Just a little over a week ago, the whole of the UK was basking in temperatures on a par with Barbados in July. It was hot. It had been hot for about 8 weeks with hardly a drop of rain and grass and forest fires threatening to engulf the whole of the British Isles. In the words of my daughter Louisa's favourite programme...'Call Fireman Sam!'.
The heat is now a distant memory and we are in May swathed in jumpers and jackets, not a pair of flip flops, speedos or mankini in sight (thankfully) and dodging the showers which have extinguished the fires and brought relief to the legion of gardeners who have been desperate to sprinkle some moisture on their withered and dry bushes.
With less than 4 weeks to go before I set off on the 420 mountainous miles cycling from Worcester to Dublin and back for charity, the training intensified on the last hot weekend before the Spanish Flume of unseasonally hot and dry weather gave way to the traditionally gloomy, wet and windy Atlantic low pressure systems. (I love a bit of meteorology).
I had taken delivery of my new Cannondale CAAD8 Tiagra road bike and had been out for a couple of short rides. However, if this machine were to be my horse of choice for the cycle challenge, it would have to endure 420 miles of climbs, pedalling, braking etc. I needed to give it a really good run out and iron out the inevitable teething problems.
My father lives 80 miles away in the town of Corby. 'Where?', I hear you say. Corby... a town that is remarkable in it's unremarkableness, it's lack of any tourist attractions; unless you count the steel works. It is a nondescript town built on the now declining steel industry and populated by itinerant steel workers and their second and third generation offspring - a hotchpotch of Scottish and Welsh immigrants...indeed the Scots in the town retain their accents and their fierce Scottishness. The term 'plastic jocks' is sometimes applied for the Scottish Corby-ites, cocooned in the Scots Island in Loch England...it is probably true many of them couldn't even find Scotland on a map, let alone have spent time there.
Yes, Corby is pretty uninspiring and not quite in the league of ultimate cycling destinations like the Chans Elysee, Paris or even the Cathedral in Worcester. However, it was with Corby in mind that I set off on a particularly hot Friday to test the legs, fitness, bike and the ability to consume as many sugary calories in 80 miles as possible. And then ride back the next day.
The route was one I would call 'pretty'. For anyone in a car that is. For the cyclist, a pretty route means 'hilly'. Plenty of green fields, quaint villages with resident idiot and Mrs. Gossip twitching her curtains, a Kings Head or Red lion pub and bugger all to do. But more than anything, hills.
No Flat Roads In The UK.
I am convinced that the UK does not possess one flat road. I can hear the good folk of Norfolk shouting at their computer screens 'yes, but Norfolk is 'little Holland'..it is flat, honest. I disagree. You may think it is flat from the comfort of your Ford Focus or the Number 205 bus to Norwich. But if you care to raise your lardy arse from your seat, plant it in ungainly fashion on a bike saddle and start pedalling in any direction, you'll change your tune. What you may consider flat, will, I assure you not feel flat on the bike. Try it and email me. You'll find I am right.
Worcester to Stratford-Upon-Avon is a beautifully windy road (exotically called the A422). It carves through farms and coppices, skirts babbling brooks and passes with a friendly glance at pubs offering traditional home cooked food (as microwaved in 1 minute) and petrol stations selling diesel at a whisker under £1.50 a litre. It isn't too taxing on the legs except for a steep wee bump called Redhill; but even that is surmountable and the reward is a swift descent into Stratford.
No time to stop in Stratford, although the confusing one way system and billion traffic lights meant that I spent most of my transit cycling with one foot in the pedal and the other unclipped, ready to put the foot down at a micro second's notice as Mr. P.Enis cuts you up and then slams the brakes on.
From Stratford I found my way to the ancient Roman road called the B4455. I think the Romans were not very imaginative with their road names. I prefer the modern name, 'The Fosse Way'; a road that joined the Roman towns of Cirencester and Leicester; though quite why anyone would bother visiting either today remains a mystery.
I had wrongly anticipated the Fosse Way to be a fast, flat, arrow straight road. It was fast (for the car drivers) and arrow straight. In fact, there were signs every few miles telling how many accidents there had been...'12 accidents in the next 2 miles in the last 3 years'. Not a road to be messed with.
And then I arrived in Lutterworth on a dual carriageway, lined by distribution warehouses and Premier Inns - but they had omitted to make the bloody road flat. More hills.
I was a number of hours into the ride and had crossed my fourth (yes 4th!) motorway of the day. For those interested (in order), the M5, the M40, the M6 and the M1. Since setting out that morning I had been swallowing litres of sickly sweet Lucozade Sport. I think the recipe for Lucozade Sport is something along the lines of;
1 part Orange flavouring (E567, E568, E569, E560 etc)
1 part NaCl...Sodium Chloride (salt to you and me)
98 parts SUGAR
Add water and shake.
****WARNING**** only consume during vigorous exercise and never give to children with ADHD (Unless you wish to see a human equivalent of Road Runner meets Tasmanian Devil)
It was hot, I was hot, but there was a part of me that was hotter still. Singed with a red hot poker. Yes, of course, the old problem of saddle soreness. The Ring of Fire, a very sore bottom.
If a non cyclist asked me what the problem was, I am sure they would raise an eyebrow of curiosity as I explained that saddle sores originate from the constant rubbing and friction of Lycra / Skin / Saddle as generated by the continuous up and down during exercise that leaves you panting. dripping with sweat and all red in the cheeks (facial and bottom).
I am a full member of the SBS and the SAS. You never knew of my membership in the elite , covert military units of the British Armed Forces. I jest, for SBS and SAS are abbreviations for Sore Bottom Syndrome and Sore Arse Syndrome. You take your pick (but wash your hands afterwards please).
I explained the problem to a friend who suggested removing the saddle. A novel solution. I could just insert the seat tube into my orifice and the friction would be instantly reduced. There are probably some deviant cyclists who already do this; cutting holes in their Lycra shorts and sharing their bizarre interest with like-bottomed colleagues via http://www.sitandswivel.com/
Despite a sizzling derriere, melting tarmac, an empty water bottle and a nagging thought of 'Am I really doing this all again tomorrow?', I made steady (aka plodding, stately) progress out of Lutterworth and into Market Harborough. Job done - only around 12 miles to go. How hard could that be?
Who Put The Hills in Northamptonshire?
Out of Market Harborough the road starts to climb. And climb some more. It rises over 5 miles or so to a small village called Dingley. The climb was not too problematic, not overly steep, but it was long and not what I wanted at this stage of the ride. From then on it was like riding the Northamptonshire roller coaster. Up and down, up and down....through what people who know the area call 'the dip'...steep 40mph descent into an immediate even steeper, low gear struggle up the other side.
And before I knew it, Corby came into view.
I don't know if I am the first person to ever give a whoop of joy and an 'Oh Yes!' of delight on arriving in Corby. But I did. 80 miles on a new road bike, undulating roads and hot weather, sore backside and I was there.
After a cold 10 minute bath, a shower, a lovely meal with my Dad, his wife, Wendy and her son Thomas and his girlfriend Chrisanna, a mind-numbing hour spent in the company of The Million Pound Drop and its overly shouty, banal host Davina Buggerall, I bid my goodnights and slept soundly. The end of a long, hot day and quite an achievement.
Is that a return ticket or one way Sir?
Dawn brought a break in the weather. What? No hot humid summery morning, no blue sky...actually, torrential downpours...monsoonal rain that delayed my departure and made me have second thoughts about going. But I had to. That was the whole point of this training ride. Out and back on consecutive days. 80 miles there, 80 miles back, No rest days. See how the body reacts.
The weather stayed cooler, without any further soakings, but a chilly wind and I was in and out of my jacket all day.
Music was my first love
My MP3 player was in a cynical mood on the ride back. Out of the 1,400 songs it could randomly select for my listening pleasure, it decided to choose Rhianna's Umbrella (weather reference, I get it), The Smith's 'There is a Light' - which includes the following lines, as penned by Morrissey in a happy period;
"and if a double decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.....and if a ten tonne truck, kills the both of us....to die by your side, well thepleasure, the privilege is mine."
Fine words indeed and a ten tonne truck from a certain bread company nearly carried out Morrissey ode to road traffic accidents. You know who you are. Needless to say I shall be buying other brands than Warburton in future.
Finally, Daniel Beddingfield 'Gotta Get Thru This' completely the apt triumverate of songs. I think MP3 players pick up brain waves and thought processes through your earphones.
I dispensed with my own tracklist and a little later turned on Radio 2. I had a drivel of melted Radio cheese from Herr Emmenthal himself, Tony Blackburn and then possibly the worst interviewer in the world...Dreary (Dermot) O' Leary. Dermot, I like the music you play, but come on...He interviewed a Spanish band, Polock and his stream o f consciousness included the line,
"Wow, this is the first time I've had a guy in a band named after a fish...Sea Bass.." Cue, confused, muffled uncomfortability as the Spaniards tried to a) understand and b) translate what he'd said. His name is Sebas and it is probably short for Sebastian and the stress is on seBAS, not SEbas.
I'd even prefer an hour of Davina Buggerall. Now, that's saying something.
I won't detail the whole trip back, but some minor adjustments made it a bit more comfortable. A change of saddle, two pairs of Lycra shorts, a gallon of Sudocrem and the knowledge of where I was going and what was in store for me and I was happy. My bottom was happier than the day before, but was in no mood to completely forgive me and the occasional 'ooh, aargh, ow, that stings...by the horns of Beelzebub, could you please remove the 3 bar electric fire from my cheeks please, NOW!' let me know it was still being arsey with me.
Worcester eventually hoved into view and I arrived, relieved and pleased with how the bike and body had managed over a long testing ride, in difficult conditions.
Less than 4 weeks until we set off for Dublin. The route will be longer, with more difficult, longer and painfully steep climbs and the prospect of more of the same for 6 days. I could say, well perhaps I don't need to go on the cycle challenge. But it's too late now. I am, metaphorically, in the open doorway of the plane, with the wind rushing in my face and legs dangling 2,000m into the void below. I may as well jump.
I have all but reached my £3,600 target and I have trained for this through the freezing winter and for 6 months. People like Milla, my daughter, living with cerebral palsy and not able to ever sit on a bike let alone ride it, need people like me to raise money to help improve their quality of life. Scope needs the funds, disability doesn't finish.
I am ready and come hill, wind, rain or shine I am going to do this. Determination is my middle name.
Sponsor me at;
Thank you.
