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. 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.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 10: THE CLUB AS CONCEPT

The Heuvel fits and thus will remain in my possession. It’s a nice jersey, especially when considering that it cost less than half its recommended retail price. But I think I prefer the Descente after all: the fabric is softer, the fit is just that little more intimate, and, practically speaking, it is one of a kind. It is also the perfect hue of blue – rather like the tint of Everton’s football kit circa 1983-1985. So despite the Belgian theme that informs The Heuvel, and the emergence of Dirk Baert as some sort of project patron saint, it could well be the Descente jersey I’ll be wearing for next year’s London to Brighton. We shall see.

Which finally brings us to the unveiling of my prospective team’s name. This is the remit: a moniker that calls to mind some of the professional outfits currently racing the grand tours. The reason for this is because these sponsor-induced sobriquets often have an amusing ring to my ear: Saxo-Bank Tinkoff; Garmin Sharp; Argos-Shimano; Orica GreenEDGE; Saur-Sojasun. Although I'm not forming an actual cycling club, whatever title I come up with will represent my own de facto organisation from here on in, even if after the London to Brighton is done it continues to exist as an affiliation of one, with myself as its only member – a mere figment of my imagination.

My confederacy might endorse competing in the odd sportive but will only occasionally meet up for training sessions – and they’ll be optional. My syndicate will not have an official team jersey but will persuade its riders to find their own sartorial niche. My coalition will applaud individuality. My club rejects the notion of a club. We’re not going to be called the Pan-Southwest London Cycling Club, or the West Thames Wheelers, or anything else that so readily suggests who we are and what it is we do. We shall ride under the curious appellation that is Carlos-Weltschmerz (observing the German pronunciation of the second word). Ostensibly, this might sound rather absurd, but I think it has a plausible ring to it. Moreover, it functions as a tribute to Dirk Baert and his loyalty to the guys at Carlos, whilst also reflecting – via the medium of phonology – the Latin/Germanic duality that defines Great Britain’s position on the European cultural spectrum, for road cycling is a very European endeavour.

Weltschmerz has a particular resonance in and of itself, this Teutonic locution roughly translating into something approximating ‘world weariness’. Dissect its meaning still further and you’re really onto something: it conveys more than to be simply jaded and articulates the realisation that the physical reality of the human condition can never conform to the idealistic demands that one’s self places upon it. This seems appropriate, given the impervious nature of the task at hand: a vain attempt to replicate the sensation of riding in a grand-tour – an exercise in futility if there ever was one. Despite embracing the concept of Weltschmerz, I'm not necessarily resigning myself to its implications. One could say that I'm seeking joy in anomie… or solace in resistance.

I can pinpoint the precise moment I finally ‘got’ road cycling. It was during Stage 5 of the 2012 Vuelta a Espana and, early on, Javier Chacón (racing for Team Andalucia) broke away from the rest of the field, built up a 12 minute lead before being chased down by the pack approximately 30 km from the finish ( in what was a 168 km race). He was rewarded with the stage’s Combativity Award for his efforts, deservedly so. Without anyone supporting him, Monsieur Chacón had little chance of pulling off this audacious stab for victory, but he gave it a go anyway.

What really left an impression was the instant he must have known it was all over, when Javier glanced back over his shoulder and saw the Argos-Shimano led peloton gradually bearing down on him. It was a singular spectacle that evoked in me both fear and humour, and I can’t think of any other sport that draws out a moment like that. In football, say, a shot on goal might hit the back of the net, veer horribly wide, or end up in the arms of the goalkeeper. Whatever the outcome, it’s resolved in a split-second. With cricket, the batsman plays the stroke and either scores a number of runs, gets caught out, misses the ball entirely and – depending on the bowler’s intention – finds his wicket smashed to pieces or lives to face another delivery. Either way, it’s pretty immediate. 

In cycling, though, the real drama (not the crashes or sprint finishes) tends to gently unfold, suspending one’s emotion to the point where you don’t quite know what to do with it. It’s like watching an explosion in slow-motion, energy dissipating – so incomprehensible that the only natural response is to laugh a little.

I hope my cadres buy into my vision of an existential cycling outfit, with no official membership, no hard rules and regulations, no sense of being part of a greater community: a sort of cycling militia, kicking against the imperial velocipedists who look down upon the rest of us.

Team Carlos-Weltschmerz Code of Conduct and Ethics

1. Always behave in a gentlemanly fashion.
2. Comedy cycling jerseys are bad and should be avoided – they’re not for you.
3. Assimilate the consumption of a static beverage on cycle rides of reasonable length.
4. Have respect and admiration for the steel bicycle, for it is a pure thing.
5. Buy Dirk Baert a beer if you ever get the chance.
6. Offer the Spanish team Caja Rural your support – they seem like a nice bunch.
7. Riding alone is good; embrace solitude.
8. Be sure to take in the view.
9. Don’t take cycling too seriously.
10. Take cycling very seriously indeed.

[POST-SCRIPT: After writing the above, I unearthed a website – and I can’t recall how – peddling a level of obstinance comparable to my own, and was left with the feeling that maybe I'm not so wide of cycling culture as I’d assumed. Velominati (Keepers of the Cog) lay down 91 rules, no less, many of which I’d gladly slip in alongside those I've devised for Carlos-Weltschmerz. For example:

Rule #16 – Respect the Jersey: Championship and race leader jerseys must only be worn if you've won the championship or led the race. 

Rule #26 – Make your bike photogenic: When photographing your bike, gussy her up properly for the camera. Some parameters are firm: valve stems at 6 o’clock; cranks never at 90 or 180 degrees. Others are at your discretion, though the accepted practices include putting the chain on the big dog, and no bidons in the cages.

Rule #80 – Always be Casually Deliberate. Waiting for others pre-ride or at the start line pre-race, you must be tranquilo (sic), resting on your top tube thusly. This may be extended to any time one is aboard the bike, but not riding it, such as at stop lights.

A picture of pro-cyclists draped over their handlebars, chewing the pre-race fat, is provided as a suitable example to illustrate that final decree. There’s also a link to an article examining the ‘delicate art’ of convincing as a Pro. It puts forward the case that cyclists are amongst the hardest sportsmen there are, but also the most vain. And if you too aspire to be Casually Deliberate, then a number of pointers are provided: 

‘A pre-ride espresso is the perfect Casually Deliberate means to prepare for a ride: fully kitted up, loyal machine leaning patiently against a nearby wall, cycling cap carefully dishevelled atop the head, sunnies perched above the brim.’

This sort of thing is right up my street. I'm not particularly hard and I'm not particularly vain, but I am hard and vain enough to elicit pleasure from an approach such as this.

It’s a tricky dividing line. When I see a gathering of cyclists wearing full pro-team kit (especially if it’s Team Sky issue), their carbon bikes sprawled all around them, I'm inclined to think they look preposterously arrogant (or arrogantly preposterous?). But were these guys to wear more low-key gear, ride older bikes and maybe relax a little, then my perception could waver.

I think the Velominati is an Australian conceit – Antipodean, at least – so maybe it’s not so much a cycling issue as much a cultural one? Let’s face it: the British cycling enthusiast does tend to be quite a middle-class beast, capable of emitting all the superciliousness that this can entail – you only have to watch them picking fights with dozy motorists to see that.

Let’s not get carried away: Carlos-Weltschmerz does not concern itself with the verisimilitude of things, and isn't interested in promoting class conflict. Really, aesthetics is what it’s all about.]