Last minute prep for the ride to Amsterdam is done. I've stripped the bike, cleaned it, oiled everything, reassembled and taken it out for a few miles to test. Everything seems to be set up perfectly. And with all the grit and crap cleaned away there's a lovely satisfying 'humming' sound as I pedal along.
All we need now is good (dry) weather and we'll be set for a challenging but ultimately rewarding few days.
Last weekend I got out on Saturday and Sunday - not massive mileage but ridden with vigour. On Saturday the weather was dodgy - the forecast was for hail and torrential rain, that never quite materialised but we did get our fair share of showers - some of them fierce. I opted for a 30 mile spin around the lanes, starting in reasonable, bright sunshine and finishing like nightfall had arrived and soaked through to boot.
To make matters worse I was overtaken on the last hill from home by a yellow jerseyed grandpa, legs and face reddened from the shot blasting downpour, he crept up and overtook me like a NATO drone with a nonchalant 'Morning' as he passed. I put on a brave face, pretending I wasn't trying, but he looked so smooth and silky as he slipped away from me - no matter how much harder I pushed he was still moving away - I was up on the pedals now in a futile effort to bridge the gap and reel him in - a desperate and suicidal move - within 20-30 yards I was a quivering jelly and he had disappeared around the corner, a relaxed almost jaunty silhouette moving below the iron clad sky. Perhaps he was an ex-pro, or one of the Sky riders in a disguise - If I could have caught him I might have found out.
Sunday was much better weather wise - dry and sunny - but a humid. One of those days when a 10 mile ride in dry conditions leaves you just as soaked as if it had been raining. I covered 38 miles, first 15 or so at a lick, then gradually tailing off as the legs get heavier and the hills steeper. I rode the whole way in a big gear to really put my thighs under pressure - at least that worked. i could barely get the bike up the last gentle slope to home - cadence? - non existent - probably 5rpm!
That's it now - no time for any further riding at all. I know I'm not very well prepared - I know it's going to be tough anywhere north of 60 miles - but we'll make it.
It all started in 2011 - we decided to ride Lands End to John O Groats, since then we've completed a number of 'challenges' raising over £15,000 for various charities. You can read about our adventures here, and also our on-going efforts to keep on cycling!
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
Monday, 9 June 2014
superfast......
Alex Dowsett is a young man with a superbright, superfast future. Already the British Time Trial Champion, Alex has set a new record for a 10 mile time trial on the E2/10 course in Cambridgeshire.
He covered the 10 miles in 17minutes 20 seconds at an average speed of 34.615 miles per hour beating the previous record set by Michael Hutchinson in 2012 by 25 seconds.
34.615mph - average - on a push bike. You have to sit and think about that for a minute.
Well done Alex - fantastic performance.
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| Alex Dowsett - setting off speed cameras |
34.615mph - average - on a push bike. You have to sit and think about that for a minute.
Well done Alex - fantastic performance.
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Montecassino.....
I've watched the Giro with interest and relish this year - Congatulations to Nairo Quintana - he's a phenomenal rider with great all-round ability for a, so called, climber.
I know the Giro lives in the long shadows cast by Le Tour, however it has a lot to offer the cycling fan. Fantastic scenery, sometimes impossible conditions (snow on some of the stages this year), incredible drama, the steepest climbs and all wrapped up in the passion that is always evident in anything Italian.
The story of modern Italian history could almost be entirely told by a journey through the history of the Giro d'Italia, the country's biggest annual sporting event – a cycling tour – second in importance only to the Tour de France.
Although not always by design, each year the race touches a moment, town or event that has in some way shaped the nation. The fight for the race's famous Maglia Rosa (pink jersey) – now branded "Fight For Pink" after an attempt through social media to rebrand the event – has taken place for most of the 153 years that modern Italy has existed. May is the month when even those who hold no interest in the sport tune in to their TV sets, keep their ears close to the radio and read about the Giro caravan's route across their land.
Despite the increasingly globalised nature of professional sport and the world in which it takes place, the Giro this year remembers the Battle of Montecassino. This held special interest for me because my Dad was there during the war. Stage six was the first time that the national tour has visited the site of one of the fiercest battles of World War II, a brutal, tragic and bloody event that many historians widely acknowledge as a strategic turning point in the conflict. Today it is home to 33,600 people, but was almost completely destroyed by the Allies in the spring of 1944. I remember Dad telling me about the German army who were dug in at Cassino - crack troops he said, hard men - they held on against overwhelming odds for ages. The race's passage commemorated the 70th anniversary of one of the ugliest chapters in the region's long history.
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Latest reading...
When Chris Boardman first raced against Graeme Obree, in a time trial in Newtonards, Northern Ireland, in 1990, it was the start of a rivalry that captivated the British public for a decade and brought cycling on to the front pages. Boardman was the establishment figure: reserved, scientific, middle-class. Obree was the rebel: the Flying Scotsman, working-class, riding a home-made bike. Both were after one thing - to be the fastest man on two wheels.
After Boardman had won Britain's first cycling gold medal for 72 years at the Barcelona Olympics (inspiring none other than Bradley Wiggins to get on a bike), attention turned to the world hour record, the blue riband event of track cycling. Between 1993 and 1996, the pair took it in turns to smash the record, with Boardman's team breaking the boundaries of technology and the loner Obree constantly reinventing ways of building and riding bikes while battling his many demons.
The Race Against Time tells the story of how Britain first started to dominate cycling, but is also about the struggle between art and science, tradition and innovation, commercialism and individuality. It is the tale of two complex characters who redefined the sport and set in motion a new era in British cycling, the legacy of which we enjoy to this day.
I thoroughly enjoyed it - it's compelling and as close to a page turner as a cycling book could ever be!
Monday, 2 June 2014
Pretty in Pink.....
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| President in Pink! - Juan Manuel Santos |
The Colombian Nairo Quintana’s victory in the Giro d’Italia, and his compatriot Rigoberto Uráns second-placed finish, has prompted their countrymen to embrace the race’s colour in celebration..
El Espectador, a national newspaper, printed its Sunday cover on pink-tinged newsprint, while fans in Quintana’s home province of Boyacá dyed their traditional long wool ponchos, known as ruanas, to match the 'maglia rosa' of his victory.
Quintana is the second Colombian to win a grand tour and the first to win the Giro.
“Today is a historic day for Colombia,” said the president, Juan Manuel Santos, wearing a pink button-down shirt, after joining throngs of fans to watch the last stage of the Giro on a giant television screen set up outside Quintana’s family home in the small mountain-top town of Cómbita. “We are very proud,” he said.
Quintana’s win in the Giro, the first ever for a Latin American, served as a reminder of Colombian cyclists’ glory days in international competitions during the 1980s, when the country’s extraordinary climbers were known as the escarabajos, or beetles.
That generation of cyclists spurred a nationwide passion for the sport, especially at weekends and during holidays, when thousands of Colombians took to the country’s steep and winding Andean mountain roads.
That passion was seen again in Bogotá on Sunday when cyclists stopped pedalling so they could crowd around giant televisions set up along the city’s cycle routes, known as ciclovías, to watch two of their countrymen take the winners’ podium in Trieste. A third Colombian, Julián Arredondo, took the blue jersey for the mountain classification.
“For Colombia this is just as great as when Lucho Herrera was riding,” said recreational cyclist Carlos Alberto Torres, waving a pink balloon. Herrera won the Vuelta a España in 1987, becoming the first South American to win a Grand Tour race. “Things dropped off since then but they’re taking off again.”
For many Colombians, the Giro offered welcome respite from a tense presidential election campaign tainted by scandal and mud-slinging. “With election burnout, the country received with joy the feats of Nairo Quintana and other Colombian cyclists,” Semana, a news magazine, wrote on its cover, alongside a picture of Quintana decked out in pink from helmet to boots.
News presenters, dressed in pink, gushed about the new “glory” of Colombia, calling Sunday the “most important day in Colombian cycling”. One newscast dedicated 40 minutes of its one-hour programme to the results of the Giro, profiling the Colombian riders and interviewing fans and family members.
Many fans hope that alongside Colombian cycling’s resurgence there may also be success for the country’s footballers at this summer’s World Cup, the first time they will have taken part in the tournament since 1998.
“This [the Giro] is the best preamble that we could have wished for the World Cup,” said Carlos Camacho, a cyclist on the ciclovía, wearing the yellow jersey of the Colombian national team.
Going backwards?....
After a rainy week and no opportunity to get out I was looking forward to a long ride on Saturday - it looked fine enough and I set out with a plan to ride 100 miles. This time I had designed a 33 mile loop starting from home and taking me through familiar lanes - I would be always fairly close to home and planned to stop off for refreshment each time I passed. Seemed a good plan?
I set off without breakfast and felt good - it was perfect riding conditions, dry, no wind but not too warm. I quickly dropped into a rhythm and eat up the initial miles, my average speed was high, I felt strong and pushed on through to Upton and back through to Market Bosworth - maintaining a decent speed even uphill. I passed a few cyclists which spurred me on to up the pace even more. After 25 miles I was still feeling fresh, the last ten miles of the first loop passed quickly and I rode up the hill from Congerstone to Barton in the Beans in a big gear, pushing all the way, feeling the strain but also rationalising that it would be doing me good.
I arrived home and decided to eat. A couple of rounds of beans on toast and a strong coffee whilst catching up with the Giro d'Italia (inspiration?). I watched with wonder as the pro's dug into some massive climbs - then it was time to set off on loop 2. I'd been off the bike for about 40 minutes, I'd cooled down - immediately, getting going again seemed a struggle - what had happened? - I'd had a rest, taken on some food and now I felt sluggish. I decided to take things slowly, let myself 'warm up' - after 5 miles I felt a little better but nowhere near as comfortable or as strong as earlier. I pushed where I felt I could and managed a couple of reasonable stints - but generally I felt like poo.
The final part of loop 2 was a sheer struggle, by now my legs felt heavy, there was a slight ache, also some twinges in the lower back. I carried on to the final climb, again up from Congerstone - it had seemed so easy before, now I was struggling, spinning the easiest gear I had and getting nowhere. On the the final few hundred yards I heard voices behind - cyclists approaching - I didn't look round, I stood on the pedals in an effort to make the top before they caught me - I managed it and they turned in a different direction at the junction - avoiding the overtake! The effort left me feeling even worse! - the last half mile was a struggle, I felt like I was going backwards at times - I limped home feeling drained and deflated. I sat for 15 minutes before trying again - but no good. The mood had changed, the moment had passed - I felt totally knackered - I managed 73 miles - well short of the target and I'm feeling like I need to go to bed. It doesn't bode well for the ride to Amsterdam which is hurtling towards us!
I set off without breakfast and felt good - it was perfect riding conditions, dry, no wind but not too warm. I quickly dropped into a rhythm and eat up the initial miles, my average speed was high, I felt strong and pushed on through to Upton and back through to Market Bosworth - maintaining a decent speed even uphill. I passed a few cyclists which spurred me on to up the pace even more. After 25 miles I was still feeling fresh, the last ten miles of the first loop passed quickly and I rode up the hill from Congerstone to Barton in the Beans in a big gear, pushing all the way, feeling the strain but also rationalising that it would be doing me good.
I arrived home and decided to eat. A couple of rounds of beans on toast and a strong coffee whilst catching up with the Giro d'Italia (inspiration?). I watched with wonder as the pro's dug into some massive climbs - then it was time to set off on loop 2. I'd been off the bike for about 40 minutes, I'd cooled down - immediately, getting going again seemed a struggle - what had happened? - I'd had a rest, taken on some food and now I felt sluggish. I decided to take things slowly, let myself 'warm up' - after 5 miles I felt a little better but nowhere near as comfortable or as strong as earlier. I pushed where I felt I could and managed a couple of reasonable stints - but generally I felt like poo.
The final part of loop 2 was a sheer struggle, by now my legs felt heavy, there was a slight ache, also some twinges in the lower back. I carried on to the final climb, again up from Congerstone - it had seemed so easy before, now I was struggling, spinning the easiest gear I had and getting nowhere. On the the final few hundred yards I heard voices behind - cyclists approaching - I didn't look round, I stood on the pedals in an effort to make the top before they caught me - I managed it and they turned in a different direction at the junction - avoiding the overtake! The effort left me feeling even worse! - the last half mile was a struggle, I felt like I was going backwards at times - I limped home feeling drained and deflated. I sat for 15 minutes before trying again - but no good. The mood had changed, the moment had passed - I felt totally knackered - I managed 73 miles - well short of the target and I'm feeling like I need to go to bed. It doesn't bode well for the ride to Amsterdam which is hurtling towards us!
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Vampires?....
I've just got back from a great break away in Normandy. France has everything I need and expect from a holiday - the excitement and ever so slight anxiety of travelling abroad, the prospect of a linguistic battle, the chance to explore and appreciate new and unseen places, eat the best bread and cheese, sample the local beverages and the chance to cycle on unfamiliar terroir, on the wrong side of the road, - what's not to like?
Our 'gite' was everything you would expect from deep within rural Normandy - a single level, stone built affair with bright blue shutters. Diamond laid slate tiles matched with ancient corrugated iron presented a roof with equal amounts of patina and provenance and the flinty track from the road provided just the right level of 'get away from it all' isolation. A feather hitting the floor would have caused heads to turn. It was, shall we say, quiet.
Then of course there are the markets - the great places of pilgrimage for masterly inactivity, they entrance, astonish and comfort the rest of the world with a way of life that is peculiarly French. No one outside France has quite managed to explain cogently what this unique French existence consists of - so we have a French phrase to sum it all up: je ne sais quoi - France's abiding gift to the world. And there is more je ne sais quoi for your euro to be found in a French market than anywhere else. Aisles of trestles and stalls filled with a marvellous array of produce; bright peaches fresh from the tree, ripe and golden. Green and black figs, bursting with sweet, ancient, darkly lascivious simile. The waft of fresh lemon, bunches of thyme and lavender and verbena; oils and olives, pale green and pungent and the honey from orange blossom from heath and orchard. The charcuterie displays dozens of dextrous things to do with a dead pig, in all the hues of pink and pale fatty cream. The strings of saucisson, the pate and rillettes. The boulanger with loaves so crisp and hard, plaited and rounded with dark bitter crusts and soft sour centres - the pastries, the asparagus, the artichokes, the cheeses - all winding their way around a rabbled square with pollarded plane trees and ironwork benches. And at its corners, the most holy of holies in the 'je ne sais quoi' market, The cafe - with cream and pink woven chairs and little metal tables and a waiter with a long apron and the look of a man who is beaten by his wife. A place to sit and just .... look. Sipping a strong cafe with perhaps a small glass of calvados or a tasse of the rough but immensely agreeable local wine - just to smell it is to understand the superiority of terroir over mere talent. And then you can examine the rewards of your forage. 'I just got this artichoke, I liked the colour' - 'Oh well, I got this marvellous chèvre. The man said it was made with his grandmothers goats - or perhaps that his grandmother was a goat'
Back at the gite and looking through our comprehensive 'welcome pack' I read that the windows leak. What we need to do is close the shutters at the first sign of any rain. I decide to give this a practise run just in case. On close examination it looks like the shutters have never been closed, the iron clasps are rusty and fastened to the wall by a ball of ivy tendriles - I battle through and manage to release the first one, it moves stiffly and creaks alarmingly - at that moment a bat flies out from somewhere behind, startled by the sunlight it darts around before grabbing hold on the adjacent carriage lamp and hangs there. I've never been this close to a live bat - I've seen many flying around of course but can't recall being this close. It's a little, furry mouse-like creature - I'm not clued up on bat recognition at all - is it a pippistrelle? - It makes no attempt to attach itself to my neck, so for the time being I'm ruling out the possibility that it might be a vampire.
All this waffle - but did you do any cycling I hear you ask? - Well yes - as a matter of fact I did. Every day.
The thing about riding a bike in this part of France is that there are no flat roads - no chance to get settled into a speedy rhythm - it's all up and down - mostly up it seemed to me. I set off for a long ride, accompanied by my IGN D50 map of 'Manche' From Ste Cecile I headed to the next village of La Chapelle Cecelin and from there followed the D33 to Coulouvray Boisbenatre and then on to St Pois - the roads are smooth and even - nothing in the way of potholes at all - and no traffic. Everywhere is quiet as I pass through each village there is no sign of any living soul whatsoever - where is everyone? I work my way up some long, hard climbs to Le Gast and through a beautiful forest area towards St Sever-Calvados - this is a bigger village - not quite a town but at least there are a few people milling around. I pause for a moment checking the map and just looking around before heading off again towards Courson, back to narrow quiet lanes now - no sign of life - no cyclists - haven't seen one cyclist at all. Even with the map I manage to lose myself in the maze of lanes and tracks - I figure I'll hit a main road at some point and sure enough I arrive at the D524 which takes me through to Villedieu les Poeles - from here it is another 6k climb back to the gite - I take it steadily and manage it okay. 35 miles done in beautiful, empty countryside.
Our 'gite' was everything you would expect from deep within rural Normandy - a single level, stone built affair with bright blue shutters. Diamond laid slate tiles matched with ancient corrugated iron presented a roof with equal amounts of patina and provenance and the flinty track from the road provided just the right level of 'get away from it all' isolation. A feather hitting the floor would have caused heads to turn. It was, shall we say, quiet.
Then of course there are the markets - the great places of pilgrimage for masterly inactivity, they entrance, astonish and comfort the rest of the world with a way of life that is peculiarly French. No one outside France has quite managed to explain cogently what this unique French existence consists of - so we have a French phrase to sum it all up: je ne sais quoi - France's abiding gift to the world. And there is more je ne sais quoi for your euro to be found in a French market than anywhere else. Aisles of trestles and stalls filled with a marvellous array of produce; bright peaches fresh from the tree, ripe and golden. Green and black figs, bursting with sweet, ancient, darkly lascivious simile. The waft of fresh lemon, bunches of thyme and lavender and verbena; oils and olives, pale green and pungent and the honey from orange blossom from heath and orchard. The charcuterie displays dozens of dextrous things to do with a dead pig, in all the hues of pink and pale fatty cream. The strings of saucisson, the pate and rillettes. The boulanger with loaves so crisp and hard, plaited and rounded with dark bitter crusts and soft sour centres - the pastries, the asparagus, the artichokes, the cheeses - all winding their way around a rabbled square with pollarded plane trees and ironwork benches. And at its corners, the most holy of holies in the 'je ne sais quoi' market, The cafe - with cream and pink woven chairs and little metal tables and a waiter with a long apron and the look of a man who is beaten by his wife. A place to sit and just .... look. Sipping a strong cafe with perhaps a small glass of calvados or a tasse of the rough but immensely agreeable local wine - just to smell it is to understand the superiority of terroir over mere talent. And then you can examine the rewards of your forage. 'I just got this artichoke, I liked the colour' - 'Oh well, I got this marvellous chèvre. The man said it was made with his grandmothers goats - or perhaps that his grandmother was a goat'
 |
| Vampire????? |
All this waffle - but did you do any cycling I hear you ask? - Well yes - as a matter of fact I did. Every day.
The thing about riding a bike in this part of France is that there are no flat roads - no chance to get settled into a speedy rhythm - it's all up and down - mostly up it seemed to me. I set off for a long ride, accompanied by my IGN D50 map of 'Manche' From Ste Cecile I headed to the next village of La Chapelle Cecelin and from there followed the D33 to Coulouvray Boisbenatre and then on to St Pois - the roads are smooth and even - nothing in the way of potholes at all - and no traffic. Everywhere is quiet as I pass through each village there is no sign of any living soul whatsoever - where is everyone? I work my way up some long, hard climbs to Le Gast and through a beautiful forest area towards St Sever-Calvados - this is a bigger village - not quite a town but at least there are a few people milling around. I pause for a moment checking the map and just looking around before heading off again towards Courson, back to narrow quiet lanes now - no sign of life - no cyclists - haven't seen one cyclist at all. Even with the map I manage to lose myself in the maze of lanes and tracks - I figure I'll hit a main road at some point and sure enough I arrive at the D524 which takes me through to Villedieu les Poeles - from here it is another 6k climb back to the gite - I take it steadily and manage it okay. 35 miles done in beautiful, empty countryside. |
| After the ride?? |
Friday, 2 May 2014
Hard core.....
Last weekend's jaunt involved meeting up with Gary and Paul from over the road and a 60 mile blast through the lanes. And what a blast it was. We didn’t hang around, speeding through Shackerstone up to Congerstone before heading up to Twycross and from there via Orton on the Hill through to Thorpe Constantine and on to Clifton Campville. I can’t remember ever travelling so quickly on the bike. I touched speeds of 28mph with regular long stints around 24mph. The wind was strong but thankfully behind at the key moments. There was no chance of a pause to admire the greening grass, the trees unfurling their finery, the apple blossom, the thick carpet of bright yellow dandelions…. It was about concentration, looking out for potholes and trying to breath.
At Barton under Needwood we finally stopped – 36 miles done is record time. I left the others to pay a visit to my Mum who dully plied me with tea and cake. Two hours later I set off home , bloated and aching from the earlier effort. The journey back was a much more sedate affair – the wind was in my face the whole way – getting back to Netherseal was a drag, legs burning and an overwhelming feeling that I needed to be asleep.
Arriving home was a relief and after a warm shower I felt okay but tired. And then at around midnight a severe leg cramp woke me from slumber. All day on Sunday I could feel the effort in my legs – plus a niggling backache to add to my woes. Nevertheless it was a good, hard workout – we’ll attempt the route again next week, weather (and backache) permitting.
At Barton under Needwood we finally stopped – 36 miles done is record time. I left the others to pay a visit to my Mum who dully plied me with tea and cake. Two hours later I set off home , bloated and aching from the earlier effort. The journey back was a much more sedate affair – the wind was in my face the whole way – getting back to Netherseal was a drag, legs burning and an overwhelming feeling that I needed to be asleep.
Arriving home was a relief and after a warm shower I felt okay but tired. And then at around midnight a severe leg cramp woke me from slumber. All day on Sunday I could feel the effort in my legs – plus a niggling backache to add to my woes. Nevertheless it was a good, hard workout – we’ll attempt the route again next week, weather (and backache) permitting.
I've just finished an excellent cycling related read - ROULE BRITANNIA - celebrates the fiftieth anniversary of a Briton first completing the Tour de France, the half-century of cultural exchange, and British cycling's fight for recognition that followed. During those fifty years only two Tours would take place without at least one Briton on the start line, and more than fifty British cyclists have taken part. Through exclusive interviews with and profiles of all those who have competed, William Fotheringham gives us the definitive record of their achievement, from those first stumbling efforts and the death of Tom Simpson, to the golden era of Sean Yates and Robert Millar, right up to Chris Boardman, David Millar and the present day glory of Wiggo and Froome.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
Beer ride - Halfway House
A beautiful wednesday evening, bright, warm sun and hardly any wind - ideal then for my first beer ride of this year - a relatively easy trip to Donisthorpe, North West Leicestershire and a rendezvous at The Halfway House.
I opted for shorts and a tee-shirt - even though I knew I'd be cold riding back in the dark, the prospect of enjoying the sunshine on the outward ride was too much to resist.
Donisthorpe is a smallish village on the border of Derbyshire and Leicestershire - very much a 'mining' village and home to Donisthorpe Colliery until the pit closures of 1991. The character of the village has changed radically over the last decade. The local shops have closed down and the pit site is now a housing estate.
The Halfway House is trying hard - I remember it when it was 'The Turks Head' - a name I prefer. It looks quaint and inviting from the outside, well cared for and tidy. Inside the layout is quirky interconnecting rooms, a bar area with bar stools and a fireplace, a comfy old leather chesterfield and a chose of real ales. The landlord has incorporated a unique ale tasting system. Just in front of his range of beer pumps is a small shot glass filled with whatever the guest ale is - no ned to ask about the beers - just try a shot!
We opted for Burton Bridge 'Spring Ale' and another pale ale called something like 'Stara' - The Stara was slightly lighter in colour but both beers tasted remarkable similar.
The pub seems to have a busy trade with people appearing the whole time we were there - always a good sign. There are clear gastropub intentions here and from what I could see there is plenty of trade to support the idea. The dining area looks sleek and stylish (at a glance) and was at least half-full.
The menu is ambitious for a village local - daily blackboard specials include, Poached roulade of lemon sole, tandoori lamb cutlets, pan fried sea bass and sorrento chicken. From the menu there is pan fried bacon and black pudding, crayfish cocktail, and chicken liver pate.
We stayed until around 10.00pm - 5 of us in total - and then the cold ride back! - thankfully I had the foresight to bring my arm warmers - very welcome. I rode well with an accompanying full moon, after a few miles I stopped noticing the cold and enjoyed the peaceful silvered landscape. Home for 11.00 - 26 miles covered.
I opted for shorts and a tee-shirt - even though I knew I'd be cold riding back in the dark, the prospect of enjoying the sunshine on the outward ride was too much to resist.
Donisthorpe is a smallish village on the border of Derbyshire and Leicestershire - very much a 'mining' village and home to Donisthorpe Colliery until the pit closures of 1991. The character of the village has changed radically over the last decade. The local shops have closed down and the pit site is now a housing estate.
The Halfway House is trying hard - I remember it when it was 'The Turks Head' - a name I prefer. It looks quaint and inviting from the outside, well cared for and tidy. Inside the layout is quirky interconnecting rooms, a bar area with bar stools and a fireplace, a comfy old leather chesterfield and a chose of real ales. The landlord has incorporated a unique ale tasting system. Just in front of his range of beer pumps is a small shot glass filled with whatever the guest ale is - no ned to ask about the beers - just try a shot!
We opted for Burton Bridge 'Spring Ale' and another pale ale called something like 'Stara' - The Stara was slightly lighter in colour but both beers tasted remarkable similar.
The pub seems to have a busy trade with people appearing the whole time we were there - always a good sign. There are clear gastropub intentions here and from what I could see there is plenty of trade to support the idea. The dining area looks sleek and stylish (at a glance) and was at least half-full.
The menu is ambitious for a village local - daily blackboard specials include, Poached roulade of lemon sole, tandoori lamb cutlets, pan fried sea bass and sorrento chicken. From the menu there is pan fried bacon and black pudding, crayfish cocktail, and chicken liver pate.
We stayed until around 10.00pm - 5 of us in total - and then the cold ride back! - thankfully I had the foresight to bring my arm warmers - very welcome. I rode well with an accompanying full moon, after a few miles I stopped noticing the cold and enjoyed the peaceful silvered landscape. Home for 11.00 - 26 miles covered.
Monday, 14 April 2014
Total madness - Paris-Roubaix...
Last year while on our ride from London to Paris we experienced a short section of the Paris - Roubaix route around Chantilly. A section of pave (pronounced parvay) probably only a few hundred yards long - but that was enough to understand what's involved in riding the Hell of the North - The Paris Roubaix. We lasted about 50 yards at most, shaken, rattled and rolled, we got off and walked. This isn't a road surface like any i've ever experienced. It is totally uneven, rutted, with gaps inches apart, the surface is jagged, sharp and torturous - the stories of pain and destruction come suddenly and clearly to life.
Yesterday I watched this years race on TV - it really is incredible - unbelievable even. 260 kilometres long with about 50 of those over the pave and ending in Roubaix with one and a half laps of the velodrome. To win this, one of the 'monuments' of the cycle racing season a rider is raised to God like status - Coppi, Merckx, Moser, Kelly have tamed Paris-Roubaix's pave for well-earned status.
The Paris Roubaix is one of the oldest races in professional cycling.Ffirst run in 1896, it was created by two textile manufacturers to publicise the opening of a new velodrome that they had built in Roubaix. They offered a winning prize which represented seven months' wages for a miner at the time. The Paris-Roubaix was born.
Here's a few photos so that you get the feel for it.
Yesterday I watched this years race on TV - it really is incredible - unbelievable even. 260 kilometres long with about 50 of those over the pave and ending in Roubaix with one and a half laps of the velodrome. To win this, one of the 'monuments' of the cycle racing season a rider is raised to God like status - Coppi, Merckx, Moser, Kelly have tamed Paris-Roubaix's pave for well-earned status.
The Paris Roubaix is one of the oldest races in professional cycling.Ffirst run in 1896, it was created by two textile manufacturers to publicise the opening of a new velodrome that they had built in Roubaix. They offered a winning prize which represented seven months' wages for a miner at the time. The Paris-Roubaix was born.
The Pave is sections of granite cobbles, uneven in size and laid haphazardly, dating back to Napoleonic times the rough, uneven surface afforded greater grip for carthorses transporting munitions across France. Each pave weighs around 16 kilos and the race winning trophy? - you guessed, a piece of pave.
Considering the pave surface the speeds the cyclists achieve is remarkable - the record was in 1964 - 165 miles at an average of over 28mph.
The largest winning margin? - Eddy Merckx (who else?) in 1970 he won by 5minutes 21seconds.
And the best quote.... Bernard Hinault in 1981 - "Paris Roubaix is just plain stupid"
Tuesday, 8 April 2014
whisky, cheese and cycling - not a good mix...
I had promised myself that with the onset of British Summer Time I would be able to find the time for a couple of short evening rides after work - didn't happen. It's annoying but there have been too many distractions and pesky freelance jobs to finish - I just ran out of time.
My only option was to rely on a longish ride on Saturday - over to my mothers and back - a total of around 43 miles. I've been making this journey for the past three weeks - it is a chore on the older bike and I think I know why. I was checking the bike over and noticed the cranks feel stiff - they don't spin freely like they should - no wonder that pedalling seems such an effort - no idea what's wrong, perhaps something seized up in the bottom bracket an ingress of salt and crap maybe? - I'll have to strip it down and investigate further.
Friday night we were out with Gaz and Val as guests of John and Jane - a 'Whisky and Cheese tasting evening' - That's right - whisky and cheese, perhaps not a combination that would be the first to spring to mind. However sceptics should give it a try - and spend a few minutes checking it out on Google - this whisky and cheese thing is big in London, there are many trendy, high class establishments singing the praises of this somewhat suspicious pairing. To be honest I was expecting the worst - a total annihilation of anything resembling 'taste' - the power of the whisky would surely be too much for the subtleties of fine cheese? - I was wrong. The whole thing was a complete revelation, the mixing of separate flavours and textures enhanced and altered into something new and entirely different. John and Jane had gone to unbelievable trouble in their preparation. We were presented with 13 whiskies and at least as many cheeses, plus chocolates to add a little more intrigue. We had sheets of tasting notes giving details of all the whiskies on offer plus space to write our own thoughts and notes as we ploughed through. Just looking through those notes, the most noticeable feature is the diminishing legibility as the night progressed.
Needless to say Saturday morning wasn't good. No need to go into detail - hangovers are boring and such a waste of time. By lunch I was feeling better, not enough to actually eat any lunch but definitely a few degrees north of dead. I decided to carry on with my plan - riding to see Mum, I vaguely remembered that I'd said I'd let Gaz know what time I'd be passing through Netherseal - I did - 3.30pm was the rough estimate and he replied to say 'great'. So off I went, slightly fuzzy, dizzy, borderline nauseous but just about well enough to stay upright. Strangely I felt better after a few miles. I sipped at my water bottle and pushed on the pedals with surprising ease. I met Gary and we rode to Barton under Needwood - he on his shiny new cycle-cross/winter bike, with disc brakes and wide, comfortable tyres. Thankfully he too had been feeling 'jaded' but nevertheless we motored along at a reasonable pace - we were trying to work out the last time we had cycled together - I thought it was probably riding to Paris, last summer - astonishing but quite possibly true!
Riding solo is fine - and it suits me in the main, but riding with someone else definitely makes things easier - can't figure out how or why that is? - but I've cycled to Barton the last few weekends - with Gary it seemed easier. Perhaps because we've covered so many miles together, suffered, experienced tremendous highs, and a few lows... I don't know, but it felt good that we were both out on familiar roads.
At my Mum's she stuffed me with pork-pie and bacon sandwiches and egg custard - riding home I thought I might vomit - it would have probably made things easier - I was tired, but not hungry when I reached home - and it was still light (just about).
My only option was to rely on a longish ride on Saturday - over to my mothers and back - a total of around 43 miles. I've been making this journey for the past three weeks - it is a chore on the older bike and I think I know why. I was checking the bike over and noticed the cranks feel stiff - they don't spin freely like they should - no wonder that pedalling seems such an effort - no idea what's wrong, perhaps something seized up in the bottom bracket an ingress of salt and crap maybe? - I'll have to strip it down and investigate further.
Friday night we were out with Gaz and Val as guests of John and Jane - a 'Whisky and Cheese tasting evening' - That's right - whisky and cheese, perhaps not a combination that would be the first to spring to mind. However sceptics should give it a try - and spend a few minutes checking it out on Google - this whisky and cheese thing is big in London, there are many trendy, high class establishments singing the praises of this somewhat suspicious pairing. To be honest I was expecting the worst - a total annihilation of anything resembling 'taste' - the power of the whisky would surely be too much for the subtleties of fine cheese? - I was wrong. The whole thing was a complete revelation, the mixing of separate flavours and textures enhanced and altered into something new and entirely different. John and Jane had gone to unbelievable trouble in their preparation. We were presented with 13 whiskies and at least as many cheeses, plus chocolates to add a little more intrigue. We had sheets of tasting notes giving details of all the whiskies on offer plus space to write our own thoughts and notes as we ploughed through. Just looking through those notes, the most noticeable feature is the diminishing legibility as the night progressed.
Needless to say Saturday morning wasn't good. No need to go into detail - hangovers are boring and such a waste of time. By lunch I was feeling better, not enough to actually eat any lunch but definitely a few degrees north of dead. I decided to carry on with my plan - riding to see Mum, I vaguely remembered that I'd said I'd let Gaz know what time I'd be passing through Netherseal - I did - 3.30pm was the rough estimate and he replied to say 'great'. So off I went, slightly fuzzy, dizzy, borderline nauseous but just about well enough to stay upright. Strangely I felt better after a few miles. I sipped at my water bottle and pushed on the pedals with surprising ease. I met Gary and we rode to Barton under Needwood - he on his shiny new cycle-cross/winter bike, with disc brakes and wide, comfortable tyres. Thankfully he too had been feeling 'jaded' but nevertheless we motored along at a reasonable pace - we were trying to work out the last time we had cycled together - I thought it was probably riding to Paris, last summer - astonishing but quite possibly true!
Riding solo is fine - and it suits me in the main, but riding with someone else definitely makes things easier - can't figure out how or why that is? - but I've cycled to Barton the last few weekends - with Gary it seemed easier. Perhaps because we've covered so many miles together, suffered, experienced tremendous highs, and a few lows... I don't know, but it felt good that we were both out on familiar roads.
At my Mum's she stuffed me with pork-pie and bacon sandwiches and egg custard - riding home I thought I might vomit - it would have probably made things easier - I was tired, but not hungry when I reached home - and it was still light (just about).
Sunday, 23 March 2014
Road surfaces are bad...
Another dry week, plus the added treat of prolonged periods of bright sunshine has really lifted spirits. There has been some stunning sunrises and sunsets over the past week - enough to make me stop and just look.
Unfortunately the weekend has taken a backward step into winter - I'm out again, riding 40+ miles. No chance of shorts this time, it's back to longies and layers. The wind is strong, finger freezing and creating a dancing effect everywhere of branch, flower and grass. Riding into the wind is tough, in fact it's a struggle; especially when combined with any slight uphill gradient. Along the lanes towards Shackerstone there is staggered row of oaks and chestnut trees to help break the wind but the absence of leaves limits their effectiveness. Through Shackie and on towards Snarestone there is some relief offered by the high hedges along the lane, it is infinitely easier for cycling, the wind barely troubles me for a mile or two.
Nothing in the way of other cyclists today - last weekend was like riding a stage race - a relentless stream of riders out in the fine weather. Today I've travelled almost 10 miles and haven't seen a soul. The roads are wet and shiny, I am passed by a vehicle along a single track lane, it kicks up a splatter of mud and grit, like a powdered, wet biscuit, for a few seconds my eyes sting from the grit. It occurs to me how poor the road surfaces are, perhaps the effects of prolonged rain. There are deep ruts, many potholes, gashes and slashes as though the surface has been attacked by some wild beast. Cycling makes me aware of road surfaces in a way that driving never can. I notice every camber, every repair, every change in surface treatment. There are places where the surface is in a shocking state - the tarmac breaking up into millions of separate segments the effect is like riding over cobbles in France, it rattles the bike and vibrates through my entire body. The natural reaction is to swerve inwards towards the centre of the road where the surface is smoother - this of course carries risks - I check the road behind, it's clear and I take the smoother option.
As I pass through Measham and towards Netherseal I pick up a head of speed, at least as much as possible on the old bike. Overall it's slow progress and the miles count down slowly. As I ride my mind drifts onto the pro cycling I've been watching on TV - in particular the Tirenno-Adriatico. Alberto Contador won it with some impressive displays - the race had been billed as an early clash between him and Chris Froome - but Froome pulled out before the race started with a back injury. I watched one stage with an incredibly testing climbing section - there was a section that saw the riders climbing gradients of 30% - watching it on TV was enthralling - they were struggling to stay upright, weaving and zigzagging all over the road - Contador was able to forge ahead but it was by no means easy - the commentator informed us that they were riding gears of 34/28 - that's the same ratio that I used going up Mont Ventoux - good to know that the pro's have to drop down to the gearing of mere mortals occasionally. But 30%!!! - mere mortals would definitely be walking.
The heavens opened and blasted me with a hail as I approached Congerstone on my return journey - so severe that the bullet like ice hitting my bell sounded like I was giving out a demented warning to someone up ahead - ding-ding-ding-ding-ding - in the end I decided shelter was the best bet and huddled into the bus shelter to let the storm pass. By now it was dark and my energy levels had depleted to such an extent that I was crawling along at around 8mph up the hill to Barton in the Beans - cold, hungry and in need of rest - thankfully home was just a few miles. When I got back I spent 15 minutes standing in the shower to warm myself - my fingers ached with the cold.
Another week and the clocks go forward - and with that the opportunity of a short ride in daylight after work - if it's warm enough I'll give it a go.
Meantime - I'm going to catch up with Sir Brad - making an appearance on the Archers! - Then get the tele set up for highlights of Milan-San Remo - the longest of cycling's fabled one day classics - 294 kilometres - should be entertaining!
Unfortunately the weekend has taken a backward step into winter - I'm out again, riding 40+ miles. No chance of shorts this time, it's back to longies and layers. The wind is strong, finger freezing and creating a dancing effect everywhere of branch, flower and grass. Riding into the wind is tough, in fact it's a struggle; especially when combined with any slight uphill gradient. Along the lanes towards Shackerstone there is staggered row of oaks and chestnut trees to help break the wind but the absence of leaves limits their effectiveness. Through Shackie and on towards Snarestone there is some relief offered by the high hedges along the lane, it is infinitely easier for cycling, the wind barely troubles me for a mile or two.
Nothing in the way of other cyclists today - last weekend was like riding a stage race - a relentless stream of riders out in the fine weather. Today I've travelled almost 10 miles and haven't seen a soul. The roads are wet and shiny, I am passed by a vehicle along a single track lane, it kicks up a splatter of mud and grit, like a powdered, wet biscuit, for a few seconds my eyes sting from the grit. It occurs to me how poor the road surfaces are, perhaps the effects of prolonged rain. There are deep ruts, many potholes, gashes and slashes as though the surface has been attacked by some wild beast. Cycling makes me aware of road surfaces in a way that driving never can. I notice every camber, every repair, every change in surface treatment. There are places where the surface is in a shocking state - the tarmac breaking up into millions of separate segments the effect is like riding over cobbles in France, it rattles the bike and vibrates through my entire body. The natural reaction is to swerve inwards towards the centre of the road where the surface is smoother - this of course carries risks - I check the road behind, it's clear and I take the smoother option.
As I pass through Measham and towards Netherseal I pick up a head of speed, at least as much as possible on the old bike. Overall it's slow progress and the miles count down slowly. As I ride my mind drifts onto the pro cycling I've been watching on TV - in particular the Tirenno-Adriatico. Alberto Contador won it with some impressive displays - the race had been billed as an early clash between him and Chris Froome - but Froome pulled out before the race started with a back injury. I watched one stage with an incredibly testing climbing section - there was a section that saw the riders climbing gradients of 30% - watching it on TV was enthralling - they were struggling to stay upright, weaving and zigzagging all over the road - Contador was able to forge ahead but it was by no means easy - the commentator informed us that they were riding gears of 34/28 - that's the same ratio that I used going up Mont Ventoux - good to know that the pro's have to drop down to the gearing of mere mortals occasionally. But 30%!!! - mere mortals would definitely be walking.
The heavens opened and blasted me with a hail as I approached Congerstone on my return journey - so severe that the bullet like ice hitting my bell sounded like I was giving out a demented warning to someone up ahead - ding-ding-ding-ding-ding - in the end I decided shelter was the best bet and huddled into the bus shelter to let the storm pass. By now it was dark and my energy levels had depleted to such an extent that I was crawling along at around 8mph up the hill to Barton in the Beans - cold, hungry and in need of rest - thankfully home was just a few miles. When I got back I spent 15 minutes standing in the shower to warm myself - my fingers ached with the cold.
Another week and the clocks go forward - and with that the opportunity of a short ride in daylight after work - if it's warm enough I'll give it a go.
Meantime - I'm going to catch up with Sir Brad - making an appearance on the Archers! - Then get the tele set up for highlights of Milan-San Remo - the longest of cycling's fabled one day classics - 294 kilometres - should be entertaining!
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
New bike out!...
Sunday morning was even brighter and warmer than Saturday. The sunlight is somehow unfamiliar, harsh but so, so welcome. After weeks in the swill of rain and mud a whole weekend of sunny weather and blue skies feels like a celebration.
It's shorts again - and I decide, on the spur of the moment, to pull out the new bike from underneath a pile of empty boxes and old sheets. I had planned to strip it down last autumn - never happened. I promised instead a definite spring clean; no time now - just pump up the tyres, wipe off the collected sawdust, a spray of lubricant and that'll do - I just want to get out.
The difference between this and my old machine is immediately apparent and I am smiling, almost laughing after only a few pedal strokes. My position on the bike feels so much better, it reacts instantly to any direct pressure on the pedals, it feels sleek and fast. The saddle is bloody hard though.
It being a Sunday there are even more cyclists out than yesterday - There is a steady line in front of me heading into the distance - I can count three, no four stretched out in a broken line. I quickly catch the first and overtake with ease - he may have been out for many miles but I don't care - I have been overtaken endlessly on my old bike - it's revenge!
I zoom along my usual short route - it's about 10.00 in the morning I don't want to be out too long after the 40+ miles of yesterday, and I've got other things planned for the day. But I admit to wishing I'd picked the new bike for yesterday's ride - it would have been easier and faster. There are yellowhammers in the trees as I pass through Congerstone - in the sunshine they are as bright as golden nuggets against the thicket of twigs - no proper singing though - no mention of 'a little-bit-of-bread-and-cheese' I wonder if birds have regional accents? - has anybody ever worked that out?
There's a ploughing match just outside Shackerstone - I see the signs and a village of tents and stop for a while to watch. There's a wide variety of machines in action; new shiny fandango models cutting easily and steadily across the land, and then there's the gunmetal grey contraption that looks like it was dragged from the corner of Steptoe's yard and sounds like Gary at the top of Mont Ventoux.
After 10 minutes or so I carry on, the sun warm and welcoming, tempts me to go further but I resist - this weekend signals the start of spring for me (if not summer) this high pressure may be just a blip, but it has offered hope and reminds me that fair weather and light is close. It feels good.
It's shorts again - and I decide, on the spur of the moment, to pull out the new bike from underneath a pile of empty boxes and old sheets. I had planned to strip it down last autumn - never happened. I promised instead a definite spring clean; no time now - just pump up the tyres, wipe off the collected sawdust, a spray of lubricant and that'll do - I just want to get out.
The difference between this and my old machine is immediately apparent and I am smiling, almost laughing after only a few pedal strokes. My position on the bike feels so much better, it reacts instantly to any direct pressure on the pedals, it feels sleek and fast. The saddle is bloody hard though.
It being a Sunday there are even more cyclists out than yesterday - There is a steady line in front of me heading into the distance - I can count three, no four stretched out in a broken line. I quickly catch the first and overtake with ease - he may have been out for many miles but I don't care - I have been overtaken endlessly on my old bike - it's revenge!
I zoom along my usual short route - it's about 10.00 in the morning I don't want to be out too long after the 40+ miles of yesterday, and I've got other things planned for the day. But I admit to wishing I'd picked the new bike for yesterday's ride - it would have been easier and faster. There are yellowhammers in the trees as I pass through Congerstone - in the sunshine they are as bright as golden nuggets against the thicket of twigs - no proper singing though - no mention of 'a little-bit-of-bread-and-cheese' I wonder if birds have regional accents? - has anybody ever worked that out?
There's a ploughing match just outside Shackerstone - I see the signs and a village of tents and stop for a while to watch. There's a wide variety of machines in action; new shiny fandango models cutting easily and steadily across the land, and then there's the gunmetal grey contraption that looks like it was dragged from the corner of Steptoe's yard and sounds like Gary at the top of Mont Ventoux.
After 10 minutes or so I carry on, the sun warm and welcoming, tempts me to go further but I resist - this weekend signals the start of spring for me (if not summer) this high pressure may be just a blip, but it has offered hope and reminds me that fair weather and light is close. It feels good.
Monday, 10 March 2014
On the road....
Wow! - suddenly it feels as though summer is here - spring?, well, spring seems to have been bypassed, we've jumped from the mildest winter for years straight into summer. After weeks of endless rain and high winds, ice-cream vans have made a comeback in these parts.
Okay - my observations may be a little premature, but this weekend I've been out both days... in my shorts. I've built up a sweat. I've felt the sun, strong and warm, I might even have started adding a little colour to my legs. And I wasn't the only one. It seems that cyclists, like insects and ice-cream vans, suddenly appear as soon as the temperature rises a few degrees. The roads here were teeming with mamils - I could barely pull out from my drive such was the continual procession of riders on Sunday. Yes - it's definitely looking good at the moment, and with the added attraction of the lengthening daylight it seems the season has finally started. The harbingers are apparent: hosts of daffodils in full bloom, people wandering around in tee shirts and shorts and have I mentioned ice-cream vans?
On Saturday I opted for a long ride - the longest by far this year. I set off at around 2.30pm, the sun shining and a clear, impossibly perfect, azure blue sky. Hikers, dog walkers, runners, birwatchers and many cyclists are all out in force. I opted for the old bike, for no other reason than it's early March - too early to dust off the new bike? My plan, to ride over to Barton under Needwood and visit my mother, hang around there for a couple of hours then cycle back in the dark, a distance of around 43 miles in total.
I set off a slow but steady pace, it would be a long arduous route with plenty of hills to overcome - no need for speed and excessive effort at this stage, take it easy, pace myself was the plan. The thing with the old bike is that although it is perfectly capable and suitable for pretty much any day-to-day cycling, it is definitely harder than the newer, lighter, carbon model. Average speed is at least a couple of mph slower, and my position is less comfortable generally. I tried to adjust the saddle height before departing - unfortunately the seat post seems to have combined with the frame in such a secure and final way that I couldn't shift it. The seat post is carbon, so too much force is ill advised - Google will provide a suitable answer but that's for another day.
As I made my way I noticed some builders working on a house not more than half a mile from my own home. Despite riding this same road since Christmas I've failed to notice how quickly the development has taken shape - it seems to be more or less finished, I never noticed it before? Further along the route I pass over the railway bridge as I drop into Congerstone - just as I approach the apex a steam train passes underneath me, the smoke and steam creating a fluffy cloud either side that quickly joins together creating an impenetrable cloud of vapour. The smell is wonderful though and I pass through in a second. There's quite a breeze as I make my through to Shackerstone and Snarestone and from there the long drag on the main road through to Measham. The wind requires extra effort, and combined with the steady uphill rise I quickly tire. A brief downhill freewheel allows me to regroup and then its a steady saunter to Netherseal, past my old house and through the village towards Grangewood. There's been a lot of tree planting I notice, possibly part of the National Forest scheme, either side of me is row after row of new saplings, all laid out in straight, even lines. It reminds me of a military graveyard, like the big ones in Normandy commemorating the fallen servicemen from D-Day. I try to imagine what it will look like ten, fifteen years from now, magnificent.
There is a diversion on the road down towards Coton, I ignore it and decide there's always a way through for a cyclist. I'm right, in fact I can't really see any reason why there needs to be a diversion at all - just some minor roadworks as far as I can tell. I pass a wedding taking place at the small village church in Coton - there is a solitary bell, ringing continuously, not the more traditional and infinitely more effective change ringing - perhaps there is only one bell? The guests are all gathered outside the church, taking photographs, throwing confetti, all smart suits and posh dresses - the powder blue sky and bright sunshine makes for a perfect wedding day.
It's not just people who are out making the most of a glorious day - I notice Jackdaws foraging in the horse pasture as I pass. And then as I ride along a sheltered stretch of road, warmed by the strong sun and sheltered from the breeze there is a cloud of gnats, midges, whatever - a rolling mass that I plough through and spit out the remnants.
I spend a couple of hours at Mum's, she provides an endless supply of tea and a welcome bacon sandwich - then it's time for the return journey. After a couple of miles and with dusk fast approaching I pause to switch on my lights before the climb up Walton Hill, this is always a tough one and today doesn't disappoint - in fact it feels steeper than ever. I make it to the top and roll gently for 20 yards to get my breath back. I notice then a marvellous spectacle; a huge flock of crows massing to my right, a graceful, flowing wave of jet black shadows, their wings slowly flapping and at the same time a cacophony of contact calls. The whole thing moves as one into the darkening blue sky, a glorious slow, black ballet of repeated shapes that sweeps into the trees on the horizon so that they become foliated by birds.
As I wind my way, wearily towards home in the darkness, my front light goes off. Just dead - no prior flickering, no warning - just pitch black. I press frantically at the buttons - no idea why - but nothing happens. I have to ride on - I have about 5 miles still to do. I consider that the roads are quiet, I can see any oncoming headlights from a mile away, and my back light is fine. It's tricky riding in the dark with no forward light - and no idea of what's in the road, contours, verges, nothing. The feeling is weird, there is the sensation of movement but no visual confirmation. I have a sudden brainwave - there is a flashlight feature on my iPhone - I can use that, hand held, it will be better than nothing. And that is how I made it home, holding the phone all the way, directing the light into the path of the few oncoming vehicles I encountered - it worked - I lived to tell the tale.
Okay - my observations may be a little premature, but this weekend I've been out both days... in my shorts. I've built up a sweat. I've felt the sun, strong and warm, I might even have started adding a little colour to my legs. And I wasn't the only one. It seems that cyclists, like insects and ice-cream vans, suddenly appear as soon as the temperature rises a few degrees. The roads here were teeming with mamils - I could barely pull out from my drive such was the continual procession of riders on Sunday. Yes - it's definitely looking good at the moment, and with the added attraction of the lengthening daylight it seems the season has finally started. The harbingers are apparent: hosts of daffodils in full bloom, people wandering around in tee shirts and shorts and have I mentioned ice-cream vans?
On Saturday I opted for a long ride - the longest by far this year. I set off at around 2.30pm, the sun shining and a clear, impossibly perfect, azure blue sky. Hikers, dog walkers, runners, birwatchers and many cyclists are all out in force. I opted for the old bike, for no other reason than it's early March - too early to dust off the new bike? My plan, to ride over to Barton under Needwood and visit my mother, hang around there for a couple of hours then cycle back in the dark, a distance of around 43 miles in total.
I set off a slow but steady pace, it would be a long arduous route with plenty of hills to overcome - no need for speed and excessive effort at this stage, take it easy, pace myself was the plan. The thing with the old bike is that although it is perfectly capable and suitable for pretty much any day-to-day cycling, it is definitely harder than the newer, lighter, carbon model. Average speed is at least a couple of mph slower, and my position is less comfortable generally. I tried to adjust the saddle height before departing - unfortunately the seat post seems to have combined with the frame in such a secure and final way that I couldn't shift it. The seat post is carbon, so too much force is ill advised - Google will provide a suitable answer but that's for another day.
As I made my way I noticed some builders working on a house not more than half a mile from my own home. Despite riding this same road since Christmas I've failed to notice how quickly the development has taken shape - it seems to be more or less finished, I never noticed it before? Further along the route I pass over the railway bridge as I drop into Congerstone - just as I approach the apex a steam train passes underneath me, the smoke and steam creating a fluffy cloud either side that quickly joins together creating an impenetrable cloud of vapour. The smell is wonderful though and I pass through in a second. There's quite a breeze as I make my through to Shackerstone and Snarestone and from there the long drag on the main road through to Measham. The wind requires extra effort, and combined with the steady uphill rise I quickly tire. A brief downhill freewheel allows me to regroup and then its a steady saunter to Netherseal, past my old house and through the village towards Grangewood. There's been a lot of tree planting I notice, possibly part of the National Forest scheme, either side of me is row after row of new saplings, all laid out in straight, even lines. It reminds me of a military graveyard, like the big ones in Normandy commemorating the fallen servicemen from D-Day. I try to imagine what it will look like ten, fifteen years from now, magnificent.
There is a diversion on the road down towards Coton, I ignore it and decide there's always a way through for a cyclist. I'm right, in fact I can't really see any reason why there needs to be a diversion at all - just some minor roadworks as far as I can tell. I pass a wedding taking place at the small village church in Coton - there is a solitary bell, ringing continuously, not the more traditional and infinitely more effective change ringing - perhaps there is only one bell? The guests are all gathered outside the church, taking photographs, throwing confetti, all smart suits and posh dresses - the powder blue sky and bright sunshine makes for a perfect wedding day.
It's not just people who are out making the most of a glorious day - I notice Jackdaws foraging in the horse pasture as I pass. And then as I ride along a sheltered stretch of road, warmed by the strong sun and sheltered from the breeze there is a cloud of gnats, midges, whatever - a rolling mass that I plough through and spit out the remnants.
I spend a couple of hours at Mum's, she provides an endless supply of tea and a welcome bacon sandwich - then it's time for the return journey. After a couple of miles and with dusk fast approaching I pause to switch on my lights before the climb up Walton Hill, this is always a tough one and today doesn't disappoint - in fact it feels steeper than ever. I make it to the top and roll gently for 20 yards to get my breath back. I notice then a marvellous spectacle; a huge flock of crows massing to my right, a graceful, flowing wave of jet black shadows, their wings slowly flapping and at the same time a cacophony of contact calls. The whole thing moves as one into the darkening blue sky, a glorious slow, black ballet of repeated shapes that sweeps into the trees on the horizon so that they become foliated by birds.
As I wind my way, wearily towards home in the darkness, my front light goes off. Just dead - no prior flickering, no warning - just pitch black. I press frantically at the buttons - no idea why - but nothing happens. I have to ride on - I have about 5 miles still to do. I consider that the roads are quiet, I can see any oncoming headlights from a mile away, and my back light is fine. It's tricky riding in the dark with no forward light - and no idea of what's in the road, contours, verges, nothing. The feeling is weird, there is the sensation of movement but no visual confirmation. I have a sudden brainwave - there is a flashlight feature on my iPhone - I can use that, hand held, it will be better than nothing. And that is how I made it home, holding the phone all the way, directing the light into the path of the few oncoming vehicles I encountered - it worked - I lived to tell the tale.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Monday, 24 February 2014
London calling.....
As the snowdrops cascade along the roadsides and the daffodils push relentlessly toward the light I wonder what happened to winter this year. We've had plenty of wind and rain but it hasn't been cold - not really. This time next week we'll be into March, already the mornings and evenings are getting lighter, it will soon be possible to get out after work. Today I wandered around the centre of Leicester in bright, warm sunshine - it's nice but probably not right.
Well, I've entered the Prudential 'Ride London' event. I've got until August to get fit and practise riding up hills - there are quite a few apparently. Leigh Hill and Box Hill being the most formidable. But looking at a few of the blogs with articles about last years event, it seems walking up the hills is acceptable - in fact, possibly, unavoidable - the sheer number of riders and, consequently, bodies means that it only takes a few people stopping and pushing to block the road for everyone else. I remember riding London to Brighton, around 1980 - it was impossible to ride up Ditching Bank - there just wasn't enough clear road. Anyway, the fees are paid, I am already in receipt of the first email trying to sell me a special 'commemorative' cycling jersey - of course I will have to get one.
I managed a couple of rides over the weekend - the same route on both days - totalling 36 miles or so, overtaken twice on Saturday and once yesterday - and every time by riders whom, I swear, were in their 70's. I take it on the chin though - there are some fit old gits out there - I wish I was one of them, but my programme hasn't started yet, nor will it for another month or so. I'm happy just to idle along right now - no need to push too hard or feel uncomfortable - its bad enough being out in the wind and rain. Plenty of time for torture later on.
Well, I've entered the Prudential 'Ride London' event. I've got until August to get fit and practise riding up hills - there are quite a few apparently. Leigh Hill and Box Hill being the most formidable. But looking at a few of the blogs with articles about last years event, it seems walking up the hills is acceptable - in fact, possibly, unavoidable - the sheer number of riders and, consequently, bodies means that it only takes a few people stopping and pushing to block the road for everyone else. I remember riding London to Brighton, around 1980 - it was impossible to ride up Ditching Bank - there just wasn't enough clear road. Anyway, the fees are paid, I am already in receipt of the first email trying to sell me a special 'commemorative' cycling jersey - of course I will have to get one.
I managed a couple of rides over the weekend - the same route on both days - totalling 36 miles or so, overtaken twice on Saturday and once yesterday - and every time by riders whom, I swear, were in their 70's. I take it on the chin though - there are some fit old gits out there - I wish I was one of them, but my programme hasn't started yet, nor will it for another month or so. I'm happy just to idle along right now - no need to push too hard or feel uncomfortable - its bad enough being out in the wind and rain. Plenty of time for torture later on.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Breezy.....
The Elizabethans took a dim view of the winter season. Understandably - it was nigh on impossible to stay warm. People would be sown into their clothes in autumn - and not emerge from them till spring. Only the great frost fairs, held on the solid frozen river Thames in London offered any respite from the unyielding greyness - crammed with stalls and attractions as far as the eye could see.
These days we are better insulated. Our homes are warmer and we can pile on cold-defying clothes. We can enjoy the mercurial landscape, the frosty tableaux, the rural hoar frost ..... the floods.
I ventured out on the bike recently for a 20 mile spin - it looked pleasant enough - a hint of sunshine even - but the wind... oh my lord - it was fierce. A roaring gale, powerful enough to fell trees and send water the wrong way - up stream. The sky was the colour of fresh liver as I headed out on my usual route - but with an additional loop to take in the climb up to Bosworth. The wind was unrelenting - vicious, strong and forceful. It was laughable how it was able to hold me back, despite all my efforts and pressure on the pedals I couldn't move forward. The effect, combined with the cold left my fingers and feet numb.
As I struggled, laboured, up into Newton Burgoland I heard a dull crash - I thought it might be a car crash or a tree falling - as I approached the junction to Swepstone I could see what it was - the fingerpost had been blown over, the earth at the base black, rich and fresh. It sat, wedged on the grassy bank - I paused to take a photo before soldiering on.
Talking of soldiering I am sure you won't need reminding that we are in the centenary year of the start of the first World War. My Grandfather was part of it - seems unbelievable but he was. He fought at Vimy Ridge and was shot through the face, the bullet passed straight through from one side to the other. He survived though and lived to ripe old age. I am prepared for the inevitable glut of documentaries to mark the event - I wonder if any of them will provide a fitting memorial for this centenary of the 'Great' war that, almost uniquely, resulted in nothing positive whatsoever. There was no silver lining in 1918, no lesson or benefit. Certainly nothing that mitigated its appalling cost in human life.
As I struggle back up the final hill towards home I think about those men in the trenches, on the front line, the mud, the stench, the death. My generation has had it easy really. Suddenly the ride seems different. I might be struggling, hurting, tired - but it could be worse.
These days we are better insulated. Our homes are warmer and we can pile on cold-defying clothes. We can enjoy the mercurial landscape, the frosty tableaux, the rural hoar frost ..... the floods.
I ventured out on the bike recently for a 20 mile spin - it looked pleasant enough - a hint of sunshine even - but the wind... oh my lord - it was fierce. A roaring gale, powerful enough to fell trees and send water the wrong way - up stream. The sky was the colour of fresh liver as I headed out on my usual route - but with an additional loop to take in the climb up to Bosworth. The wind was unrelenting - vicious, strong and forceful. It was laughable how it was able to hold me back, despite all my efforts and pressure on the pedals I couldn't move forward. The effect, combined with the cold left my fingers and feet numb.
As I struggled, laboured, up into Newton Burgoland I heard a dull crash - I thought it might be a car crash or a tree falling - as I approached the junction to Swepstone I could see what it was - the fingerpost had been blown over, the earth at the base black, rich and fresh. It sat, wedged on the grassy bank - I paused to take a photo before soldiering on.
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| The fallen sign |
As I struggle back up the final hill towards home I think about those men in the trenches, on the front line, the mud, the stench, the death. My generation has had it easy really. Suddenly the ride seems different. I might be struggling, hurting, tired - but it could be worse.
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Challenges....
Last post I made a sneaky reference to upcoming challenges for 2014. I deliberately held back on details whilst we were awaiting confirmation. We had a mad idea in the pub one Friday night - why not invade France? - Row across the English Channel flying the Jolly Roger and when across plant a flag in French soil. It sounded so mad it could be ideal - we found a company who would supply a suitable boat, and accompany us across in their own support boat in case we got into trouble. We needed a crew of six rowers plus a cox - no problem there. And the cost - a mere £250 or so. This was a goer - the ideal challenge - not for this year but 2015.
Sadly our plans have been sunk before any oar sliced through the waves - apparently the French authorities have banned all such endeavours - and would use all powers available to enforce their rights. We're hoping the situation may change over the next year - which means 2015 is still a possibility - apparently more people have climbed Mount Everest than have rowed the Channel - It would be a great thing to attempt - and I can't swim!
Our cycling challenges for the year are shaping up. the big trip will be a cycle ride to Amsterdam in June. 300 miles or so - a doddle really. Then I had the news that I've been accepted onto the second Prudential London Ride in August - the first one last year attracted some publicity - the London Marathon of cycling - roads closed in London and riding over the Olympic course, there will be something like 30,000 cyclists - possibly more. Having been accepted I need to carefully read through the small print - everything sounds very strict - I'll keep you updated. Unfortunately Gary didn't get in which is a shame - I considered turning down my invitation because of that - however I think i should have a go at it - its another 100 miler and with a few steep climbs - and it has to be completed within strict time limits - but should be achievable.
Then there's the Dunwich Dynamo - 100+ miles through the night from central London to Dunwich on the Suffolk coast - we've been talking about this for a few years now - but never got round to it - this year we'll give it a go.
I managed a 20 mile ride last weekend in almost unbearable conditions. I arrived home totally demoralised - 20 miles felt like 300 - I battled through winds which literally stopped me dead - I was travelling at less that 5mph in some places - and the effort needed to make that happen left me totally drained. I really feel like not bothering until the weather improves - but then the weekend rolls around and I can't resist it!
Sadly our plans have been sunk before any oar sliced through the waves - apparently the French authorities have banned all such endeavours - and would use all powers available to enforce their rights. We're hoping the situation may change over the next year - which means 2015 is still a possibility - apparently more people have climbed Mount Everest than have rowed the Channel - It would be a great thing to attempt - and I can't swim!
Our cycling challenges for the year are shaping up. the big trip will be a cycle ride to Amsterdam in June. 300 miles or so - a doddle really. Then I had the news that I've been accepted onto the second Prudential London Ride in August - the first one last year attracted some publicity - the London Marathon of cycling - roads closed in London and riding over the Olympic course, there will be something like 30,000 cyclists - possibly more. Having been accepted I need to carefully read through the small print - everything sounds very strict - I'll keep you updated. Unfortunately Gary didn't get in which is a shame - I considered turning down my invitation because of that - however I think i should have a go at it - its another 100 miler and with a few steep climbs - and it has to be completed within strict time limits - but should be achievable.
Then there's the Dunwich Dynamo - 100+ miles through the night from central London to Dunwich on the Suffolk coast - we've been talking about this for a few years now - but never got round to it - this year we'll give it a go.
I managed a 20 mile ride last weekend in almost unbearable conditions. I arrived home totally demoralised - 20 miles felt like 300 - I battled through winds which literally stopped me dead - I was travelling at less that 5mph in some places - and the effort needed to make that happen left me totally drained. I really feel like not bothering until the weather improves - but then the weekend rolls around and I can't resist it!
Monday, 3 February 2014
February already?......
January flew by in a flash - only seems like 5 minutes ago since Christmas and now the mornings are getting noticeably lighter - another few weeks and I'll be travelling to work in daylight (maybe).
Very little in the way of riding to report - I was working on Saturday but managed a short ride yesterday - my bike computer has failed again - looks like I'm going to need a new one. Not that I needed it yesterday, I know the course and distance well enough, although sometimes it's good to know the speed.
On Saturday night we went out to celebrate Gary's birthday - a trip to The Black Horse at Appleby Magna (thanks Gaz) - haven't been there for years but Gary enjoyed a good Christmas dinner there. We enjoyed good food, cooked with flair and well presented. As usual we got through plenty of drink. Gary has purchased a rowing machine - which is a strange coincidence, because I too have been investigating a similar possibility. He takes delivery later this week so I look forward to a post on this blog giving a full report.
My eldest daughter is currently studying for a Masters degree at Birmingham University - and on Friday she sent me the news that she is now a published writer. She wrote a piece on Sherlock Holmes that has been printed in America - here's the link for anyone interested!
http://wessexpress.com/html/fixedpoint.html
Not only that, she has also secured an internship at the BBC working on the 'Doctors' series. She's excited about that too.
There are a couple of crazy ideas that were suggested during the night out celebrating Gary's birthday. New challenges! - I'm not sure if they'll develop but suffice to say they are mad enough to be considered. Further information to follow!!
Very little in the way of riding to report - I was working on Saturday but managed a short ride yesterday - my bike computer has failed again - looks like I'm going to need a new one. Not that I needed it yesterday, I know the course and distance well enough, although sometimes it's good to know the speed.
On Saturday night we went out to celebrate Gary's birthday - a trip to The Black Horse at Appleby Magna (thanks Gaz) - haven't been there for years but Gary enjoyed a good Christmas dinner there. We enjoyed good food, cooked with flair and well presented. As usual we got through plenty of drink. Gary has purchased a rowing machine - which is a strange coincidence, because I too have been investigating a similar possibility. He takes delivery later this week so I look forward to a post on this blog giving a full report.
My eldest daughter is currently studying for a Masters degree at Birmingham University - and on Friday she sent me the news that she is now a published writer. She wrote a piece on Sherlock Holmes that has been printed in America - here's the link for anyone interested!
http://wessexpress.com/html/fixedpoint.html
Not only that, she has also secured an internship at the BBC working on the 'Doctors' series. She's excited about that too.
There are a couple of crazy ideas that were suggested during the night out celebrating Gary's birthday. New challenges! - I'm not sure if they'll develop but suffice to say they are mad enough to be considered. Further information to follow!!
Monday, 27 January 2014
Bicycle Art.....
Check these out.....
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| 65ft bicycle sculpture |
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| bicycle celebration |
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| bike table |
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| bike cart |
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| bicycle fence |
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| bicycle gate |
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| bike accident |
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| bicycle wheel dome |
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| bicycle furniture |
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| 30ft high archway |
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| bicycle gear sphere |
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| bicycle sculpture |
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| bike shop germany |
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
Deadlines....
I've been busy. A sudden demand for my services has seen me working all hours - evenings and weekends to meet a host of deadlines - this blip has left me struggling to find time to ride. And last weekend was the annual Mercia cycling club reliability trial - probably more apt to call it the torture trial - because unless you've found time to prepare, to train, to get some miles into your legs - it is a just that. Anyway, I haven't done the required preparation, plus my work schedule meant I had an unavoidable alibi to cry off. Gary was all geared up to enter, but then he too cancelled, albeit with a proper excuse, his knee has been causing him some grief - best not to aggravate the situation with the haul up Jackson's Bank.
However I did manage a shortish ride on Sunday - my work got to the point where I needed to create a large document for electronic despatch - the processing involved meant I could either sit there watching the little circle spin round - or walk away; or better yet, ride away!
I set off at a reasonable pace. The day had warmed slightly from a frosty start and I made my way along quiet roads towards Market Bosworth. Winter's shutdown is everywhere evident. The verges cloaked in the rich brown hues of fallen leaves, their tones painted by rain's water-colouring artistry and breeze's drying touch. In places there are small branches wind-ripped from trunks and pavements are peppered with muddied acorns, unattractive to the eye but a veritable larder for many creatures in harsher days that may lie ahead. All around, the dark grey bark of wet twigs is enlivened by the subtle grey-greens of the different lichens they have brought down with them. A sphere the size of a tennis ball a little way into the trees catches my eye. It's an interweaving of very soft, fine filaments that lead up to small cups that are fringed with eyelashes, the whole appearing like a colony of linked space satellites surrounded by a web of protective sensors. What is it? - some sort of nest perhaps? or possibly a funghi of some description?
The small wood is saturated. Ditches gurgle with the sound of running water and only the reckless will venture anywhere near the mires and wetlands. In the hedgerows, long yellow catkins sway as they are brushed by the turbulence of passing traffic. Both fungi and catkins make a bold statement. Others may have shut down for the duration. For us, it's business as usual.
Suddenly there're lots of people around - I pass a large group of ramblers - at least thirty I would guess, all togged up against the elements and making a long procession along the pathless road. There are cyclists too - a small group of six or so pass, heading in the opposite direction, everyone, like me, is wrapped up warm.
As I come back round through Bosworth there's a group of cyclists tucking into food, a kind of picnic situation but more extravagant than you might expect of a group of Sunday riders. They have a vast array on display, sandwiches, samosas, scotch eggs, chicken - It's all laid out on a tablecloth, very civilised. There's been some interesting reports about nutrition in the papers recently. It seems that most of the stuff we have been told, you know, the 'good food, bad food' so called, facts, are wrong. The latest science tells us that beer is great for sports recovery. Vitamin supplements are a waste of time. Eggs are good for us. Orange juice is no better than coca cola. And the list goes on. I'm reading a book by Sean Yates - he would pride himself on riding all day without food or water - at least he didn't need to worry about eating the wrong things. I maintain a healthy diet of micro-brewed beers, salt and vinegar crisps and the occasional chicken madras - once in a while I'll have a go at some vegetables, which makes me feel righteous and of course I ride my bike - and that's about it. I figure if I am suffering from any deficiencies I will know because my gums will bleed and my teeth will fall out, or my legs will bow and snap. After all, Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison not balancing his diet with extra vitamins and he lasted until the age of 95. Then there are all those 112 year olds in Southern France who live on nothing but red wine and cheese.
I get home and straight back to work - not even bothering to change - imagine me at the computer dressed in lycra - there's not a minute to lose, deadlines you understand.
However I did manage a shortish ride on Sunday - my work got to the point where I needed to create a large document for electronic despatch - the processing involved meant I could either sit there watching the little circle spin round - or walk away; or better yet, ride away!
I set off at a reasonable pace. The day had warmed slightly from a frosty start and I made my way along quiet roads towards Market Bosworth. Winter's shutdown is everywhere evident. The verges cloaked in the rich brown hues of fallen leaves, their tones painted by rain's water-colouring artistry and breeze's drying touch. In places there are small branches wind-ripped from trunks and pavements are peppered with muddied acorns, unattractive to the eye but a veritable larder for many creatures in harsher days that may lie ahead. All around, the dark grey bark of wet twigs is enlivened by the subtle grey-greens of the different lichens they have brought down with them. A sphere the size of a tennis ball a little way into the trees catches my eye. It's an interweaving of very soft, fine filaments that lead up to small cups that are fringed with eyelashes, the whole appearing like a colony of linked space satellites surrounded by a web of protective sensors. What is it? - some sort of nest perhaps? or possibly a funghi of some description?
The small wood is saturated. Ditches gurgle with the sound of running water and only the reckless will venture anywhere near the mires and wetlands. In the hedgerows, long yellow catkins sway as they are brushed by the turbulence of passing traffic. Both fungi and catkins make a bold statement. Others may have shut down for the duration. For us, it's business as usual.
Suddenly there're lots of people around - I pass a large group of ramblers - at least thirty I would guess, all togged up against the elements and making a long procession along the pathless road. There are cyclists too - a small group of six or so pass, heading in the opposite direction, everyone, like me, is wrapped up warm.
As I come back round through Bosworth there's a group of cyclists tucking into food, a kind of picnic situation but more extravagant than you might expect of a group of Sunday riders. They have a vast array on display, sandwiches, samosas, scotch eggs, chicken - It's all laid out on a tablecloth, very civilised. There's been some interesting reports about nutrition in the papers recently. It seems that most of the stuff we have been told, you know, the 'good food, bad food' so called, facts, are wrong. The latest science tells us that beer is great for sports recovery. Vitamin supplements are a waste of time. Eggs are good for us. Orange juice is no better than coca cola. And the list goes on. I'm reading a book by Sean Yates - he would pride himself on riding all day without food or water - at least he didn't need to worry about eating the wrong things. I maintain a healthy diet of micro-brewed beers, salt and vinegar crisps and the occasional chicken madras - once in a while I'll have a go at some vegetables, which makes me feel righteous and of course I ride my bike - and that's about it. I figure if I am suffering from any deficiencies I will know because my gums will bleed and my teeth will fall out, or my legs will bow and snap. After all, Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison not balancing his diet with extra vitamins and he lasted until the age of 95. Then there are all those 112 year olds in Southern France who live on nothing but red wine and cheese.
I get home and straight back to work - not even bothering to change - imagine me at the computer dressed in lycra - there's not a minute to lose, deadlines you understand.
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Rouleur.....
On Saturday the day opened like an advent calendar window, a light sprinkle of frost, bright blue sky and a Robin, bright as a berry, red as a sunset and full of fire and fight.
I decided it was too cold for an early ride - and settled into a work project for the morning. By 2.00pm I was ready, the frost had long disappeared and the sun shone strong, enticing me from my hobbit-hole of a studio.
I quickly changed and set off, once moving the cold sliced into me but I knew I'd get warmer as the effort increased. There's a magnificent luminance to the landscape today, the clarity is enhanced by the strong sunlight and every tree looks stunning, shining with a brightness as fierce as the Robin's - it is super enhanced 3D, almost unreal.
On my way I pause next to a broken section of fence to gaze across the landscape. It's a soggy field of mossy turf with patches of longer sallow scrub. I can here a woodpecker attacking one of the trees in the distance and there's a constant procession of small birds flickering in and out of the hedge. Nearby is all that remains of a pheasant, just the brown, barred wings and a gory stump that was once its body. There are hoof prints where the ground is softest and I wonder if any beasts have escaped through the hole in the fence.
When I get back my new magazine has arrived - I subscribed to 'Rouleur' before Christmas - it's long been on my list and I marvel at its production qualities. This is a magazine rarely seen in the shops, it has been created to celebrate the drama and beauty of road racing. It focuses on exquisite photography and writing that attempts to get under the skin of the great riders and theatre of road racing.
Here's a few photo's so that you might get the idea
I decided it was too cold for an early ride - and settled into a work project for the morning. By 2.00pm I was ready, the frost had long disappeared and the sun shone strong, enticing me from my hobbit-hole of a studio.
I quickly changed and set off, once moving the cold sliced into me but I knew I'd get warmer as the effort increased. There's a magnificent luminance to the landscape today, the clarity is enhanced by the strong sunlight and every tree looks stunning, shining with a brightness as fierce as the Robin's - it is super enhanced 3D, almost unreal.
On my way I pause next to a broken section of fence to gaze across the landscape. It's a soggy field of mossy turf with patches of longer sallow scrub. I can here a woodpecker attacking one of the trees in the distance and there's a constant procession of small birds flickering in and out of the hedge. Nearby is all that remains of a pheasant, just the brown, barred wings and a gory stump that was once its body. There are hoof prints where the ground is softest and I wonder if any beasts have escaped through the hole in the fence.
When I get back my new magazine has arrived - I subscribed to 'Rouleur' before Christmas - it's long been on my list and I marvel at its production qualities. This is a magazine rarely seen in the shops, it has been created to celebrate the drama and beauty of road racing. It focuses on exquisite photography and writing that attempts to get under the skin of the great riders and theatre of road racing.
Here's a few photo's so that you might get the idea
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Sunday.....
So here we are in the first week of a new year. Here, in the Midlands of England, we have escaped most of the devastating storms that have decimated some areas. We've experienced some rain and wind but generally we've had it easy. It's mild considering the time of year and for that at least I expect we should be thankful.
Last weekend was spent with my youngest daughter who celebrated her 16th birthday - it went well. She wanted a bookcase for her bedroom and a watch - and money of course. And in the evening both daughters came over for a night of movies and food. Crispy Aromatic Duck, Chicken Satay, Mashed potato with bacon bits and peas and Southern fried chicken popcorn. And for desert Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Not exactly fine dining - but that's kids for you.
My Sunday ride out was a toughie - it was cold and windy but I needed to make the effort. The light was bright, a kind of spring half-light, not shadow and not sun, a soft and rather treacherous glimmering from behind threatening cloud. As I made my round my usual 15 mile route I was thankful I'd picked my number 4 gloves. These have the benefit of a double lining; a glove within a glove and the extra insulation was most welcome. There was a continuous dancing of branches as I idled my way round the course, with nothing of benefit in the way of windbreaks as I laboured slowly up to Newton Burgoland and round to Shackerstone, on the verges the thin, speary tussocks of grass flattened by the wind and rain into a kind of brownish mattress. The land is bare and empty and I am surprised by the lack of signs of life. There is no one around - no cyclists, no walkers, barely any road traffic. It is as if everyone else has decided to stay indoors, feet up, in front of the fire.
The return loop is marginally easier, the wind is behind me for a stretch and I enjoy the respite. It is quiet now, the constant whistle and moan of the wind is gone and everything feels good. With wind aid I blast through to Congerstone before turning up the long drag to Barton in the Beans. There is a canal bridge at the bottom of the rise which as a short incline of what feels like 25% - it never gets easier no matter how fit I am or how good I feel. Today it feels steeper than ever and at the apex I'm struggling to turn the cranks. I take it steadily up the rise - it's around three miles to home with most of it uphill.
The last two hundred yards are the best - the prospect of a warm log burner, a cup of tea and hot buttered toast is enough to stimulate a last burst burst of energy.
Last weekend was spent with my youngest daughter who celebrated her 16th birthday - it went well. She wanted a bookcase for her bedroom and a watch - and money of course. And in the evening both daughters came over for a night of movies and food. Crispy Aromatic Duck, Chicken Satay, Mashed potato with bacon bits and peas and Southern fried chicken popcorn. And for desert Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Not exactly fine dining - but that's kids for you.
My Sunday ride out was a toughie - it was cold and windy but I needed to make the effort. The light was bright, a kind of spring half-light, not shadow and not sun, a soft and rather treacherous glimmering from behind threatening cloud. As I made my round my usual 15 mile route I was thankful I'd picked my number 4 gloves. These have the benefit of a double lining; a glove within a glove and the extra insulation was most welcome. There was a continuous dancing of branches as I idled my way round the course, with nothing of benefit in the way of windbreaks as I laboured slowly up to Newton Burgoland and round to Shackerstone, on the verges the thin, speary tussocks of grass flattened by the wind and rain into a kind of brownish mattress. The land is bare and empty and I am surprised by the lack of signs of life. There is no one around - no cyclists, no walkers, barely any road traffic. It is as if everyone else has decided to stay indoors, feet up, in front of the fire.
The return loop is marginally easier, the wind is behind me for a stretch and I enjoy the respite. It is quiet now, the constant whistle and moan of the wind is gone and everything feels good. With wind aid I blast through to Congerstone before turning up the long drag to Barton in the Beans. There is a canal bridge at the bottom of the rise which as a short incline of what feels like 25% - it never gets easier no matter how fit I am or how good I feel. Today it feels steeper than ever and at the apex I'm struggling to turn the cranks. I take it steadily up the rise - it's around three miles to home with most of it uphill.
The last two hundred yards are the best - the prospect of a warm log burner, a cup of tea and hot buttered toast is enough to stimulate a last burst burst of energy.
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