I=3Fm sure I=3Fm not alone in stating that it is all the fault of Peter
Marshall. If he hadn=3Ft published numerous of his Tall Tales and Low
Stories upon SCIENCE=3FS Telegraphic Marvel, I doubt I should have even
contemplated anything more strenuous than the odd overnight trip to
Dunwich. However, the seeds had been sown. And things got worse when I
met Bryan Ball, Head Honcho of =3FBentRider Online, at the 2003 World HPV
Championships in Friedrichshafen. A casual mention of Matters Audaxoid
had him allowing as how he had contemplated such matters as well. Two
minutes later we had agreed to attempt P-B-P in 2007. This being
approximately one week after the end of the 2003 edition, we clearly had
every reason to start preparing=3F
Having been introduced to the likes of Richard Ballantine and Mike
Burrows at an Impressionable Age, I have been a convert to the Dark Side
of cycling for more than twenty years. Moreover, a dodgy back has made
riding an upright bike for more than about an hour an exercise in making
strange noises and praying for a mugging from a passing pub. Bryan had
been vociferous in his praise of Inspired Cycle Engineering=3Fs Trice XXL,
and thus when the Long-Term Savings Pixie came up with the sum needed,
an order was placed. The trike duly appeared just in time for my
("mumble" - Ed.) birthday in February 2004, and =3F save a week at Easter
freezing in Belgium and a weekend in June drowning on Britain=3Fs smallest
mass-participation cycle ride[1] - spent most of the year lurking
unridden in the Shedde. 2/10. Could do better.
2005 dawned, with a resolve to really /really/ do some of this riding
lark. To which end I found myself in a village hall in deepest
Hampshire in January, while my Arch-Nemesis in the racing game Mr.
Fleming (whom I later discovered to be preparing for Team RAAM, the
crazy mixed-up fool) complained bitterly that /his/ brevet card didn=3Ft
have a picture of a cute ickle bunny-wunny on it. Outside and off on
the Watership Down, where I promptly lost touch with most of the field
as various things worked loose or fell off. But I got round with plenty
of time to spare, it hardly rained and I /enjoyed/ it.
The onset of senility does not allow me to remember why I thought riding
the Cotswold Corker on a recumbent trike would be a Good Thing.
Especially as it meant spending the preceding afternoon sitting in the
pub determinedly /not/ drinking, and then driving to Oxford instead of
remaining in said pub marking the departure of a colleague from the
services of the Evil Squirrels who run my place of employment. Amazed
double-takes abound as the Trice is unloaded from the motorcar in
Bishop=3Fs Cleeve. The sentiment that it will fail to complete the ascent
of Bushcombe Lane - 1:4 - is expressed. More than once. Right, that
does it! It /will/ reach the top thereof, with me still seated, or die
in the attempt. And it did, just =3F the problem arising not through lack
of power per se (a 13=3F bottom gear will see one up most things) but
rather through sheer lack of traction on the damp and muddy bit near the
top. The knee-bursting nature of this ascent, though, was more than
compensated for by the descent into Winchcombe, with statutory recumbent
rider Manic Grin strongly in evidence. And repeat from above, with
variations. Including rinse. Bah!
Thereafter the next scheduled events were Mad Jack Fuller=3Fs in Sussex
and the Brazier=3Fs Run in Essex, but general knackerdom put paid to the
former and reports of two feet of /sno/ on the runway at Stansted, a
scant few miles from the start of the latter, scared me back into bed.
But the following week saw me at Henham for the Essex Lanes hundred
miler. Blown down to the first control at Coggeshall by a 100 mph
tailwind. Yay! Grind back to Henham into the teeth of same. Boo!
Finding the motivation to vacate a nice warm tea-equipped control to
ride the final loop was an exercise in self-mortification worthy of a
medieval monk.
After Easter it was time to join the Big Boys and Girls and become a
pukka Randonneur, with the Easter-delayed Summertime Special 200 from
Stevenage. Another windy day at first, but soon MartinM and I are
cruising across Essex and Suffolk at 30+ km/h. =3FI think the wind=3Fs
dropped=3F he said. I next saw him seated on the pavement outside the
post office in Finchingfield, morosely chewing a pasty and complaining
about the wind. I almost felt sorry enough for him not to mention the
aerodynamic advantages of the Dark Side=3F A few weeks later was the
Witham Wander, again in darkest Essex. I was dropped like a radioactive
rock on the first 50 km loop and came this (FX: holds thumb and
forefinger a hairsbreadth apart) close to packing. However, the
application of copious quantities of tea and cake revived flagging
spirits, and I think I completed this ride faster than any 200 of the
season. Odd.
Into May and the ECCA Festival 200 on the first Bank Holiday (about
which I remember little save some splendid Scandwegian-rally-driver-
stylee cornering on damp roads early in the ride) was followed by the
Four Rivers out of Shrewsbury. Cunningly, I had arranged to ride this
with Pete Cox, whose parents live in Much Wenlock, a mere 20 km from
Shrewsbury. And I hit 86 km/h on the way to the start. However, the
wind was in completely the wrong direction, being behind us on the
westbound lumpy bits, when it was of the least benefit. And Pete is:
=3F much fitter, and
=3F much leaner, and
=3F in possession of a rather lighter machine
than I, so he had to keep waiting at the top of the hills. And, of
course we had to ride back to Much Wenlock afterwards. And Much Wenlock
is on top of a damn great hill. And we decided not to go up the main
road, but rather up a =3Fscenic=3F back road, which was even steeper. Oog.
On the other hand, it was sunny all day. Which was nice.
The following weekend=3Fs Stonehenge, on the other hand, had rain of such
intensity on the return leg that I almost missed an info control due to
being unable to see certain important things, such as Wiltshire. Major
thanks are due to the tandem crew who sportingly let me sit on their
wheel for about twenty miles. Not thanks and Bah! to the realisation
that the last few miles to the finish, which were dead nice in a whizzy
hurtlesome downhillish kind of way, would have to be covered in the
opposite direction on the Rural South 300 two weeks later.
I knew the Rural South was going to be One Of Those Days when I arrived
at the start to find the Ortleib document pouch containing my route
sheet unaccountably absent from the crate of Belongings in the back of
my motorcar. I surmised that it had been blown away on the ten yard
journey between Larrington Towers and the said motorcar (though it was
subsequently discovered to be hiding under the kitchen table), and
resolved to introduce a formal checklist of Things To Take and Where
They Go without delay. This setback was followed by a visit from the
P+nct+r+ Fairy after 20 km. And another halfway up Butser Hill, in the
pouring rain. And the discovery that all my spare inner tubes were
afflicted with Cretinous P+nct+r+ Mending Syndrome. And the discovery
that one front light didn=3Ft work, while the other =3F mounted umop-ap!sdn
for arcane Dark Side reasons - was only any use for illuminating passing
Owls. With 60-odd km still to go, I installed the least-bad tube in the
rear tyre, banged it up as hard as it would go and prayed. It held up
which, in retrospect, turned out to be a Good Thing as I subsequently
found the business end of my pump to have gone AWOL somewhere in the
inky vastness of Hampshire. A new pump and a Several of brand new inner
tubes were obtained prior to the next event=3F
=3Fthe Plains 400. The first mile, I fervently hoped, was not going to
set the tone for the rest of the ride, as the Hunting/Johnston back-to-
back tandem trike and I got stuck in heavy Saturday lunchtime traffic
while the rest of the field vanished into the distance. Then we missed
a turn, and while we realised the error of our collective way almost
immediately, the Trice X2R requires almost as much space as a full-
length narrow boat to wind, so I lost my tow-cum-guide. However, I was
soon enmeshed in a group containing Madame Organisator Simpson. Good.
But they were travelling a little slower than I would have liked, so I
made my excuses and left, as any true Filthy Lying Journalist Scum
would. Only to be passed once more when You Know Who attacked my rear
tyre. Outside the smelliest dairy farm in Cheshire. After that, things
could only improve, if one ignores such trivial matters at missing a
turn a hundred yards from the Newtown control, having the previously-
mentioned and subsequently-mended duff front light:
a) turn out not to have been mended after all, and
b) break its bracket and fall off into the road
as well as one of my shiny new Cateye EL-500s make a determined bid for
freedom, courtesy of the Trolls who purport to mend the roads in
Montgomery. And while it wasn=3Ft exactly cold overnight, it utterly
failed to get any warmer in daylight. However, the café controls were
splendid. Especially the one just outside Shrewsbury where the local
chav-yer-ride-up types were convinced they were truly in the presence of
Madness as, one after another, cyclists appeared out of the darkness,
mumbled =3Fbeans on toast=3F at anyone prepared to listen and lapsed into a
state of coma on the table. A great ride; pity it clashes with Other
Commitments in 2006.
I hadn=3Ft intended to attempt a 600 in 2005, but a sudden fit of
Something had me entering the Great Eastern, which would have meant a
third consecutive weekend of Nocturnal Silliness. I was, however, not
too downcast that no entry appeared, as I=3Fd had laser eye surgery during
the preceding week; a procedure which brings with it the necessity of
applying several different types of eye drops on a regular basis. Not
the best thing to have to do with grubby fingers, in the middle of the
night, in some far-flung corner of the Empire.
July was a quiet month, only the Windmill Ride out of Chelmsford.
Someone told me that there were five windmills on the route; I think the
local pikeys have already flogged the other four on ebay. There was, of
course, the Dunwich Dynamo as well. On which it was noted that
standards of navigation among the general cycling public are not up to
the standards of the average audaxer. Time and again I was overtaken by
the same group of hard-charging roadies, only to watch their tail-lights
continue toward Ipswich at 90 mph, while I smugly took note of =3FL sp By-
Road=3F and similar. From all accounts I was quite glad to have elected
to ride back to London for a ~350 km round trip, as the poor sods
shivering on the beach at Dunwich all morning seem to have had a
thoroughly miserable time of it. It =3Fonly=3F rained for the last 70 km of
the return trip, naturally stopping the minute I was safely home and in
the bath. Which appalling timing also allowed the Base Australians to
beat the Noble BRITONS=3F England at Cricket.
The wetness of the foregoing was matched during the second half of the
Denmead =3FSummer=3F Randonnée. SimonB and I both fell foul of a pothole
deep enough to support a thriving colony of sticklebacks, while at one
point a river of Amazonian proportions was running across the road at
the same time as Yours Truly, another chap and an oncoming car were
attempting to ford it. With hilarious consequences. Not. The
following weekend was the Surrey Hills, when at least the weather stayed
fine. Bearing in mind the opinion of the average cyclist that
=3Frecumbents can=3Ft climb=3F, it was good to see one getting round at a rate
that brought looks of surprise to the faces of quite a few. A pity it
was LSMike=3Fs Challenge Hurricane=3F But I did manage to overtake a chap
on the way up the last crossing of the ridge. That is, =3Flast=3F except
for the further crossing thereof while riding back to Woking afterwards=3F
Into September and the Alan Furley Memorial Downs. The problem with
Downs is that they imply Ups as well, in this case some 2000+ metres of
them. And these were not spread out over the whole thing, no, but
rather placed strategically in the middle for maximum physical and
psychological damage. Ordinarily I should have been tickled by the
notion of having a control at Faccombe Hall; on this day, however, I had
almost lost the will to live. Note to other navigationally-challenged
incompetents, especially those with long hair: stopping to check the map
is better done out of the sight of the guardhouse at Aldermaston.
And then holidays =3F three weeks of pizza, BEER and no exercise. Should
I ever again voice the notion of doing a 200 the day after:
a) the above, and
b) a flight across eight time zones
you, Dear Reader, are at liberty to belabour me with a stout Malacca
until I see sense. While I felt fine after the first 96 km loop, by the
120 km mark my knees were protesting in no uncertain terms.
Fortunately, a well-placed Local Shop furnished supplies of Neurofen
sufficient unto the day.
And that was the end of the season (at least as far as AUK is
concerned), as lassitude (though I prefer to call it =3Fjet-lag=3F) sawme
fail to start the Emitremmus 100. =3FNext=3F season has already started,
though, with the Upper Thames 200. My heart had sunk when I got the
route sheet. I am reasonably familiar with the Bicester =3F Chipping
Norton =3F Brize Norton part of the route and was dreading the long drag
from Lower Heyford out of the Cherwell valley up to Chippy. It was
every bit as much of a drag as I had feared, the wind was getting up and
rain looked imminent. To add insult to injury, the café control in
Chippy mislaid my lunch. And I also recalled the plummet into
Chadlington, where I=3Fd managed to get my Speedmachine airborne over a
hump-backed bridge a couple of years previously. The problem being that
today we were going the other way=3F General lack of miles took its toll
on my poor abused legses =3F 500 km since a three week holiday during
which the most strenuous thing achieved was the reloading of the car=3Fs
CD changer =3F resulting in a T > 12 hour finish. Oh, the ignominy=3F
Into December, and the South Bucks Winter Warmer, which rapidly vacated
South Bucks in favour of Berks, Surrey and Hants. I rather hoped that
the attack of The Wobblies which beset my front light some 2 km into the
ride was not going to set the tone for the whole day. The more so when
it fell clean off shortly after breasting the climb out of High Wycombe.
Fortunately it didn=3Ft and a splendid day ensued. Crossing the Thames
via the narrow bridge over Hambleden Weir, in the dark, was, ah,
/interesting/. Anyone considering this ride on an upright trike is
advised not to. Unfortunately, some inconsiderate so-and-so had bunged
an inconveniently large hill between the river and the finish, on the
descent of which the right front tyre vehemently cried =3Fenough=3F. I
limped the final 8 km on the flat, as it was almost certainly beyond
redemption anyway. Recumbent trike front tyres get a pasting on the
kind of roads beloved of Audax Organisators, especially the right one.
Final ride of the year was the More Mulled Wine And Mince Pies, from
Denmead. I hadn=3Ft originally planned on doing this ride, but MartinM
twisted my arm and on a crisp, sunny and slightly frosty morning off we
went, me resplendent in Santa hat. In the absence of a Surfeit of
Marathon Slicks in the LBS, the rear tyre had been moved to the right
front and a new one fitted to the back, with two more on order. And the
errant front light had been Disciplined, which explained why it was now
3 km before it mounted its customary bid for freedom. Which meant that
fellow Darksider garryb59 vanished into the distance and was not seen
again until the halfway point, atop a mountain outside Stockbridge. I
recognised the final 10 km or so from the Denmead Summer Submarine
Invitational. =3FAh!=3F I exclaimed. =3FHere is where that huge puddle was.
Here is where I got drenched by an oncoming motorcar. Here I stopped to
evict a shoal of bream from my shoes=3F. "R after church Chapel Road"
said the route sheet. Into New Road we duly turned. With Chapel Road
being obscured by a white van, myself and two other chaps went hurtling
down the wrong road and round in small circles squeaking until we
suddenly encountered a passing A32 without having to recourse to the
ultimate indignity =3F looking at the map! Own volume in tea and mincers
duly consumed back at base.
A discreet veil is best drawn over the racing season. I managed not to
fall off, but have still not come close to re-mastering the art of going
round corners...
1. The Old Crown Challenge. Durham -> Hesket Newmarket via Weardale,
Alston & Penrith. Back the next day. Approximately 260 km round trip.
Number of riders in 2004: 2. Not held in 2005=3F
--
Dave Larrington - <http://www.legslarry.beerdrinkers.co.uk/>
I am Wan, for I am pursued by the Army of Plums.