My Forty Third Week as a Budding Author

This year I have been very fortunate in that I’ve been able to combine family holidays with work. This might not have been so successful when I worked in IT. I doubt that Helen, Jake and Holly would have enjoyed sunning themselves in a data center server room. Whilst the temperature would have been higher than any other destination we’ve visited previously, flashing LEDs hold a limited fascination and the hum of cooling fans gains a tedium similar to most of the board meetings I was forced to attend.

I guess I could have broken it up with a session where we vehemently blamed each other for a major system failure followed by a brief interlude where we nodded in agreement at company strategy presentations whilst secretly thinking “How did this w**ker ever get on the stage in front of me? And why has he just pretended that he cares about us whilst looking at his watch?”.

However, my current job as a cycling dosser pretending to write a book does have certain holiday based fringe benefits. Essentially I am able to con the family into thinking they are on vacation whilst I extract free labour from them in the name of “fun”.

This last week has been spent zooming round Scotland in the motorhome. Partly due to me having cycled up here in the first place and needing a lift home. I managed to guilt Helen into packing the van full of treats, kids and warm clothes followed by a long drive to pick up her wounded warrior lying spent by the side of the road. I also skillful sold the idea of a vacation whereby the family would develop their photography skills in various scenic Scottish locations. Coincidentally these locations would be places that I had failed to photograph and uncannily they would be taking pictures of a cyclist fighting desperately to complete the content for his book. That’ll be me then.

Our quest began in Torridon, halfway up the Bealach Na Ba. Last time I was here it shagged it down with rain and I was shagged out. All of this shagging prevented me taking any meaningful shots so I persuaded Helen that we needed to get as high up the pass as possible to nail some decent piccies. She agreed as long as I drove the van, there are a multitude of warning signs at the bottom that basically advise motorists to walk. I got it about a third of the way up before crapping myself and insisting we walk the rest. Later a Scottish omnibus descended from the top and put my driving skills to shame.

This was Helen’s first foray into cycling photography and as the picture above attests she took to it pretty well. It was all of ten minutes between “Which button do I press?” to “Please ride that again, without the stupid gurn and try to keep your hands off the brakes”. The kids disappeared with my spare camera promising to take some moody scenic shots. Hmmm……..

Our session was rudely interrupted by a mad walker. She strode purposefully up the road and enquired as to “How long we would be taking photos?”. I hadn’t realised that the Bealach was metered and that only a fixed time period was available for the taking of landscapes. We fobbed her off with “twenty minutes” and watched her march off up the hill muttering to herself about “yellows, blues and scenery”.

Next we hit Skye and drove most of the way round the island in search of an open campsite. The trusty Sligahan site was closed and we decided not to break the “Don’t shit in the motorhome” rule. Eventually we found a croft next to a loch that had expanded out into camping. We paid, asked for pub directions, parked up, admired the view, then trooped up the road in search of food. After half a mile conversation ceased drowned out by rain. We’d broken Scottish rule number 43 subsection a) 

“No matter how clear the skies, how low the wind and how dry the roads you shalt always carry a coat as it will probably rain” 

Hiding out in a bus shelter Helen confessed that she’d done the “man thing” of nodding as directions were supplied but failing to take any of them in. We sent Jake out on a scouting mission up a small lane. He returned wet with no sightings of ale. Hunger drove us out into the drizzle. The first pub we found had stopped doing food. The landlord of pub number two was so fat that there was no question of a lack of pies in the vicinity. Suspiciously they were out of steaks and burgers. Given that his wife was a similar size I had no doubt as to where the red meat had made it’s home. To make things worse he matched me pint for pint from behind the bar and then had another to ensure he kept the lead.

Helen made me work it all off the next day though as I rode up and down the Skye hills to ensure that she got the shot.

Another long drive after Skye to Aviemore and a planned rest day from photography. We’d promised the kids a day doing “their sort of stuff” and nervously pushed open the door of Tourist Information for a perusal of their “stuff to do leaflets”. Jake immediately pounced on a terrifying full colour shot of a bloke haring down a fast flowing river with only a car tyre for company.

“Dad, I’d like to go river tubing please”

I was tempted to pretend that my phone had no signal, but Jake is a tenacious little beggar and I knew he’d find a payphone. I gave Helen a resigned glance and dialed the number on the leaflet.

“Please don’t answer, please don’t answer, please don’t…”

“Hello, Stupidlydangerousoutdoorwatersports, can I help you”.

“Ermm,, yes, you don’t really do river tubing do you?” 

“Yes sir we do”

“Oh shit”

“But sadly we finished a few weeks ago”

Jake was a bit confused when the news that we couldn’t go river tubing was accompanied by two adults dancing round the Tourist office punching the air. We let them go on the Treezone high wire forest course instead, who very sensibly did not require adult supervision for the over 12s.

We consoled Jake further by introducing him to the fine Scottish tradition that is Irn Bru. Though he betrayed his middle class credentials by taking it from a glass laden with ice. Luckily the cafe did not have umbrellas or olives.

We curtailed the rest day due to a complete lack of rain and drove up into the hills to knock off a few evening shots. It all went a bit wrong for me here as a complicated piece of book continuity planning meant that the photos must be taken in summer-ish gear. Problem was that it was bloody freezing which explains the quizzical yet hypothermic look that Helen captured in the photo below. I like to think that in years to come it will become the cycling equivalent of the Mona Lisa with generations of riders staring up and asking “Why’s that pillock riding summer shorts with winter boots?”

The week has been therapeutic though, but in a bad way. It hasn’t taken me long to forget the hell that was Lands End to John O’Groats. In fact, it gets worse, as I’ve been looking at the map again and I’ve spotted a line. The line is nearly 500 miles long, it’s not all on roads and in fact some of it is very very high indeed. To make matters worse I’ve tentatively drawn the line in a mapping package and I’ve been splitting it up into days…not many of them. I keep saying to myself “What are you doing you idiot? Don’t you ever learn?” But I’ve drawn it now and so at some point in the near future I am going to have to ride a bike along it.

There’s clearly something of the Frank Bough about me. No sooner do I leave the den of self flagellation then I’m thinking about entering it again. However, this line really is a beauty and there’s a nice little environmentalist type rant to go with it. Have you guessed it yet?

I’m going to hit publish on this blog early as we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. First a trip up into the Cairngorms to show the kids a ski station devoid of snow, then we begin our long journey home. On arrival I’ve got to really get my act together as the book content is just about done. I’ve got to hibernate away and make the bloody thing happen for real. No mean feat for a gadfly like me.

Dave

28th October 2011

WEEK 44>>>>>>>>>>>>>

My Forty Second Week as a Budding Author

Have a look at these two photos. They contain pictures of two very different people. At first sight this may not seem so obvious as both pictures depict me holding my bike near signposts. But I can assure you that the individual in the second picture has undergone some considerable change both physically and mentally.

I’ve spent the past twelve days riding from Lands End to John O’Groats. This wasn’t for charity, wasn’t for personal whim, it was a quest to vindicate my belief that a perfect cycling route exists between the two points. It had to be ridden in October for logistical and family reasons and it had to be done unsupported to prove that my route would “go” without the need to camp or sleep in bus shelters.

When planning the ride I set myself a tough schedule, 90-100 miles most days. I visualised myself riding in an untroubled manner through sunshine on perfectly surfaced roads. I imagined the idyllic tea shop stops and leisurely evenings spent kicking back in bed and breakfasts. What could go wrong? This is the UK we’re talking about and October is always sunny isn’t it? Our Indian summer was due and I’d be having a wail of a time with 12 continuous days of the most scenic cycling ever.

Things began to go awry as I travelled down to Penzance on the train. The heating in my carriage was not working well so I donned all of my cycling gear. I was still freezing. I whiled away the time looking at weather forecasts on my smartphone. It was going to be sunny in Kent, everywhere else could expect wind and drizzle. Disembarking I spotted another fellow pushing a laden bike. We chatted briefly, and discovered that both of us shared a destination in John O’Groats. In fact we were due to arrive on the same day via different routes. The steady rain falling on the station route curtailed our conversation. We both faffed with waterproofs and bade each other a hasty “Good Luck”.

And so I set off. Twelve days later I finished. 

When I did English O Level at school, the précis was a major part of the test. Mr Nesbitt would hound us until we had got the plot of Macbeth down to 200 words. So he’d be very proud of the last paragraph given that the drama contained within my twelve days equates to a Macbeth, two King Lears with a dash of Hamlet and some Merchant of Venice thrown in for good measure.

The full story will be saved for another day as I need to do proper justice to the ride but I’ll give you a few edited highlights.

Accommodation

First let’s start with the Devon pub under new management who gave me a room that clearly hadn’t been slept in for years. Flies and bugs crawled out of cracks in the wall, the smell of damp pervaded everything and the only tea available was Earl Grey. I could have coped if the jukebox in the bar below hadn’t malfunctioned and randomly played hits of the seventies throughout the night. I will never ever be able to listen to the Doors without smashing something to smithereens.

Then there’s the posh hotel in the Hebrides with the room door that jammed after I closed it. I was blissfully unaware of this as I slept through the night and only found out once dressed and ready to ride to a ferry. It was 7.30am, my ferry left at 9.15 and reception would not answer the phone. My window looked out onto a glass conservatory, there was no alternative means of escape. I eventually broke out of the room using two spoons to unjam the lock only to find that the room containing my bike was locked as well. Like a scene from the Shining I ran through hotel corridors in search of help, eventually scaring the shit out of a polish chambermaid who I found in the kitchens. My crazed eyes and furious watch based gesticulations persuaded her to free my bike and unleash the country’s most scenic time trial as I sprinted for the ferry through a beautiful Scottish glen.

I mustn’t forget all of the lovely B&B owners as well. Karen from the Farr Bay Inn who let me a room even though they’d returned from holiday at midnight the night before. The owners of the Crown Inn in Tarbolton who dried my clothes, offered to cook me dinner (even though they don’t do food) and tried to undercharge me. Kath from the Clark Farm House in Lancashire who tried to give me money back and made me the most wonderful breakfast. Also the lovely owners of Troutbeck Cottage near Carlisle and Maeve and Weavel from Dingwall who took a real interest in my ride and drove me to dinner in the evening.

I have grown a real affection for UK Bed and Breakfast accommodation. All of the owners I met were fantastic and especially keen to aid the cyclist. It may be coincidence, but the further north I came, the lower the price and greater the welcome.

The Weather

Up until the Lake district it was mostly going well. Devon had been full of drizzle, but the other days had been mostly dry with a following wind. Then I set out from Carlisle, crossed into Scotland and rode into the worst weather I have ever encountered in all my years of cycling. The pain began with a gale force northwesterly head wind. I’d used up all of my gears on the flat and saw my average speed drop to “armadillo”. Progress was measured by counting fence posts and praying for farm buildings to get in the way of the wind. Then it rained. Actually it didn’t rain, some mysterious entity followed me pouring full buckets of water down my neck at thirty second intervals. At one point I stopped pedaling and travelled a section of road by osmosis alone. The water entered everything, me, my clothes, my luggage, my protective plastic bags and finally my expensive compact camera killing it quickly.

I somehow became accustomed to this mode of suffering and managed to plod onwards towards that day’s destination. But Scotland wasn’t having that, it turned down the temperature scale and switched the rain to hail. This was the absolute low point of my ride. I crouched beside the A79 desperately trying to hide from the falling ice. The agony and despair is something I hope never to suffer again. If there had been an option to pack and go home I would have taken it without question. Unfortunately I was on my own and forced to struggle on. Lorries and cars honked horns in disbelief at this idiot cyclist struggling along a flooded main road in the near dark. And this was proper flooding, at one point I rode into water that flowed over my bottom bracket which will now need to be replaced.

That day was 103 miles of riding without a single moment of pleasure. Writing this it still does not seem real that I made it and I’m sure the nightmares will replace the usual recurring theme of having to take my maths degree again.

The wind and rain continued for days with a terrible pattern emerging of a soaking at the beginning and ending of rides with sunshine only appearing as I stopped for lunch or a trip on the ferry. I properly lost it on a number of occasions. I’ve realised that I need to find religion so I can have someone to blame for my predicament. As it was I shook my fist at Scotland and pleaded with it to make it stop. I cursed at the injustice of the headwinds and shouted at nothing to make the rain go away. I even tried to cry a few times but the tears would not come.

Eventually I developed a mantra that went “At some point today, all of this will stop”. I used it to get through the bad spells but at times felt like the mythological Greek bloke who pushes that rock up a hill.

The bike and equipment

You’ll be suprised to know that most of my gear choices were sound and the bike survived relatively unscathed. Well, it is covered in shit, has no brake pads left at all and is in desperate need of some lube and much adjustment. I suffered three punctures and some annoying brake rub which is pretty damned good given the terrible state of many of the roads and it also being hedge cutting season.

The one set of clothes I carried now stinks. Twelve days in the same set of pants is not ideal and my single shirt is covered in food and splatters of drink. I’m so glad I carried the Kindle to while away nights lain on a bed with nothing but crap on the telly. Sadly it died on day eleven with a failed screen, probably due to a poorly packed bar bag or nasty bump in the road.

Me

Physically I seemed to hold up quite well. I found the heavier bike a frustration and constantly wondered why I was riding so slow. Climbing was a chore as well. It was like I’d suddenly become fat as I huffed and gurned my way up the slightest of hills. Cornwall and Devon destroyed my climbing legs further and I never seemed to recover properly from the damage done. But each day I was able to bang out the miles at a seemingly constant rate. Eating and drinking well aided this and I stuck to a regime of nosebag every twenty miles which seemed to do the job.

I’ve eaten such crap though. A full fry up each day, four bottles of Lucozade sport, three to four flapjacks, crappy sandwiches for lunch, a Snickers, cans of coke and inevitably something+chips for tea. It’s not stopped me losing weight, 3-4 pounds I reckon, weight I just don’t have to lose in the first place.

Mentally, I’ve learnt a lot about myself. The main thing being that when I’m on my own I moan like a baby. Constantly feeling sorry for myself and asking “why, why me?”. Several times I came close to cracking and packing it all in. Luckily the options weren’t there as these occasions usually coincided with wilderness and a lack of phone signal. I’m nowhere near as strong mentally as I thought I would be. I now have myself down as a “self-indulgent-whiny-plodder” and have to clearly recognise the moment where I start to slide in to personal despair and distract myself away.

It’s no mean feat to ride 1100 miles in 12 days through spells of disastrous weather. The real achievement is to free yourself to enjoy it instead of adding to the burden with unnecessary stress.

The route

This is why I set out in the first place and to be frank this is where I feel the greatest sense of achievement. The route is sublime. From the north coast of Cornwall through the back roads of Devon and over the Severn into the best bits of the Welsh borders. Over the Long Mynd, into the Lancastrian hills and onto a major Lake District pass. Some of the best of Ayrshire followed by the Hebrides then Sutherland..it’s a cyclists dream. I can only remember a few miles of tedium in the thousands ridden. In fact there are only two really shit bits of the route, one’s Lands End and the other is John O’Groats, two pieces of Great Britain that need ripping up and starting again.

I’m really proud of the route I’ve designed. I’m sure that out there someone will have ridden it before and will claim a first ascent. I couldn’t give a toss. I genuinely sat at a computer for a week and followed the most interesting lines on the map. This needed ferries to achieve in Scotland. Have I cheated? I couldn’t care less. Without the ferries the route just wouldn’t work and to me it felt like a well planned orchestral movement leading to the crescendo of the day riding in Sutherland. This is the day that I slowed down for fear of it passing too quick. The day that laughter replaced guttural despair as I thanked circumstance for placing me on two wheels in this wonderful wild wilderness. I even forgave the knobhead encased in the latest German engineering who passed too close on the road round Loch Naven.

Anyway it’s done now and I’m safely ensconced in the van enjoying my birthday with Helen, Jake and Holly. They did a magnificent job in driving a huge distance to scoop me up from Wick, hose me down and coax me back to normality. I must also doff a grateful cap to friends and family who supported me along the way. Chris, your text was a powerful piece of medicine on a day when things weren’t looking so good. The twitter messages helped enormously but the top motivational prize goes to the cafe owner in Kyle of Lochash who offered to give me cash there and then for a copy of the book. I didn’t take the money, I just banked the sentiment instead. Lady, I’m getting this f**ker published just so that I can rock up at your door and take you to your word.

Dave

23rd October 2011

WEEK FORTY THREE>>>>>>>>>>>

My Fortieth Week as a Budding Author

How many great ideas have been hatched in pubs? I would postulate “bloody loads”. Pubs are entirely conducive to idea hatching as they contain a variety of liquids designed to free the mind of conventional thought and spur the thinker forward to the moment of genius. I believe that the first successful ascent of Everest was planned in a pub (ok googlers it was a hotel..but it had a bar). The Duck and Drake Inn harboured Guy Fawkes and his mates as they brainstormed ideas for obliterating the houses of parliament. And let’s not forget Heston Blumenthal who came up with the genius idea of charging the public a mortgage for a plateful of nothing in the Fat Duck at Bray.

Therefore it will not surprise you that I came up with a moment of genius in the Pack Horse , Louth over a pint of lager. Actually, the fact that I had a moment of genius will probably surprise you, but the pub and pint of lager will simply be business as usual. It was here that I sketched out a design for the cover of my book. This issue had been nagging at me for months as book covers are critical to their success on the shelf. There’s loads of marketing type speak out there to guide you, but simplistically, it’s got to be bold, fit the content and stand out from the crowd.

Seeing as I own every cycling book in the world, it is quite straightforward to work out what has been done before, and I’m fairly confident that my idea is new. The major problem is the picture. I need a photograph as the basis of the design that summarises the contents and inspires the reader to pick it up and have a little nose inside. It’s a crucial photograph and to be quite frank I don’t think I’m capable of taking it. So this week I shone a picture of a VW camper van onto the bottom of a cloud in the Mendips. Seb Rogers duly emerged from his professional photographer’s “Sebcave”, dived into the Sebmobile and drove up to the peaks clutching a poorly constructed book cover commission.

The idea also needed a rider who was riding a good looking bike and was wearing a cycling jersey of a certain design. They need to look good climbing and descending and be able to understand and action clear instructions from the photographer.

Almost everything in that previous paragraph ruled me out of the equation. I’d bought the jersey but it was too big for me. I won’t even go into the rest as it just hurts. So I recruited Andy to the cause as he lives down the road from our chosen site, fitted the jersey and has a proper road bike with gears and stuff that work.

The three of us met in the car park above Mam Tor. It was pissing it down, the skies were “John Major” grey and my car thermometer read somewhere around about 4 degrees. I took a quick nervous inventory of my clothes;

• cycling shorts
• cycling jersey
• lightweight waterproof
• jeans
• T-shirt

Seb had done this before and I noted that his inventory differed slightly from mine by including;-

• wooly hat
• gloves
• full set of waterproofs
• dingy and distress flares

At 10am conditions were getting close to biblical. Winds were trending towards gale force, thick rain fought hard with hail to batter the earth and all manner of cloud formations whizzed across the sky as they deposited stuff upon the ground. The three of us walked down Whinnats Pass for a quick reccie but Andy was beaten back by the hail. Seb and I picked the first location then dived back into the car before we were stoned to death.

I was already ready to go home and we hadn’t even started but Seb remained calm. He’d seen that the weather was moving and experience told him that we would get our shots. We sat it out for a while until the sun popped out from nowhere forcing Andy to kit up and get on his bike.

Seb had chosen the steepest point of Whinnats Pass for the first location. He climbed up the side of the pass whilst I removed coke cans and piles of hail from the road. Andy was ordered onto his bike and told to ride up the climb, again and again and again. At one point Seb said “Andy, can you go faster?”, to which Andy nodded and then rode down to me with a “FFS it’s 20%!”. But he got on with it, sprinting out each interval and adjusting the angle of his elbows on demand.

In fact I had a little chuckle to myself when Seb asked Andy to look a little more cheerful. It was blowing a gale as a headwind, lower than 4 degrees C and a 20% climb. Not really laughing material, especially when you come from the north where a smile begins and ends at the eyebrow.

The weather continued to oscillate between sunshine and armageddon. At one point the three of us were hunched down by the side of the road like garden gnomes in an attempt to hide from the hail.

Shortly afterwards I began to shiver and was curtly sent back to the car by the other two to get warm. A good decision as I’d been standing around doing not much in completely inadequate clothing. The day continued in a similar theme, sunshine punctuated by horror including a brief spell of thunder and lightening. Andy and Seb were unphased, they worked incredibly well together in order to get my shot and at around about 3pm I reckon they nailed it.

We’d moved location to Mam Nick, Seb had found a spot that met my criteria and also led into a gorgeous slab of Edale that would set the scene perfectly. Initially we were shooting in cloud until the sun broke through and lit the landscape ahead of us. Greens, yellows, browns, roads, skies and a rider looking right on the bike. I’ve not seen the full size picture yet, but Seb and I are confident that we’ve got it. We flipping better have, as I doubt I’ll be able to convince Andy to wear a silly jersey and ride hill intervals in the hail again!

Driving home I knew I’d made the right decision to use a professional. I’d have turned round and gone home in weather like that, but Seb’s experience told him that we’d get the shots and more so that the dramatic weather would serve to light the scene exactly to my needs. Next time though, like a teenager going to a party, I’ll ask the question “What will you be wearing today?”.

It’s not all been glamour and photoshoots though. The rest of the week has been a flurry of planning, planning and more planning. Sadly, none of this planning has been done in the pub. I’ve sweated over maps, bed and breakfast guides and cycle touring websites to come up with the ultimate Lands End to John O’Groats route.

This has been on the agenda right from the start of this project. I’ve ridden the route before and found it had “niggles”. Some bits were too urban, some bits a tad boring and a few epic riding opportunities were wasted. Therefore, I’ve designed a route that answers all three. It avoids towns, passes interesting landmarks and does some Scottish stuff that could almost be classed as wilderness.

I asked for a volunteer to ride it, but all eyes went to the floor and so it’s down to me to head off into the weather and do battle with the route.

Lands End/John O’Groats in October, only an idiot would attempt that? Yes, an idiot will attempt it as I set off on Monday, unsupported.

I’ve done a similar trip before in Ireland. Riding with minimal gear and using B&B’s instead of campsites. The approach has its risks and issues. There’s only room for one set of kit which requires a unique ability to wash and dry your clothes using shower gel and available towels. Evening wear has to be paired down to a t-shirt, boat shoes and tracky bottoms. There’s also the terrible gamble of which bike spares to take and what to leave behind, knowing that the discarded kit will become essential items as soon as you’re miles from a bike shop.

I like to travel as light as possible in order to enjoy the road as if on a Sunday run. The picture above shows the bike fully laden. There really isn’t room for much! If you’re interested I’ve uploaded my route here for a cursory view.

The observant among you will say “Dave, that’s not your usual bike” and they’d be right. The Van Nicholas blew a bottom bracket this week and has been retired to the stable lame. It’s a Campagnolo bottom bracket and they are made of gold encrusted with diamonds, so we’ll need to sell the house before it can be replaced. The trusted Omega has whinnied its way out from the hay and is champing at the bit to get ridden.

Different bike, changeable weather, new route, eccentric B&B owners and a lingering sinus infection. Hopefully you can understand my nerves at setting out. Think of me Monday morning as I board the train on my way to Penzance and even more on Tuesday as the ride begins. The blog may be quiet for a few weeks while I’m out there. I’d hate to inflict my misery upon you all. Wish me luck!

Dave

October 7th 2011

ps. How do these  photographers manage to stand at such obtuse angles?

WEEK 41+42 >>>>>>>

My Thirty Ninth Week as a Budding Author

It’s been another long week of toil in the saddle and whilst my arse has been rubbing away at the plastic I’ve been wondering whether any non-cyclists who read this blog understand just exactly what I go through on a long ride. I’ve got a very clear idea seeing as I’ve done over forty of them now in order to write this bleeding book. But my thoughts were crystalised on Tuesday as I rode the last few miles of a humungous great loop in Yorkshire. This ride had followed a tried and tested formula designed to push me well beyond the sane. It started with an unfeasibly steep and long climb, continued with many more of them and then ended with the steepest and longest of the ride which I wasn’t expecting.

As I pedalled back to the van, the road behind me littered with emotions, I realised that these long rides tend to follow a similar pattern. Subsequently I’ve been working on a theory that many other cyclists suffer a similar experience to me which I’ve attempted to capture in the matrix below:-

It’s highly scientific and exhibits the physical and mental state of the cyclist during key mileage points within the ride. I’m highly confident in its accuracy and have road tested it throughout 2011. As a control, I believe all motorists would agree that none of the columns apply during any of their regular commutes or holiday journeys...for the distances stated.

Taking each line in turn I will attempt to explain my findings and therefore bring the non-cyclist into my world. Cyclists, time for a cup of tea during these paragraphs as the emotions and physical manifestations will be all too familiar

Things That Ache

Obviously this line presents the physical manifestation of pain during the ride. It begins with “arse” which is logical as very few bicycles come equipped with sofas. Placing your arse on something hard for any period of time is going to hurt, moving it about rhythmically will hurt more and bumping it up and down only goes to increase the suffering. The pain is noticeable up until 30 miles when the knees kick in and start to shout louder than the arse. They have a fair old crack of the whip up until 60 miles when a new and unexpected ache enters the forum, the bottom of your feet. Think about it, the main point of contact for the majority of the force cyclists produce is the ball of the foot. After 60 miles this area has pressed down on the pedal approximately quite a large number of times.

Moving up to 100 miles we have arms then everything, but hang on...ears? How on earth can cycling cause ears to ache? Well in my case it does because I wear sunglasses and I can’t explain why, but after 90 miles they make my ears hurt. Maybe they prevent the ears flapping about in the wind? Maybe they’re too heavy for my lightweight ears? Maybe they just don’t fit properly?

Things that you crave

Surely all of the entries in this line are self explanatory. To qualify the first entry, I usually feel pretty good in the first ten miles spinning along feeling a bit Eddy Merckx. I yearn to be able to have a brief chat with a seventeen year old me who is about to dispense with the bike in favour of beer and cigarettes. I’d tell him that if he’d invested properly in his legs then, mine wouldn’t start to hurt so much in a few miles time. Thing is, he’d have flicked the v’s and wandered off down the Mallard for a pint.

Songs in your head

The titles listed here actually happened during the 95 mile Yorkshire epic. For some reason the first earworm is always a repetitive piece of pop nonsense that plagued the airwaves for months. I’ve had Wigfield, St. Winfreds School Choir, Chas and Dave, but this week it was Black Lace. I fight hard to remove it for miles often resorting to whistling the intro to “Sweet Child of Mine” (it’s impossible by the way, try it), but to no avail, until at 30 miles I remember Patrick Humphries.

Patrick stood next to me in school assembly when I went to junior school. Yes, stood. I went to a proper hard cornish junior school in Padstow and we stood for the duration of assembly. Many weeks there would be a fainter, but it changed nothing. We stood and sang hymns that Mr Penna had loving hand written onto a large piece of paper. “Onward Christian Soldiers” was a regular at assembly and Patrick loved it. Problem was that he had a voice like a fisherman gargling slurry. He was much bigger than me so I was never able to offer constructive feedback. I suffered for his art and let him imprint this tone deaf rendition on my mind ready to oust Black Lace after 30 miles of bike riding.

It would take something seriously repetitive and annoying to push Patrick into the background and what better than a piece of classic opera ruined by an insurance advert. Things are clearly not going well after 60 miles of this lot in your ear (maybe the songs explain the ache?). It’s time for a real downer piece as every bit of me feels sorry for myself. Many of you won’t have heard of the Sisters of Mercy, keep it that way. A number of us spent the eighties waving our hands around mysteriously whilst wearing eye make up to them. The sombre mood continues into the ninety miles. “Winner takes it all” was a song I associate with the death of my first pet, Sooty the guinea pig. When I hear it I’m reminded of grief, suffering and hurt which is about right with ninety miles in the legs.

Your Rationality

Here, I have attempted to exhibit the cyclists rationality over distance by comparing it to well known celebrities. I’ll document my thoughts and you can equate them to the distance:-

• Alice Roberts, perfectly sane, good looking, bright, intelligent but hold on, what’s with the red hair?
• Jeremy Paxman, sane enough for mainstream television but the occasional rabid bark or irrational line of questioning
• Bruce Forsyth, getting on a bit but can still be lucid for short periods of time, prone to making strange body shapes and emits frequent gibbers
• John Prescott, probably best not to approach, the wrong line of enquiry could result in a swift left hook
• Katie Price, all sense of the real world has left the body, in fact not much of the body is real body any more

Food and water Available

Suffice to say that it takes about 60 miles for me to remember that I’m hungry and need a drink. At that point I’ll eat everything and a few miles later wonder where it has all gone? On Tuesday I passed a house with a sign advertising “Home made jam”. I’d done over eighty miles and had nothing left in the jersey pocket. It was so tempting to pull over, sneak a jar away and go all Winnie the Pooh over it.

 

Now you appreciate my matrix, let me take you into another area of personal hell that this week thrust upon me. The climb of Rosedale Chimney. It’s a cycling classic and I’ve wound it into one of my routes. On Tuesday I rode its full length, it claims to be the steepest road in Britain. I’m not so sure about that, but it does have its fair share of gradient. After I’d climbed it I coughed like an asbestos removal team for the next thirty minutes.

Any sane person would have left it at that, but I needed some photos. So I returned the next day with camera, tripod and a remote release. Can you spot it in the photo above? If you look carefully the rider is clutching something in his left hand.

This strategy worked in the end as I managed to get a picture that has me in the right place and exhibits the steepness of the climb. But it took nearly twelve goes to get it. Twelve times up and down the steepest bit of the climb. After that I was feeling a tad “Katie Price”

It’s been a long two weeks on the road but I’m home now for a whole week to finish planning the rest of the rides. ONLY FIVE LEFT TO DO! Is the headline news, sadly one of them is over a thousand miles long and another will take a whole weekend. If only the Indian summer were scheduled to last into November.

Dave

30th September 2011

ps. Thanks to all who commented with encouragement last week, it really has spurred me on. This week I'd prefer money instead if that is OK?

pps. There's a lot to like about Yorkshire, but between you and me they have rubbish White Horses. Check out this fella which looks like a childish scrawl compared to our lovely Wiltshire works of hillside art. Should have done whippets instead.

WEEK 40>>>>>>>