Hills in Devon are tough. Really tough, especially when they are wet and muddy.
I look back at my musings in January. 50 miles in January, 100 miles in mid April with a steady increase in mileage. I was both right and so very, very wrong. I forgot to take into account that little thing called life.
January was cold, but not overly so. I managed a few fifty mile rides, with probably the most memorable being a 45 mile ride with Andrew Stretton in and around Didcot. Part of the ride involved going to a town called Streatley and heading west. Those of you who know me will know I enjoy riding up hills1 about as much as I enjoy riding down them. My thoughts on encountering this one went something like this:
‘This one’s actually quite steep. Looks like it goes on for a bit.’
‘Yep, definitely steep, but I’ve cycled in the alps. Now THAT’S hard.’
‘How steep is this hill going to get?’
Upon turning a corner – ‘How long is this bastard going to go on?’2
It’s also memorable for being possibly the coldest I have felt on a bicycle. Towards the end I was having difficulty moving the brake levers, my hands were so cold. Never in my life have I been as happy to see a power station as I did at the end of that ride.
February was the month in which the south-east of England was 20 degrees3 colder than Scotland. When you have ice forming on the inside of the windscreen, you know cycling is probably not the best of ideas. In February, the swimming pool was my friend. It wasn't all cold though. It had thawed out enough towards the end of the month that I was able to cycle into work – and immediately crashed my bike. Bleedin' typical4. Fortunately, as mum mentioned earlier in the blog, it was nothing too serious – a few scrapes and bruises. Two days later I was out riding again, with a wrist that couldn’t support any weight. This was perhaps not the best idea, I realised, as my bike began to skid on mud as I was going round a tight corner on a downhill section. I managed, somehow, to gain control of the bike with millimetres to spare5. For a month in which I had hoped to be up to seventy miles, February was not good.
March was a lot better. Warmer, drier, and the month in which the clocks changed, allowing rides after work. I ended the month with a seventy mile trip round Kent – taking in some real tough climbs in the North Downs. This was followed up with a trip round the Shepherd Neame Brewery, which was okay6. Pete Collyer, his brothers and I far preferred The Elephant pub, which had a cracking atmosphere (the company certainly helped!) and some great local beers7. All in all, very much a month of ‘back on track’8.
Which brings me to April, the month I finally cracked the 100 mile ride. I had great fun at Mike Howards wedding9 which was, somewhat conveniently, in Devon. My first attempt at a ride was curtailed after barely sixteen miles. Wet and muddy does not a good combination make, especially when trying to descend a 15% slope that’s narrow and twisty. I honestly think I was going down slower than I was going up – quite impressive, considering the ‘up’ bit went on for half a mile and was advertised at 25%. I got out the following day for a seventy mile ride, following the route Stuart and I will be cycling in a little over three weeks (is it really that close?). It gave me a chance to use the route cards, which worked fantastically. What is somewhat concerning is that, looking back, I cannot remember a bit of the ride that was flat. There was nothing quite as severe as the 25% climb of the day before, but it’s not easy10.
All of which brings me to the end of my training. I can cycle seventy miles with confidence and I know I can top 100. It’s somewhat unnerving to think I am going to have to do that for 15 days on the trot11, but I am as confident and prepared as I can be. It’s come, as these things do, a lot faster than I thought it would, but I’m ready.
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| Alex on his 30th last year... nice sunglasses :P |
1I don’t know why, I just do, okay?
2Obviously not as long as the Alp d’Huez, but speaking to my dad later it turns out he’d cycled up the same hill before and agreed with me: It’s a bastard.
3I mean centigrade, before you make snide comments . . .
4I tried to give the road a hug and a kiss on the way down. It didn’t reciprocate.
5It’s okay, though. I’d have had a soft landing in the duckpond if I failed.
6You only get a free pint for the cost of entry. Fullers gives you (at least I hope it still does) free reign until kick-out. No prizes for guessing which I prefer.
7I’m not a sell out, I just tell it like it is. Honest.
8I’ll overlook Mike’s stag weekend in Blackpool. 24 hours of drinking might not count as exercise, but the paintball did. Sort of.
9The main thing is that they enjoyed it. But that’s another story.
10Though compared to the following two days, when we tackle Dartmoor and all the joys of Cornwall, it’s a walk in the park.
11Especially when we are looking over the route and dad points to a bit in South Wales and says ‘I think there are a few miles there that are sort of flat’.
(Written by my brother Alex Parsons... cheers Alex!)
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