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. 23: WHAT THEY CALL "A RUDE AWAKENING"

 

In chapter 13 I alluded to how my old Adidas Sambas made for a ‘perfectly serviceable pair of cycling shoes’.  They do, and they’re actually more suited to pedalling than they are the kicking of footballs, contrary to their designation.  I bought my Adidas Sambas for five-a-side football but never performed well in them.  During one of my work affiliated footballing tenures I opted to wear my Puma Top Winners instead, with pleasing results.  Originally intended as casual wear, their repeated use on the field forced me to retire these pumps prematurely, although I never once featured on the losing side the whole time I played in them.  I should have bought two pairs – at least.

            So now, over a decade since they were purchased, the Adidas Sambas have found new life as cycling shoes.  Unfortunately, their age is starting to tell and the rubber has degraded in the intervening years.  Because of this, new shoes have been added to the list of accoutrements I’m gathering in preparation for the London to Brighton.  Better move quickly, though; the event is just three weeks away.

 

I eschew the use of cleats, which precludes me from buying the conventional, and more readily available, cycling footwear there is on the market.  Relying on toe clips and straps will completely undermine my authority as a cyclist in many people’s eyes, but so be it.  For me, it’s a question of aesthetics and I don’t think the Romani would look right with clipless pedals – something I’m quite willing to sacrifice performance for. 

In my experience, properly fitted toe clips and straps still offer a fair amount of traction anyway, and if I can find a shoe with stiff enough a sole then I shouldn’t be dissipating too much energy.  I’d like an old pair of Sidi or Vittoria cycling shoes, which do occasionally reveal themselves on eBay.  These old style shoes are deceptively… shoe-like, and later models even accommodate cleats.  More modern footwear of this flavour does exist – made by companies such as Dromarti, Quoc Pham, Exustar – but they’re beyond my financial range.  I could wear MTB shoes; however, they’re clunky, chunky affairs, not designed to be used in conjunction with clips and straps.  Initiative is what’s called for, and an element of risk.

I thought I’d found a solution when I discovered a pair of resolutely stiff brown leather trainers in TK Maxx.  Made by an obscure European manufacturer, manufacturing under the name Jorcel, it appeared that they’d manufactured a shoe that fulfilled my manufactural requirements.  At £25 a pair a more impulsive fellow would have bought them straight away, but I am ponderer extraordinaire and recoiled towards my laptop to research, study and pontificate. 

I decided against them.  I thought they might jar against my more current cycling attire.  If I was wearing a woollen jersey and riding in the L’Eroica, or partaking in the Tweed Run, sporting tweed, then the brown traditional leather uppers would have been a good fit.  But you may recall that I ditched those crochet mitts for fear that I might look a little too muddled in my appearance.  I like anachronism but, like colour, it must be blended well.

.

Let me consider my race visage for a moment: a steel bike with some contemporary features; a cycling jersey designed in the 1980s utilising latter-day fabric in its reproduction; black lycra cycling shorts; white socks; a helmet, probably white, if not black.  Remove the helmet from the equation and it will look like I’m riding for La Vie Claire, the modern elements of my bike too subtle to disturb the impression.  But it’s not as dated a look as one might think.  I suppose you could say the 1980s represented the sartorial birth of modern cycling.  It’s not like with football, where the size and fit of the uniform are in a constant state of flux: cycling apparel needs to be tight.  So all that’s left to change or falter is the material and the amount of adverts that cycling’s governing bodies allows teams to have printed on their jerseys.

            And the colour.  In the 1980s nearly everyone wore black cycling shorts, regardless of the colour of the jersey.  It was an actual rule on many of the tours, and a sensible approach; cycling shorts should not be made available in any other colour.  Black also predominated when it came to shoes (although it appears Bernard Hinault favoured blue when he rode for La Vie Claire).

Nowadays anything goes, and shoes may even be tailored to team colours, but white seems to be the colour of choice for many riders. (It was Mommersteeg who had asked me what I thought of white cycling shoes over drinks in a pub in Barnes, implying either that he had a pair or that he was thinking of buying some.)  So if I don’t want to look like some sort of 80s pastiche on a bike then maybe white’s the way to go?  Or if I do opt for black then I should look for evidently modern qualities.

 

 

 

(A new, old pair of Sidi cycling shoes - courtesy 'Velosniper')

 

 

The issue was not resolved in time for Carlos-Weltschmerz’s second official training session, which was poorly attended.  It was scheduled for the Sunday of the Spring Bank Holiday weekend, so maybe this was to be expected.  Our assembly was dependant on the weather anyhow, which turned out fine.

            It was just Wenborn and myself, then, and we met in Wimbledon at the Starbucks shrouded in glass.  After a strong cup of filter coffee, Wenborn led the way and I tried to hang onto his back wheel for as long as I could.

            By the time we reached Epsom, 9 miles later, I had my concerns.  I felt okay but I was aware that we were only about halfway to Box Hill, and thus a quarter of the way through the day’s full ride (these statistics disregard the 8 miles I’d already cycled to reach Wimbledon).  The A24 (Dorking Road) followed, an undulating trail that saw my companion laying down quite a pace.  Once we crossed over the M25 and joined the Leatherhead Bypass – still the A24 – these conditions persisted, and it was only when turning down Old London Road that we were offered respite.

            The Zig Zag Road up to Box Hill itself was manageable, although it did require me to sink into the second to lowest gearing obtainable on my 14 gear bike.  The sense of achievement, the distance travelled, a cup of coffee, and the view over Surrey, Sussex and the South Downs, helped me to forget about the apprehension I’d felt back in Epsom, but this was mere delusion.

            Going down Boxhill Road was good and as we crossed back over the M25 the situation gave me no cause for concern.  What followed were a series of dual carriageways and the run of the traffic lights.  The A217 took us as far as Rose Hill Roundabout, whereupon we joined the A297 until such point that it merged with the A24.  We then remained on the A24 until it segued into the A219, which would take us into Putney.  I tried to keep up with Wenborn but he was out-pacing me.  Most of the roads were in poor condition – or at least the sides of them, where cyclists must keep – which put a physical strain on my body as it tensed up before every visible pothole.  ‘Wimbledon 7 miles’ was succeeded by ‘Wimbledon 5 miles’, but the two intervening 1.609 kilometres seemed to have lasted an age.  I had run out of water, although there was barely a stretch of road safe enough to tackle my bidon anyway.  My saddle was no longer comfortable.  My body bored of its posture.

            Then, Putney within touching distance of my imagination, we began the climb up Wimbledon Hill Road: one third of a mile that had me on my knees, almost completely spent.  The only reason I didn't dismount was because it struck me as being eaier not to - that pushing my bike up such a steep gradient would require only marginally less effort, and that if I debarked I might never be able to get back on.  So I made it up that mountain and fumbled my way to Putney, whereupon Wenborn and I stopped for beers.  By the time I’d made it home, my Romani Prestige had covered just over 51 miles, albeit with three breaks along the way.

This is the longest I have ever cycled in one day and I thought it would be easier.  That I had concerns after just 17 miles of cycling conveys to me that I could have been a little off-colour from the outset, although I wasn’t aware of it at the time.  In retrospect, it would have been a good thing to have eaten something when we got to Box Hill, because it was on the journey home that I evidently began to flag. 

There were a lot more hills than I’m used to and perhaps my recent excursions have been a bit too flat.  I now plan on putting in some time doing laps of Richmond Park, where I know there are the climbs that might lick me into shape.

Looking at the experience a little more positively, my bike behaved impeccably throughout; gear changes were fluid and without tribulation.  Also, my body felt fine the next day – no aches or strains – and I was never in any trouble with regard to my breathing; merely fatigued and lacking in strength.  But it has come as a bit of a mental shock.  I don’t know what the gradient is on Wimbledon Hill Road, but it can’t be any more formidable than Ditchling Beacon.

 

 

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 21: WELTSCHMERZ



 

When The Guy From Tunbridge Wells called about the bicycle I’d told him he’d need to be at my house by 11.00 the next morning. I was nervous that this relatively early hour might jeopardise the sale, for The Guy From Tunbridge Wells was a young man and in my experience young men like to get up late, especially at weekends. I didn’t know how long the journey would take him but I knew that the M25 – London’s orbital – would be involved, and was fairly certain that he would have to be on the road before 09.30 to be sure of making our appointment. But I had another appointment that day: at 13.00 in Morden Hall Park with the members of Carlos-Weltschmerz, an engagement of great significance.

            The Guy From Tunbridge Wells arrived 10 minutes early and appeared reluctant to enter into cycling based discussion of any great depth. He asked a few cursory questions but I didn’t get the sense that my answers were of much consequence to him. He appeared wary of me, in fact, yet surprised when I allowed him to take the bike for a ride unaccompanied. Teenagers…

            In terms of making a sale I had a good feeling from the off. He struggled in identifying the Carlos from the Romani, as they stood against each other in my hallway, and I suppose either may have sufficed. Why was I selling one of them?

‘Because I can’t afford to keep both.’

‘Oh. Is there anything wrong with the one you’re selling?’

‘No, the Romani just serves my needs better. It cost more.’
The look of the bike was the thing - I don't suppose he cared too much about the performance. I still fully expected having to haggle a bit, but he paid what I'd been asking for and was swiftly on his way.

The atmospheric conditions were pleasant when Mommersteeg and I left Twickenham, although I hesitated over whether or not to take my new sunglasses, for the forecast was not in our favour. I don’t like having to carry superfluous material on my person, but a satisfyingly strong burst of sunshine broke through just at the moment I opened the front door, so I took them.

            We cycled through Richmond Park and down the A3, before joining Coombe Lane to Raynes Park. We then followed the small gyratory to the other side of the train tracks, joined Kingston Road, but then turned right too far along it, missing the turning off of Bushey Road that would have led us straight to Morden Hall Park. On realising our mistake we improvised a shortcut alongside the River Wandle, which unintentionally brought us upon our intended destination via its north-easterly aspect. Mommersteeg and I were exactly seven minutes late for the rendezvous, but no one seemed to notice.

            Beverages were purchased and introductions were made. I observed that Gowland’s Bianchi was not typically celeste, but a deeper, more royal blue, which suited it well. I was probably the only one that cared. Mommersteeg talked of the new Condor Squadra he’d picked up just a few days before, which he was too protective over to bring along for the ride. And jerseys were mentioned – of course jerseys were mentioned.

            After our coffee, Wenborn led the way towards Battersea, weaving through Merton, Summerstown, Earlsfield, Wandsworth and Clapham. Once we’d cut through Battersea Park, I took over the lead and we crossed over Chelsea Bridge and followed the A3212 all the way to Westminster.

            Our destination was Rapha Cycle Club on Brewer Street, Soho, to stop for another coffee and to watch half an hour or so of the Giro d’Italia, in which Bradley Wiggins was suffering.  Unfortunately, this being central London, many other cyclists had similar ideas and we had to sit outside and grab whatever visuals we could from the pavement.

Such is the nature of the Rapha Cycle Club, Team Carlos-Weltschmerz felt rather underdressed. The weather forecast was partly to blame for this. Many of us had overcompensated in preparation for the negative forecast: cycle shorts were worn under looser outdoor garments; jerseys were obscured by anoraks; one of us wasn’t wearing any cycling gear at all.  But Carlos-Weltschmerz feels no pressure to conform to type and the staff at the Rapha Cycle Club were most welcoming, refusing to exact revenge for any perceived vestmental failings on our part.

Raining now – but not heavily – Wenborn and I led the group (a reflection of our geographical savvy) back along the Thames as far as Wandsworth Bridge, whereupon we crossed south over the river and stopped for alcoholic refreshment at The Ship, just at the end of Jew’s Row. We sat outside to mind our bikes, and the rain moved up a gear. After finishing his drink, Evans (S) announced he was leaving and cycled hard against the wind all the way back to Epsom. The rest of Carlos-Weltschmerz decamped to the Queen Adelaide for more ale – two more pints of the stuff. Or was it three?

 

I calculated that Mommersteeg and I rode 35 miles of ground over the course of the day.  Wenborn – who had not particularly benefitted from the meeting point being so close to his home – had cycled out to Box Hill in the morning to compensate, and will have travelled nearer 50. Gowland had come from Croyden so he probably chalked up a fair few miles too. Evans (S) will have had no reason to be dissatisfied either. But covering ground had not been the point of the day’s excursion: that had been for the members of Carlos-Weltschmerz to meet and form an integral unit.

            I had perceived a potential schism amongst the rank and file of the Weltschmerz, although I saw no need to impose a creed. The matter concerned the regulatory wearing of lycra cycling shorts from London to Brighton, with me in favour and Evans (S) personally opposed. On the grounds of comfort alone I thought this madness, but Evans (S) explained to me that his looser shorts incorporated a cycling-short style padding in the rear, so what was the problem? Wenborn, too, would be wearing baggier shorts, but over the top of a pair of regulation cycling shorts, his justification centring around the need for multiple pockets.  Mommersteeg and Gowland did not offer an opinion either way, although I suspect Mommersteeg will be a ‘cycling shorts only’ kind of guy. Gowland, meanwhile, remains something of an enigma.

It’s not really important, but when I started disseminating propaganda with a view to persuading everyone to wear retro-inspired jerseys, I’d just sort of assumed that people would be wearing black cycling shorts to match.  Apparently not, although by marked contrast my ‘order of the white sock’ seems to have been taken on board without the merest hint of dissent.

Our meeting also afforded the opportunity to gauge fitness levels and assess the team’s capability. Mommersteeg and Wenborn already have a clear advantage because they regularly commute into town on their bikes, and also own more capable machines.  Wenborn certainly looks to be the fittest of the lot at this stage, although no one is too off the pace. Thing is, there’s talk of a dual stop strategy: once at the halfway point and again at the top of Ditchling Beacon. The halfway stop off is by no means controversial – I’m sure I will be in need of a pause after 25 miles of uninterrupted peddling, and it should serve as a good incentive to keep the team together for as long as we can.  But to stop off at the top off Ditchling Beacon seems like a wasted opportunity. Why throw away the relief of the sharp descent that follows by stopping off to recuperate and take in the view?

Again, these are the thoughts of Evans (S) and Wenborn, and they’re both semi-veterans of the London to Brighton. More inclined to partake in triathlons and marathons respectively, the London to Brighton is their B-Movie, a laugh, entertainment – a mild challenge. One cannot admonish them for this, and it would go against the spirit of Weltschmerz to do so. Still, I’d been looking forward to quite an aggressive last quarter, and maybe even leading someone out toward the finish.

 

Training in full swing, I followed up Sunday’s cycle with 19 miles on Monday, 20 miles on Tuesday, 14 miles on Wednesday, eight on Thursday (which was supposed to be my day of rest) and another 19 on Friday. I know these aren’t massive distances, but it’s over a hundred miles covered in less than a week, and for me quite unprecedented. Furthermore, I’ve cycled them at an honourable pace.

            It seems incomprehensible, now, the idea of engaging the London to Brighton on Carlos, or indeed any bike other than the Romani Prestige. This is not to say that it would not have been possible – I am sure the Carlos would have handled fine up until the climb to Ditchling Beacon. In all probability, it would have coped with that too, assuming that the Suntour Ole rear derailleur didn’t fail me, which it sometimes did. But I recall how agitated I was three months ago, trying to decide whether to lavish money on the Carlos and get it up to speed, or replace it with another more race-worthy bike. The moment I laid down the deposit on the Romani, committing myself to its use, I felt a sense of relief, of doing what was necessary. But it was instinctive and the road-worthiness or otherwise, of either bicycle, is not really the point, for plenty of people finish the London to Brighton on any old bike.

The acquisition of the Romani roughly coincided with the moment I embarked in earnest on what one might sensationally call a training regimen. I had intended to commence my physical development earlier but circumstances conspired against me. Now I’m in full flow, minor injury having abated, warmer and drier conditions prevailing, and an absence of work bestowing ample opportunity. And the Romani is the machine on which I’m labouring, and it is proving a very satisfying ride. I suspect the Shimano gears and the Wolber TX Profil 622 700C rims, with their Campagnolo Record hubs, have been partly responsible, but if I was still riding the Carlos would I have known any better? If I was gifted a half-decent carbon road bike tomorrow, would I not then regard the Romani with equal dubiety? Hard to say, but I suspect the issue is a psychological one. I am reasonably assured of the Romani’s quality, even more persuaded of its aesthetic harmony, but those 115 miles have probably instilled a confidence I did not have when I sat down months ago to watch amateur footage on YouTube of the exhausted hordes flagellating themselves up Ditchling Beacon.

 

 

 

Whether “the event” will deliver the reward I’m hoping for is another matter. The idea, of course, was ‘to know what it is to ride en masse… and generally get some idea of what it must be like to ride in a Grand Tour.’ It’s ludicrous conceit, I admit, and it has been pressed upon me that the London to Brighton is not to be raced at all. There will be many others fit enough to ride more competitively but I suspect they will be sorts who belong to clubs, race in designated sportives, and just like the idea of laying down a personal best in an event that they may well enter every year to raise money for charity, or just to enjoy the traffic-free roads. How will these dedicated amateurs respond when the greenhorns of Carlos-Weltschmerz huff past them? Or will it just be me?  Will I be the only one pushing hard for a sub four hour finish (to include our stop on Turner's Hill)? Or will I have come unstuck, a victim of my own hubris, disgorging energy bars at the side of the road?

What is beginning to occur to me is that there might be something rather savage behind all of this.  Here I am, quite insistent that I ride a bike that’s at least 20 years old, finding a jersey congruous with that, and precociously intent on pushing myself and my team – if it will let me – to its limit.  I’ve been riding road bikes for less than a year, commenced training with just two months to go, and I’m treating the London to Brighton like it’s a stage in a Grand Tour.

If I hadn’t decided to write about this somatic venture, then the myths I’m imagining would be mere solipsism, existent only in my mind, fleetingly, and completely inconsequential.  I certainly didn’t treat my first (and only) 10k run like this, digging down into the minutia, but I didn’t seek to depict that endeavour. Is it the narrative I’ve created that’s driving me forward, imparting a mission, making it seem more significant than it really is?  Or maybe it’s to do with the romance of road-racing, its history of gallant suffering? 

Perhaps it was last year’s Vuelta a Espana and the sight of Javier Chacón chasing hopeless causes.

[POST-SCRIPT: Bradley Wiggins was to subsequently withdraw from the Giro after completing stage 12, suffering from a chest infection. He’d had a torrid time of it, crashing his bike during the seventh stage, and sustaining a puncture on the eighth – the individual time trial.

Vincenzo Nibali went on to win the general classification – the pink jersey – and Omega Pharma-Quick Step’s Mark Cavendish amassed the most points, awarding him the red.  Cavendish has now won the points classification in every grand tour. He’s only the fifth rider to have achieved this feat.]