live-cycle

How hard can it be? One man, one tyre – direction specific – helpful arrow saying which way round it goes. Well I’m a creative chap all flowery shirts and arty nature. So armed with levers I approach my task with a degree of confidence. However having turned the bike upside down turned the wheel over, tried to imagine the wheel going round, pretended to ride a bike with the tyre wedged between my thighs, you won’t be amazed to learn that the little arrow pointed the wrong way on completion of my simple task. Dirction specific, yeah right, it can’t make a difference. But how wrong could I be, I huffed, puffed and cursed my way over 50km with tyres going backwards. I was slower than ever before skidding, sliding and generally being pathetic.
Problem now corrected I would have enjoyed today’s ride had it not been for the rain, I may as well have been swimming. My shoes were so full of water under their allegedly waterproof overshoes that I swear I now have webbed feet.
One final point my three year old has told me only girls wear tights so he now thinks his arty dad who can’t change a tyre is a cross dressing loser!

A week of freezing condition and 20 cm of snow have led to a sudden decrease in training hours, but I have put the time to good use. I dropped my beautiful scott scale into my local bike shop- cycle-ops in tonbridge.
” just tidy her up a bit please oh and she squeals a bit when I go down hard on her” the mechanic looked doubtful that a tired looking forty year old could make anything squeal. An hour later my phone, bad news, the repair costs were going to be over £500, new brakes, cassette, headset and bottom bracket. Some of this is down to a very large multinational bike store doing a really shabby job of setting it up in the first place, and some Down to me hammering the bridleways of Kent like a demon. It’s expensive maintaining a relationship with a carbon beauty who is more demanding than the most women.

For some reason I seem to be getting slower ok my training rides, I’m really having doubts about my ability toreach the cape epic let alone finish it.
Any advice on how to improve my performance gratefully accepted.
One very good friend has provided me with so much nutrition advice that I am going to encourage her to go into sports science as a new career. I will update my progress on the nutrition side of things soon, but banana shakes and custard like drinks are the order of the day.

Having battled up and down the hills of Kent, I thought it was time I tackled soe of the hills of South Wales. A three hours drive lands you in the forest of Cwm Carn. Pulling up next to several cars and vans laden with bikes of all shapes and sizes, I asked the chap in the next car, who incidentally was wearing more body armour than a knight about to do battle, where I paid for parking. “This is Wales mate, it’s all free”. Oh joy no rip off forestry commission charges for bad trails here!
Bike built I headed off up the trail marked “Red, difficult” that should do the trick, how hard can it be I mused to myself naively. The trails turns upwards fairly quickly a series of switchbacks and the single track snales through the woods, lovely. Rocks and roots litter the trail, this combined with the gradient soon had me wheezing and cursing and dabbing my toes down at every other pedal turn. A little lost confidence at this point and I made the schoolboy error of forgetting to unclip my shoes before stopping and gracefully fell sideways off the bike, so gracefully I didn’t even put out my arm to stop myself! Bemused I heaved myself back on my bike and saw a head some brightly coloured jerseys. Teeth gritted I battled up the slope, they were walking, no way I said to my self and powered up the hill suddenly finding my climbing legs. Three hundred metres later pulse banging at 190 and lungs filled with poisoned air I ground to a red faced halt. I fiddled with my cables to cover my broken state. Surely “The Epic” won’t be like this? Shamed by my lack of get up and go I got back on determined to push on no matter how loudly my body protested. Summiting the trail at 1500 ft I smiled and followed the berm into a snaking down hill that had me smiling and laughing manically to myself. The trail was built by experts who knew about lines and even though this was my first time at Cwm Carn I pushed on harder into every turn. 25, 30, 35 and then crack whip clunk thud I somersaulted over the bars hanging grimly on with my right hands as my left wheeled above my head like a cowboy thrown from his rodeo mount. No damage – apart from my pride I moved on somewhat slower, passed by a couple of riders who made me look like I needed stabilisers until the final decent which was amazing, brakes burning, eyes wide and laughing like a crazyman I arrived back at the centre. Next time I will do it acouple of times but the nagging doubt hangs in my head, if the epic is tougher than this and four times further each day, how will I get past day one!

After a week’s rest to allow the virus, identified by the tests last week, I find my self gently getting back into cycling. I decide to ride to friends in Essex for dinner. Only a short distance on the map but in reality 110km. Having started out gently I joined a flat dual carriageway and pushed it a little, I astounded myself by belting out an average speed of 25mph for exactly 10 miles! Arriving mud splattered and slightly pink my friend offered me some special rehydration – Bombay Sapphire and tonic, a word to the wise here, one g&t maybe helps but four or five followed by wine and beer are not the ideal recovery fluids after burning nearly 5000 calories!
A day later I decide to ride the Hell of Ashdown, a tortuous route through Kent that seeks out and successfully finds every major climb near to my home. Now I love hills but this is mad, no real recovery time between climbs, legs burning filled with lactic acid, even the animals in the fields and the birds in the hedgerows are mocking my attempts to climb these monsters! The final hill is a long drawn out battle my rubber legs feebly pushing and pulling at the cranks. The wreckage of my body heaving over crossbar and my fingers wrestling with the gears to find one I can push. I finish in Biggin Hill and catch a glimpse of myself, salt tide marks and mud cover my face, my eyes seem to have retreated as far into my face as possible. Is this really fun?
Returning from hell I decide to try a real recovery drink called Power Bar, it’s tastes like custard but I can tell it is like a miracle drug. It seems to have magic powers to bring you back to life. Of course allowing yourself to recover is a key part of training, however when a three year old comes in and jumps on your tummy demanding concentrated attention, recovery or rest of any kind is not an option.

I’m laid up ill, whats wrong with me I don’t know, nor do the doctors! Now it has been 6 days of not cycling, I dream of riding my bike, truthfully I’m now having nightmares about the epic. It towers over my weak body leering and laughing at my puny efforts to be fit in time. I worry about tyres, tubes, water, food, sleeping and will I snore or hear snoring, should I buy ear plugs and will our shirts ever be ready on time.

So I decided to train in a different more positive way – shopping! The joy of searching and being really geeky by comparing wheel sets, tyres, drinks bottle, food stuff, energy gel, carb consumption, helmets and glasses – matching of course!

Now I await the arrival of the boxes to do some serious weight training and carry them upstairs to unwrap and marvel over. How good is training from your bed!

It is Monday morning the rain is hurling itself in relentless sheets at the bedroom windows, I’m glad I am too ill to train today. My doctor examines me as I tell him about my symptoms, he raises one eyebrow as I say “oh yes and I’m doing a bike race in south Africa” hmmmmmm is his reply quickly followed by both eyebrows crashing into the ceiling as I explain the nature of the race. He packs me straight off to hospital for tests, breathing and blood. At least you’re not contagious he says with a smile as I leave he adds “only go back to work when you feel like it”
I wonder when that might be?

This weekend I was full of good intentions, I aimed to be out for 3 hours on Saturday and then the same again on Sunday. So Saturday dawned and I lay in bed and realised that every single part of body ached, even my hair ached. I got out of bed and staggered to kitchen, all I could hear was my pulse banging away like a hammer inside my head. I was even sweating, so back to bed I struggled. There are 28 steps to my room, and let me tell you they were the hardest 28 steps I have taken in the past few weeks. I collapsed back in bed, feeling the effects of “my workout” and slept, in fact I slept until about 7pm on Saturday evening, a total nearly 18 hours in 24! So I think I can safely say that work is having a detrimental effect on my training, I’ve tried to fit too much in. Six days in the office is too much and then to try and train everyday too, I must be mad.
My son summed it for me as he looked at my limp sweating body strewn over the bed, “Dad I think your bike is trying to make you dead!” “No mate, I’m just a bit tired” I replied weakly. “You are so silly dad, the other dads at nursery don’t look as dead as you!”
You’ve got to love your kids!
Hopefully I will be back on the bike on Monday.

With only 63 days to go until “the epic” starts I thought I was in pretty good shape, body fat at a minimum, heart rate low and steady, tired yes but that’s to be expected working 11 hours a day and trying to cycle 10-12 hours a week. So I was feeling good, really good, that was until I took my son to nursery the other morning. I was as always dressed to ride, lycra tights, orange waterproof, you can tell I’m not too bothered about looking “cool”. Anyway I’m saying good-bye to my three-year-old, Noah.
“Bye mate” I say. ” Bye daddy” he replies, gives me kisses and turns with gleeful smile into the arms of his carer. “daddy!” he shouts, “yes” I reply turning round to see what he wants “Youve got skinny legs!” His carer dissolves into fits of laughter as does Noah. I am now somewhat self conscious about lycra and am considering riding in baggy trousers. Either that or I will apply sellotape to my son’s mouth to stop his cheek!

Up and out at 8am and starightaway ploughed into thick fog, when I say thick I mean reallyt thick, like putting your face over the kettle as it boils – but without the obvious scarring! The water droplets clung to everything within seconds, evry item I was wearing was covered in a thick silver dew. The sounds of the day were totally muffled, lights from cars flickered briefly before being sucked into the void. Two hours lost in the fog what a start to the day really eerie but absolutely fantastic.

The thought of hurtling through the South African sunshine on dusty singletrack seems a long way removed from my current training regime.

I’m told you need at least 10 hrs a week cycling to be able to complete let alone “compete” the epic, so tell me how do you do this?

I’m up early battling through the freezing temperatures and wet weather of a typical english winter, hands frozen, lips unable to move from the deaths head grin, toes – what toes?

Three hours of riding through the fog, I could bearly see my hand let alone the road ahead. Is it really worth it?

And then the joy of the boredom of the Turbo trainer, steaming away in my garage, Ipod blaring away, legs whirring round, my wife and son laughing at me as they load the tumble dryer with yet another lot of soggy training clothes – they must have the patience of saints.

Hours spent away from home working and cycling dumping steaming kit in the laundry. “will you win” asks my three year old son, “Will he finish?” adds my wife. Judging by my pink face and the puddles forming under the turbo trainer I might not exist by March.