Tomorrow is the end of 2012. The last day of the year and the eve of new year’s resolutions. Many people scratch their heads thinking of new things that they can resolve to do. For most of us mere mortals the resolutions usually involve eating less, exercising more, increasing the personal congeniality rating or becoming a little more productive. In an idle moment I wondered what the Queen resolves to achieve coming into a brand new year? Does she come up with normal things, such as walking the corgis more often, laying off the pink gin a bit or delivering harder backhanders to Prince Philip every time he farts during Hollyoaks. Or maybe they’re a bit more fitting of her position, coercing David Cameron to invade China, declaring herself head of the Jewish religion or removing the phrase “people’s princess” from the Oxford English dictionary.

But whatever they are, I bet the Queen is making some. As are the vast majority of her subjects. The cyclists will be staring at their post Christmas wobbly bits and resolving to spend January on the bike. Resolutions such as these will be made from a warm living room as they watch their Bradley Wiggins 2012 DVD from the comfort of the sofa. They’ll clearly forget that in the UK cycling in January is simply not feasible. slithering around all over the place on knackered roads, dodging snow, ice, water, potholes, slurry and hungover motorists is just about possible. But proper cycling is out of the question.

Some will retreat to the turbo trainer but let’s face it, the turbo trainer is basically damage limitation. Anyone who can suffer more than an hour of going nowhere whilst listening to the sound of a slightly fucked up Magimix deserves mention in the new year’s honours list. It’s basically riding on the flat with your brakes rubbing. My turbo trainer simply serves its purpose of reducing the volume of air that I have to heat in the house. One year I tried a different approach and signed up for spinning classes. This was essentially the same as turbo training but with the added novelty of being shouted at over techno music whilst smelling the farts of the bloke on the bike next to you.

As you can see, I hold a deep cynicism for new year’s resolutions. I’ve made plenty in my time and broken every single one of them. Since the age of 14 there’s not been a year in my life without a cigarette, yet I gave up nearly twenty years ago. Alcohol has featured in a consistent monthly volume and I still look like Lofty from Eastenders despite pull-up bars and various press up regimes. My cycling performance has been consistently “the same” since about 2002 despite numerous years where I’ve resolved to race or time trial or get stronger/faster/better.

Maybe I should work harder to stick to these resolutions. I could conjure up a new one along the lines of resolving to work harder on my resolutions. But then I’d need one to resolve to work harder on resolving to work harder on my resolutions and enter an infinite loop. So this year I’ve prepared a new proposal that I am going to take to the new year’s resolution committee. It’s based upon a full analysis of my personal performance in all areas throughout 2012. I have outlined strengths, weakness, opportunities for improvement and threats to new target achievement. A myriad of key performance indicators have been assessed along with a set of monitoring protocols to back them up. All of the evidence gathered and personal analysis carried out has led to a simple resolution that I stand a chance of ticking the box for in 2013.

I’ve decided that next year I’m going to be a little bit less shit at everything that I do.

Now there’s a lot to live up to in that previous sentence as my catalogue of shitness in 2012 is thicker than a teenager’s well thumbed Littlewoods catalogue underwear section. This may seem harsh however, looking back over 2012 things have not quite gone to plan.

The early part of the year started well and I actually managed to publish a book. Unfortunately, a little bit of shitness crept into it, or maybe that should be rephrased as “shit loads of typos and a mound of poor grammar to add some extra spice”. I resolved to sort all of these out and republish it ready for Christmas. Neither of these were achieved. Therefore I’m still actively selling something that is everso slightly shonky, which reminds me of the seven years I spent running my previous business.

Speaking of businesses, I was meant to be creating one of those as well. Helen reminds me of this fact daily by shaking an empty piggy bank next to my ear and pointing to the savings account statement. Andy and I created a grand proposition, business plan and investor pitch in a huge surge of momentum. Then quietly binned it to do something else much more sensible. This will definitely turn out to be the right decision. It’s just a bit shit that we happened to launch it in the middle of office party season. I can’t tell whether or not we are on the right track as most of the feedback we’re getting is typed with one finger and a hangover.

Cycling has not escaped the shitness. In fact it has been the main symptom. I’ve not really done anything at all this year apart from pedal round the same old loops and nick some Strava KOM’s from pensioners. Every single bike in the fleet is battle damaged and there’s one that’s not even built. This is surely a cycling crime? To prioritise “other stuff” above and beyond the construction of a new stead. I’ve not really explored anything, I’ve gone about the same speed as I always do. The only real achievement has been to end the year under ten stone in weight.

Then there’s the book I was actually meant to publish. The book I spent a whole year researching, or dallying around the UK on my bike as my friends like to call it. When asked in November last year I confidently replied that it would be out before the Olympics. This then became Christmas 2012 and now it’s looking like March 2013. Fortunately Vertebrate are driving the whole project forwards but it is taking longer than expected, mainly down to my shitness and the amount of stuff that needs checking. To offer myself some form of personal consolation it’s worth stating that the weather chucked in its own little bit of shitness and stymied my plans for taking photographs.

So the year hasn’t exactly gone to plan, but let’s be frank these are the sort of problems that many would like to have. The less shit 2013 has a lot going for it. My first proper book will be released, properly proofread and properly laid out. The only downside being that the odd photo of me has slipped into it (thankfully not the cover).

Then there’s the new business, I’ve got a whole host of meetings to go to and a whole lot of funky new technology to show people. We’re being much more less shit on direction and strategy which should hopefully result in a much more less shit bank account balance.

Finally, we have the less shit cycling. I’ve entered the Fausto Coppi again after too many years away. So I’ll have to be less shit at cycling in 2013 by quite a lot, otherwise I will expire upon the steep slopes of the Fauniera. My bike is destined to become a lot less shit as well. In a moment of utter madness during October I bought a second hand Campagnolo Record groupset. It has sat in it’s box for months but in 2013 it shall emerge and make my decent bike just a little less shit than it is currently.

So there you have it, my simple New Year’s resolution. I have been a bit shit in publishing this post as we’re already a few days into 2013. But that’s a little less shit than not writing one at all. 

Dave

3rd January 2013 

Left, right, Photoshop

One week on and the writer’s block has clearly disappeared, as a result the parents have reinstalled the swear filter on the broadband connection and my wife is busy updating her “why did you marry Dave” FAQ. The intensity of work vs book writing continues, however some bugger is shining a bloody great torch down the tunnel entrance. It’s very nearly written. I’ve submitted thirty of forty chapters to my publisher and this laptop contains the final ten, four of which need a few tweaks, six of which are just about finished. I’m days away from completing this project with an overrun of approximately eleven months. Now, to the casual observer this may seem to be a little late.

However, I come from the IT industry and a 100% overrun on estimate is what us hackers refer to as “just in time”. In my defence I can point at projects with much higher levels of funding that have lateness quotients similar to evolution. Take the NHS patient record system for example. This has received billions of pounds to date all of which have gone towards the funding of an argument as to who’s fault it is that the project is late. My defence is simpler in that I just don’t have one. One year to write and publish a UK route guide was riding a wave of optimism that even the gnarliest of surfers would have run from. Two years is pushing it. The next book will clearly require that I retire.

The publisher is now patiently wending their way through the mass of stuff I’ve emailed their way. I’m receiving a weekly list of questions concerning the text most of which can be answered with “Yes, you are right”. To give some background, something clearly happened to me in my youth which destroyed my natural sense of direction. I am completely and utterly left/right dyslexic. This is why I don’t lead group rides any more. Even with a GPS attached to the bars we end up swerving all over the road as I shout, “left, no right!, no left actually”. These days I’ve given up giving directions unless I can point and shout “that way”. This dyslexia translates into other languages and nomenclatures as well. I am not properly sure which is port/starboard, lings/rechts, droit/gauche.

In compiling route directions for the book I’ve made loads of left/right mistakes. Tom patiently emails me for clarification as he checks the routes himself. He needn’t bother, the answer is always that I’ve got it wrong, even from the luxury of my shed sat in front of a map with plenty of time to make the right decision I cock it up. As I complete the final set of routes I’ve become really conscious of this and end up miming the directions whilst attempting to orientate my body with the map. From the house it looks like I’m pretending to fly planes, the family don’t bat an eyelid at this madness, round our way it has become the norm.

This wouldn’t be Dave without a few other mishaps to pepper the way and I’ve made a corker with a few of the photos. As stated elsewhere I’m having to take a lot of self portraits. Sadly the country is not awash with handsome, lithe roadies with no jobs and a willingness to be photographed countrywide at short notice riding small lengths of tarmac. The only one I know of is me, as long as we can agree that “quirky” is a reasonable substitute for “handsome”, “skinny” will do for “lithe” and “unpaid” replaces “no job”. Therefore I have to use my tried and tested technique of camera on tripod and remote release to get my pictures.

A few weeks previously a weather window opened delivering some rare winter sun to the UK. I was able to knock off the remaining Welsh pictures required for the book. One set needed a trip to the Irfon valley, on arrival I noted that conditions were not just good, they were utterly perfect. There was a complete absence of traffic, the sun was low and casting moody shadows down the shallow valley, the autumnal colours lit the scene with contrast and I’d remembered to bring everything. The only problem was the direction of the sun. It blasted down the valley throwing out long shadows from everything that got in its way. I needed a shot of me riding up the valley as it told the story of the road which followed the Irfon’s dash down through the Welsh geology. I set up the tripod attached lens and squinted down the viewfinder. The picture was framed perfectly so I grasped the remote and rode up and down over twenty times. Every fifth shot I varied aperture and/or exposure in order to practise a crude form of bracketing. For the non-technical camera users out there (including me) this means “take loads of pictures using loads of settings and hopefully one of them will be OK”.

Things were going swimmingly. No cars to interrupt my shoot and all of the local sheep were giving me a wide berth. Looking at the small preview on my camera LCD showed some lovely shots and I packed up anticipating a job well done. Like an excited child I scooted home and plugged the SD card into my computer. It took an age for the images to upload, finally the screen pinged into a maelstrom of vivid Welsh colour. These were some of the best pictures I had ever taken apart from the tripod.

Oh shit, oh fuckington bollocksy shite. The tripod had thrown some beautifully long shadows of their own which had bled wonderfully into the frame. There’s me looking almost normal in the saddle, wearing co-ordinated kit and riding in one of the most perfect places in the UK accompanied by tripod. I visualised this as a centre spread in the book. The reader opens and is momentarily awestruck before the giggles begin. What’s that funny three legged intruder? Has Dave stumbled into a Welsh version of the War of the Worlds, please save us from Jeff Wayne!

I’ve given up face palming. My forehead is far too worn. Instead I used the power of the internet in a plea for help. King Richard was offering a lot of land for a nag. I had some beer and need of photoshop. He vainly asked the surrounding air for a horse, I tweeted “Can anyone out there fix this?”. Many of the replies contained the words “no” and “twat”. One wag simply cropped the scene to include only me, therefore reducing its impact by about 95%. Fortunately my publisher stepped into the rescue, but not before Dan emailed me this brilliant effort where the tripod is all but gone. I should have widened the brief to include a few more muscles, a manly tash and Claire Grogan cheering with glee from the side of the road. Any bored photoshoppers out there?

A combination of winter, over-busyness, lack of daylight and drug revelations have conspired to limit my cycling. The weather and lack of hours keep me from venturing outdoors and the drug revelations force me to read about cycling non-stop rather than actually doing it. Normally I’ll scour the newspapers in a vain search for a small clip about Mark Cavendish. However, recent months have filled the press with the Lance revelations whilst Tyler’s “The Secret Race” has occupied a portion of my Kindle’s silicon bookshelf. At first I joined in the outrage against Lance. I’d cheered this bloke on from the side of the road whilst the French chalked syringes. How galling for them to be right all along.

Then Tyler’s book overtook mine in the Amazon charts and my focused switched to him instead. Now whilst it is admirable that he’s fessed up and spilled the beans I’m feeling a little disgruntled. He’s outselling me by a mile, yet the only cheating I’ve ever done is to play Indian poker with a mate whilst facing a mirror. Then I dug back a little further to the Etape de Tour 2005. The stage results read something like this:-

Dave Barter (amateur): 8 hours and some other minutes

Tyler Hamilton (cheat): 5 hours plus not many other  minutes

Admittedly Tyler was in the race proper whilst Dave was tootling his way over a sportive. But the route was the same and Tyler’s drugs gave him a three hour head start. His drugs are also giving him unfair advantage in the Amazon world. Without them his book would be a boring list of races ridden followed by a brief bit of emotion when Tugboat bites the dust. David Millar did it to me as well, took a shed load of drugs, lied, owned up, wrote a book and nailed the sympathy vote. Therefore I have asked Amazon to create a new category within sporting literature called “Cycling - drug cheats”. Hamilton, Landis, Millar, Armstrong and Bez (if he ever gets on a bike) will all be moved into this list to fight it out amongst themselves. The rest of us whose only digression has been a slight over application of Deep Heat can stay in the proper chart.

This will leave me fighting it out with Bradley, Victoria and George Mahood. George wrote a heartwarming book about a trip from Lands End to John O’Groats on the scrounge. It's called "Free Country - A penniless adventure the length of Britain" I’ll not spoil the plot, you should buy it instead, for two reasons. Firstly he wrote a lovely review of my book (clearly inspired by brandy). Secondly he reflects the kindness and generosity that I witnessed during both of my LeJogs. It is a reaffirming story that needs reading in times of austerity and the media's insistance of only seeking out the bad. I’m just gutted that I didn’t think of it before he did,  as I've add up the bills from my two trips which equate to at least three more bikes. Clearly George took brandy on this trip as well as he writes “Even Runcorn has a certain charm?.

Dave, 29th November 2012

Writer’s block. The dreaded two word sword of Damocles hanging over the head of every author. Those of us who decide to inflict ourselves upon the eyes of others via the literary word all fear its appearance. There can be no more awful fate for an author than to sit in front of a blank page that steadfastly refuses to fill itself with meaningful words. For those who don’t write, imagine the sneeze that just refuses to happen, the squeezed spot that liberates nothing at all or the long lonely sit on the loo when the digestive system refuses to say “goodbye”. Writer’s block is normally related to inspiration. The author knows that something should be described but can’t quite put their finger on what that something is or how they should go about painting their literary picture. There are many and varied explanations for the condition. Wikipedia cites some interesting cases. I quite enjoyed that of George Orwell’s character, Gordon Comstock, who struggled to write a poem about London as it was “too big”. I’d have sorted him out in no time at all. A pair of binoculars turned the wrong way around and he’d have been good to go. It gets a bit more serious when you consider William Shakespeare, who suddenly stopped composing great plays and sonnets. One minute he’s banging away productively at his scrolls. The next minute, nothing. All inspiration gone, a complete lack of words, a load of relieved geese. After much investigation I found out that this was down to the fact that he had died which came as a relief. There was me worrying that a form of scriber’s cancer existed, able to afflict even the greatest of writers. So what hope for a mere scribbler like me?

I haven’t written a blog post for well over a month. So clearly I have fallen victim to this terrible affliction. There is no doubt that I have been suffering terribly from writer’s block but in my case the block is of a different nature from the norm. I’ve a head full of ideas and inspiration, that’s never a problem. Surreal experiences never cease to find me whilst I’m out cycling. For example, the dead badger lying peacefully by the side of the ride on a loop I ride twice a week. After a few rides I noticed he was putting on some weight. A week later he was clearly pregnant, then a couple of days after that he was flat. He’d exploded in a massive post mortal attack of flatulence. It made me almost glad to be human, partly as I won’t be gassed for getting a bit of a cough near cows, but mostly down to the fact that even if I do pass on in some hilarious fashion my dignity will be returned after I’m scraped up and gently placed into wooden box. I’d hope that my mortal remains will not end up being publicly defiled by a fart from beyond the grave.

Anyhow, all this talk of exploding badgers does nothing to explain my block. As stated, it is not an inspirational blockage, it is simply down to the Babylonians who proposed the 24 hour day. In hindsight they made a bit of mistake by not including quite enough hours. If they’d added say six or seven more per day I’d be able to get all of my stuff done and find some time for a nice bit of blog writing. This Babylonian foresight would have ensured that the world had a much greater understanding of exploding badgers than it currently does. My writer’s block is down to stuff that I have to do which is preventing me from writing. This stuff falls into three distinct categories; work, my UK route guide and things I commit to do that I really shouldn’t.

Work has been particularly stressful as it is currently unpaid. My friend Andy and I have been beavering away at a technology start-up based around mapping. It all sounded so easy when we drew a few diagrams on a bit of paper. All we had to do was import some data, fiddle with it a bit and chuck out some maps and stuff on screen. Customers would then flock to our door, awe stricken by the maps we had created and hand over their account/sortcode details. I decided to focus our minds by booking us into a conference where we could launch our product. In September that conference seemed a long way away. With less than three weeks to go we’ve upgraded our business plan status to “actively shitting ourselves”. Andy and I have a conference call every day at 9am. It usually goes along the lines of:-

Andy: ”Here’s the list of things you broke yesterday that I have fixed. I’ve added to it the list of things I didn’t get done as I was fixing the things you broke yesterday”

Dave: ”Thanks, I’ve had this new idea do you think we could….”

<screen goes blank, call disconnected>

<Dave reinitiates call> 

Dave: “OK, message understood. What needs doing today?” 

Andy: <reels off list longer than Lord McAlpine’s lawyer’s list of potential defendants>

We’ve both been working ridiculously hard for months to build a new product. It’s so nearly there, but as with all traditional IT initiatives we’re constantly tripped up by unforeseen snags. In Andy’s case the snag is working with Dave. In my case it’s usually down to the fact that the programming code I copied from google doesn’t quite work the way I thought it should. Days are long as I do battle with SQL, javascript, php, C++, mercator projections, geometric unions, unix command lines and something called XSLT which I don’t really know what it is but it feels like we should be using it along with everyone else.

The small portion of day that remains should be a time to relax and write blogs. Sadly every hour of that is commandeered by the quest to finish my proper book. Nearly two years ago I set out to write the bloody thing (within a year) and still I haven’t finished. To be fair, the writing is done. It’s the detail that takes a huge amount of my current minimal spare time. The book has forty chapters (the next one’s going to have two). Each chapter has descriptions, maps, route instructions, photos, diagrams and statistics. Many of these are produced by a computer programme, but it all needs to be checked. Route instructions are particularly hard as I read through my notes whilst following the map on screen. Each turn has to be described accurately, often in tandem with Google Streetview to make sure the directions are correct. 

I spent one evening cursing the Google van that had gone down a back road in Wales and picked up some leaves on its camera. These leaves blocked out a road sign that I needed to check. I noticed a pub on the road and nearly called them to go out and confirm that the sign really did say “Cymtlyingpwthdoggrty”, however a leaf was covering up its full name. A chapter takes me nearly ten hours to complete. That’s four hundred hours required that the Babylonians failed to account for. Fortunately my publisher has been patient as the book arrives with them in stages. We’re so nearly there, a week or two more and it’ll be done. In fact it’s morphed into a family production with Helen aiding on the maps and routes along with Holly helping out on graphics. Two years ago I announced that I was leaving my job to write a book. Not many “we’s” in that sentence.

Then there are the things I simply don’t have time for but commit to anyway. A review of GPS units for a magazine that sounded easy but took several weekends to complete. My objectivity was tested to the limit by a manufacturer who shall remain unnamed but could be referred to as “FagAshLil” limited. The test unit they supplied had clearly been used by the smoking department to track down cigarettes. On opening the box I was reminded instantly of my Dad during his sixty a day phase. The unit was superbly protected by a liberal coating of nicotine, as an ex-smoker I fought hard against the urge to lick it all off.

Finally, there’s the Barrow Central Wheelers. They are a Lakeland cycling club who must surely be described as slightly unhinged. Earlier this year they asked me to come and speak at their annual dinner. For some reason they imagined I could vocalise my passion and knowledge of the Cycling Year Record in a manner that would befit their Christmas do. At the time of asking I was pretty keen. I actually enjoy giving presentations, mainly because it is formalised showing off. Inadequate forty something males like me need to grab as many showing off opportunities as possible. Once past thirty they are pretty thin on the ground. I can’t wheelie, my guitar playing is awful, the only joke I can remember starts “knock knock” and everybody has seen that silly hand thing where it looks like your thumb is split in half. 

The week of the presentation was prefixed by months of procrastination. I reassured myself that everything would be fine and it’d only take an hour or so to knock up some good looking slides. Three days before the event I opened up my presentation software and realised that it hadn’t seen light of day for years. I had completely forgotten how anything worked. It took thirty minutes to find the “New slide” control and as for adding in photos, how had I ever managed that? The next few evenings were spent mostly shouting “Why? How? Please Help!” at the computer. It patiently obliged by doing everything it was told to do, and nothing more.

In other families, Mum has a word with the kids to advise that “Daddy is finding it tough at the moment as his manager has loaded him up with an unfeasibility large amount of work so cut him some slack”. Mine simply acknowledge that the bloody idiot has left it to the last minute again as a smelly, unshaven wreck storms about the place banging cupboards whilst ranting about projector screens.

Preparation for the big day couldn’t have gone worse. A particularly difficult work problem converged with a number of other external factors pushing my stress levels over the edge. My body reacts brilliantly to this by switching on the insomnia button. This is why evolution has to be a load of old bollocks. Surely the best way to react to a mental crisis is a good night’s sleep. We’ve been on this earth for quite a few years and I cannot believe that those who had only 30 minutes sleep the night before were able to best dodge the sabre tooth tiger. Hunters look for weakness, and if I was hiding in a bush spotting the best human to nibble on, I’d pick the yawner. He’d still be rubbing his eyes as I jumped out whilst his mates had legged it into the jungle.

So why has evolution invented insomnia? What is the point of it other than to thin us out by getting rid of the worriers? It’s surely the product of a vengeful God who sees it as a nice opportunity for us to get in a little more praying as we lie there begging to be overtaken by a little sleep. I reckon I had about two hours the night before my big performance. The drive up to the Lakes was taken slowly and carefully with biblical downpours fuelling stress levels further.

I tried to convince myself that all would be OK. Many years previously I’d been asked to present at a postal conference in Prague. Myself and a colleague took advantage of a foreign travel T&S policy that did not appear to have an upper limit. The night ended with us trading blows in Wenceslas Square before making up and retiring back to the bar. We were put into a taxi and got back to the hotel purely by mime. On arrival we didn’t have enough cash to pay the fare so Richard sent me to my room to get some more. I managed to open the door and woke up the next day on the floor. Richard had no idea how he had paid the remainder to the driver and didn’t want to know. At breakfast we were the greyest men walking the earth, zombified by our excesses with livers desperately googling for instructions on what to do next. We commandeered all of the free water in the conference centre and cuddled it until it was our turn to speak. I have no idea what I said but the resulting minutes thanked the British contingent for “their interesting contribution to the event”.

So with this track record I’d hope to muddle through. I made it to the hotel unscathed and met Allen and Glen from the club. They fretted for a while about projector screens whilst I stressed further over the enormity of my task. Speaking at a cycling club dinner is a different league to a business presentation. You’re supposed to inject some humour, chuck about a few anecdotes, give out some pearls of wisdom and tell the audience a few little snippets that they didn’t already know. I had some slides along with a fatigued brain that was just about managing to keep bodily functions to spec. 

Fortunately, Barrow Central Wheelers are an incredibly welcoming bunch. Allen and Glen went out of their way to make me feel relaxed and at home. We settled down to dinner and bantered about cycling as us cycling types do. I kept my alcohol consumption in check and did my best to eat with elbows in and not lick peas off the fork. I’d almost managed to relax when the club chairman, Mike Speight, announced that it was time for the guest speaker.

A microphone was placed in my hand and I arose to a sea (well fifty) of expectant faces all awaiting an hour’s worth of witty, informative cycling based entertainment.

Not a good moment for the mind to go completely blank.

My brain decided to go on a mini-lock down just at the time when I needed it most. Information was drip fed to my mouth which began to talk. But I felt like a detached observer to the proceedings wondering when the presenter was going to get into some sort of flow. I’d prepared loads of notes, a few jokes and some interesting little snippets but many of them refused to appear. Fortunately I had my slides as prompts and managed to navigate myself down this verbal canal with the presentational boat lurching from side to side.

The audience were either too kind or too pissed to point out my predicament. It may have been that the words came out in some sort of order and made some sort of sense. I’m terribly self critical and halfway through was keen to stop and request that I start the whole thing again. It was like one of those races where you’ve put in a big effort to prepare but on the day it just doesn’t translate. You want to get off and go home but there’s a crowd, people who aren’t riding but are looking at you expectantly. You have to keep going, you have to make it to the end by letting each expectant look nudge you a little further down the road.

I made it to the end, a quick check of the head showed no bottle impacts and I hadn’t spotted any sleepers. Everyone was very kind and appreciative, I even got to hand out the trophies to the year’s prize winners. Like all good cycling clubs almost all of them were won by the same bloke. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversation, Peroni and whippets. Actually, I made the whippets up but was very disappointed to be in such northern company without even a sniff of one. The Barrow Wheelers blew away all of the northern stereotypes as they were generous, humorous and all drank lager. The evening ended with me very much buoyed up by their company, more than adequate payment for the ordeal.

Late that evening I collapsed exhausted onto my hotel bed and fell into another deep bout of insomnia.

Dave, November 2012 - sometime after midnight..with wine

Whenever someone asks me whether I’d like to do a cycling race I always have difficulty forward projecting to anything other than an image of me standing on a podium clutching flowers with two women either side and an adoring crowd below. I’m convinced just about ever other cyclist is the same. No matter how much previous evidence exists to the contrary, a new event presents a thin probability that the rest of the field will part and let them through to achieve the destiny they truly deserve. If this wasn’t the case, cycling races would only ever consist of the ten people who have a realistic chance of taking the win. All of the others would have “reality” take a quiet word in their ear, gently informing them that they’d be better off making an appointment with an Italian doctor instead.

So when Malcolm tentatively enquired as to whether I’d like to do an 8 hour mountain bike race in a team of two my forward projecting selective memory kicked in. I conveniently forgot my complete lack of mountain bike talent, parked the memories of my last pairs race that had seen me sulk in a bush at the end, forget the recent British monsoon and imagined a gloriously sunny finish line with a tape breaking across my manly chest as buxom women swooned. The race was months in the future. Plenty of time to train to Wiggin’s levels of fitness whilst watching a few Steve Peat videos and injecting talent directly through the eyeballs. There would be no problem with the knackered set of mountain bikes, as I’d have time to fix their various maladies and tune them back to shop floor condition.

That’s how October the 13th ended up circled on my calendar with “Bristol Oktoberfest” written neatly below. And that was the sum total of my preparation.

In my defence I could list a whole series of mitigating circumstances. Ranging from seriously long hours worked on various business projects to the completion of my next book which has become asymptotic, never quite reaching the axis of “finished”. But there’s no point, at nearly 46 years of age it has become the defining trait of “me”. As they lower me gently into the earth the vicar will mumble a few sentences concerning a man who would be here in the coffin if he’d remembered to die but is currently still watching Bargain Hunt in the old people’s home

Therefore, and true to form, a week before the event the only thing that was looking on track was my fitness. A few months of Strava madness had widened the legs a little and increased the depth of the lungs. Unfortunately the mountain bikes had ticked the census box marked “f**ked”, the off road miles could be counted in UKIP voters and I’d spent more time studying Thiession polygons than Steve Peat. Malcolm gently reminded me a week before the event that we needed to sort out a few logistics and I did that wavy hands man thing of pretending I had far more important matters on my mind. He then patiently organised everything on his own leaving me with a simple list:-

• fix bikes
• pack food and clothes
• be ready 6am Saturday morning
• remain healthy

I procrastinated the lot apart from the last item. This one was completely ignored as I continued to visit public places and be served food by people who coughed green shit onto their fingers first. Two days before the event the headache, sore throat and feeling of ill ease began. I rode my bike for a bit in the rain to get rid of it, which served to turn a slightly annoying sniff into a full on raging man flu. The day before the event I struggled to get out of bed, only roused by a 9am conference call appointment. I went shopping in living dead mode, shuffling around Co-op three times before I managed to place anything at all into the basket. Returning home I noted that my race food consisted of a dirty great ginger cake, some spicy jerk chicken pasties and a king size packet of dark chocolate digestives. Come the zombie apocalypse I know what to leave in the neighbour’s garden as distraction bait.

I gave the bikes the bare minimum of attention. The full suspension Zesty was out of the question as too many things on it needed a fettle including a bodged front brake calliper that had not been looked at in a year. The hardtail need a wash (ignored), new brake pads (rear replaced only as they were down to the metal) and some lubing (I pointed a can of WD40 at it and sprayed for a minute). It was a struggle to hoik my gear over the road to Malcolm’s that evening. Returning home and feeling desperately sorry for myself I coerced Helen into cancelling the healthy dinner of fish she was planning and replacing it with a hot curry instead. The thinking here was that it would “flush the cold out of the system”. The reality was a complete inability to sleep that evening as a mound of Prawn Patia sat in my digestive system waging war against stomach acids and clearly winning. I think I dropped off at about 2am.

Now, we’re nearly 900 words into this sorry tale and it is all sounding a little bit familiar. Dave practises piss poor preparation before something cycling related and subsequently pays the price. Given that I’ve just mentioned curry, I invite you, the reader, to read no further and go and watch Downton Abbey instead. As you can guess what is coming.

Malcolm and I left home somewhere near 6am. I am a freelancer, so for me this might as well have been midnight. At 6.30am my systems realised that they were supposed to be in daytime mode. Eyelids slowly lifted, the brain initiated start-up scripts and the digestive system remembered the horrors of the night before. It didn’t take much persuading to get Malcolm to pull into the services at Gordano for a quick constitutional. However, a complete lack of newspaper meant that my stomach refused to play ball and decided it could wait until we were in the middle of a muddy field queuing for a green piss tardis. I’ll fast forward over the next bit suffice to say that the bloke who didn’t take my advice to “leave it a few minutes” has only himself to blame.

Significantly lighter, but still feeling sorry for my sniffling self, I surveyed the event location. The previous night’s monsoon had gently covered most surfaces with a thin veneer of mud. A few keen souls who’d nipped out for a reccie lap were now riding chocolate bikes. It was feeling a bit “parky” and a lady next to our car was getting dressed in a bucket. Malcolm and I trudged to the signing on tent with me silently willing that they’d mislaid our entry and would refuse to let us slither around their hallowed course. No such luck. We were handed the customary plastic bag full of adverts, two pint glasses a couple of T-shirts and told to report back at 8.30 for race briefing.

Race briefing was nice and terse. A man in a witches hat mumbled some stuff into a tannoy and then vaguely gestured to “over there” where we would line up for a Le Mans start. Malcolm turned to me about to ask which of us would be doing the run. I’d anticipated the question, carefully considered all options and diplomatically snapped “YOU” in tandem with his query. Malcolm looked the snivelling wreck stood in front of him up and down and realised this was sound reasoning. The only running I was capable of was nose based. So we gathered up his bike and trouped down to the start.

Now, Bristol Octoberfest is a lot more laid back than many other endurance races I have attended. The start line was sited sort of at the bottom of a hill. Riders then scattered their bikes beside a track leading to the start and all followed each other in a penguin like pack asking each other “is that the start down there?”. The rest of us scattered ourselves around the hill and confusingly all held up our arms in unison so that the runners could find their way back to their bikes. I must have missed the start horn/bell/shot/shout/whatever but after a few minutes of holding onto Malcolm’s bike a swarm of baggies began to make its way up the hill. We all tried to differentiate our arms by shouting an encouraging “over here”. This just confused the runners further so they simply waded though humans with their arms until hands closed upon a familiar handlebar. After ten minutes or so the last of them had disappeared up the hill and into the trees. I returned to the car and made ready for my first lap.

We’d reckoned on 30-40 minutes per circuit. I had twenty minutes to calm the nerves and remember how to ride a mountain bike. Riding as a pair was starting to eke away at the misgivings and my cold. I didn’t want to let Malcolm down, he was fit and really up for the event. The last thing he needed was a petulant excuse monger blaming a lack of Tixylix for his 2 hour long laps. I resolved to come off the blocks fighting. Malcolm handed me the hair band (don’t ask me, ask the organisers), I ran for the bike, kicked into the woods and slithered about on singletrack barely holding on for the first half a mile.

This was a real wake up call to my recent lack of off-road riding. I can best equate it to assembling Ikea furniture having been given three minutes to memorise the instructions that are subsequently destroyed. I had an inkling of what need to be done, a rough idea of the sequence of actions required but when put into practise the result was a jumbled mess of bits strewn all over the place. Too fast into the first berm, too much braking thus too slow into the next, bang/bang/bang over the braking bumps, clatter into and over the step and hold on for dear life down the rock garden. It was a relief to hit some mud and finally gain a semblance of control over the bike.

I managed to pass a few riders as we negotiated a grassy climb, gained some momentum up a rough track and then lost it all and skidded our way round a wet grassy field. Then more singletrack and more mountain biking 101. I was all over the place. Fitness was carrying me too quickly into features that I was incapable of taking at speed. Other riders were passing me with minimal effort as they transitioned smoothly from berm to bump. My staccato rhythm was actually slowing me down as I braked to hard then pedalled fiercely to compensate.

The course was tight making passing awkward. Despite my failings I found myself held up for long periods behind riders who’d brought their sandwiches, thermos and picnic blankets. For the first few laps my passing strategy can only be described as “British”. I simply sat behind the slower rider and patiently queued. Eventually the track would widen and I’d cautiously make my way past. It took me a while to cotton on to the better strategy. A little “When you’re ready” to let them know you’re behind. Await their signal and then pass quickly with a verbal tip of the hat. Other riders had been passing me in that manner so why did it take me so long to learn? Read everything else I’ve ever written about cycling and you’ll understand why.

So I survived the first lap. 32 minutes in total, 1/4 of a brake pad down, lots of foliage attached to my bars and a few new stains in the baggies that were probably down to nerves. Malcolm, banged out another solid 30 minute lap and we settled into our race rhythm. For me it went along the lines of:-

• hang on for dear life over the first section of singletrack, try not to stack it near the photographer, remember that the last set of rocks are like ice, go into the red on the long climb
• more hanging on for dear life remembering that the steep rocky twisty bit needs respect
• stack it on the steep rocky twisty bit, apologise profusely for bringing the rider behind down with me as well
• get passed countless times by singletrack whippets who are long gone before I can exact revenge on the climb
• scare myself shitless riding too fast through the woods, nearly kill a few marshals descending out of control on the rocky fast track
• pick the wrong rut through the mud track, desperately fight for traction on the steep woodland climb
• more singletrack, more discussions with self about “how to do it properly next lap”
• finally the last steep climb and the wonderful transition area where I can hand the pain over to Malcolm for a few precious minutes

On lap three I summited the final climb only to encounter a bunch of spectators furiously gesticulating at a jump. This had been placed mid-track clearly designed to humiliate the likes of me who’s stated preference is always to keep both wheels firmly planted within the mud. I never do jumps. When I do I invariably land front wheel first and then bounce for a few yards like an upside down unicyclist before the rear wheel decides to leapfrog and shove me into the dirt. So I have no idea why I pointed the bike at the ramp and revved up the pedals. Everyone else was ignoring it. I hit it fully expecting to nose plant and laugh it all off with the assembled crowd. Instead the bike soared through the air, landed perfectly into the puddle beyond and spirited me into the finish.

This will never happen again. One of those rare moments when an act of bravado comes off. The previous few hours trail based mincing fell away during the milliseconds that I remained airbourne. I should probably confess that the ramp was less than six inches high.

Onward. More laps then a quick check of the current placings. It wasn’t easy to see our position as a large number of riders fought to view an intermittently updating PC monitor. I was sure I’d spied us in third place which heightened resolve further. But I didn’t say anything to Malcolm for fear of him demanding we increase the pace and aim for the top.

It all started to get hard for me around about lap five. My inefficient style was taking its toll and more mistakes began to surface. I lost patience with riders that attempted the silent pass and thanked serendipity for stuffing the rear mech of one wheel touching idiot firmly into his spokes. I stared jealously at calves propelling singlespeeds past me at inhuman speeds. I cursed youth, I cursed corners, I cursed bumps, I cursed slippy bits and I even cursed climbs the one thing I was supposed to be handy at.

Six hours in and we were still not sure of our placing. The computer said ninth, but the lap count was one down on my tally. Malcolm queried this and was told we were right, but still we had no idea whether the podium position still remained in sight. But fair play to the two old buggers from Swindon. Malcolm kept up his consistently fast laps as my times waned a little. I was riding between 35-39 minutes per lap after lap 5 and we’d had a short spell of rain. This pushed the slip factor up, made passing harder and slowed most of us down.

I summited the climb on lap six to see my wife and kids shouting me on. This was worth a dozen shots of EPO as I handed over to Malcolm for his last lap. I ate a little pasta and did some maths.

The rules are clear. The last lap only counts if finished within the eight hour time limit. One second later and it was in vain. We had just under seventy minutes left. If Malcolm rode a 32 minute lap I’d need to come up with a 35 minute one to keep within the time. This was looking tricky as my last map had been nearer 39. I clock watched waiting for Malcolm realising that I had no idea if my wristwatch was right. I’d decided that 35 minutes was my cut off. Any later and there would be no point heading out.

Malcolm rode in with 35 minutes 4 seconds to spare.

Remember that bit at the start concerning visualisation? All I saw was me riding heroically to the end, taking the jump and sailing over the line with minutes to spare. I headed out onto the course which was now largely devoid of riders. Most were finishing their last laps or clinking beer. It was just Dave, the course and the clock.

The first section of singletrack went to plan. I’d learnt the odd lesson and negotiated it at reasonable speed. The rocks proved no issue and I even put on a “racing look” for the photographer. No doubt my collar will be up or a phlegm moustache will be present in the final result. Next came the climb. Bad news, utterly shagged legs. I was passed easily by another rider and resolved that this ride was not straying onto Strava. The following section of singletrack was clear but my head wasn’t. I kept making mistakes, kept braking and slipped off the trail at one point disappearing into a bush leaving only a “f**king hell” behind. More climbing more agony. Things went a little better in the woods and as I headed up the next climb I heard “Come on lads, eleven minutes, that’s do-able”. 

Eleven minutes. I rode each and everyone of them chanting “do-able” to myself. A nasty part of my head began to assemble the sections ahead and approximate my times across each in an evil attempt to show that the sum would be nearer to twelve. I switched it off.

“do-able, do-able, do-able”.

A few of us had melded into a group occasionally swapping the lead. I heard a wheel behind at one point and a request to pass. “I’m racing mate”, I told him, “Come by, but I’m not slowing”. Thankfully he got the point and smoothly took me on a corner. I jealously watched him leave my frame of vision, eleven minutes was definitely do-able for him.

Eternity. Then the final climb. It really hurt, really really hurt. I had no idea whether I was going to make it and the crowd were baying me on. The jump beckoned but was forsaken as I crossed the line and looked at my watch. It said eight hours dead.

Had I made it?

I had no idea. Another lad had come up the climb beside me. At one point we were sure that our final laps had counted. Only the results would tell. So we stood for a while, Malcolm, me and my family. The crowd gathered and we clapped others up onto the stage still unsure as to whether we had done enough. To make matters worse the announcer’s tannoy appeared to have an volume setting of minus eleven. He stood there in his witches hat as Malcolm and I attempted to lip read our names.

After an age the phrase “Mens 8 hour pairs, old gits category” bounced off a few heads and made it into my ear. “Third place…..Swindon Road Club”

We’d done it. I’d missed the cut off on the last lap by about twenty seconds,but it would not have made any difference to our placing. My previous visualisation was about to come true as Malcolm and I walked towards the podium. A nice lady hung a pretzel on a ribbon around my neck and gave me a voucher for beer. We ascended the podium (pallets + scaffold) and took the applause of the assembled crowd. Well when I say crowd, I probably mean the other riders waiting to pick up their prizes, plus my wife and kids. But that’s not how I’ll remember it.

Next time I’m asked whether I want to do a cycling race I’ll put on those rosy mental spectacles and reflect back to the last time I gloriously ascended the podium having ridden like a god. I’ll remember the relaxed vibe of the Oktoberfest, the vast majority of dedicated yet polite racers and the excellent singletrack course. Then I’ll turn to Malcolm and say “You must be f**king joking mate, I’m never doing anything like that again”.

Dave, 15th October 2012

Postscript: The day after I rode this event my wife, Helen, completed her first long distance running race. She took on the Swindon Half Marathon, one of the hardest courses around as it is dead hilly. Helen had trained for months and we nearly missed her at the finish as she completed the race three minutes ahead of her target time. I am dead proud of her for training so hard and taking on a tough race for a relatively novice runner. I am equally proud of us as parents, our kids saw Dad destroy himself on Saturday in the mud and then Mum destroy herself on Sunday in the sun. I can only hope that we are entrenching sport in our kid’s lives by example, which has to be a good thing. I had a brief vision as to how sport could potentially redefine society and bring out the good in all of us. The vision strengthened as I remembered the public unity that resulted from the Olympics and Tour de France. I saw a nation united under the banner of exercise and was all but ready to go out and evangelise but sadly fell asleep in front of the football on the tv.