Wednesday 25th April. Very Wet, Very Short.

Would anyone be there? Should I be here? Rain is forcefully forecast by all weather sites viewed, and promised to be very heavy by lunchtime. I am, unusually, slightly early. I cycle in circles, and up and down the roads surrounding New Green Centre in Thurston. I see two bikes resting against the side of NGC - Sharon & another; Dawn perhaps? How long does it take to fix waterproof mascara?

Matt the racing motorist appears, slightly underdressed as usual. And also being slightly built there seems even less protection from the promised precipitation. Wind: east south east, gusts 31mph possible. I was thinking Thornham for tea, but Sharon has the better idea - circumnavigation of Bury St Edmunds so that, if the weather is seriously bad we won't be far from home at any point. I take us on an anti clockwise route which, with hindsight (a special power much in the news these days) wasn't the smartest move if Bury was to be at the centre of the route, since we were beginning 4 miles to the east. And, if we made it round to the west of Bury we'd have a headwind home. But none of this mattered at all, because we only made it round to Haughley before heading inwards. The rain had been gradually getting heavier since (possibly) Drinkstone. I had very roughly calculated that if the rain held off we could cover at least 50 miles without straying further than about 10 miles from Bury - no longer an even remote possibility!

The homeward stretch was tailwind-assisted which meant that what was by  now quite heavy rain wasn't being lashed into our faces; Matt and I began to quite enjoy our swishing splashing progress through the puddles - but in my case, not quite sufficiently to consider riding straight past my house. I waved farewell and scuttled indoors for a hot bath, leaving my companions to ride the remaining seven miles back to Bury.   SJH

Wednesday April 18th. Short Wet One.

I haven't attempted this for a while, the list of riders. We are now such a large Club, with new members nearly every month, that it can be hard to know who is who. I get everyone's names passed on to me by Peter - but I don't know what they look like. Photos, that might help. Anyway, we were: Glenn Morris, Guy Lesser, Will Mapus-Smith, Matt Parry, Mark Saunders, Dawn DiMarco, Sharon Calton, TomTom, Peter Heath and me (SJH). All forecasts were pretty grim - even the most optimistic, why is it that I try to seek out a better forecast? It's not going to change what will actually happen, after all. The promised rain held off until after our pitstop - but it made up for this by really chucking it down. The wind was absolutely as predicted, wild, 19 mph and gusting  to 30mph. I was very pleased that my "Lobster Claw" cloves are not only v v warm but also waterproof. Guy's breathable and waterproof jacket proved that it could only achieve one of those two properties. Don't worry Guy, I fell for favourable write-ups when I bought a pair of Endura "Deluge" gloves that had the word "waterproof" printed in yellow on the backs. Barely showerproof. Evans Cycles took it very well and refunded without quibble (just a "must be a faulty pair, I've used them all winter with no problems" to which the only reply has to be "yeah, right").

Peter entertained us

Pace felt quite brisk, possibly due to the youthful element - but maybe it's just subjective, like the Met Office weather website which gives the temperature and then a "feels like" number. So, pace medium feels like brisk. We are to go to Hollowtrees, which is actually Woodlands Café at Hollowtrees Farm, and is at Semer, as any fule no. As we near Lavenham Sharon peels off for home, and we peel off towards Preston St Mary, down to Brent Eleigh then up to Milden - marvelling that this was actually considered as a Mountain Points Prime in the Tour of Britain 2010 (admittedly, the Heroes of the Tour didn't have to stop at the crossroads partway up). The rain was still holding off as we arrived at Woodlands. Then there was a very loud drumming on the plastic roof of the entrance to the cafe, and on the sky lights in the room. Stair rods is the expression that covers what we saw outside, so we decided to dig in for a long tea stop. We'd arrived earlier than usual, and had time in hand. Every now and again someone would pop outside to check on the rain. Peter entertained us with a graphic demonstration of resuscitation technique - I can't recall how we got onto this - not realising that those at the far end of the table could only see his arms down to the elbow. Not able to see what his hands were up to, they just got the vigorous pumping action. Oh yes, and  his spirited rendition of "Staying Alive". Dawn had tears streaming down her face as we all laughed hard. Apparently, mouth to mouth resuscitation is no longer the priority, it is getting or keeping the heart going that's the thing. Peter quizzed good Doctor Lesser at the far end of the table about matters concerning  blood and oxygen and the good doctor confirmed the change in emphasis adding, dryly, that it was difficult to conduct any controlled tests.

The rain still sounded serious, but wasn't too awful once we were out in it, innitt. Those without mudguards suffered quite badly with the amount of surface water around, and all of us got the aforementioned soaking by the time we got home. Just 42 miles for me - and felt about right.

28th April, 2012. The beginning of an Awfully Big Adventure

Julian Claxton chats to the umbrella-man

Rain was forecast, and there was a bit of drizzle as I rode down to the Wheelers' HQ.   I missed Neil's speech, though he was still standing on a chair delivering the last few words as I struggled through the crush to sign on. It all felt like a Commissaire's race-briefing. Within minutes we were being urged to get a move on and ride down to Angel Hill for the official send-off. There was a quite impressive crowd, with a mixture of cyclists and "civilians" - relatives, supporters, the Mayor of St Edmundsbury and the Rwandan High Commissioner, who had a large black Mercedes (Reg No. RWA 1A), a chauffeur who quietly smoked as he leaned against it, and a man in a chalk-stripe suit to hold an umbrella. We milled around, tangled our bikes and dodged umbrellas. Once the Rwandan High Commissioner's speech was over, and we had rolled out Southwards behind Brian Aldiss on his hand-cycle to cheers and applause, we made a large enough group to cause a satisfying amount of traffic chaos behind us. Past the Rugby Ground and on, on, on to Rushbrooke Lane - oncoming cars inclined to give in and move over when faced with such a large and politely unruly group. By the time we reached Little Welnetham, there seemed to be fewer riders (had we split already?). Not the thirty-eight mentioned in Caroline's email - and far from the forty-eight claimed in the East Anglian Daily Times on Monday. Riding alongside Neil, I mentioned that I was happy to stay on the front for a while - and mentioned the German border as a possible limit.  I could tell how amused he was by how little his expression changed. I (look, I know this isn't all about me - OK?) met several new best friends as the group morphed and mutated and the cocktail-party-on-wheels element  got established.

Neil's interview:  "That's R-W-A-N-D-A"

The High Commissioner's Speech

 Names? Ah . . . names, um, yeah I got some names, but, well, you know how it is . . . Met two guys in smart matching outfits, one from Wickhambrook and the other from Bury. I only realised how local they were when I tried to take us all in the wrong direction, and it turned out that we were on the taller guy's training route.

Caroline, and my two anonymous chums

The groups were splitting up, and the front had to slow down several times. There was a wide disparity in experience; but we were united by our support for the incredible journey the Rwanda Quartet were beginning. At the front we ignored the huge weight penalty born by the our heroes, and pressed on into the increasing rain. We knew that they wouldn't want us to patronise them by going really slowly. We stopped at Bildeston for a thorough regroup, and for a couple

Caroline indicates it's time to go.

of riders to pop into major sponsors Lifecycle's shop to buy extra waterproof clothing. This was the last time we would all be together in one group, until Harwich. The further south we went, the heavier the rain and stronger the wind became - and the stronger the desire to get to our destination as quickly as possible. Neil had gone back to check up on two riders off the back, and I never saw him again. Even at the end. So "Stay Lucky, Neil!" as I might have said. There was a good contingent (half a dozen, maybe?) of Gt Yarmouth CC riders, being Julian Claxton's local club (sadly, only three of us represented the Wheelers. Me, Henry Wood and Paul Callow). They were satisfyingly impressed with Suffolk, even though we could hardy see any of the views on our route. Hadleigh's architecture was specially well-received by 'Ray'; it seemed that the deprecatory term they used for impressive buildings was "not a bad pile o' bricks". I pointed out that a lot of our fine houses were piles of bricks plus sticks.
The GYCC lads were very conscientious about directing traffic around our rolling road block (I know, we don't approve of that in the Wheelers) especially an energetic and muscular little guy with a voice like Jools Holland. I had a good chat with Julian, who is a professional photographer and told me about his awkwardness over appearing in the photos of others. I was forced to drop him near Mistley, because we were going up a steepish hill and, well, you know how it is . . . .
On the map, the road out to Harwich (well Parkstone, actually)  looked like a pan-flat road following an estuary. Not the case at all. There was quite lot of undulation, as with the rest of the Essex Coast round here. And when that finished, we had a block headwind for the final four or five miles, rain lashing us as we struggled along the main A120. Forty-two of the 6,000 miles the boys must travel have now been covered, leaving 5,958 to go. Paul Callow and I stood on the windswept car park of Morrisons and waited for our wives to arrive, everyone else had gone into the superstore in search of coffee. Caroline had turned up in Neil's pick-up - without Neil. She seemed reassuringly unperturbed by this (she had seen him several times through the afternoon, as they coordinated rescuing stragglers). I'm  sure we will all be thinking of the boys as they set off across Europe from Sunday morning. I didn't get up until after nine - and I didn't go out on my bike. I wrote this.    SJH

Today's  Kliban Cat Calendar page

Come on Julian - only 5,958 miles to go

Suffolk Punch: re-scheduled, 19 Feb 2012

This monument of the East Anglian Reliability scene having been postponed from the 5th of February still seemed well supported on the 19th. It was still extremely cold at the start of the day, as I rode in from Norton I thought that he cold was going to crack my forehead from side to side. There were patches of ice in the gutters of the road. I was not feeling like a 60 mile ride of any sort, let alone one as tough as Justin's masterpiece. Later on, I realised that I was being a bit hysterical and that there was no ice that couldn't easily be avoided on the route. The North West wind was something else altogether. The numbers on the Met Office site were around 15-20 mph, it felt even stronger to a mere human on a bike grinding to the top of the Hundon climb.

I had compromised slightly on my stated intention to ride fixed; I was on my best bike. That's a 100% compromise, also known as a u-turn. It didn't seem to help at all (except downhill). Even leaving Norton on the Thurston road, with its rise up to Great Green (my test whenever I set out for a club ride, how much does it hurt? How slow am I going?) the light-as-air Flandria feels more like Sir Jack (trade bike). At the HQ, where it was more sheltered, a jolly mood prevailed in the groups of cyclists standing around in the brilliant sunshine. Bikes leaned nonchalantly against the young trees. Justin moved among us, meeting, greeting and advising. Inside, familiar faces presided over the signing-on.

We were divided into small groups within our chosen challenges of speed and distance - I stayed close to Tom-Tom and Peter (Heath). We had planned to ride together. I seem to remember arrangements like this every year for the last ten or so. I don't remember very many that survived the course. Two miles covered, and Tom-Tom and I were slipping off the back before our group (60 miles at an optimistic 15 mph) had left Bury St Edmunds. The Cote de Westgate was steeper than I remembered - or the pace was brisker than we expected. Tom-Tom gave every impression of coping better than I was, but Peter looked perkier than both of us and proceeded to prove it as the ride progressed. I heaved myself up to Peter and (out of bravado, probably) rode alongside him, making polite conversation to prove that I wasn't totally out of breath. The rise on the road to Whepstead sorted us all out a bit further, then it was down to Harram Bottom and left towards Rede.  I was still with a few other riders by Hawkedon, but the tough stretch from there via Stansfield to Poslingford saw me distanced again. Back on by the time we reach the B1063 and heading north up to Hundon into the teeth of the wind, a group of 4 or 5 of us worked hard and went slow. I enjoy the downhill to Stradishall, using a big gear even with the headwind, and I caught up with Peter & Guy. I made a tactical error at the crossroads where we were to go straight over; I stopped to wait for TomTom. P&G went straight over at the first gap in traffic; the next time I saw them was at the HQ at the finish glowing with satisfaction at achieving 15mph average. Our group came upon Glenn Morris, sitting in the sunshine looking a bit dazed. Simon stopped to check he was OK. The word came back that he was fine "but he had experienced a mechanical which meant he went over the handlebars". TomTom said that I shouldn't hang about with them, but go ahead. When someone shows that sort of faith in my abilities I am generally foolish enough to believe them, so off I went, feeling quite the powerhouse that I am (not). 

This just isn't a good look

Ousden Hill, Hargrave, Chevington and Whepstead, down through Brockley to Hartest and left up the hill - feeling less than herioc by now. I haven't seen another rider since leaving TomTom. Down to Shimpling, right to Bridge Street (note, with sadness, that the Rose Pub & Café seems to be very much closed) Haul myself up the hill towards Lavenham and, just as I reach the summit TomTom drew alongside. We ride together for the remainder of the course. The final 4 miles were into the headwind again, and TomTom seemed to be on his second wind, attacking me a couple of times - and sprinting for the HQ. Note to self: adjust hat before anyone points a camera at me.

SJH

A Sharp Report

It was 54 years ago, at boarding school, when I last I fired a .303 rifle. I was part of the House target shooting team (rather than a member of a School Punishment Squad - by then punishment was corporal not capital). I remember the sound it made.
On days when I go for a ride, I cycle rather than walk up to the garage to collect my paper. It's only a couple of hundred yards, but helps establish how much clothing will be needed and saves time. As I returned, braking to turn onto the forecourt, there was a very loud CRACK!!!!. It was that .303 sound! Followed by the screeching of alloy rim on tarmac. I look down at the front wheel of Pearson (my winter fixed) to see the tyre one side of the rim, and the tattered inner tube on the other. A curl of of alloy was jammed into the brake caliper. Our bedroom is on the ground floor, so Mrs Blogger heard the noise. A B&B Guest in his bedroom in the Barn down the garden heard it, too. They both thought the sound had come from a car or motorbike.
"Good job" I thought to myself "that I wasn't doing 30mph downhill" Pearson had only the previous day returned from Mick Madgett's for new sprocket and chain to cure transmission noise. This wasn't the first time that Pearson had come to a screeching halt (see 20 November 2011 Blog for the unshipped-chain-at-25-mph incident). Remove wheel, select a front from another bike and proceed to rendezvous with the rest of the "loose association of like-minded gentlemen" who are to be my partners for the morning and I tell them what happened - eyes are widened, they all check their own rims for wear. My own rear rim is given a close examination - but how can you tell? Any wheel that's suffered a winter's riding will have some material ground away by the brake-blocks-plus-grit-and-mud mixture. It would be expected that the front would get the most wear - but how much longer do I wait before my rear rim fails?

We toil into the head and cross head winds via Knettishall Heath and East Harling, swing North and East to come into Thetford through Croxton. Having been dropped as everyone picked up the full-on tailwind and slight descent following the sharp climb through Croxton, I caught up on the slight incline (they were sort-of waiting for me) and swept by, head down, legs going like an eggwhisk and tried to keep ahead to Thetford Garden Centre - about a couple of miles. My maximum sustainable speed on 66" fixed is 24mph (though I touched 29) so, with a following wind and a fair bit of almost downhill I was onto a hiding to nothing being chased down by guys with gears. R*n pulled past with only a couple of hundred yards to go, followed by J*s*in then P*t*r.

We coped with the current serving arrangements at the Thetford GC Café. This appears to be a job creation scheme, and therefore ought to be cause for congratulation rather than complaint but here's the complaint anyway. We used to queue-up, place our orders and pay, find a table, food would be delivered, we would consume then leave. Now we find a table, sit and wait. Eventually our order is taken - but we can't see what's on offer even though it's on display just as it used to be back in the day when we would shuffle along and point to food mumbling "one of those please". When we leave, we have to queue to pay, against the flow of new customers - some of whom will assume that they should be queueing past the display. The food is reasonable and the price competitive, but the system is irritating. Having just spent an entire paragraph on geriatric obsession with matters of little real importance, I notice that my main point about staff numbers doesn't really apply. So, moving on . . . .

Normal route home, no surprises, no one dropped. Ixworth High Street; we discuss the fuss about the surface, and had just decided that however rough it might be it shouldn't be a safety issue because it doesn't include a corner when . . CRACK!!!!. That .303 sound again!. Here I (almost) go again, with a screaming rim sliding from left to right and left again - 18mph suddenly feels perilously fast as I struggle to slow down and then stop. I hadn't even touched the brake (Ah, it must have been that road surface after all). Phone home (lucky I wasn't north of Thetford) for recovery vehicle. What, we debate, would be the odds of having two rim-failures in the same day? 0800hrs and 1305hrs. We would assume a longer life for the rear wheel because the front brake is used more often. I am now in the position to define this differential; 46 miles. I could also put a number on the cost - but I'm not going to. I'm not much of a one for facing reality. On the bright side, the tyres, unlike the tubes, seem undamaged.

Wednesday 25 Jan. The Haggis Ride

The title of this blog is a bit misleading. I only use it because the date of this particular Wednesday Ride is that of Burns Night, and not because we had Haggis Butties in our jersey pockets. I am a big fan of Haggis and, in our restaurant days used to serve chargrilled slices of this 'Chieftain o' the Pudding Race' with a rasher of bacon and a Dijon mustard sauce, on mashed potato and wrapped in one of the savoury pancakes that were our speciality. Still possible at home on our little griddle, and one of the very few things that I cook these days.

Since we were nine or ten, we thought that we would take a chance on a visit to No1 Deli in Clare. If Richard didn't have enough room we could always arrange a re-structured loan facility and go to Cavendish Tea Room. We vaguely followed the Suffolk Punch route, going left when we reached the main road after Poslingford. We were warmly greeted, and took over (as you can see) a large part of the room. Richard was offering a special of 'Stollen' the delicious fruitbread-derived confection with a core of marzipan - it came as lightly toasted slices, and several of us ordered it. My picture of the counter area gives a good impression (rather better than the one on their website imho) of the generous profusion of goodies on display. If any of you haven't yet been, then do try. I have an idea that they don't open on Sundays - but as I sit here writing, I'm uncertain.

For a change on the return, after Poslingford we took the right turn that takes one through Assington Green - where we paused to repair a puncture for Matt the racing motorist; took rather longer than an F1 Pit Team. (confusingly about 20 miles north of Assington) and thence, via Denston to cross the A143 to Wickhambrook pick up the route into Bury that used to be such a feature of Sunday clubruns back in the day when we used the Stradishall Café (then called 'Hard Times') at least three times a month. There are so many more possibilities these days but, regrettably, Stradishall isn't really one of them. It's still there, but we've become such sophisticated bunch that we insist on freshly baked cakes and scones!

Extreme exercise without a Bike! 22:01:2012

"Is that you, Adi?"

It's Nowton Park, just before ten and it is a bit chilly. I don't have a bike with me. I'm going to be running. I've been doing this on my own for years, on and off. Always off-road as far as is possible. Now that we have a group of runners within the club who, from the photographs I've seen appear to be enjoying competitive cross-country events I thought to myself "why not have a go?"
I contacted Adi Barbrooke who was, of course, very supportive. Suggested that I should try doing two laps of my regular 5k route. Chest infection delayed the start of my programme, but, post christmas I was back and pounding across the fields around Norton - and even doing the occasional double lap.
So here I am on the 22nd of January, feeling rather like a labrador in a whippet race. Adi had his campervan set-up as an HQ, complete with a Wheelers and Tri banner and was handing out loan vests and reassurances to any who in need of either or both. Very friendly atmosphere - almost felt like an evangelical meeting, at times (how would I know that?). I lend my little Ixus camera to Nathan, with the instruction to "take lots of pictures, please"

"Right" said Adi "let's do a bit of a warm-up, eh?"

And right away I knew I was in trouble. If I'm going into the red just to keep up while everyone else is chatting, and it's only supposed to be warming up pace, I just might be in the wrong place. Remembering the stress of pre-road race (cycling) nerves, I comforted myself that this couldn't be as bad as that. Could it? Well not quite, the other competitors didn't look as terrifying and the likelihood of a crash was probably lower. But the dry mouth was there, and the heart was getting a bit excited as we stood around at the start. Loud hoot! We're off! Feels fine, I'm getting into a rhythm. It's not quite the same rhythm as the others, though.
A steady stream of runners overtake me - but only gradually. It's as if they're on a parallel conveyor belt that's set half a mile an hour faster than mine. By half way round lap one I'm only being passed every couple of hundred metres or so and occasional twists and turns of the course give me a view behind, and I'm reassured to see several runners behind me. Some of them stay that way, too. I cope with an attempted sabotage when a guy who might be even older than me threw himself to the ground as soon as he'd overtaken me (pretended to trip on a tree-root, but I wasn't convinced) yellow card at least, I thought to myself.
Eventually, close to the end of lap one, I was caught by Stuart Smith - also about my age (but I convince myself he must much younger) and, as we were entering a headwind section I moved up and ran on his shoulder. We chatted (yes, I could actually speak comfortably - definitely not racing then) amiably and he pointed out where the course went to the finish. Eventually he was doing what we cyclists know as half-wheeling, so I prudently dropped back saying that I'd better stay at my own pace. Someone who had passed me a while back pulled up with a calf problem. Tempting, I thought. "I was going so well, and then my calf/knee/thigh/brain packed up" but then I remind myself that I am made of sterner stuff.

Second lap, I know where it finishes, and I only have about 5k to go (the actual distance doesn't seem to be considered important in these events; an odd concept for a cyclist). No one has passed me for ages, but two blokes are moving within earshot. One of them sounds as if he will die before the finish. I put in a bit more effort - esp on inclines and in the headwind section, to keep ahead of the awful noise. I was gaining on my NBF Stuart, but when we talked after the 'race' he told me that he'd seen my approach and put in an extra burst to stay ahead. Welcome presence of Richard Seggar waving and shouting encouragement (well I think that's what it was) . I enter the quagmire that is the approach to the finish with what I kid myself might pass for a sprint, taking care not to end up face-first in the mud, and collect my plastic token. Warm welcome from those Wheelers with the patience to wait for my arrival, and great feeling of personal achievement - plus pain, of course.

I was 228th in 57:48, and 4th in the 65-69 age group. Stuart is in 50-54 (hah!) and just 12 secs faster. Nathan took a lot of pics - but none of me actually running. I know, I should've been more specific, shouldn't I?

All that was three weeks ago, and my right knee still hasn't recovered, though it's on the way. I will reluctantly have to give up my promising XC career - and go back to my solitary circuits. Very reluctantly I have reached the conclusion that the difference in effort when in a group is the difference between running to keep me fit and running to make me crippled. Pity.