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AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 27: EPILOGUE

 

 

We did not ride as a team and there was no identifiable peloton. Team Carlos-Weltschmerz did not have a sprinter in its ranks, and the circumstances would not have allowed for one anyway. We stopped twice. I had wanted to stop only once. Our attire was commanded by the cool weather, and so the resplendence of our raiment could only be fully revealed on Brighton’s waterfront when the cloud cover broke up and it became warm enough for short sleeves. Only two of us could be seen to be wearing cycling shorts. Alcohol was consumed. People had to push their bikes up steep hills. I didn’t even find time to eat my sickly energy bar. (I did so later, which is how I can testify to its nectarous property.)

I invented a challenge that wasn’t there, a race by proxy. I roped in colleagues. I encouraged immersion. I stipulated behaviour, imagined scenarios, avoided truths – deliberately. I focussed in on things. My bicycle became something else – it was my bicycle, just for me, and it looked the part.

            The London to Brighton IS NOT A RACE, but, descending down narrow leafy lanes, or riding through village high streets with the field well spread out, there were moments – brief moments – that it felt… like how I wanted it to feel. The act of it being relentless and unfolding, and of happening quickly, was pleasantly rewarding.

Was my obstinate insistence on riding a steel bike tenable? A case could be made, should one feel the need to defend against it. Let’s be clear: for the most part, I would have profited from riding a carbon bicycle. The course gradually ramps up towards the South Downs. The roads gravitate upwards. Going up the steeper hills, there’s no doubt that the inherent lack of density particular to carbon would have been to my benefit.

On the levels, too, a carbon bike has the edge – unless there’s a cross-wind. Then, the carbon rider will be required to expend energy keeping their bike on course, whereas on steel (or aluminium), I imagine it’s easier to hanker down and ride on throw it.

            It’s on the descents that I might feel a sense of vindication, almost by default. It’s not so much that I gained from riding steel than my carbon friends lost out. I weigh a little over 10 stone – there’s only so much weight I can carry. On the descents, a rider’s weight can contribute towards their forward momentum. Ergo, however aggressively I might choose to ride, I’m inherently less capable of reaching certain speeds than my heavier opponents. Under these circumstances, steel becomes my leveller. Whereas their modern bikes aid them on the climbs, that will count for nothing going downhill. My metallic form of propulsion, then, compensates for its lighter load, allowing me to compete on the declines.

            There aren’t a huge amount of descents from London to Brighton, but there are enough to have rewarded my sentimentality. It makes more sense, now, to think of all those people, on often the most unlikely bikes, hurtling down country lanes, apparently fearless. Mountain bikes, aluminium hybrids, BMXs and tourers were all giving it a solid go and reached velocities that implied it didn’t really matter what material one rides.

Even if I had wanted to ride carbon I couldn’t have really afforded to; £440 doesn’t get you much on the carbon market. It does – and did – buy me something half-decent in Columbus moulded steel, and a very pretty bike to boot. Two pretty bikes, in fact, except I had to sell one to fund the other. I would like to have kept the inimitable Carlos, but it was not to be.

The Carlos left its mark on this project in other ways, namely on my team’s name: Team Carlos-Weltschmerz. As silly as the appellation might sound to some, the Weltschmerz component was not as flippant as one might think: it summed up perfectly the physical constraints of the exercise in hand: fantastical, nugatory and unsound.

Do I go anywhere from here? Probably. Because of its geographical delineation, the London to Brighton comes across as a greater test than it actually is; at 54 miles, it’s not – or shouldn’t be – too much of a physical challenge. That’s not to detract from the people who took part who thought that it was – and to an extent, Ditchling Beacon is deserving of its fearsome reputation – but 54 miles is little more than a ‘club run’ for many cyclists. There are people who cycle from London to Brighton and back just as a fun day out. When I started all of this, cycling in and out of London seemed like a big deal. Now I’m rarely content with a loop of anything less than 30 miles. I’m not sure if I fancy cycling all the way to Brighton and back, but I am thinking about heftier challenges; maybe the 75 mile Sussex Surrey Scramble?

I don’t think I’ll begin to emerge as a particularly good cyclist – above average at best. Despite a staminal tenacity, I’ve never been strong or powerful enough to really excel at any sport, and I respect those who can and do. Which is a shame because I think it must be a great way to earns one’s keep. That said, it quite boggles the mind what professional cyclists must go through – ascents ten times as long as Ditchling Beacon and just as steep – and I can begin to understand why they sometimes throw up the moment they cross the finishing line.

In truth, it’s an elite few who can push their bodies to such limits. Even those cyclists who applied themselves from an early age, and were fortunate enough to have the support, circumstances and wherewithal to prosper, most of them never win a stage at a grand tour, and content themselves with the role of domestique – or ‘water carrier’ – for the duration of their sporting career. So as much as the peripatetic nature of being a professional sportsman appeals, I guess it’s mostly hard work. But still…

Cycling has brought with it an extra dimension of interest. It has reminded me of being 15 again, when I was consumed by football and troubled myself with all its trappings. My favourite book back then was Simon Ingles’s The Football Grounds of Europe. I became obsessed with stadium architecture, so much so that I used to design my own. I possessed at least five football tops, three of which were Italian (Internazionale away, and Torino and Fiorentina home). I could name Everton’s preferred first-eleven. I knew which country had won every World Cup and in what nation it had been hosted. I even owned a pair of goal-keeping gloves. But I was 15 and at that age such behaviour is acceptable. You may even be lauded for it. I am 38.

The Tour de France is on. Chris Froome is the favourite to win. By the time you’ve read this he may well have been crowned champion. Contador has yet to propose any serious opposition. Valverde’s hanging in there. Cadel Evans looks well out of it.

            And so has begun another flourish of enthusiasm akin to that which accompanied the Vuelta a Espana last year and set me on my quest to find an appropriate bicycle. I look forward to reacquainting myself with Gary Imlach. Gary Imlach is as good a presenter as one could hope for – slick, amusing and well informed.  He should probably think about letting go of his hair, and exhibits quite a hangdog kind of look, but what does that matter?

            I like it best when I’ve been out drinking and I return home to top the evening out with the Tour highlights and a beer. And then, the next day, I’m out on my bike again, although a pain in my right knee is preventing me from pushing as hard as I did through May and June. Cycling has become an inveterate interest, just something I do, and only persistent injury and bad weather will stand in my way.

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 26: FROM LONDON TO BRIGHTON

It is 04.55 and my bedside clock is emitting an urgent series of bleeps that will crescendo into a sonic frenzy if I fail to intervene. If that doesn’t wake me, then my mobile phone has been instructed to contribute its marginally less tumultuous tone a minute or so later.

There is no need. I’ve had about six and half hours sleep, but of an acceptable standard, it isn’t cold and I feel remarkably spry. This is contrary to how I would normally expect to feel at this hour. It’s not that I struggle with rising early – during my intermittent periods of unemployment that have characterised these last nine months, I’ve been habitually up by 08.00 and on the road for 09.30 – but any earlier than, say, 06.00 and I can find it all a bit menacing.

Not today, though. For breakfast I have pitta bread stuffed with a whole tin of tuna, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee. This is in no way an exceptional start to my day, although I’d usually hold off for an hour or so before making coffee.

I listen out for my neighbour and think I hear him. When I’ve finished in the shower I can definitely hear him. I get dressed and alert Mommersteeg of my near readiness. We are a little behind our agreed schedule but I’ve only got to fill my bidon with EPO and H2O, and I’m primed.

Mommersteeg isn’t primed: his rear brake has jammed. He tinkers with it and improvises a solution. We leave our respective flats at 06.05, 20 minutes later than planned.

It’s Sunday and an exiguous collection of vehicles stalk West London’s roads, although there’s more traffic than one might expect for the time of day. As we near Putney other cyclists begin to emerge from many directions, united in purpose. By the time we’re descending Battersea Rise, they’re everywhere.

            Team Carlos-Weltschmerz is supposed congregate around Clapham Common Bandstand anywhere between 06.15 and 06.30. By the time Mommersteeg and I pull up it is 06.40. The rest of the team are ready and waiting and I respect their punctuality. Apologies are offered for our tardiness, although we do point out the mechanical cause of our delay.

My team’s jerseys are looking good, but it’s a little fresh and some of us are wearing outer garments and base layers. Only Mommersteeg’s St. Raphael and Wenborn’s Château D'ax Gatorade tops are actually perceivable, although Evans (S) is wearing a long sleeve retro-styled Peugeot jersey over his short sleeved Café de Colombia one, so really it’s only me and Gowland who aren’t visibly paying homage to cycling’s past. We momentarily remedy this for an improvised team photograph.

Our allotted start time is 07.00 and it says so on the rectangular pieces of paper the British Heat Foundation posted to us, along with the edict that we attach them to our clothes. They are even coloured in a peremptory coding, designed, I presume, to deter queue jumping. Our plan is to join the event a little ahead of the starting line anyway, at the roundabout where Nightingale Walk joins Nightingale Lane, to avert getting caught up in the bunch. This strategy ensures that we are on the road for 07.00, eluding a multitude of cyclists and delaying us no further.

It’s a token gesture. By the time we’ve hit Bellevue Road we’ve lost sight of Mommersteeg and Gowland, who’ve been sheared off ahead of the group via the medium of traffic lights and marshals holding placards commanding us to pause. These signalling devices proliferate all the way along Burntwood Lane, Garratt Lane, through Tooting and along London Road, and our progress is mulishly slow.

After about 15 minutes or so, Gowland materialises out of nowhere, smoking by the side of the road. He extinguishes his cigarette and re-joins the group, but can’t enlighten us as to the whereabouts of Mommersteeg. Now I’m torn between riding with Gowland and Evans (S) or catching up with Wenborn, who’s slowly pulling away from the rest of us. I do my best to fluctuate between the two, and collisions are only narrowly avoided. It is apparent that I need to commit one way or the other, and my appetite for progress determines the outcome.

It’s not really until we’ve reached Carshalton that I’m able to settle into anything resembling a rhythm. Mommersteeg is still out of sight, Wenborn looks like he might be going that way, and I can only assume that Evans (S) and Gowland are somewhere behind me. As I turn right onto Pound Street, with ponds to both sides, I can feel the tempo rising. The field is starting to spread out a bit, and I push on unimpeded.

Suburban now, and with about 11 miles covered I hit the first discernible climb. It’s not a steep or long climb but the path is bloated with cyclists and everybody toils to keep out of each other’s way. I think this is Woodmansterne Road and past its humble peak the field begins to thin out again. I’m conscious of the fact that I’m now averaging a fair speed (whatever that means) and the short descent down the B278/Rectory Lane excites. I have little idea of how far I’ve travelled or where everybody else is. I’m not particularly concerned; the sense of occasion has me in its thrall.

Then there’s another short climb (up How Lane) which is even more congested, although my legs feel fine – indeed, I’m churning a relatively big gear to maintain the momentum and dodge the dawdlers. It occurs to me that the allotted starting times bear no relation to a rider’s capability or intent. Either that or I’m selling people short, for there are a lot of well-worn bikes and inappropriate-looking cyclists keeping up a respectable cadence, pinned with a colour coding corresponding to my own.

The weather’s holding up nicely. Conditions are still cool and overcast but I don’t think it will rain. There’s a complimentary stillness to the peloton, although really it’s no peloton at all: just a mass of bikes steadily moving forward. It’s a singular experience, this: people’s heads are down, nobody’s communicating. Dare I say the atmosphere borders on the funereal? There are spectators gathered here and there to cheer us on, but this is no London Marathon. These are transient moments and the speed of travel spares us reciprocation.

Miles 14 through to 17 are uneventful, passing through fields, pop-up barbeques and through small villages, and then breaching the M25. I do, however, find Wenborn pausing at the top of Rocky Lane, waiting for the rest of Team Carlos-Weltschmerz to catch up. He asks if we should wait for the others, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen them so I advise we press on. Still no sign of Mommersteeg.

There’s another climb at about 20 miles – Church Hill – taking our elevation up to 430 feet (although we reached 577 feet earlier), but it’s no great strain. On the other side of Church Hill is the descent down Cooper’s Hill Road. It is fast and exhilarating, the tree lined banks of this country lane creating a tubular effect, and the vicarious pleasure of the event – in lieu of genuine Tour conditions – is gaining momentum. I’m surprised at how fast most people are tackling these descents and the marshals admonish us for our velocity. Some of the hairier corners are backed up with bales of hay as a precaution.

I’m still just about keeping up with Wenborn. Along the flatter sections – through Smallfield and along Redhill and Effingham Road – I’m with him most of the way, and we talk of our progress, the distance left to Turners Hill, and hotdogs. I’m absolutely ravenous and it’s very tempting to stop for something to eat, perhaps at Burstow Scout Hut and to hell with the schedule. Wenborn reassures me that there’s not long to go until Turners Hill. Then he drops me and I’m all alone again.

Turners Hill Road is the first climb deserving of our effort, and at the top is Turners Hill. It’s taken us 30 miles (neglecting the distance any of us had to travel to reach Clapham Common) and over 2 hours to get here. It has cost Wenborn 2 hours and 6 minutes, to be precise, or so says his Garmin computer. From that we can deduce that it’s taken Mommersteeg – who, under the impression that he was behind us all, sped on ahead – about 2 hours and 5 minutes, and myself about 2 hours and 7 minutes. Evans (S) and Gowland follow approximately 10 minutes after that (or however long it takes us to lock our bikes, take a leak and buy a cup of coffee). Using the Tour de France system to determine a Points Classification, and assuming that we’ve completed a “medium mountain stage” (because I’ve now suddenly decided that this is how I’d like to quantify our teams’s progress) the standings after Stage 1 are thus:

Points Classification after Stage 1

Mommersteeg: 30

Wenborn: 25

Evans (J): 22

Evans (S): 19

Gowland: 17

I hadn’t realised how long it would take to get out of London. I didn’t appreciate that, although the route to London to Brighton is closed to traffic, open roads would recurrently interrupt our forge to leave the capital. I assumed that our scheduled stop in Turners Hill marked the halfway point, but it is three miles more than that, and feels like it. The back of the route is firmly broken, then, and we reward ourselves with a light lunch.

Evans (S) and Gowland acquire themselves a pint of ale to accompany their burgers made of beef. I had been resolutely anti-alcohol but Evans (S) deliberately exploits my fondness for cycling’s heritage to point out that alcohol was used to aid many a cyclist’s fortune back in the day. I compromise and buy half a lager to accompany my sausage filled bap and think of Jacques Anquetil some more.

            There’s a church fete kind of atmosphere all about us. Refreshments and sustenance abound, and a brass band strikes up a tune. There’s no sense of competition amongst the massed, although I wouldn’t say we’re overwhelmed with camaraderie either. People are friendly enough but nobody’s checking out each other’s bikes, or admiring Team Carlos-Weltschmerz’s sartorial elegance.

I identify a nice Chas Roberts road bike which I swear I saw on Gumtree a few months back; it is coloured racing green with yellow bar-tape, so quite distinctive. Why is nobody looking at my bike?

After about an hour we’re ready for Stage 2 of the… race! I suppose that Stage 1 hasn’t turned out quite as I anticipated. There has been no discernible peloton – just a chaotic conglomeration of riders riding at varying speeds – and Team Carlos-Weltschmerz has struggled to keep together. Consider our bicycles:  Wenborn and Mommersteeg have the lightest, most expensive bikes, and that’s paid off for them. Conversely, Evans (S) is riding an aluminium hybrid with treaded tyres and two panniers strapped to either side of the back wheel – with this in mind, to be only 12 minutes down in the general classification is actually quite respectable. Gowland’s bike is also made from aluminium but it has road specific tyres and he’s not attached panniers. I fancy my steel bike to be more congruous still, and that I’ve spent much of time stuck in the middle implies that this could very well be the case. We resolve to try to stick together for a while. Maybe we can start to help each other out?

            It’s also decided that we’ll reconvene at the top of Ditchling Beacon no matter how the next “stage” pans out. I’ve come around to the idea of this two-stop strategy, not so much because I like it but as a result of wanting to establish a rough general classification. For this to work we need to follow the same schedule, which means beginning the descent into Brighton as one.

Turners Hill debriefing

Team Carlos-Weltschmerz climb back upon their bikes and within about a mile they’re spread out again, along the same lines as before. I suppose if one’s riding a Condor Squadra or a Specialized Roubaix it must be hard to resist the temptation to see what it can do.

            And then, somewhere on the approach into Ardingly, just 4 miles on from Turners Hill, I pass Wenborn and Mommersteeg fiddling at the side of the road. It doesn’t look like a puncture is the problem because they appear to be playing with something in and around the pedal area of Wenborn’s Roubaix. This is on a slight descent and I’m travelling along the opposite side of the road, making good time.  I would like to stop and help but can’t fathom how to safely go about it. It occurs to me that Stage 2 must be a High Mountain Stage, so whoever’s first up Ditchling Beacon would have to be King of the Mountains. Like Javier Chacón sensing his opportunity, I decide to move up gear – literally and figuratively – and see if I can put a bit of distance between me and the rest of the bunch. I do not expect my breakaway to succeed.

A group of riders in full British Airways regalia are vexing me. They look serious and they sound serious. It appears they’ve made it their mission to take every descent as recklessly fast as they possibly can, aggressively overtaking down the right hand side of the road. Then, when the course starts to straighten out, they slacken off, contradicting a physical mien that leads me to believe that they could push harder if they so desired. This is frustrating because after overtaking them on the flats I’ve then got to repeatedly deal with their blustering antics whenever the road decides to take another tumble.

The next nine miles are all whirlwind, heat and flash. I pass through Lindfield and Haywards Heath, and still no sign of either Wenborn or Mommersteeg; the Roubaix or the Squadra. I’m riding “full gas” (I’ve been dying to write that), taking on liquids regularly, and I look to have freed myself from the British Airways mob. I feel champion. For a few miles I make it my mission to follow in the path of an androgynous figure speeding along on a Charge Plug fixed-gear bicycle. When the road slings upwards, and my gears give me the edge, I find someone else to hang to. I’m not looking for any assistance – just incentives to drive me continually forward, like Javier Chacón.

            It’s on exiting Haywards Heath – or soon after – and riding up Fox Hill/Lunce Hill, that one catches the first glimpse of The Beacon. It’s an intimidating presence, although still some way off: about four miles. It looks so sheer one cannot comprehend cycling up it. I start easing up in preparation, although I’m very conscious of the possibility that Wenborn or Mommersteeg, or both, may not be far behind.

Through Wivelsfield and the nearer I get the harder it is to see how close The Beacon really is, for it is now obscured by trees and buildings. Passing through Ditchling itself, and then along Beacon Road, I’m incapable of discerning the precise moment the climb is supposed to kick in. And then Ditchling Bostall – the road that ascends the beacon – is suddenly there. So abrupt is its emergence that it takes me a few moments to decide it is what it really is.

            What I fear most is the presence of other cyclists, and particularly those who will struggle to stay true. If I come off my bike I know I won’t be able to get back on, for the road is too steep and congested to allow for it. It is a serpentine trail, which is probably a good thing for it obscures its length and therefore its potential duration. A swerve to the right, a sharp swing to the left, and general windingness thereafter. My cadence is steady and I’m happy with how the Romani is responding. A tortured woman almost veers into me and apologises profusely, but I manage to hold my course. The profusion of her confession means I don’t hate her for it.

I pass a sign informing me that I have 800 metres to go and cannot decide if this is a good thing or bad. When I reach the next sign and it tells me that there’s still another 400 metres remaining I conclude that it was probably bad.

A man is pushing his bike up on the right side of the road, which is forbidden, or at least audibly discouraged via the medium of megaphones. It’s a terrible effort to circumnavigate this dozy article, and I have just enough breath spare to make him aware of this. He offers nothing in reply, which means I absolutely loath him for it.

            Sat out of the saddle, I reach the top and pull into the maelstrom foaming at the side of the road. Approximately 1 minute later, so does Wenborn. I AM KING OF THE MOUNTAINS, but wouldn’t be had Wenborn not suffered unspecified technical difficulties on the run into Ardingly.

A few more minutes elapse and then Mommersteeg emerges. The three of us have made it up Ditchling Beacon without dismounting. Another 5 minutes and Gowland shows his face, and Evans (S) soon after. They had to alight about halfway up, and there’s no shame in that.

Points Classification after Stage 2

Mommersteeg: 30 + 15 = 45

Wenborn: 25 + 17 = 42

Evans (J): 22 + 20 = 42

Evans (S): 19 + 11 = 30

Gowland: 17 + 13 = 30

The weather, which on Friday had been forecast in a very negative light, but by Saturday had been revised to say it would be largely rainless, has very much behaved itself today: light winds, overcast but dry, approximately 15°C. Now, though, the wind and the rain have tuned up unannounced, and our sojourn atop Ditchling Beacon is but a brief one. Plans to approach the final descent with my jersey on display – for I’ve been wearing my Mavic technical jacket all the way – are abandoned. What’s more, this act of meteorological sabotage decimates the efficacy of my brakes. The flat ride over the top of Ditchling Beacon is not as aggressive as it could, or should, be, and I spend much of it riding at the back of the group alongside Evans (S) and Gowland. Wenborn and Mommersteeg repeat their disappearing act and form yet another breakaway.

            My brakes have recovered their purchase in time for the descent down Coldean Lane, but the standing water discourages me from freewheeling down this monstrously steep declivity.

            Along the A270/Lewes Road, and the terrain has levelled out. I pedal accordingly. I have since overtaken Evans (S) and make it my mission to finish before, or with, Gowland. I pass as many people as I possibly can and nobody gets past me. By the time Lewes Road has morphed into Richmond Terrace and reached Grand Parade, we’ve all been siphoned into designated bike lanes, demarked by railings and regulated by traffic lights. There’ll be no sprint finish here.

            Actually, as Madeira Drive widens, there’s just enough time for a final turn of speed, and I’ve plenty left in the proverbial tank. I collect my “medal”, find the Carlos-Weltschmerz support team of one, wander about looking for the rest, and then remember that we’d agreed to reconvene at the Concordia, where will I find my fellow riders in the process of acquiring celebratory alcoholic beverages.

The final flourish into Brighton has been more akin to an intermediate sprint or a time trial (this is all relative), which leaves the Points Classification as thus:

Points Classification after Stage 3 – Final Classification

Mommersteeg: 45 +17 = 62

Wenborn: 42 + 20 = 62

Evans (J): 42 +15 = 57

Gowland: 30 + 13 = 43

Evans (S): 30 + 11 = 41

Turns out I overtook Gowland somewhere along the A270 without even realising it.

 Team Carlos-Weltschmerz

In terms of General Classification, we deduce that Wenborn must have recorded the fastest time. With regard to the Points Classification, it’s a draw between the breakaway boys. As for who’s King of the Mountains there was only one ‘mountain’ (don’t laugh: Ditchling Beacon is as steep as Mount Ventoux, albeit a tenth of the distance) and I was first up that – thanks to Wenborn’s technical hitch – so that will be me. But there’s only room for one winner in the five-man Carlos-Weltschmerz, and on balance that has to be Mr Wenborn. Well done, Mr Wenborn – here’s your bottle of champagne, a furry ape holding a banana, and some bizarre ceramic ornament, collectively worth a little over £10.

            We then proceed to get quite drunk.

Wenborn receives accolades

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 25: FINAL TOUCHES

I rode well on Sunday. I cycled out to Chertsey, made the right calls at the junctions and roundabouts on the pre-planned route back to Kingston, stopped for coffee, before then improvising a ride out to Wimbledon, Wandsworth and Putney. 37 miles in all, but I could have done more. It was reassuring.

            This was with one week to go before the London to Brighton itself. How does one approach training so close to the event? I read somewhere that on the penultimate day one should abstain from training altogether – take a day of rest – and then on the day before partake in some light cycling. I’m happy to go along with that, but what of the rest of the week? Should it be given over to a period of quiescence, or is it preferable to go all out and build up some muscle reserve? Or somewhere in-between?

I did nothing on Monday, although it was hard to resist the temptation to do otherwise. On Tuesday I took the bike on two laps of Richmond Park, then another half lap to catapult me towards Wimbledon. 31 miles in all and, again, I felt capable of riding farther. Went for a run on Wednesday, to rest the muscles employed for cycling and to test my stamina, then went bouldering in the evening.

            Thursday presented me with something of a dilemma. I was decided in favour of cycling but was not sure how hard to push. I wasn’t even certain how much progress I’d really made with regard to my fitness since that jaunt out to Box Hill. My laps around Richmond Park had proved inconclusive. I was averaging 22 minutes in a counter-clockwise direction, although my methods of timing were imprecise. For example, on my first attempt I noted that it was 09.46 when I began my first lap, 10.08 as I finished, and 10.36 on completion of the second. My other circuits of Richmond Park yielded identically vague results.

            In an anti-clockwise direction my laps came out at 23 minutes, although they felt no slower. In all instances I had to cycle into a headwind for at least a couple of miles of every 6.7 mile lap. From what I can tell, these times are just – only just – about acceptable if one takes into account the weight of my steel bike and the added wind resistance, but I’d like to be recording better. But then that’s how it goes sometimes, without the adrenaline of ‘the event’ to spur you on.

In the end, I rode 33 miles on Thursday in a bizarre improvised loop that saw me cruise through Kingston, Wimbledon, Tooting Broadway, Streatham, Brixton, Vauxhall, Pimlico, High Street Kensington, Shepherd’s Bush, Acton, Ealing Broadway and Brentford. On Friday I rested, and drank a little because I thought it might help me sleep better on the Saturday. And because I thought it was what Jacques Anquetil would probably have done.

            On Saturday afternoon I readied myself. I’d passed my expendable baggage to my colleague, who would be travelling down to Brighton on the Saturday as part of Carlos-Weltschmerz’s limited support crew, so it was simply a matter of organising my attire, cleaning the bike, ensuring I had the requisite tools in case of a puncture, and preparing food and drink for the ride.

I wasn’t nervous or anxious, but I was alone and emotionally perplexed. The weather forecast for Sunday made for grim reading: heavy rain, 12°C, southerly winds – almost as bad as one could expect for the time of year. Forecasts – especially those put out there by the BBC – are not to be trusted, so I wasn’t overly concerned about that. I still felt weird, although I didn’t think it weird that I felt weird, because when one is faced with a weird situation one often feels a bit weird. To feel any differently would be weird.

It’s been almost nine months since I made the psychological commitment to cycling, to riding the London to Brighton, and, most importantly, of finding the appropriate bicycle. And herein lies the crux: if I’d already owned an acceptable vehicle then I wouldn’t have bothered writing any of this. Finding the right bike – and bear in mind that I was set on steel from the off – was more important than all the rest.

The reasoning is not simply utilitarian; it is aesthetic too. To succeed in my venture asked that I connect with something mythical, a beast worthy of my attention. I wanted a bike that was pure in its design, that was functional and at the same time beautiful – beautiful as a result of it being functional, like a Supermarine Spitfire or an E-Type Jaguar. It had nothing to do with being retrospective for the sake of being retrospective: it was the classic geometry I was after – not a Brookes saddle, brown leather bar-tape, or down-tube gear shifters (which I’ve got, whether I like them or not).

If that’s all it was about then why bother with the London to Brighton component? There’s no point finding a peculiar bike if you’re not going to ride it, and there’s no point riding the same bike if you’re not going to get something more out of it – otherwise I’d have been satisfied pootling about on the Jamis.

That’s not the whole story, though, because I’ve been defining this mission in combative terms. I’ve constantly referred to the London to Brighton as being a ‘race’, even though it’s not, and I’ve talked of pushing my colleagues to their limits, and of riding in a line and orchestrating breakaways. I’ve obviously got some sort of competitive issue although I’m pretty sure it’s against myself. I’m by no means a sore loser and my sporting exertions are rarely structured - meaning I don’t even need to be. But I do like there to be a point to my physical meanderings.

Why? Ask Javier Chacón. Why is he prepared to suffer for so little reward?  Poor Javier Chacón…

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 24: 'BEHOLD MY CHART OF ACCOUNTS'

 

 

Some people despise cyclists, or least that’s what they say. Others maintain that it’s only certain cyclists they don’t like – namely, the ones who wear Lycra (as if it’s okay to abhor some cyclists but not others on the basis of what they wear). Do people really think like that? It might just be the Media, pitching the yob in his/her white van against the snob on his/her bike: a class war played out on our roads where the unreconstructed working “man” goes up against the middle class hobbyist. Having no particular affiliation with either hierarchical faction, I’ve hitherto been able to observe this supposed conflict quite dispassionately. I’ve tried to keep right out of it. However, my increasingly severe attire makes this more and more difficult, and the perception could be that I’m now down with the bourgeoisie.

I am polite as I can be towards the responsible motorist, but won’t hesitate in hurling vituperation toward the cyclist who considers it beyond them to indicate. A failure to indicate is a very dangerous thing regardless of the nature of the vehicle intending to turn, although I think it should be noted that the motorist’s negligence has a potentially more devastating impact than the cyclist’s. Still, one group doesn’t seem to flout the rules any more or less than the other, and if there is much antipathy amongst those who share the road then one would be wise to perceive it evenly. (In my opinion, the most dangerous obstacle from a cyclist’s point of view is actually the pedestrian, but I’ve dwelt as long as I want to on the subject of road safety; I’m more concerned with the characteristics of my fellow cyclists, whether we share common traits and if I should be offering my support.)

I decided that it might be fun to use some sort of cycling computer to gauge my speed, distance travelled, and all that malarkey. I don’t think this sort of stuff should be considered mandatory for one to enjoy cycling to the full, but I must admit to revelling in the statistics Wenborn collated from his Garmin after we’d cycled to Box Hill and back (averaging a speed of just over 17 mph, for instance).

About a week prior to ordering the Foster Grant glasses, I stopped off to study eyewear in a cycling dealership west of Kingston, and wish I hadn’t bothered. All the glasses sold by said dealership are kept under lock and key, so I had to request access from whoever could permit me access. Some lugubrious middle-aged man was tasked with the job and I wondered if his dour façade reflected genuine tragedy. The glasses did not suit regardless.

I had not thought much about this particular incident and have since returned to the Cycling Dealership West of Kingston to analyse helmets (and was then offered more friendly female led assistance). Out of convenience, and also by way of thanks for unwittingly allowing me to conduct research in their store, I returned to The Cycling Dealership West of Kingston with an intent to buy the Cateye Strada 8 – a wired computer capable of recording current speed, maximum speed, average speed, total distance travelled, trip distance, second trip distance, and elapsed time. Among its other features are a programmable odometer, auto stop/start function, pace arrow and an auto power-saving mode. It retails at the CDWoK for £26.99, which I’m given to understanding is perfectly reasonable for something of this specification. (I always assume that the CDWoK charge above the market rate, but their pricing policy tends to be quite fair.)

I was concerned as to whether the Cateye Strada 8 could be securely attached to my quill stem for I am pushed for space along my handlebars, and the quill stems are not shaped like threadless stems whose parallel dimensions are more conducive to the mounting of accessories. I asked for advice and got it. The marginally less lugubrious gentleman who served me thought it would probably work, but I elicited from him his permission to return the goods if I found them to be incompatible.

I might have been able to make it work but I fancy the threaded Cateye Strada flex-tight clamp would have been placed under some duress. That aside, the computer itself did not appear to slide in and out of its mounting bracket the way it’s designed to. I couldn’t get it to connect at all, in fact, so returned to return the goods that I had been assured were returnable.

I was looked at with some suspicion when I asked for my refund (although he hardly looked at me at all). ‘Why?’ was the response. Not the same gentleman, but this guy’s demeanour suggested torpor and despair were company policy at the CDWoK. I explained my predicament and, without a word, the man eviscerated the packaging and began about trying to fix the computer upon its mount. He did so, but not without some struggle, and then failed completely in removing it again. There was no question of not returning my money now. He even offered a hint of a smile as he handed me back the cash.

The CDWoK allows you to ‘meet the staff’ on its website, although only about half have been allocated facial imagery. I can’t therefore identify the guy who sulked his way through showing me the Northwave glasses, but can tell you that the man who barely uttered a word whilst gradually providing me with a refund is in fact the Store Manager. Way to go, boss man.

I would like to point out that all my other dealings with the Cycling Dealership West of Kingston have been reasonably positive. I allude to the sullen few not to put people off of shopping there (if you can indeed deduce the company in question) but merely to entertain the hypothesis that these people might be representative of the industry as a whole.

So are they? A prerequisite for the job is certainly a fondness for cycling, although not necessarily of the road orientated kind, and the CDWoK do co-sponsor a modest cycling team. On the other hand, in-store there’s almost as much emphasis towards triathlons, and those online profiles point to sporting interests amongst the staff stretching well beyond that – skiing, football, even golf.

I suspect it’s the people who shop in the CDWoK who might feasibly be more indicative of the scene. I’ve witnessed a few horror shows, too: customers discussing, in great detail, their cycling exploits with the staff, whilst stood in full racing gear, helmets on and everything. But you get berks like that in all walks of life, don’t you?

I decided against re-investing in another computer. As much I was enthralled by the idea, it was an expense I could not presently uphold – maybe something for the future.

And I finally sold my Uvex helmet – for £25, making a loss on the postage I’d paid to receive it – and was determined to sort out a replacement as soon as possible. This I had almost done when I’d identified the Louis Garneau Le Tour or the Kask K50 as potential new helmets, but held firm with my policy that required that I’d have to sell before I could buy. My budget set at £50, I’d had no luck finding the Louise Garneau Sharp or Giro Savant in any sale, on-line or otherwise, so had given up on them. The Louise Garneau Le Tour retailed at £44 from Evans Cycles in what seemed to be an exclusive deal. The Kask K50 cost more but could be found on-line for roughly the same. On balance, the Louise Garneau helmets had proved to offer a more reliable fit, so I bought the Le Tour – in all black because the white version was marred with silver streaks. Christ knows how much it costs to make these polystyrene head garments, but I suspect very little.

 

  

 

I hesitate to incorporate the cost of footwear into my budget for I’ve not procured anything cycling specific. Instead I’ve bought a pair of Nike Circuit trainers. Their sole is shallow and fairly stiff. They are narrow fitting, low set, and the front is shaped in accordance with my toe clips. And they are white. But I shall say no more about them because they’re not strictly relevant here.

That’s it: I have my tools needed for the job and can finally start unsubscribing from all the cycling websites that flood my email account with homogenous offers day in and day out. I shouldn’t complain because they’ve helped me to equip myself at a time of financial strain. I don’t really feel like I’ve had to compromise on quality either. There’s nothing I regret buying and little I would do differently. The Mavic jacket in particular has proved invaluable, and you wouldn’t believe how happy those Zefel toe straps make me.

So behold my chart of accounts:

 

Bought Items	Make/Model	Source	Value/£	Cost/£
Bike	Carlos	Vintage Bike Cave	295.00	295.00
Jersey	Descente - Spira	Ebay †	15.88	15.88
Jersey	Solo - Heuvel	Ebay †	70.00	29.50
Bottle cage	Elite - Ciussi	Halfords (Twickenham)	7.99	7.99
Water bottle	Elite - Cincio	Halfords (Twickenham)	5.99	5.99
Cycling shorts	Altura - Cadence	Evans (gift)	24.99	24.99
Gloves	Altura - Classic	Evans (Waterloo)	16.99	16.99
Saddle bag	Ortlieb - Micro	Unknown (gift)	18.50	18.50
Co2 inflator	M: Part - Micro	Bicycle (Richmond)	10.99	10.99
Jacket	Mavic - Sprint	Ribble (on-line) *	110.00	51.26
Socks	Mavic - Race	Cycle Surgery (Fulham)	8.99	7.19
Jersey	Caisse D'Epargne	Ebay †	N/A	15.22
Jersey	Carlos-Galli	Ebay †	N/A	12.49
Front light	Lezyne - Femto	Evans (Kingston)	12.99	12.99
D-lock	Kryptonite - Mini	Tredz (on-line) *	44.99	29.54
Bike	Romani	Vintage Bike Cave	475.00	445.00
Helmet	Uvex - i-vo	Ebay †	44.99	29.99
Jersey	Santini - La Vie Claire	Prendas Ciclismo (on-line) *	49.99	49.99
Gloves	Mavic - Espoir	Hargroves (on-line) *	20.00	13.30
Eyewear	Foster Grant - Tolerance	Foster Grant (on-line) *	26.00	17.42
Leather toe straps	Zefal - Christophe	Cycle Store (on-line) *	11.99	9.99
Cycling shorts	Santini	Prendas Ciclismo (on-line)	39.95	25.00
Socks x 2 pairs	Mavic - Century	Slane Cycles (on-line) †	22.00	18.98
Helmet	Louis Garneau - Le Tour	Evans (Brentford)	44.99	44.99
Footwear	Nike - Circuit	Sports Direct	46.99	33.00
Sold/Returned Items
Jersey	Caisse D'Epargne	Ebay	N/A	-41.53
Jersey	Carlos-Galli	Ebay	N/A	-10.00
Bike	Carlos	Private	-295.00	-325.00
Gloves	Altura - Classic	Evans	-16.99	-16.99
Helmet	Uvex - i-vo	Gumtree	-44.99	-25.00
TOTAL			1,068.22	823.66

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† Amount paid includes the cost of post & packaging

As you can see, I’ve made a decent saving, be it through purchasing on-line, selling items at a profit, or finding things in various sales. I’ve actually spent less than £823.66, as many of my acquisitions were gifts, but there seemed little point reflecting that in the figures because the point of the chart of accounts is to portray a sense of the savings there are to be had.
            The outlay on accoutrements alone is £394.49, but bought new or undiscounted they would have cost me £546.23. This isn’t including the articles I bought and sold or had refunded, or the trainers: it represents the cost of the accessories alone and the clothing I kept. This should give you some sort of idea of what anyone new to cycling might need to spend after they’ve shelled out for a bike.
            Of course, some might argue that I’ve not bought enough. I’ve figured that three jerseys, three pairs of socks and two pairs of cycling shorts will suffice, but it probably won’t – I regularly have to employ the use of regular socks and I’m constantly washing the rest. A computer might be deemed essential for anyone who’s serious about cycling, and I’ve certainly not invested in the attire necessary for winter riding.
            There are other costs, too, that I’ve not counted. I recently spent £10.19 on some SIS ‘GO ENERGY’ carbohydrate drink mix (or EPO, as I’ve taken to calling it – it’s potent stuff) with a free 800 ml bidon thrown in, and I will surely be buying further supplements to take during the course of the London to Brighton. But if I included consumables such as these, where would I stop? Should I factor in the extra eggs and mushrooms I’ve been buying to make large omelettes, or the almonds and cashew nuts to eat in-between meals? Nor did I factor in the expense of the services rendered at Crown Cycles, for such costs are on-going and part and parcel of owning a bike.
            You should get the picture. You should understand that you could kit yourself out for under a grand – that’s presuming you’d rather a half decent second-hand steel bicycle. If you’d prefer to ride a new (or carbon framed) bike then obviously this equation doesn’t quite work, but the cost of accessories could remain about the same. Look into it.