live-cycle

It is seven months since I gave up my daily commute to London by bicycle and train. I won’t go into the reasons for giving up the commute, save to say that if I had been given the choice, I probably wouldnt have had the courage to choose what I am doing now, so I really must thank to person who made that choice for me, because this life is better by far. I didn’t think I was missing the commute – my current journey to work is from the kitchen to the spare bedroom. However, should I choose to work away from home, the commute is out the back door, across the long grass to the gate, past the chickens and greenhouse, down some steps, across a neatly mown lawn, and voila, as the French would say, I am there – less than five minutes, even when taking my time.

The other day I went to London by train for the first times in months. Suddenly I realised that I do miss the commute, even if don’t miss the stress and hassle of the job. You see, there is a large element of fun about riding through London. Even though it is 22 years since I arrived here from South Africa, I still fill a bit like a tourist in London – there is just so much to see, so many places to explore. It is constantly changing and evolving, while keeping wonderful ancient secrets that crop up at the most unexpected moments. And I rode every day; now I have to make time to ride, it isn’t something that I do of necessity.
Also, the time that I spent on the train was time for myself – reading, writing, listening to music or just thinking – a time that even now, in my more leisured life, I don’t seem to find.
Right from the start of my trip the other day I noticed how much things have changed. At West Malling station there have always been ten cycle lockers, all used, as well as a number of bikes manacled to fences and railings. There were still about the same number of bikes but on the railings there are new signs, put up by Kent Constabulary, warning cyclists to lock their bikes securely and not to leave any loose bits on them.
Most of the bikes had stickers on them, saying something like: “This bike is parked regularly at XXX station. If it is seen in use between 08.00h and 18.00h, or on a train, then it has been stolen …” I don’t know how secure the stickers are – I wanted to try to remove one but thought better of it. Obviously awareness about cycle security is increasing.
Then, on the train, a chap sitting opposite me was reading a magazine titled Ride to Work. I don’t know if the mag is a one-off or a regular read, but it pressed home the point that there is still a lot of commercial interest in cycling as a means of getting to work.
The biggest eye-opener was in London – I saw Boris’s famous blue bicycles for the first time. That shows just how long I have been out of circulation. I would have tried one out, but hadn’t registered. Oh well, there will always be another time. In the meantime, I am quite happy to get back to my leisurely commute past the chickens, etc.

I am on holiday in Wales right now, where I had hoped to get out and do lots of riding. But it has rained. And rained. And in between the downpours, there have been light showers. And some heavier showers. Truth be told, I could have been stuck in the middle of the Atlantic and I wouldn’t have seen so much water.
This has has forced me to sit indoors for long periods and contemplate my navel, and other local attractions. What better way to sit and contemplate than over a nice glass of wine? So that is what I have been doing.
And that brought me to think: what is it that attracts one to a certain wine? The bouquet? The cultivar? The vintner, or the country of origin? Or, quite simply: red or white?
I don’t claim to be any kind of connoisseur. I am no more cultivated than the next guy, but I do have my favourite wines. Let me share some of them with you …

As you can probably see, it is the labels that got my attention. I suppose I must be an adman’s dream customer. Now, if any of you readers finds a like-minded winemaker, do email me a bottle. I am always willing to give it a test ride.

Well, it is hard to believe that it is two weeks since I stood on the Champs-Elysees to watch the finish of the Tour de France. I then filed my very last report for The Times and went out with a hotchpotch of cycling journos from all over the world for an end-of-tour meal and piss-up. Since then I haven’t written a word, apart from the odd (yes, I know they are all odd) Facebook status update. So I think it is time to get back in the saddle and say something … anything … if I can ever get my brain back into gear.
The Tour was a – I was going to say super, but my kids have banned me from using the word – an incredible experience, and although it was hard work, it is something that I wouldn’t hesitate to do again. I could have sat at home and watched it on the telly, where I would have seen more of the action than I did on the road. But there is nothing like being there, walking around the race village, mingling with the riders and teams at the start and finish, chasing the race from town to town, and seeing some fantastic scenery along the way. Sometimes we would get to  our hotels in time for some food, often we had to just wing it and pick up something to eat where we could.
The only thing that I missed in that time was not being on a bike myself. It is great to watch cycle racing, but even better to be on a bike yourself. I managed two rides in the 26 days that I was away. The first was some downhilling in Avoriaz, which was great fun, and a bit hair-raising, because downhill is not my forte. The fun bit was catching the skilift back to the top of the mountain. About ten days later I managed to hire the last bike in the shop – a sluggish tourer – and trundled along a wonderful, flat trail up the valley from Lourdes into the Pyerenees.
Now I am back home, to a new home and new life, and my bikes are in storage. So what to do? Only one answer: borrow the wife’s Rockhopper and head for the hills – that way the grey matter will get some exercise. Watch this space …

Both my readers are no doubt sitting glued to their computers waiting to hear how A.J. and I got on at the Polaris Challenge at the weekend. Are we are still wondering the Derbyshire Dales, lost and alone? Or did we manage to find our way home again?
Let me quickly ease your agony and say we survived – in fact, we thrived, and had a bit of fun to boot. The campsite was a windswept field in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near Youlgreave, a town we never saw. On Saturday morning 200-odd (yes, for most, odd is the right word) teams or individuals set out in search of 35 checkpoints scattered across the furthest corners of OS Landranger Map 119. We were tagged electronically and given seven hours to complete our quest. Right from the start we risked disqualification, because A.J. somehow managed to forget his compass at home. Fortunately I had mine, and no one checked our assortment of nuts and fruitcakes.

We headed from the start to a staging area where we were given the day’s checkpoints with a list of score values, from five to fifty points. The further and more difficult the checkpoint, the higher the score. At the bottom of the checklist is saw a note: “Emergency phone number 1234 56789. Do not ring if you are lost!” Hmm. I couldn’t think of any other kind of emergency.
We started conservatively, heading for the closest five-pointer, which looked easy enough along a marked bridleway. Well, somehow our way and the bridleway parted company, and for about 15 minutes we cast about trying to locate our location. Eventually we discovered where we had gone wrong, chalked up our five points, and headed north. Over 60km we chalked up nine checkpoints in all, totalling 140 points, and headed wearily for the finish in a shade over six hours. “Best points tally so far …” the marshal informed us “… out of the four teams that have finished.” In the end we were 145th out of 191, and headed contentedly for the beer tent.
It rained most of Saturday night, and Sunday’s five-hour ride was more interesting for the mud and puddles, and the occasional spots of rain that washed the checkpoints off our map – it turns out that my pen wasn’t waterproof after all.
A.J. decided he needed an early break, so punctured on a rocky downhill – some people will resort to anything to skive off. In the end we decided to be even more conservative than the previous day, and managed four checkpoints for a total of 70 points. Our way home was along a former railway line that made riding enjoyable, avoiding the big uphills that we had faced on Saturday, and we got back with an hour to spare. We decided that to strike camp while it was dry, and an hour later, as A.J. closed the car boot, the rain began in earnest. Now, all we have to do is find our way back to the M1. Directions, anyone?

I am not really one for organised rides – at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Taking part in an organised rides makes things easy, you would think – someone else does the organising, you just have to organise your life so that you get fit, and get to the start on time. I have been on a few – London to Brighton, Tour of Flanders, a couple of mtb rides in Wales and, of course, the Cape Epic, twice. Getting organised for those two Epics probably consumed a lifetime’s supply of organisation in my life of dissolution, I mean, disarray, so I should probably give it up now. But I am a sucker for always giving it one more go.

For about 15 years A.J. and I have been threatening to do the Polaris Challenge, a two-day mountain-bike orienteering event. Finally we ran out of excuses and early this year I sent off our entery. The event takes place this weekend, in the Peak District, and I hope that we are more successful than my previous two-day orienteering expedition, the Karrimor mountain marathon in 2000. Then a colleague and I entered the event believing that we could conquer the Lake District in a squally, misty October with nothing more than a map, compass and high spirits. Well, for us the two-day event lasted but a day and we returned, sodden and sullen, to beat a hasty retreat, well beaten by the weather, the mountains, and our inablilty to navigate our way from A to B without somehow landing up at X. I shall let you know how we get on in the Polaris if we find our way back home again.

Of course, there are many other organised events for the disorganised. The British Heart Foundation hosts a host of rides all over the country, on-road and off-road. And if you’re feeling particularly posh, you can take on the Palace to Palace, a 45-mile ride from Buckingham Palace to Windsor Castle on September 26 in aid of the Prince’s Trust. But whatever you do, organised or otherwise, just get out and ride.

What a depressing weekend. I am clearing my loft ahead of moving house. But that is not what depressed me. It was the trip to the local dump that really got me down. I shouldn’t call it a dump, rather a recycling  centre. The sight of the things that get recycled these days  is quite appalling – serviceable computers, televisions, printers. My local dump/recycling centre has come a long way in the past few years. It is divided into general waste, which goes to landfill, cardboard, plastics, glass, batteries, electrical goods, white goods, televisions and monitors, and so on. There is also a metal section, and this is the bit that really depressed me.
My son is busy building himself a single-speed bike to commute to work in London. Like most broke 25-year-olds, he is doing it on the cheap, or for free where possible. So the sight of about twenty bikes about to be recycled as scrap metal is particularly galling. Okay, so most of them weigh a ton and are worth tuppence, but there are so many good working parts on them so that, cannibalised, they could make up a good few mounts that many people would be happy to own.
Yes, recycling has its benefits, but it is not the best answer. There is something  even better, and it is called Freecycle. Go and google it, and join your local group. It is the best way of recycling, because it does not involve melting down cheap bikes and selling the low-grade materials on to the third world. It cuts a lot ofwaste, keeps eco-warriors happy, and can help some of the most needy in our society.

Spent a blustery evening at Canary Wharf yesterday with a strange mix of suits and cyclists. It was round one of the Halfords Tour Series, a one-hour spectacle in which ten pro teams battled it out on a tight street circuit. A highlight of the chilly evening was the team of cheerleaders in tiny black and pink outfits jumping about vigorously to keep warm. Try as they did, they couldn’t steal the show from the cyclists, some riding for teams whose names were more than a mouthful – I think Motorpoint Marshalls Pasta was my favourite.

Individual honours went to Tony Gibb of CyclePremier Metaltek, but the overall team victory went to those stylish chaps from Rapha Condor Sharp, with Dean Downing, Dean Windsor and Graham Briggs taking third, fifth and sixth spots respectively. The tour moves on to Durham tomorrow, and then travels around the country over the next few weeks, bringing the gladiatorial style of criterium racing to the masses.
If you missed last nights event – and I know that both of my readers weren’t there – you can catch up by watching ITV4 at 7pm tonight.

Oh, the joy of cycling! This blog, as regular readers will know, is dedicated to life on two wheels. We love cycling as a mode of transport, as a sport, and as a lifestyle. We celebrate all who take on challenges, especially where two wheels are involved, and we shun those who do things by halves. Or do we?
You might recall an earlier posting abut Alex and Will, who are riding across the US to raise money for research into autism. Well, I have been watching their progress (as have you, I am sure) and I enjoy reading about their experiences, good and bad, and about the characters they have met along the way. Most intriguing is a chap called Sky, who really has decided to do things by halves (yes, there was a point to that earlier banter). Instead of  two wheels, Sky is riding across America on a unicycle. Specifically, he is riding a 36-incher, with a saddle, kind of handlebar, and a brake, which I am sure makes some of those downhills a lot safer.
What intrigues me in his blog, 36in Across America,  are his priorities: coffee, what he has eaten, and the number of dogs that have chased him. His latest post tells us that he has finally bought a dog whistle. So far, it hasn’t worked properly.

A couple of weeks ago I raved about cycling in Belgium – how cyclists are highly regarded there, and how I was impressed by the cycling infrastructure. So I was horrified to hear that five British women cyclists were injured during a training ride there when a motorist ploughed into them. Of course, such an incident could have happened anywhere, but somehow you expect it to be less likely on the Continent.

The issue of safety is always a concern for cyclists. At least it should be, especially where you are riding on public roads. Mountainbiking is probably the more dangerous code, but at least when mtb riders crash they usually have only themselves to blame. This week two cycling publications have given some thought to the issue. In Cycling Weekly  Sir Alan Sugar talks about his passion for Pinarellos. It turns out that the Amstrad founder has at least three. He used to keep one at his home in Spain and another in Florida. But now he has decided to keep them all in England because the servicing is better here. If he wants to take one away with him, he just chucks it in the back of his plane, the way we would throw our bike into the back of our car.
But the important thing is what he says about cycling in France, Spain and Italy, apart from there being fewer potholes: “I think drivers in France tend to be a bit more understanding because cycling is part of their culture.” (How often do we hear that: part of their culture?) He goes on: “The most important thing we need is to educate drivers to understand cyclists’ needs. I think everybody needs to be more situationally aware, both drivers and cyclists … sometimes cyclists don’t help themselves, especially in London, where some people on bikes give the rest of us a bad name.” Amen to that.

The American website Bicycling suggests that cyclists, when they are behind the wheel, should set a good example and show how to share the road with cyclists. The site gives step-by-step advice, which might be a bit simplistic, but certainly makes the point. It’s a pity that it is not published on the Top Gear website. If anyone has Jeremy Clarkson’s email address, you might want to pass this on to him. In the meantime, ride safely.

Some friends were talking about the Tour de France the other day when one asked: “Whatever happened to the Milk Race?”

Naturally, when you talk about a successful sporting venture in a foreign country, many people immediately try to find some local equivalent. (Some events just don’t have an equivalent, but that is another matter.) And so, in our conversation, our discussion swung to the great British cycle stage event – the Milk Race.

So, we ask ourselves, what did happen to the Milk Race? Well, the easy answer is that it was killed off by the European Union. This answer would please quite a few bigots (sorry Gordon, no offence), but that is not quite the whole truth.

Like so many events – think (again) Milk/Littlewoods/Rumbelows/Coca-Cola/Worthington/Carling Cup – it continues in another guise. Yes, the Tour of Britain, totally unbranded, is the event that was once the Milk Race. But why do so many still remember it as the Milk Race? Obviously the Milk Board struck a note that the current organisers are unable to match, so no one recognises the race in its new guise.

Perhaps a brief history might help. A “Tour of Britain” has existed in some form since 1945, my researcher at Wikipedia reliably informs me. The event became the Milk Race, sponsored by the Milk Marketing Board, in 1958 and was amateur until 1985, when it became pro-am. In 1987 it gained a rival, the Kellogg’s Tour, which was for professionals only. The last Milk Race took place in 1993, won by a local lad, Chris Lillywhite.

This is where we are able to blame the EU – blast you, Brussels – because that year the Milk Marketing Board was wound up as a result of European monopoly laws.

Well, Kellogg’s might now be the sponsor of our most successful Olympic cyclist, but it didn’t last long as sponsor of Britain’s premier cycle tour, because the Kellogg’s Tour ran its final course in 1994.

For two years, 1998 and 1999, we had the Pru Tour, and the nothing for five years. In 2004 the Tour of Britain was unveiled, and this is now the country’s very own Tour de Farce, because no one seems to have heard about it. Well, now that you know what has happened, get out and watch it. This is the 2010 itinerary:

11 September 126km Rochdale to Blackpool

12 September 160km around Stoke-on-Trent

13 September 150km Newtown to Swansea

14 September 171km Minehead to Teighmouth

15 September 176km Tavistock to Glastonbury

16 September 189km Kings Lynn to Yarmouth

17 September 151km Bury St Edmonds to Colchester

18 September 100km around London.

Well, now that I’ve gone to all the trouble to find this out, I hope to see you all crowding the roadside to cheer the riders as they go by. Who knows, maybe if Bradley decides to compete, the race in its current form will have its first British winner. On yer bike, then.