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.
No comments:
Post a Comment