Category: Bikes

Tens of thousands of words and the odd blurred picture of fast moving vegetation rehashing one of two tenuous threads. Spliced together using random punctuation and alcohol.

Giving up

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Pretentious nonsense4 Comments

My friend Steve has given up. Not something inconsequential like beer of cigarettes. No, he has given up “ insert gasp of horror here “ Mountain Biking.

Now this is important. No really, it is “ Steve was one of the first guys which the Internet biking revolution washed up on our local trails He was, in no particular order laconic, amusing, smooth, fast and quite old. But what I remember most was that Steve embodied the manic catalyst for trips away from here, to far distant places steeped in proper hills, adrenal danger and forever memories burned in from happy retinas.

Flickr Image - Steve in full flow.

And it was Steve who waxed, with almost fundamental eulogy, over a pilgrimage to the undisputed Mecca of Mountain Biking “ we are, of course, describing the complete fat tyred experience that is Moab in the Utah desert. This is a place in which beats the pulse of every mountain biker, it drums to the heartbeat of fast moving wheels and taps out a melody that will make you dance until you are too old, too scared or just plain dead.

He was right of course, but it was five long years which passed between youthful planning and somewhat more grizzled bike portage at the airport. This mini epoch traced the delta which transformed Steve from enthusiastic evangelist to grudging passenger decayed by one huge crash, perennial illness and a slide into middle aged apathy.

But still when he did ride, he rode like the old pro we fondly remembered. Forgoing the marketing fetish for body encasing armour and serials hits on the jumpy adrenalin gland, he just got on his bike and plotted a fast route down, in tune with the mountain while we were busy fighting it.

Moab is not simply defined; it’s an unworldly fusion of mesas, buttes, arches and canyons “ the leftover desertscape created by cyclical ages of cataclysmic upthrusts and slow, patient erosion by water, ice and wind. And it can be an unforgiving place with sharp rocks and spiky vegetation poking through otherwise perfect trail dirt. Steve’s short travel bike wasn’t quite enough to compensate for too little riding and too much square edged geography, so pitching him “ often – over the bars deep into the bleeding zone.

And while Moab can break your body and “ as if you still care “ your bike as well, it absolutely is the one place that you must ride like the champ you are before you die. If there is one trail which combines epiphany, ecstasy, blind terror, bucolic beauty and just the insane bloody love of riding mountain bikes, Porcupine Rim is that trail. Pass me my will “ I have found the final resting place for my ashes,.

So “ knowing this “ we guilted a grumpy and uninterested Steve into riding it one final time. His friends knew he was ready to quit and if that were to be his fate, then the creed of our silent brotherhood was that he was going out with a bang. Possibly with an air ambulance as well but it’s important to focus on the positives.

And ride it he did, speeding off with race face in place leaving us standing slack jawed, teetering with vertigo at the cliff edge. It wasn’t until, some six kilometres of heaven sent trail later, that any of us caught up with Steve as was happily dipping his feet in the Colorado river. By which time it was clear he had ridden it firmly in the old school style; wheels on the ground, eyes on the prize, crafting sympathetic lines and carving perfect apexes.

Much later in the pub, still with shit eating grin still firmly in place, it was obvious that he had quit proper mountain biking. Oh sure, we’d still see him out occasionally but not like this “ you can only reach nirvana once, after which you are just kidding yourself. Steve wasn’t kidding, he knew that it was never going to be this good again so why risk death by a thousand cuts when you can go out, flat out with your tail on fire?

If this reads like an obituary, then I guess that is because is sort of feels like one. Steve and I go out for a beers every few weeks and we talk of things we’ve done rather than stuff we’re planning to do. And while that is still a fine way to spend an evening, it dings the mental bell that only about five more years can pass before age dulls reactions, replaces bravery with cowardice and refuses to have anything to do with bloody minded pain and suffering.

And because I want to finish on the same high as Steve, I don’t intend to waste a single minute between now and then. So pass me a bike and point me towards the trails, I’m going riding.

I’m sick of this weather

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Site Stuff4 Comments

Wall to wall sunshine, soaring temperatures well into the 70s and sing of any respite for at least four days. So I’m off to Scotland where they still have proper British weather, single digit temps, total cloud cover shielding me from that nasty sun and that particular type of incessant rain that eludes expensive waterproofs and soaks you down to the molecular level.

Although, as the big four-o is less than two weeks drinking away, maybe I’ll hide myself away in a contented beery fug, warmed by a nice fire and fully in control of my new slippers. The option is to be totally out of control, sliding down a rocky hillside (sorry landslide) marking my headlong plunge as small, but important, body parts are cleaved off by spiteful, pointy geography. Now which one sounds more fun?

Or maybe a bit of both. Us wise old men understand the meaning of everything in moderation. Except writing for this blog of course and to save you from doing any work whatsoever, I’ve teed up a couple of ‘hog sized morsels for later in the week. One has a yak it it, the other a nice picture. I wouldn’t go as far as saying they are worth waiting for but if you’ve an understanding boss and terrifically low boredom threshold, you know where to come.

Before I go and pack (translation: cram everything waterproof into a bag and forget to add any strides), I’ve a favour to ask. A half written article is summarising stuff I wish I’d done before I was 40 and stuff I’m bloody glad to have got out of the way. Anything you can add which I’ll cheerfully plagiarise would be much appreciated.

Think of it as work if anybody asks.

Unhinged logic

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

Note to serious people: This is so tongue in cheek , the organ in question is almost in my ear, balanced on a brass neck and being fed a diet of impudence and gall. But feel free to argue the case for the bloody things because that’s what “comments in moderation” is for 😉 Hate mail welcome as ever, you have your own folder.

Right then, hinge and bracket weirdos, answer me this; “what is the point of your bleeding, breeding folders?” Oh I know you are out there – the stats report repeated sneaky redirects from “blind-welders-argus.com” and “small-wheels-small-parts.co.uk“. Ever since I wrote this, your fluttering to the unflattering light of my abuse and catty snipes betrays a need to belong – if only longingly looking in from the outside – with us proper cyclists.

Niches do this to people and being ostracised triggers an overdose of the ‘we’re worthy and we don’t care‘ gland.

I’m not buying it – normal dudes and dudettes think of bikes as only useful transport and lavish no further time or money on improving their utilitarian lot but we’re not like that. It’s an almost painless, if fiscally insane, slide from hobby into mental illness until bikes become far to close to the centre of your world. We know it’s selfish, impossible to explain, regularly painful and absolutely on the margins of diminishing returns.

But folders don’t get in – you can have your special interest groups, your forums, your no proper bikes wanted here sites but you don’t count, you don’t get to play with the big kids.

So if you’re still here, explain please the best place for 180 degrees of separation from a real bike. If it isn’t in a handy skip or discarded under a dusty museum exhibit labelled “amazingly useless stuff that somehow made it into production“, then it can only be to span the bridge between a train franchise alleged ‘commitment to cycling’ and the actual delivery of any service in support of that marketing guff.

With a huge dollop of Grudge and a soupcon of Ing, even the foldingly blind can see transportable cycles having a place on a journey that has no place for storing real ones. But if they are really oh-so-simple to de-construct into an unhappy combination of grime and spikey tubes, then “WHY THE FUCK DON’T YOU DO IT ALL THE TIME?”

My spot in the bike cage is well earned; trips taken in dreadful conditions, snot-o-grams to facilities to fix the showers, occasional humour to entertain the queue of unwashed souls shared the changing room – all that kind of thing. Oh yeah, I know my rights and you’re bang to them. This morning not only were two halves of a child’s bike, full assembled, brazenly parked in my spot, it was joined in some unholy communion by about five others.

All built, all pointless and all in my way. So one cyclist to another, here’s a free piece of advice “fold the bloody things up and take them somewhere else“. Make them a talking point at your desk, advance your green credentials to passers by or wield them as instruments of spikey death in boring meetings. I care not what, just do something.

Or get a real bike and regain some lost dignity. I absolutely believed that I was drinking deeply from the chalice of attention seeking arse, but it appears I was merely holding it for someone else.

Oh and I’m a hypocrite as well because I’m always preaching that cycling should be a broad church respecting all faiths from recumbents to downhill monsters passing through almost every oddity in between. But not folders – think of yourself as ex-communicated.

PS. I can’t go and watch transformers either because it’s giving me nasty flashbacks 😉

Flat.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Remember the old adage that dog owners begin to resemble their pets ? (I assume it is dogs, as it’d be hard to imagine even the most facially adept animal lover morphing into a double take of “ say “ a goldfish). Whatever, the very same process has transpired between me and my tyres.

First thing this morning, first commute for two weeks, the ˜rat front was partially flat and a strange shining orb was lurking in the sky, looming like an alien craft. Putting two and two together and coming up with a conspiracy theory, it seemed obvious that green eyed monsters had both taken over the free world and still had time to let my tyre down.

After some brief yet grunty action with the plastic pump of piss poorness, I’d punched 120 PSI into the soft tube on the dozy assumption that this’d provide sufficient inflation for both out and back trips. Obviously what I’d forgotten was with this much pressure, the tyre bounced and jumped over all but the flattest tarmac and my teeth will now require much expensive dental work due to unplanned yet frenzied mashing.

Flat legs mimicked the tyres as three hours MTB’ing in the Flanders of South East England had sucked the gas from these vital cycling appendages and the will to live from the rest of me. Actually, my expectations were so low, that any ride not ending in hospital or custody could be deemed broadly positive.

Because jumping on a bike before going on an extended MTB jaunt has recently led to broken bits of Al being littered over uncaring trails. Since we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday for five days of riding and five nights of drinking, this seemed a disturbing portent.

Anyway, I survived through the power of extreme mincing and rapid fire excuses while making real life contact with two people who’d been unluckily washed up on the Hedgehog. It’s like Second Life in here without the celebrity endorsements.

Here’s a picture of Duncan riding a trail that I came to think of as where the f*ck is it? Still at least this meant it couldn’t be as muddy as other 19.5 miles of which mostly all was mud flingingly gloopy and yet strangely fun.

Flickr Image

Finding the London bike was a bit of a challenge since a) I’m nearly officially old and have rapidly reducing memory and prostrate function, b) I parked abandoned it while pissed and c) the thicket of bikes made it an almost Stanley like plunge into its’ grimy heart to finally dig it out.

At which point I realised both tyres were on the soft side of usuable. My mobile pumping Viagra is a difficult hybrid of gas powered and manual inflation. It’s fairly rubbish at both but, if pushed, I’d have to plump for it being particularly useless in the wanking elbow scenario. Good job I’ve put all that time in on the Wii.

My final ode to flatness was a bendi-killer-bus doing his best to achieve the unwritten target of two dead cyclists a day. One second of inattention triggered a further three seconds of abject terror as 18 metres of Al-crushing tonnage threatened to grind me flat against the curb.

I know one thing that isn’t going to be flat later tonight “ it starts with B and ends in my belly.

Is it panto season yet?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

Because if it is, I am ready for the part of Grumpy the dwarf. I am basically method acting the little fella 24 hours a day.

This morning I found myself in the unusual position of not wanting to get off the train. Normally, my modus operandi is to be leaning on the doors desperate to escape from the sweaty tin can full of properly odd people.

But today, mentally beaten by the drumming of the rain on the carriage roof, I could hardly bring myself to waterproof up and venture out. The train had already been delayed due to unidentified objects on the line which I took to be Monday morning suicide victims unable to stomach another week of pissing rain.

One the cleaning staff started to stare and their were whispered conversations about informing the station manager, I grudgingly rotated still moist arse into a standing position and trudged wearily onto the platform. True to form, the rain increased from bloody annoying to gopping wet as I wheeled out of the station. The humidity ensures that you’re wet on both sides of your rain jacket, and one arrives at work both a little flustered and partially cooked.

Last weekend, the optimistic four drove a few hundred miles to Wales in the forlorn hope of some dryish riding. Saturday was warmish, the rain held off but the trails were still excitingly soggy. And I use the word exciting rather than bowel scrunchingly terrifying as I don’t want to be labelled a total wimp.

Especially since the trails/rivers were being lightly bashed by my hardtail. My body was more brutally bashed and by the end of the final run, I was ready to lie down in a sandy stream and wait for some passing angel to dispense alcohol. It was fun is a happy to still be alive at the end kind of way but next time I’m bringing the talent compensator. And based on my crappy riding this time around, it has some work to do.

We didn’t ride Sunday what with the two inches of rain falling in the night, the 8/8ths cloud cover, the howling wind and barely double digit temperatures. Instead I went home and was rained on there instead while operating the immortal electric lawnmower.

My shoulder is getting worse, I’m having to pay someone to explain why our roof leaks in all sorts of interesting ways. That gives me the chance to can pay someone else to line their pocket attempting to sue the original builder, who has taken the attitude got your cash, don’t give a shit. Added to this is the hated, never changing weather forecast predicts next weeks holiday will be spent inside or on the roof to evade rising water levels.

Is it any wonder I’m grumpy? And looking round I’m not alone.

Perspective is the thing though. Exactly a year ago. I had just smashed up my knee and then spent most of the following week in Hospital. It was not an experience I ever want to repeat although, one could reasonably argue, riding is the Summer of 2007 is pretty shit and “ at least – it’d be warm and dry in Accident and Emergency.

“Are you an idiot?”

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding4 Comments

This was the incredulous question posed, to me, the other night by a real policeman. The main reason for his incredulity had been my brazen running of a red light that he had stopped at. I’ve always thought that if you’re going to break the law, then it must be done with a certain style. And self referential panache normally sits well with a belly full of lager which, obviously, I’d consumed during the previous four hours.

What started as a brief after work drink inexorably finished as a train wreck. So impressed was I with the new smoke free pubs, that I had a number of additional drinks to celebrate. On sober reflection, probably not the greatest idea for a man about to play with 25 minutes of dangerous traffic.

Due to my level of social confusion and enveloped in the happy fug of the properly trolleyed, I never even saw the red light. Or the police van. I was barely aware of the claxon call of the siren and associated flashing lights until Mr. Plod barked out his understandable question. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: “Yes”
Him: “Didn’t you notice the big white van with Police written all down the side”
Me: “No”
Him: “And the red light, did that register at all?”
Me: “Nope”
Him: “Do you have any reason or excuse why you did that”
Me: [thinks, comes up blank]: “Er, No”
Him: “Have you been drinking this evening sir”
Me: “Oh yes”
Him: “Were you aware that their is a law against being drunk in charge of a bicycle”
Me: “Well, currently, I wouldn’t exactly say I’m in charge of it. Rather the other way round”
Him: “I should give you a ticket for both offences”
Me: “Yep, you probably should”
He rants some more, asks me where I’m going, I reply to the best of my dribbling ability. He decides to let me off. In pity,I think.
Him: “I suggest you use the cycle paths and ride slowly to the station sir. I don’t want to be fetching you off the tarmac”
Me: “Thanks alot. It’s not true what they say about the police is it?”
Him: [narrows eyes]: “What would THAT be Sir?”
Me: [oops]: “Oh nothing, finer bunch of fellows you couldn’t hope to find, I’ll be off then, ok?”

I did feel like an idiot tho and more so when I sobered up. The decision not to share with him that I had to ride 6 – mostly lightless – miles home at the far end of the train ride was probably the right one. This part of the journey was spent mostly either musing how I’d manged to lose both my decent rear light AND my lock on a four mile wobble through town or – blinded by oncoming headlights – in a verge.

Last weekend, I nearly committed to paper hard and fast resolutions about not running red lights anymore (and I’m really only an occasional transgressor (careful how you spell that) now), not getting wound up by cycle hating motorists, not getting involved in pointless altercations, etc, etc.

This morning when a white van carelessly swung across my nose without so much as the whiff of an indication, I couldn’t but help ask if he’d always had a small willy or it’d be hacked off in a nasty industrial accident.

Resolutions you see, not worth the paper they’re not written on.

That didn’t last long.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding4 Comments

This morning I made a pact with my inner loony that, whatever the provocation, I would turn the other pedal when tested by the killing zone of the commuting blacktop. This lasted precisely one hundred and seventy yards – I never even made it out of the village.

Yes in a distance that’d struggle to trouble even an arthritic tortoise, my cup floweth over with angst and bile. For – and let me just insert a hollow laugh here – safety the road out to the badlands of the A418 is bollarded at regular interval to prevent desperate cagers from ploughing through fleshy pedestrians. The road narrows to a car width and a bit so thereby posing the equation “aggressive car driver + trembling cyclist > road available”

The man (it always is), determined to save the two seconds he’d have been stuck behind me at 20mph (rather than the 30mph limit through the village), attempted to solve the equation by gunning his engine and banging his horn (is that allowed even in the comfort of your own car?). I responded by plotting a CTC approved route five foot from the curb in case his impatience licensed an attempt to drill me into the curb.

Bollard dispatched, he accelerated past about one inch from my ear throwing out random words and gestures like a man missing most of his frontal lobe. The inner loony was screaming to be unleashed in the form of some international finger language but I was strong. Then the bloke slowed down, pulled along side and starting dishing out supplementary verbals.

The loony rose like an unstoppable curry powered by ten pints of gassy lager and the game was up. Normally, I allow the car driving nutter to make some preposterous statement giving me time to calm down and formulate something close to a rational response. Not today, the loony spluttered like a cold engine before unloading an verb laden invective on wide ranging subjects to whit: Bollards, Fucking idiots, Golf Drivers, Wankers, Impatient tossers and pointless fuckhandles were prominent.

His ire was almost as spectacular, fuelled by my fist waving rant. But the loony went properly beserk when he made – what he felt – was a winning point regarding car tax, him paying it and me not. After explaining that it is actually vehicle excise duty and, anyway, it isn’t a carte blanche to exterminate two wheeled road users – and even if it was I pay it too, so would it be ok for me to fetch my car and run him over?

Things went somewhat downhill from there. He offered to fight me in lieu of having anything intellectual going in his favour. This caused a brief internal hiatus as I battered down the hatches and refused to allow el loono to start swinging. It was close though, very close indeed but I was bloody annoyed to be dragged down to a insult trading level, yet I don’t think any calm logic would’ve changed his base position of “you fucking cyclists are the scum of the Earth“.

Coming home, another hot hatch (translation: small penis’d driver) screamed round a slower car and nearly totalled me as I was minding my business on other side of the carridgeway. He even had time to flip me the bird as I headed for the bushes.

It’s starting to get to me now. I don’t think 2007 will finish without punches being thrown because I’m running out of other options.

Trail Tails – Ottawa MTBing.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding1 Comment

While I find the Canadians honest, open, enthusiastic and fun loving, there is a certain whiff of smugness about them. And with good reason – a thinly populated sports playground, clean air, low crime, vibrant economy and a work/life balance that sees everyone knock off at 5pm. Ottawa is a good example of this. It suffers the same urban sprawl that circles most UK cities , but nobody really cares. Because there is just so much land to build on that even when a thousand houses spring up in a place where there use to be forest, a million kilometres of bugger all still extends in all directions.

My friend Andy was an hour late picking me up from the airport because the local bike shop had forgotten that I’d hired a bike from them. Despite two phone calls remind them; Welcome to Canada the land of the occasionally smug and extremely laid back. We still had time to go riding straight from his house with the woody singletrack, nestling under a rain lashed sky reminded me of home, but home on steroids and free from people.

Still this was just a warm up (or more a rain down) and less than twelve hours later, we drove 10k to Kanata Lakes, a well known MTB mecca squeezed by encroaching development. More rocks, more roots, less mud, more fun. Andy’s shock exploded about 10 yards in but he gamely carried on.

The North Shore is there for a reason, to transport you over bogs and streams. I found the best way to tackle it was at walking pace. That was me walking and the bike being pushed. I wanted to hate the Specialized Epic for the race bike it was, but a combination of bling kit and a singletrack missile hidden behind the graphics meant I ended up really loving it. Except for the insanely low bottom bracket which with fat flat pedals installed made it a bit of a handful in the rockier sections.

Not even slightly sated, we sandwiched in the extreme oddness that is Canada day with another ride in the evening. True to form it pissed down again but only for the first ten minutes. After that, a long lost feelings of fitness and bravery propelled me flying through the singletrack which quickly ended in yours truly getting properly lost. Thankfully the fellas came back looking for me or I was bear food for sure.

Our last ride was to Camp Fortune on the far side of Ottawa deep into the Gatineau mountains and super bike friendly with marked trails and chairlifts. Sadly the chairlifts were only servicing the big rig downhill trails and the nice lady at reception felt the cross country trails would provide more options in the staying alive phase space. So we winched up hot fireroads and plunged down double black trails peppered with north shore, steep drops, monster roots (see above) and endless ways to properly hurt yourself.

As can be seen Martin with his twelve year old canti-braked, lead lined wheeled grip reaper rode most of it. The bits he didn’t ride, he fell off on but this strangely didn’t deter him from getting back on again. When he gets a proper mountain bike, he’s going to enter the ratified stratosphere of “super nutter”.

We even found a safe little jump to play on and regressed to teenage years until Martin – what a surprise – hit it so fast he totally missed the trail on the far side. Time to leave, drink beer in the sunshine and reflect on four rides that’ll live long in the memory.

British Columbia it isn’t. But if you boat is floating on woody singletrack, fantastic views, endless trails – right on your doorstep – and just damn nice people to ride with, Ottawa and the surrounds takes some beating.

So there’s a brief trail review. As the Canadians would say “You’re Welcome“

A picture saves..

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike RidingLeave a comment

…. a thousand words. Jetlagged, busy but with much to tell. Until I can string a few amusing words together, you’ll have to make do with a few pictures. These were taken before many arduous and difficult days of dawn to dusk work. In case anyone from the firm is reading 🙂

.Martin on ShonkyShore(TM)
Nice Bike, Nicer singletrack

Kanata Lakes, MTB playground, Andy B riding

A few more here:

Many more words to come including Al’s one page guide on how to get home when jetlagged and abandoned at Heathrow 😉

Right, I’m going back to bed.

Altitude training

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Road Riding6 Comments

You know those proper athletes who jet off half way up the world to run laps around the summit of Kilimanjaro? The idea being that on returning to sea level, their lungs will be supercharged by more heavily oxygenated air so delivering a legal performance benefit. It has always struck me as an extremely desperate approach to gain a barely perceptible advantage – that is until I tried the same thing with my courier bag.

In the “Devil’s sack” as I cheekily like to think of it are, what appear to be, a random collection of bike spares sufficient to build something the ‘A Team’ would be proud of. Many times I have come to the aid of a worried elderly gent, struck motorless just for the need of a flange-rebate dwell angled thruster gusset. A random rummage in the bag of doom offers up something close enough to be hammered into shape. Luckily I carry one of those as well.

It’s sort of organically grown up you see, stuff goes in but nothing is ever chucked out. Time and time again I stare into its’ inky abyss and agonise over the potential removal of – say – the emergency badger, but I know in my heart it’s bad karma and the very next day, I’ll be marooned in need of a pair of furry gloves or crotch pelt. You can’t afford to take any chances on the mean streets of London.

Today I dispatched the entire hated weight into the far corner of the barn, wrestled a 100PSI into the Roadrat tyres and blasted off from base accompanied only by a phone, mp3 player and a headful of dirty work angst that only fast fresh air could clean out. It wasn’t until I was spinning out on a gear ration of 53:12 did my helmetless head make itself known as Darwinian selected flies failed to dodge 44mph of speeding forehead.

I’ve never enjoyed solo road riding because – well – it’s a bit dull. If you’re not properly fit, it hurts too much going up and there’s no social protocol that allows you to rest and have a sit. I ride on the road most days but only because I’m going somewhere – normally late – so push it as hard as I can and find myself gasping and a bit broken at rides end. So it’s rare that to ride a loop from home for the sake of getting out but two days tied to the ‘puter, muddy, wet trails awaiting MTB tyres and a short break in the weather left this as my only option.

Unemcombered by transporting my entire belongings with me, the climb out of the valley was strangely painless. I assumed a monster tailwind or a lack of effort, yet the myth of some fitness was sustained on standing legs pushing a pretty big gear. Five miles in and sailing along the ridge road, all continued well with enough breath and rhythm to crack along at a decent pace. Ashtma and twenty years of abusing legal and illegal substances generally creates an air gap between ego and lungs that I find increasingly hard to bridge. Not today, must be a tailwind.

About this time, I joined my normal route home from the station, a couple of gears up and reveling in a lack of energy sapping luggage. When I last rode this extended route about a year ago, it took me over an hour to complete a rather epic-lite 15.4 miles. It occurred to me that today I may be doing a little better but assumed the lost headwind would find me or the tyre would explode or the lack of decomposed badger would somehow come into play.

None of these things came to pass but with a mile to go, my legs started to burn and my lungs to produce nothing much other than wheezing or flem. I must learn to spit properly because past 20mph, it always seems to land on another part of my body. Ugh. I managed a standing grind up the final hill to home, nearly totalled the entire enterprise failing to understand the potentially fatal interface of slick tyre and muddy drive, and skidded to an uncontrolled halt outside the barn.

Wrench open the door, check the clock, have an ‘eyes as saucers’ moment, check it again to be sure and then collapse in a spent heap. 49 minutes. I will never beat that unless I lose the nine pounds of courier bag weight off my padded frame. And that would mean giving up beer which, of course, is never going to happen. But if that’s what it is like to feel fit – wow, almost worth riding a road bike for.