85 miles of hurt.....Worcester - Leominster - Worcester, by bike

Tony and his Cannondale CAA8D Tiagra

Jim and his Trek

What is pain? Is it a physical thing, a chemical reaction, a mental response to something that can hurt you? I don't know the answer, but I sure felt it a couple of Saturday's ago. An 85 mile training ride around Worcestershire and Herefordshire with my great friend Jim Yeoman. Hills, wind, sun, fatigue, legs that wouldn't 'shut up' and a re-acquaintance with my old nemesis, Ankerdine Hill. It hurt, but then pain is something we cyclists know about, apparently.....

I have just finished reading the most damning book ever published on the endemic use of performance enhancing drugs in professional cycling; 'The Secret Race', by Tyler Hamilton. Former team mate, friend and loyal lieutenant to Lance Armstrong. He has exposed the truth behind systematic doping used in the US Postal team in the Tour de France, of which Armstrong was entirely complicit, unrepentant, and a proactive participant. I have thrown my 'Livestrong' yellow wristband away in disgust; while Armstrong's crusade against cancer has done so much good, his name is now tarnished as a cheat, a liar, an arrogant win at all costs, f**k 'em all type of guy. That is how the book portrays him and I for one don't feel Hamilton has an axe to grind, more a huge burden of guilt he is trying to exorcise himself of, and in the process bring to some sort of closure his years of deceit, ostracisation and subsequent depression; together with a desire to put the record straight, to come clean and tell the truth and the whole truth.

Hamilton was a cyclist admired for his amazing strength, someone who could go to the limit and push beyond; someone who knew what pain felt like and thrived off that sensation, in the parlance of the cycling world, 'buried' himself in the cause of others, dug deep into reserves of energy and drove himself to exhaustion, regularly, Some day job.

Yes, he used performance enhancing drugs, but the most telling point he makes is as follows;

Doping doesn't make you hurt any less, it just gives you the chance to go further, deeper into yourself, to hurt more and for longer that your fellow cyclists, to outlast your competitors.

With or without drugs, cycling is painful, it is a sport that tests not just your legs, but your mental toughness. Who is going to break first, who is going to give in to that inner voice that is screaming at you, 'Stop, get off, walk, give up, pain, hurting, no more energy, can't do it'?

I am not Tyler Hamilton. Not because I have never used performance enhancing drugs (with the exception of flapjacks, Mars Bars and an extra banana); many a time I have thought if whether the steep hill ranging up ahead of me would be any easier with a spoonful of EPO and a drop of testosterone in my tea. Perhaps the next time I give blood at the blood bank I'll ask them to keep hold of it for a couple of weeks and then put it back, just to see if my performance up the nasty gradients near my home suddenly appear nothing more than speedbumps.

I am not Tyler Hamilton because I lack the capacity to suffer, to dig deeper than I thought possible, to struggle on long after others would stop and get off. Sadly, my suffering comes afterwards when I have eventually got to the top of a steep hill, panting for breath and cursing my legs, lungs, heart, stomach (Lycra is not quite the same as Spanx and regrettably enhances any excess around the midriff). Why can't I get up these bloody hills? What's wrong with me? When the average amateur would tough it out, the pro would not even blink at such pimples, I tend to be reaching for a non existent lower gear and immediately wishing someone would give me a sympathetic push.Oh well, me and hills, chalk and cheese, never to be bedfellows. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will forever have a love hate relationship with the lumpy stuff....I will always love to hate the hills.

Tony and Jim's Tour du Vent et des Gradients

Pain is not really my cup of tea....

After a day at the Tour of Britain the previous day, Jim and I set off on an 85 mile ride, blowing away a few cobwebs, stretching the leg muscles and pondering which cafes would provide for sustenance en route.

Le grand depart was at around 8am and we headed south on the A38 towards Upton Upon Severn. The cycle computer clicked a decent speed, averaging around 18 - 20mph. Good going for a couple of chaps in their early forties. Averaging 20mph....wow, these 85 miles will be a piece of cake. Wrong, so wrong.

We hit the first climb of the day at Severn Stoke, a little tester to freshen up the legs and get the heart rate up. Only short at around three quarters of a mile, but not too steep. I'd not ridden with Jim before, so I was keen to see how he fared on the climbs....in comparison to me; the escargot sur un vélo.

Surprisingly, very surprisingly, I crested the summit ahead of Jim....was that a touch of laboured breathing and the pant of the already tiring Yeoman? Surely he couldn't be as bad as me on the climbs. If he was, oh glory be, at last there is someone I can lead out, give protection to from the gradient, the wind....to be honest, it was nice having someone looking at my buttocks instead of me transfixed on a big Lycra moon a few metres ahead.

'You OK Jim?' I asked nonchalantly as we started the short descent towards Upton. I hoped I didn't sound too smug. 'Yeah, ok....I am always a bit stiff and it takes a little while to get going in the morning....funny though, I tend to get stronger as the ride goes on'. Bugger. I am the exact opposite. My legs feel like pistons after a full overhaul first thing, by the end they are heading for the breakers yard.

Through Upton and Hanley Swan, the villages of Worcestershire looking fresh and lovely in the bright morning sunshine. The road now began to rise, almost imperceptibly at first, but then the legs started to feel the slopes and the cycling became a little more strenuous.

Up ahead the profile of the Malverns, a 9 mile saw-tooth ridge of rolling hills, greeted us. This was our first real test, up on to the A449, skirting the base of the Malverns until doubling back on ourselves and climbing over the Wyche Cutting, a pass over the Malvern Hills I had climbed many times. As we started up the Wyche, the gears clicked down, but I felt remarkably strong and actually enjoyed the switch backs up the pass. Half way up, the view across the Vale of Evesham and towards the Cotswolds was lovely. I heard of groan from Jim, an audible exhalation - a sort of 'aaawwwhhh'. Great, got him, he's 'cooked', the Wyche has cracked him. No, he was just admiring the view. Damn.

We reached the summit of the climb, both in pretty good order and rode along the back of the Malverns towards British Camp and the second road pass over the hills. This one would take us off the hills and into Herefordshire. The climb actually continues along Jubilee Drive, though there is a lovely fast descent on which I decided I would show Jim my descending prowess. I shot by him like a Frobisher shaped rocket, making him wobble as my acceleration took him by surprise.  Come on Jim lad, keep up. How I was to eat those words.

From British Camp the road drops dramatically off the Malverns. This was my chance to push the bike and my legs and see what speed the computer would register. I accelerated, assumed an aerodynamic tuck(ish), and pedalled my highest gear as fast as I could....the speed climbed, 25, 27, 31, 34, 37, 38, 39.8mph...then 35, 32, 28, 25, 22.....how annoying. I missed the magic 40mph by 0.2mph. Drat and double drat, foiled again. Next time I'll definitely catch the pigeon.

Ledbury and Leominster, an 'L' of  a ride

We arrived in Ledbury, looked at our watches and decided it was 'Cake and Coffee O'Clock'. We asked a friendly local lady where she would recommend;

'Just over there, it's a cafe, but you have to walk through a shop to the back to get to the cafe....I don;t know what it's like, haven't been there for a long time'. Thanks, I think.

'Nice Things' cafe was just that. A little cafe haven of nice things, in our case, scones, tea cakes and coffee. The shop at the front sold knick knacks and a sign took my eye;

'My wife dresses to kill, she cooks the same way'. Très amusant.

Drinks break over and after failing to spot Ledbury's famous sons, Top Gear's Richard Hammond or 'The Raging Bull', darts legend Terry Jenkins, we turned north west and headed 20 miles to Leominster. The cycling was memorable for being fairly forgettable. Nothing of real significance happened, the cycling was fairly easy, no major climbs, the wind was gently pushing us along and times were good. Piece of cake, no dramas....ah, is that Leominster I see? Already, by heck Jim lad, it's lunch time and we've only been on the go 3 and a half  hours and we've done how many? Really....? 50 miles. Cracking stuff and time for a spot of lunch. The final 35 miles will be a breeze. Breeze being the operative word.

Leominster is a quaint little country town, the last outpost of England before you cross over to Wales. There wasn't a lot to sell the place to us, other than the tantalising smells of lunch wafting from a number of high street cafes. We tied up the bikes and walked, clickety-clack on our cleated cycling shoes, dripping in sweat and smelling a little pungent, into the Stepping Stone cafe. I thought it would be a nice little organic delight, serving up vegetarian treats, home made cakes and rooibos tea in the finest china. It wasn't, and we fitted in very well.

The greasy spoon cafe is a dying breed. Mostly because their customers tend to die of heart attacks caused by cholesterol butties and furred artery fry ups. But this was a last bastion of the homage to hydrogenated fats. The All Day Breakfast is a British tradition that just wouldn't seem right anywhere else in the world;

'Avez-vous un petit déjeuner toute la journée?'
'Pardon? Il est 16h30 ... vous êtes fou? ... ah, anglais!'

No, the all day croissant just wouldn't work. But the Stepping Stone served up a fabulous all day veggie breakfast, just what I did and didn't need. It revived my energy levels, gave me renewed enthusiasm for the next stage of the ride, but also weighed me down and sat undigested in my stomach as we immediately hit the longest climbs of the day, into the wind. Jim's sausage baguette seemed to have the opposite effect, it fuelled his tiring legs, filled up the gas tank and produced a powerful second wind.

Well...to Tenbury Wells and Bloody Hard to Bromyard

The easy bit after lunch, the nice final 35 miles wasn't! Stopping for an hour for lunch always seems a great idea. But in truth, it takes a lot of effort to get the old diesel engine going again, to fire up the legs. This is especially true when you put your jacket on thinking it was a bit chilly in the wind and start climbing the longest hill of the day. The sun beat down, the gradient bit hard and I was sweating buckets, struggling in my lowest gear and watching Jim getting further away up the road....his nimble pedalling style, effortlessly (though I am sure he'd disagree) standing and dancing on the pedals, mocking my pathetic grunt and grind.

I stopped to take off my jacket. To catch my breath. To look at the hill. To swear under my breath, out loud, at the bike and at myself. To have a long drink and an energy gel. This was about half an hour after lunch. Not a particularly encouraging sign.

Jim was waiting some distance ahead. He had by now finished the Times crossword on his phone, as well as helping the adjacent farm bring in the harvest. I sauntered up and Jim didn't need to ask if I was ok. Come on, let's crack on. More pain, more hurting, more suffering...and I was the one who planned the route; no point whinging is there....tough it out boy.


At the top there was a wonderful sign, 15%. A very steep DOWNHILL section, all the way to Tenbury Wells. After that horrible climb, I'd earned a bit of fast stuff. The trouble with the fast stuff is that it is always over so much more quickly than the slow uphill bits. Stating the bleeding obvious, but it's true. After a super fast descent, Alpine like hairpin bends we whizzed into and out of Tenbury Wells, heading back south towards Bromyard and into the hardest 10 miles of the day.

The wind had picked up. Standing off the bike, you hardly notice the wind. Pushing into it, you notice how it grinds you down, how it slows your average speed, how it saps your energy, how it makes the hills even harder, And there were plenty of them. Up, up, up, down, up, up, up down.

The first rule of cycling....what goes down, must go up.

Three miles outside Bromyard we stopped to refuel. 200 metres away there was another big lump laughing at our legs. A friendly farmer greeted us. 'That's the last hill before Bromyard isn't it?' I asked hopefully.

'There's that one, then another one, then it's downhill into Bromyard.....' Not too bad I thought.

'Oh, as you come out of Bromyard there's a huge hill on the way to Worcester'. Yes, I know, thanks for reminding me.

The Power of Donoughts

Coop Bromyard.

Tip 1: Buy the donoughts, They are great and give a fantastic boost to energy levels. It was the donought that got me up the hill out of Bromyard...nothing to do with my legs at all.

Tip 2: Avoid the Red Bull. 'Gives You Wings'...really, foul stuff...the only wings I'd get from that are emu wings. Not a lot of flying on that filth.

And so Jim and I set off on the final 15 miles or so to Worcester. The long hill was indeed long, but the sugar and jam of the donought worked wonders and I again quite enjoyed the climb. 

After a long steady climb, there is nothing better than a fast, swooping descent. Bromyard Hill (for I know no other name), afforded a lovely descent. It was indeed fast....again I watched the road and my cycle computer.....25, 28, 31, 34, 37, 38, 39, 40.1mph....cracked it! It is such an exhilarating feeling descending fast on two wheels. The rush of the wind, the adrenaline pumping. If only we didn't have to cycle up the bloody hills to enjoy the fleeting rush of excitement the descents give us.

Euphoria coursing through my veins, a smile on my face - but not for long. There was one huge problem looming large in my mind and it was only a couple of miles away. Ankerdine Hill.

This famously steep, brutal hill is 1.5 miles long, 17% in places and has long been public enemy number 1 in my book. I've made it up without stopping only once. On my hybrid bike, lowest gear, legs spinning like hamsters in a cage. The week before I struggled up the first 17% pitch, then stopped, got off and had to push, not all the way, but enough to count a a defeat. Ankerdine 1: Frobisher 1.

This time was the decider.

Jim, suitably briefed by me, went ahead, jumping on to his pedals and making it up to sit and wait, have a cup of tea, read the paper and have a long nap, before I eventually emerged at the summit.

I started with trepidation, hoping that my body would forget the 75 miles already in my legs. Fat chance. Within a minute I  was at my limit. Within 2 minutes I was at a standstill. I had stopped on the steepest part, meaning no matter how I tried I couldn't get momentum to get going again. Walk, get on, cycle a bit more, pant furiously, drip sweat everywhere, stop, get off, walk, cycle a bit more....eventually I got up the thing. I collapsed in a heap sweating copiously much to the concern of a group of 4 pensioners who had stopped in the layby to admire the view.

At the top of Ankerdine Hill. Jim beat it....I didn't.

Yes, I had been defeated by Ankerdine once again. 2:1 to the Worcestershire Hilly Beast, but once I had got to the top, then recovered and just about resolved to throw my bike into the layby and walk home,I had a brief moment of clarity and realisation. Not quite the road to Damascus, more the back lane to Martley.

Hang on, I thought. I struggle for a number of reasons.

1. Age. I am 44, not 24.

2. Weight. I am 84kg, not 64kg

3. Mental strength. I can't push myself to the limit, or beyond, like Tyler Hamilton. I give up when the inner voice says...'and.....STOP'. I reply...'OK'.

4. Physical strength. I am fit and I'd say quite strong for my age. I've cycled to Dublin and back, 770km / 550 miles over 3 mountain ranges in 6 days. I can tough it out when I need too. It's just that power / weight (and I'll add) / age ratio when the hills get a bit too pointy. I'll grind up a long steady incline, but give me half a km of 10% gradients and I'm cooked.

5. Lack of PEDs (Performance Enhancing Drugs). Much as I eschew the various drugs available to increase performance, even if I wanted to get hold of some EPO, Human Growth Hormone or Testosterone, I don't know where I'd begin to look. Hang on, I think Tesco had EPO on buy one get one free....

6. Fatherhood. Any father will tell you how much having children drains your energy. They'll also tell you they are happy to devote such energy supplies to playing with, caring for and entertaining their children. It does however, deplete your hill climbing strength. As does....

7. Caring for children with disabilities.

On a serious note, I had taken for granted my role as father to Milla and Louisa. It's something I do on a daily basis, it's my life, they are my children...it's 'normal' for me. Milla has complex special needs with cerebral palsy. As a result, from the outsider's viewpoint, my life is anything but normal. Broken sleep, caring 24/7, setting up special milk feeds, administering medicines, taking the children to doctors and hospital appointments etc etc. For me that normality is actually the routine. But it is an exhausting routine.

No doubt the 6 years of stress, sleepless nights, anxiety and worry have taken their toll. I look at my pre children running ability and compare it to now. Back then I was Haile Gebrsalassie. Today I am Haile Unlikely to Run Sub 9 Minute Miles.

8. I don't like pain. Some people do. Some people thrive off pain. I hate that lactic acid burn, the pounding in the chest, the shooting, searing pain that whips through your muscles. I think in the medical classifications I fall somewhere between 'wuss' and 'soft southerner'.


So, on the final run in back to Worcester, I made a pact. Not in the same way that Robert Johnson went down to the Crossroads and sold his soul to the devil, but similar.

Each time there is a steep climb, I will sell my soul to the devil that is gravity. I will allow gravity to toy with my emotions, to let me think I can make it up without stopping, without fuss. I will let gravity exert its mighty force on my weakening legs and spirit. But I won't give in. Even if I have to stop, I will try to get going and get to the top. If the result is I can't, for the reasons listed above, then so be it...at least I gave it my all. And I won't worry about it.


Jim and I rolled back into Worcester and finished at my traditional start finish line - the Cathedral. 

85 miles of hills, wind, sun and sweat. The ride had been many things; fun, painful, challenging, tiring, hard work and enlightening. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the banter, the sight of Jim's backside wobbling away and getting smaller as he distanced me on the climbs. 

85 miles of pain. I'd do it again tomorrow.

Thanks Jim....next time, Margate here I come.

Caerphilly boy, very Caerphilly

Time flies....my blog posts are about as common as a Nick Clegg apology. Hang on, he made a public apology the other day, right better crack on and write a new blog post then.....


Two Wheels To Wales

The Tour of Britain took place a week ago. You mean you didn't notice?....Seriously, with the spectacular summer of cycling success, Bradley Wiggins winning the Tour de France, Mark Cavendish beating all comers (except when falling off spectacularly); the unprecedented medal success of the Olympic and Paralympic Team GB cycling teams; you can't have failed to notice the rise in cycling's status in the UK.

Well, the Tour of Britain has become the must see event for (the ever growing numbers of) cycling fans throughout the UK. Your chance to stand at the side of the road and scream 'GO CAV!' and 'GO WIGGO!'....and er, GO.....YOU! For most people the only cyclists they know are Wiggins and Cavendish; which is a great improvement, considering a year ago, the only cyclists the majority of British people might recognize would be dressed in red, carrying a sack marked 'Royal Mail' and stuffed full of junk mail and bills for your letterbox.

Today, the roads of Britain have swelled with men of a particular vintage with swollen stomachs, stuffed unceremoniously into crotch enhancing and buttock squeezing Lycra short; their 15 stone frames, balancing unsteadily on gleaming £2,500 road bikes weighing the same as one of their fingers. Looking at these MAMILS (Middle Aged Men In Lycra), you wouldn't know it, but cycling is now cool.

I knew that, years ago. I remember going to Leeds in 1993 to watch the end of a stage of the Milk Race / Kellogs Tour (can't remember which one it was, memory is fading a bit)  and seeing the professionals arrive after a tortuous and nasty climb over Snake Pass....and it was bitterly cold with an energy sapping wind.
In 1995 while spending 4 weeks in Australia, I (like a saddo), rather than indulging in a bit of Sydney nightlife, ripping it large with the Aussies and having a huge blow out on the grog, chose to watch the Sydney Night time Criterium race around the harbour. Cycling was cool back then. It's just that people didn't know it.

Fast forward almost 20 years from my first experience of watching professional cycling live and everyone ssems to want to hop on a bike and go and watch the professionals struggling up 20% gradients, while being chased by overweight, unpleasant looking men in Borat wigs and mankinis....is nice, high five! That was how it felt when my good friend and fellow cycling nut, Jim Yeoman and I crossed the Welsh border and headed for Caerffili...or as we call it Caerphilly.

Caerphilly Does It

We arrived in Caerphilly and found the train station car park. An odd place, given that 25 bays are designated 'Pay and Display' (being right next to the station and easy access to the platforms. About 150 spaces were available next to the pay and display and a little walk from the station (a meandering 2 minutes at most) for FREE. How does that work? I imagine the Caerphilly Town Council Planning Meeting was thus;

Bronwyn Jones; 'We really should charge money for the car park at the station'

Trefor Evans; 'I know, let's kill two birds with one stone eh? We have a lot of tubbies down here, too many pies and chips for lunch, no exercise....'

Dai Davies; 'You been on the Brains Ale again Trefor, what you on about?'

Trefor Evans; 'See, it's like this, make the pay and display next to the station for the lazy buggers right, they have to pay for not walking.....reward the Caeffili-Caerdydd commuters who walk the two minutes from the rest of the car park. There, obesity crisis reversed, regular exercise and it's free. Genius eh?'

Bronwyn Jones; 'Did you have a drugs test before you joined the council Trefor?'

Anyway, I am rambling off up random avenues again....Jim and I had a great lunch in The Malcolm Uphill (curious name for a pub, but then again, it is a Wetherspoons). The food and the service was great, though we were surrounded by people in black suits and ties, whispering and reminiscing about someone who I believe may have been laid to rest that morning. Not often you enjoy a chilli con carne and a cappuccino at a wake you weren't invited to.

We then set off up Caerphilly Mountain; the scene of the afternoon's denouement for the 5th Stage of the Tour of Britain, from Welshpool to Caerphilly.

Mountain of Pain, Mountain of Shame

Let me take you back a couple of years to when, on a whim, I decided to cycle to Cardiff from Worcester for the weekend to stay with my best friend Simon. I won't go over the details, but suffice to say, the 92 miles I miscalculated (I thought it was 'only' 75) were painful, not least due to a saddle sore that accompanied me. The final challenge before Cardiff on this day was Caerphilly Mountain, where Jim and I had now reached.

Caerphilly Mountain is around 1.5km long and has gradients up to 17%. It is a steep, brutal climb that doesn't let up until the summit (where you can revive yourself with a cuppa from the Caerphilly Mountain Snack Bar). It isn't even 'deceptively steep'.The road kicks up at the last of the residential dwellings and you immediately feel starved of oxygen, bereft of gears, and lacking in momentum.,Then you hear the pummelling of your heart in your chest, the gulps and rasps as you suck in air and then the resigned 'oh bollocks', as your legs tell you to stop, get off and walk. At least mine did. I made it about two thirds of the way up before the engine blew a gasket and I forlornly wheeled the bike to the top. The ignominy, the shame. Getting off and pushing, walking. Oh well, just not made for this going up business.

So, back to the Tour of Britain. How would the professional deal with this beast? We'll see. I expected hordes of professional cyclists climbing off their carbon bikes and pushing like wusses. Bring it on.....

I should have known better.

We climbed all the way to the summit and found a nice spot on the final bend, with a clear view back down the mountain road. We were guaranteed a spectacular view. The crowds built steadily over the next couple of hours. Our vantage point commanded a great place to watch the cyclists pass only a metre away from us...well, that was until every man, woman and idiot thought I was wearing a 'PLEASE STAND DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME...YES HERE IS FINE....BIT TO THE RIGHT...THERE I CAN'T SEE A BLOODY THING' t-shirt. The politeness and courtesy of the true cycling fan was spectacularly shattered by kagool wearing, 'ooh, I'll pop along to see the cycle race, might even recognize Cav and Wiggins' non cyclists who plonked their (as Monty Python would say) puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh directly in front of me.

Don't worry, I've only been here 2 hours. I was eventually able to carve out a niche and ensure I could watch the cyclists unhindered by a curious mix of slight nudges, pushes and prods, snide comments (of which Jim proved a master) and heady farts. Actually that last bit isn't true, but I should have emitted some malodorous gas.

Many of the crowd were dressed, de rigeur, for the day. Given that it was a bright sunny day and quite warm for early September, there were many and various shades of Lycra clothing on display. The majority of the Lycra beasts had earned their chance to stand in figure hugging, skin tight clothes by doing what I had spectacularly failed to achieve. Cycling up Caerphilly Mountain. They also did it in full view of a baying crowd, well wishers and hecklers. I can't think of anything worse than struggling up a steep hill. Yes I can. Struggling up a steep hill, your body screaming at you to get off and stop this nonsense now, but your 'embarrassment gene' telling you you can't, not when hundreds of people are laughing at your gurning, shouting at you to do it, pedal harder, make it to the top......

I'd say 95% of the amateurs made it up, some with ease, some with more laboured pedalling and others at a near stand still. Those in most discomfort were applauded and roared home by a generous melee of spectators. The 5% who had got off and were walking up fell into two categories...."I can' make it and I don;t give a s**t what you think". They sauntered up, smiling at the hecklers and nay-sayers, as if to say, 'You mean, you actually thought I was going to make it to the top....with these legs?'. The others were 'I can't believe I've had to get off and push.....I'm so ashamed'. These poor few were by now very red in the face from their exertions and acute embarrassment. They walked as fast as they could, trying not to catch the eye of the roadside mob, before collapsing in a heap at the top. They promptly fell asleep and didn't see the race.

BOGOF

And so, after a starter of amateur hill climbing, we had the main course of the Tour of Britain roaring up Caerphilly Mountain; not once, but twice. It was so good, we even got seconds. The crowds were huge. I've been to a few live cycling events and I've never experienced an atmosphere as exciting and electric as on the mountain side that afternoon.

The first riders came into view, eventual overall winner of the Tour of Britain, Jonathan Tiernan-Locke and Graham Briggs climbing well. The crowd closed in on the road until there was barely 2 metres of space to ride in. The wall of noise that had moved up the mountain with the riders hit us as Tiernan-Locke and Briggs moved smoothly past. Then, in twos and threes, in dribs and drabs, the rest of the field crested the summit. The lower slopes of the mountain had caused the peleton to explode. There were riders stretched all over the mountain...and they had to do it a second time. Carnage.

Now the crowd strained their necks and ears for the sight and sound they'd waited for for hours (or for those who decided to arrive late and then stand in front of us, minutes). Cavendish and the Sky Train. Unfortunately, Bradley Wiggins had come down with a dicky tummy that morning and pulled out of the race; so it was all for Mark Cavendish. For a lad that has earned a reputation as the fastest sprinter in the business and someone who 'can't climb', he was doing a good job of getting up Caerphilly Mountain, tapping out a  steady rhythm with his faithful German 'domestique', Bernie Eisel by his side. Cavendish is used to fervent, fanatical supporters in the Tour de France. However,by the look on his face, he was somewhat taken aback at the thousands of people screaming 'GO CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVVVVVV!!!!!!!!!' into his ears from 20cm away. He looked quite startled. Bernie Eisel looked a touch non-plussed; 'Why do they all shout for Cav, how about me, I am the donkey pulling the cart up the hill, Ich mag es nicht!'

And with that, and a few stragglers bringing up the rear, the Tour of Britain shot down the descent, into and out of Caerphilly, to do it all again. 

This time Jon Tiernan-Locke had Leopold Koenig on his tail. Koenig sucked Tiernan-Locke's wheel and accelerated past him to win the stage; but Tiernan-Locke had done enough to secure the overall title, the first British winner for 19 years.

Behind the serious end of the race, coming up on their second ascent of Caerphilly Mountain, the rest of the field were, how do I put this, 'enjoying themselves'.

How would you feel after 6 days of racing, in all weathers, nasty climbs and currently 185km into a 190km stage, climbing a brutal climb, gradients of 17%....for a second time?? I know how it felt when I had to stop and then admit I was beaten, time to walk. For the professionals who had done their jobs for the day, ridden hard on the front to protect their team leaders, helped their teams get up and over the first climb, it was time to sit back and coast in to the finish....and have a bit of fun. On a 17% climb, fun is not my word of the day.

So, much to the amusement of the crowd, you had the spectacle of smiling riders, gesticulating to the crowd to cheer louder, throwing their drinks bottles high into the air, laughing at the roars of support and the odd sights running alongside them.

There was one group who had dressed in various costumes. One young lad, kitted out in boxing shorts and gloves, was actually the brother of GB and Sky cyclist, Luke Rowe. His mate wore a super hero / wrestlers mask and a pair of tight fitting trunks and not much else. As Dan Craven, a cyclist with the IG Sigma team approached the summit, still churning away up a 12% gradient, he reached out and gave our 'super hero cum wrestler' a playful pinch to his bare stomach. 

The last of the riders struggled up to the summit, not exactly enjoying it, but getting a huge cheer from the crowd and we then poured down the mountain, back to Caerphilly, a cursory look at the castle and an attempt to catch some of the riders after the finish. We didn't get to see any, sadly, but we did see one of the bizarre images of the Tour of Britain. 

Caerphilly is a small town and by definition, its town centre streets are narrow. Not exactly built for the luxury coaches the Pro Teams use to transport their cyclists and staff around Europe. The traffic jam coming out of the town centre was lengthy, and entirely made up of Tour of Britain vehicles, Pro Team buses and an occasional, bemused, very annoyed local who didn't realise the cycling circus was in town.

Because the teams were stranded, and in particular the Italian Liquigas Cannondale team, Jim and I were able to have a close up look at the Cannondale SuperSix Evo bikes. I ride a Cannondale, but the difference is my bike is about £5,000 cheaper and 4kg heavier. Still, it was great to look at and dream about those bikes and to witness the steam coming out of the ears of the Liquigas drivers as they sat impatiently trying to leave little old Caerphilly.

A great day in Wales. Fantastic cycling and good weather. But it wouldn't have been half as enjoyable by myself. Jim had come up to Worcester all the way from Margate in Kent. A true cycling fan, a man whose bike has been surgically attached to his backside and someone who wins every cycling related competition he enters and crops up in every cycling photograph from the big events when Cycling Weekly is published on a Thursday (as we both did the following Thursday...spooky, how does he do it?....it's the bright red Oakley sunglasses, that's how). 

Our conversations revolved around many themes, all cycling related....climbing mountains, the professional peleton., doping, bikes, equipment etc etc.....We make ideal conversationalists at dinner parties. 

Jim and I became friends trekking to Everest with Scope. We quickly became known for our cycling dialogue, isolated by the trekking team, mocked and pitied, forever conjoined by an invisible yoke, ok a bicycle chain. Conversation would go something like;

Tony: 'Morning Jim'
Jim: 'Morning Tony'
Tony: 'Nice day for a ride'
Jim: 'Yeah, you'd need at least a 12:28 rear cassette for that climb though
Tony: Do you reckon we'll need arm warmers and a gilet today?

Since then, Jim has signed up to cycling John O';Groats to Lands End with me and a few other friends next May. The professionals make long days in the saddle look (relatively) painless. JOGLE will be painful and much training will have to be done before we set off. 

For that reason, the very day after watching the professional cyclists in the Tour of Britain, Jim and I undertook a training ride. 85 miles over Worcestershire and Herefordshire's lumps and bumps, hills and inclines. It hurt, and when the steep stuff pointed up, I didn't smile, and I didn't pinch a roadside spectator in the stomach....

The tale of our training ride next time.....