent out like the sacrificial lamb to keep the crowds happy whilst their team mates get ready and warm up.

I shift back along the barriers and spot a gap behind a parked TV car. It turns out to be right opposite where the riders are toing and froing between the team buses and sign on. Phones and cameras are trained on a few square metres of road just ahead of me. Riders come and go, the names of better known riders announced by the commentators and stopped for a few words. Pinot arrives, the French crowd love him, and call his name hoping he’ll stop to sign something. Chavanel arrives and the French crowd absolutely adore him, he gets the loudest reception of the day, more so than Pinot or Bardet or any of the other French. The riders are signing on thick and fast now, the big names receiving the biggest cheers, but not as big as Pinot or Chavanel, they may love cycling the French but they are partisan about it. You know when one of the team leaders are around as the TV and press gaggle around them.

Riders start to amass in front of me, seems it’s a kind of holding pattern before they spin down to the official start. Geraint Thomas stops for a chat with Ian Stannard and Steve Cummings. Team cars head for the start line, stopping briefly to load up on rations of bottled water. The national champ jerseys look cool, and there’s a lot of national champs here. Bernard Hinault rushes past. I don’t recognise him at first (there are a lot of French men in cream chinos and blue shirts amongst the VIPs cluttering up the start straight) but there’s almost a revered hush as he passes and I hear someone near me whisper “Hinault” to his son. Other names are reverentially muttered in the crowd – Quintana, Nibali, Contador. Griepel passes by in green, and Purito in polka-dots. Cavendish is one of the last to sign on and heads straight to the start line.

I decide I’ve seen enough and grab my bike to find somewhere in town to catch the complete peloton roll out of town behind the lead car. Once they’ve passed I look at the bunting above my head and happily realise I’ve got a tailwind all the way back to Amiens.
Tour de France Sojourn Day 1

July 13, 2015

I rattle and rumble down the ferry gangway into early morning France. It’s around 5am and I’ve not had anywhere near enough sleep. Out of the port and it’s left up the first hill of the day. An old woman shouts “ALLEZ!” from a high, unshuttered window. Light seeps into the sky, I can see it’s broken cloud ahead of me. As I crest the hill turning on to the main road I look out to sea and there is an ominous dark bank of cloud following me, rain falling at an angle in a gloomy smudge. At least the angle means I’ve got a tailwind. The whirling wind turbines standing sentry along the ridge tops confirm this. I didn’t plan to be on the main road, but realise this way avoids some early hills and there’ll be no traffic this time of the morning. The only traffic I see is heading into Dieppe so I trundle uninterrupted to where I pick up my planned route a few kilometres east.

Turning right I’m hit by a strong sidewind and the first raindrop. The wind stays all day but the rain comes and goes and is never bad enough to count as proper rain. Every time I turn west I’m given a shove by the wind, allowing me to stop pedalling and save my legs for the hills I know are coming. Today is about conserving energy, it’s going to be a long day and there’s no rush, a total daydream ride. I’ve got hours to get to Amiens and I know the way, no map checking stops required, just a list of road numbers and by memory. I join the road to Fresnoy-Folny realising from the Departmental banners alongside the road ready for the helicopter shots that Le Tour is coming this way tomorrow. The sky overhead is pale blue and long shadows cast across the tarmac. The wheat fields to my right glow golden in the early morning sun. The skylarks are starting to sing.

It’s a long drag up to the village but once over the crossroads I know I’ve got an even longer descent. Which will be needed as I then know I have the biggest climb of the day into the Haute Foret D’Eu. I rest of the drops and speed into the village of Grandcourt which still seems to be asleep. I have not idea what time it is but it must be early still. I check the time, it’s just gone half seven, the tailwind is pushing me ahead of where I imagined where I’d be by now. Hopefully by the next town I’ll find an open bakery or cafe.

As I start the climb into the forest clouds are fast blowing in from the northwest, slowly obscuring the sun, shards of light clip the tops of trees making the view ahead stunning in that dark sky bright landscape kind of way. The expected rain doesn’t happen and summit the hill in grey but in the dry. The roads are damp so I must be behind the rain, but a glance over the shoulder indicates I may well be stuck between two banks of rain. Dropping down the other side the sky ahead is cracked with blue. After a few non-descript kilometres around Blangy-sur-Bresle I cross the border between the departments of Seine-Maritime and Somme, which means I think i’ve passed from Normandy into Picardie. Also it means I’m more than half way to Amiens.

A couple more road junctions and I’ll join the D211 which will lead me all the way into Amiens. I stop and buy breakfast from a village shop in Senarpont, after the last few climbs I’m in need of refueling, the emergency flapjacks and bananas have been consumed. I can’t see anywhere near the shop to sit and eat so I ride a few miles until I spot a bus stop in yet another sleepy village. I lean the bike against the glass shelter and pull a croissant and pain-au-chocolat from a pannier top.

The D211 undulates mile upon mile towards my destination. After one of the longer climbs I ride along a plateau of green and gold fields of corn and wheat. The road is straight and flat in tree lined segments. Occasionally I get caught in drizzly showers but all the while being pushed by the friendly wind. The rise and fall continues and despite soft pedalling whenever possible I’m starting to feel the 60 miles in my legs with each new ramp. Over one more lump and I can see Amiens cathedral towering over the horizon. Almost there.

An hour later and my tent is pitched and I’ve showered. Time to ride the cycle path along the River Somme into the city centre to find lunch and the tour finishing straight. I manage to find both at the same place and buy an official Tour de France saucisse baguette. I stroll up and down the tree lined avenue looking for a spot to lean on a barrier and wait…

and wait…

and read the weather forecast in the newspaper handed to me whilst eating the apricot handed to me and drink the water handed to me.

and wait…

and watch the team buses drive past.

and wait…

and watch the publicity Caravanne pass hurling instant landfill into the crowd in a mess of noise and colour.

and wait…

and listen to the frenzied commentary crackling from the speaker strapped to the tree next to me.

and wait…

“DIX KILOMETRE!”

and wait…

“DEUX KILOMETRE!!”

“FLAMME ROUGE!!!”

we all lean forward…

and ZOOM!!

That was a long wait for a few seconds of racing.
AAA Milne (Brevet des Grimpeurs du Sud ride #5)

July 5, 2015

Yesterday I completed my series of Brevet Des Grimpeurs Du Sud audax with the AAA Milne. To get the badge you need to complete five 100km or more audax in the south east (Kent, Sussex, Surrey, Hampshire) which have AAA points. The AAA points are Audax UK climbing points and rides only qualify if they have a certain distance travelled to climbing ratio per kilometre. The rides aren’t necessary long but you go up and down a lot. The previous rides completed were;

January – Hills and Mills

February – Mad Jack’s

March – The Reliable permanent

April – Hell of the Sussex Coastal Hills

Having completed three of those rides in pretty grotty weather (snow, hail, wind, rain, and that was just Mad Jack’s) it was nice to complete the series on a gloriously sunny day. Despite having a strong headwind for the return leg the breeze did keep the temperature down to bearable. This 100km ride started in Barcombe, near Lewes, so I decided I may as well ride to and from the start and make it up to an imperial century.

Despite waking up to sunshine by the time I left for the ride along the coast before cutting inland a sea fret had rolled in over the cliffs. Once over the South Downs and into the Ouse Valley the sun was cutting through the cloud and I had a sharp edged shadow for company by the time I hit Lewes. I was going to be riding with Dan Rough, who I’d previously chatted with on Twitter and Instagram but not actually met, so as I collected my brevet card in the village shop car park in Barcombe we exchanged hellos.

From Barcombe the route undulated up to the Ashdown Forest via Newick, Horsted Keynes (which will always sound like a 1920’s legal firm to me), past the Bluebell Railway, up Hammingden Lane to Sharpthorne, before skirting the edge of East Grinstead down to Forest Row, Dan and I chatting about riding bikes, Paris-Brest-Paris and Mountain Mayhem all the while. From here it was over to Groombridge through Hartfield (Pooh Corner, hence the name AAA Milne) where we scuffed the edge of Kent, before turning around for the first of three ascents into the Ashdown Forest, this one up through Five Hundred Akre Wood to the top of the Forest. We dropped down back towards Hartfield and at the 65km mark there were hot dogs and ice creams in the car park at Poohsticks Bridge.

After the feed and dropping down Chuck Hatch Lane we turned right over the ford, not left and not up The Wall. the route planning for this audax was fantastic, all the height was gained by long steady climbs and nothing stupid and horrible. The next gentle climb took us back to the top of the Forest at Wych Cross, passing fantastic views all the way to the North Downs to our right. From here we looped around through Chelwood Gate to Nutley and back up into the Forest over cattlegrids and past sheep lazing in the shade under trees at the side of the road. From here it was pretty much downhill all the way back, dropping through Duddleswell and Fairwarp to Piltdown, for the last few kilometres back into Barcombe to the arrivee at The Royal Oak. Once the brevets were validated Dan had to head back to Uckfield, but I decided to stay for a quick pint and pork pie to fuel myself for the ride back into Brighton. Anyway, I needed some change to pay for the badge

With 140km and 2000 metres of hills already in the legs and a headwind I decided a dawdle home in the heat was probably best. I started heading for Ditchling Beacon as it only seemed right to ride home from a AAA event via the hills of the South Downs.

However as I bimbled along in the shadow of the downs I realised it was going to be a slow climb, and I didn’t fancy having to contend with impatient car drivers. I turned up Streat Bostal which seemed like a great idea at the bottom, but as I hit the hairpin and the gradient steepened I very quickly changed my mind…

Eventually I hauled myself to the top and joined the South Downs Way towards the summit of Ditching Beacon briefly stopped to sit and take in the view as skylark song swirled around my head.

Back on tarmac at the Beacon it was pretty much downhill all the way home so I got on the drops and pushed the pedals with whatever was left in my legs, which wasn’t a great deal. Nearing Stanmer Park a rider drew up alongside me and asked “Are you Gavin? I recognise your socks, I think I follow you on Instagram”. It turned out to be Oli Wright, riding from London down to the seaside, and who completed his Grimpeurs Du Sud last year by managing a qualifying ride a month. We rolled into Brighton together and had ice lollies on the beach before he headed to the station for a train home. I span the couple of hundred metres inland home for a nap before watching the Tour De France highlights with a beer.
Bike Belle

May 11, 2015

Day 1: http://www.strava.com/activities/300629658

Day 2: http://www.strava.com/activities/300883823 then a train across London and http://www.strava.com/activities/301194258
Hometown Woods

May 6, 2015

Army barracks and the sound of gun fire. No red flags, it should be OK. My first ever race. Why would I start racing at my age. Idiot. Please let the rain stop. The terrain and smell of damp pine takes me back. I revert to a 13 year old kid on a BMX hacking around like a loon. This means I go off too fast. I regret this. Idiot. I feel sick. Tyres squirmimg beneath me. An intense, deep brown line weaving through the bright rain intensified spring green. Checking the other side of the bomb hole before I drop in as I’m going to be jettisoned out the other side before I can think of my exit point. Staying high on that off camber bit so if the tyres slip there’s somewhere to end up other than falling down the bank. A momentary lapse in concentration and finding myself lying on a soft bed of pine needles. Realising that bridge is there because the line through the ditch isn’t really a line. Getting that corner wrong every lap. Smoothly flowing through that other bit on every lap and it feeling awesome (totally rad like, dude). Not taking line B and jumping that log but bottling that vertiginous drop to the canal bank. Pulling over to the left to let the Pivot-Boompods through as they chat amongst themselves like it’s a Sunday social. Finding line C, or maybe D, on that bit of lap 3 where I just want to climb off and go home. Clipping my foot on that sodding branch every bloody lap. Every part of my being screaming at me to stop except that tiny bit of my brain that tells me “You’re not giving up”. Spending the next half lap praying that my chain snaps as I know I don’t have a chain tool with me. Using the emergency gel at half distance. Keep forgetting about this tedious section. Why is there a root just there. I hate this. A cheery hello from Rory when all is black and murky in my head. As I come out of the woods at the end of the lap I wish I could just ride across the field, freewheel down the Old Bisley Road home for beans on toast, but Mum and Dad don’t live there any more. Sun comes out. Roll the arm warmers down. More cake. Maybe I can do another lap. That first bit gets mushier and slippier every lap. Ride that vertiginous drop to the canal bank. Love the way you get flung out the other side of that bomb hole. Not liking having to grovel the last few feet up that bank every time. Throw the last of the Jelly Babies down my neck. Maybe I can do another lap. Instantly realising this is a shocking line and knowing the only way out of it is going to hurt. Hitting my hip on a root and cramp spasms through my leg. Can’t move. Want to cry. Why the fuck didn’t I bail at the end of lap 4. Idiot. Finally not dabbing the front brake into that swoopy bit where no braking is needed. It’s only taken five goes. An eternity later I cross the line. That was horrible. That was brilliant! When’s the next one?*

Photo by Nick from RPM90. Thanks to Nick for hanging around after he had a mechanical on the second lap. Also thanks for that amazing chicken salad.

*the next one is 24 hour Mountain Mayhem. Solo. Idiot.