Achewood is back. I think.
Find some time to read achewood. It’s great.
Achewood is back. I think.
Find some time to read achewood. It’s great.
Damian has tried particularly hard over the last couple of weeks, attempting Tabata protocols approximately twice a week plus one other interval session as well. His ability to complete these interval sessions has improved, and he has subsequently noticed an increase in fitness and ability to operate at or near his maximal heart rate. Unfortunately, his planning and preparation skills significantly let him down this year.
For example, 36 hours before the Kingston Wheelers Hill Climb. He got lost in Surrey and ended up riding 120 kilometres in the dark and cold. Possibly not the best preparation for a sprint event.
This lack of preparation and foresight was demonstrated, again , this weekend at the Catford CC Hill Climb and the Bec Cycling Club Hill Climb. A weekend of effort he has previously shown some promise for his age and relative lack of experience.
Perhaps, riding out to Ide Hill from Crystal Palace in torrential rain (that link will only show the past 24 hours so, er, click it today 14/10/2013 if you want to see the observations from the Met Office) was an ideal method of pre-race preparation that expert hill climbers have yet to discover?
In short, apt don’t you think, Damian failed to apply himself to the challenges he set himself in these events because of poor planning and preparation. His performances were piss poor.
Before I left I realised I had my jersey with the ripped shoulder on. Quickly changed out of that, superstition and smartness were my reasons. Then I thought, “hmm. Perhaps I should embrocate“. I did some science thinking. Embrocation provides heat by irritation, blood at the surface of the leg, wet and cold, probably not a good idea I thought. But a barrier probably wouldn’t hurt. Vaseline on lower back and on thighs then.
Out the door and off up the road to Crystal Palace. Quick test on Valleyfield, legs feel fine. That was good. As I was riding over I noticed my knee warmers were starting to expose the hole I acquired after crashing in January. Fortunately, I had time to stop at Cadence and swap them around so the hole was covered.
Dan arrived, we laughed. Oh how we laughed.
And then off we went. Off to Ide Hill via Elmers End, West Wickham, up Layhams, missing the descent down Beddlestead (it’s usually a bit gravelly and well, it was wet and I’m a terrible descender. Who wants to crash before a “race”?), continue up Beech Farm and onto Clarks and then onto to the Pilgrim’s Way. Have you seen this? It’s very good.
Last year I slowly rolled into a man on a moped as I turned into Pilgrim’s Way. This year, he wasn’t there, but the line I took into the turn was very very similar.
On the way up Beech Farm I got drenched by a car coming the other way as it drove into a puddle. That was tragedy.
A minute or so later I saw another car coming, I thought “I hope Dan gets past that puddle”. All I heard was “aaaaaargh” and “you cunt”. That was comedy.
If I got a paper cut, that’s a tragedy. If you fell down an open manhole and died, that’s comedy. Mel Brooks.
You could do worse than watch this:
Apparently, Dan saw the driver, the driver saw Dan. And the driver accelerated into the puddle/lake/inland sea.
Slogging along the Pilgrim’s way I started to think “this isn’t so bad”. It was madness. There were puddles I could have drowned in. The rain was relentless. I was soaked. Dan was soaked. I saw walkers coming down Sundridge Hill. They looked wetter than me. I saw horses huddling under trees. They looked wetter and more miserable than me. I took no comfort in this.
There were rivers of water flowing down hill as we descended Sundridge. There was gravel and cow shit and all sorts of detritus. My gloves were saturated, if I made a fist water cascaded out of my gloves.
And then the ascent to Ide Hill started. Water streamed down both sides of the road. At one point there was a manhole cover in the middle of the road with water gushing out of it.
That’s not too far from the truth. My first thought was it was a fatberg.
We got to Yorks Hill. But not before I asked a cyclist coming down if the event had been cancelled. No such luck.
I tried to sign on. I signed on. I got my numbers. My fingers didn’t work. I got help. I tried to drink a cup of tea. That went everywhere. I was shaking like a dog shitting snowballs.
We met Laurence and Elin, from Brighton Mitre. Laurence had gone up in the vets earlier, Elin was going for the big weekend of hill climbs (2 at Brighton, then Catford and Bec). I was still shaking, Laurence offered the use of his turbo. And I’ve just pieced something together….
I stayed warm, and then went to dump stuff off. I saw Dan holding all sorts of bits of kit and attempting to stay dry. I negotiated the slopes and crowds and got down to the bottom. I had a pre race wee.
I started letting air out of my front wheel. More on that later. A number of riders asked how much I was letting out. I replied “I don’t know, a bit?”
Then I noticed my rear tyre. It was totally shredded. There were huge rips to the rubber, and how I didn’t puncture I’ll never know. And this is where I say how mental people can be and how amazing they are when you’re part of their tribe.
Martin/Matthew from club to be determined, was in a car near the bottom (white Merc, very nice). And he noticed me looking forlornly at my wheel.
“puncture? do you want to borrow my wheel?”
I initially said no, and then changed my mind. I was still shivering at this point and was about to come up on my gel. I couldn’t get my wheel out and his, amazingly bling deepsection tub, on. He took over, whacked the wheel in, checked the changes and off I went to the start. Then I had a look at my front wheel. Oh. I’d taken it from ~90 PSI to ~35. Hmm. No pump at the line and my minute man was off up the road. F U C K. My as well try eh?
I explained to my holder I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t wobble as I was shivering. Every time I do the Catford I’m amazed and impressed at how solidly I’m held and how little I move. It’s very very calming.
“3 2 1 go. Go on Damian!”
It all felt ok, for a bit. I was going smoothly, then the first bit of incline slowed me, my head started to wobble, I started to lose motivation (which is odd for me on Yorks, but totally understandable to more normal people I suppose). I got at least two boosts in confidence by someone shouting “go on”. Then I saw a small family, they cheered me on with “allez” and “go go”. I wasn’t very happy here as it was at the first turn I think. I may have thought bad things.
Someone shouted “let the gear do the work, don’t fight it”.
There was a “good going!”.
Then I got to the bit everyone talks about, the last ramp, with the crowds and the narrowness and the cheering and the lift this gives you. Unfortunately, I needed to go down a gear.
M I S T A K E.
A different wheel, with different ratios and different alignments. My rear mech no longer wanted to be part of this event. And told me so. The chain went. No tension. I unclipped. Foot down. Race over. There was a huge groan.
I have never been so petulant and so penitent at the same time. I wanted to throw my bike around, I can’t have been more than 50m from the top. I tried to throw my bike around. I did some swearing. I realised how bad this looked. I heard “rider up”. I saw rider 129 (Ewan from Catford CC) hurtling up the hill. I cheered him on.
I trudged up the hill. I handed my number in for a hot drink, ate my raisin and biscuit yorkie. Got Dan a cup of tea. Got my shit together, got my wheel back.
In this time, I missed Matt Pilkington winning the event. I saw Robert Gough shaking his head at the end.
We rode to Sevenoaks. Got the train home. The heating was on in the train. This was the best bit of my morning.
I sacked off the Bec. I think I missed a treat, one of the riders went up in armbands and goggles.
From what I can piece together, I shredded my tyre on the turbo trainer and going down the hill. My homemade heelpad of Sugru held up well.
I went to the pub after. I had a burger on a brioche roll, it was a bit too much. I had three pints. I didn’t get edgy. I think. I got home. I rubbed fruit crumble and ice cream, and then fruit crumble and greek yoghurt, into my face.
I didn’t sleep until 1 am.
I will never ride to a hill climb again, it’s hire a car and throw a turbo in the back from now on. Although I’m too old to place seriously well, I’m not too old to take this seriously (to some extent) and I still get something from it.
I thought I was mental. There are more mental people out there. Climbers, yes. But spectators, you is mental. Serious.
I can even fall off a bike going up hill.
That’s it for a bit, cross racing starts (for me) in a couple of weeks. Expect mud. And falling off.
Worth a read, as always, making streets in London more liveable/friendly would be great. Particularly resonant with me as the street I live on IS friendly. However, traffic is still high. (nobody wants to go down Streatham High Road if they can help it)
In a recent post, David Hembrow introduced the fifty bollard game: a practical exercise for campaigners to look at how a few strategically placed bollards could solve problems on their streets. A few bollards to create filtered permeability — closing off streets and country lanes to ratrunning, forcing motorists to keep through journeys to the main roads — can be a cheap and quick to implement solution to reclaiming those places from traffic.
Last week I talked to my neighbour @Jon_events, who has some practical experience with turning this game into reality, and we thought we’d try making a quick guide for other campaigners who want to fix their streets:
So, if you want to turn the fifty bollard game into reality, you should (a) set out your demands to the council exactly, so that they can’t mess it up or fob you off with excuses about…
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I often have conversations with myself. It’s helpful. Today I was riding the mum bike 2.0 into work. Because it has one gear, it’s sensible (mudguards and racks), and it’s heavy. All sensible choices to try and stop me from being a big hitting cat 5 racer.
This morning it was noticeably colder, winter is coming and all that, windy and clear. I got a nasty chill on my ankle. It itched. Riding the tank bike across the bridge, beset by wind and fellow cat 5 racers, I started to ask myself “why do I ride bikes?”.
I let this thought sit in my mind for a bit as I continued up through Drury Lane, round the back of the British Museum, and up the sneaky one way street to work.
If I look back upon my life, it’s always with a sense of shame.
Well, not always, but a certain particular point in my life leaves me with the shivers and is actually really embarrassing to me now. Thinking about specific points in that era doesn’t make me think “That was great, I had a great time, I hung out with loads of mates, got off my face, listened to great music, emotionally connected with people and made great friends”. I just think, “what a twat”.
I moved back from Nashville, where I rode bikes to the shops and to friends, but always thought “nah, that’s not for me. I like running”. But in Nashville summers, I could only run for 17 minutes max. Every time.
When we got back to London, even though I’d battled with trucks on 21st Avenue in Nashville after 3 pints, I was definitely NOT cycling. No way. London was mental right?
And then Alex showed the way, getting up early and doing 20 miles a day on the mum bike. I got a bike, then I got into LFGSS. I destroyed what was a lovely Raleigh. It really was. It was light blue, with a white headtube.
I powdercoated it flat dark blue. I put bullhorns on. I had nice wheels built for it. I thrashed it. It was always slightly too big though. It did have bottle cages though. I got knocked off it once by a car on Queen’s park roundabout, I should have taken his details. I took a tenner.
Why do I ride bikes?
I ride bikes because I don’t drink as much, I don’t do weekends that start on Friday night and end on Sunday morning anymore, I don’t need to have a pint or three on a Tuesday or Wednesday because I feel bleak, I don’t then go out on Thursday night because tomorrow’s Friday and who cares really. I ride bikes because I don’t smoke anymore.
You could flip all of those statements so that they become I don’t drink as much because I ride bikes, etc. etc.
I guess, I ride bikes further and in different ways because of all the statements I made up there. And moar probably.
Why do I ride bikes? I think it’s because I’ve replaced going out with going up.
I love Saturdays. A long lazy lie in. A fine breakfast at the table with my family. Then a long leisurely walk, while a large bird or leg of dead animal roasts slowly in the oven. That may be more of a Sunday option, but we like to break with tradition and buck convention. Maybe some televised spectacle of sport, maybe a cheeky pint of the local ale. It is the weekend after all.
I haven’t had a drink for a month. A lie in? GTFO. I thought I was decadent when I stayed in bed until 6:35 this morning. Taking Miriam downstairs to make my breakfast and hers. Before she changed her mind, “I’m tired Daddy”, and went back upstairs and got back into our bed with Alex.
Leaving me to contemplate porridge AND raisins AND banana or porridge AND raisins AND banana AND honey. I tried to make an espresso before I left, but realised the beans I’d bought were too coarse and the water pissed thru. I still got a hit of coffee, and that coupled with my first dose of methotrexate for 3 months (only 5 mg) left my stomach rocking AND rolling as I left my family and went out on my bike.
I got out to Ide Hill, all by myself, went down Yorks and then up it. And then managed to find my way, on my own with no Garmin, to White Lane. Even taking in Pilgrims Lane and Rectory Lane. Get me. I recommend clicking on those links and having a look in street view if you’ve never been there.
I went up both of these lovely climbs in a respectable time, for me. Strangely, I felt more comfortable going up them than Leith Hill last week.
After a brief pause, to collect and hydrate myself, I began the epic journey home. I have never seen so many riders coming the other way. I was going down Beddlestead Lane back towards Streatham and there were legions of theo. I saw De Ver Cycles riders, lots of Rapha clad riders, some sky, one Lampre, and about a million Dulwich Paragon riders. At least 100 it felt like. It got to the point where I was changing “hello” to “morning” and back again and throwing in a wave every couple of minutes. Eventually, I changed my mind and just held my hand in a wave as I went by any group of more than 10 so that I could acknowledge them all.
That was fairly mindbending. What was weirder was thinking I spotted a Bristol South CC kit. Is there another kit in yellow, red, and black?
And then it got a bit weird.
I saw one of these:
He was heading from Anerley to Elmers End. I was afraid. Was I seeing things? Had I been spiked somehow?
I managed to shake that image from my head and got home.
Where I was doorstepped by two lovely Jehovah’s witnesses. After a pleasant chat, I made my excuses and left.
I refuelled with a peanut butter AND raisin AND honey AND banana sandwich, with a stovetop coffee.
Specifically 7pm – 11pm.
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