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>>>>>>>