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.
