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I landed an interview with World and Olympic cycling champion Geraint Thomas at the start of his racing season for the new British super-team, Team Sky.
In it he reveals his chances of one day wearing the Yellow Jersey; what it’s like serving as a super-tough domestique; and gives his frank views on what should happen to drugs cheats.
Read the interview for current affairs website, WalesHome, here.
Downing Street spin king turned blogger and cyclist has thrown his weight behind a campaign to cut deaths caused by heavy goods vehicles. Last year, 13 cyclists were killed on London roads. Nine died after colliding with lorries. Of those people, nine were women.
Campbell called on the government to act fast after Labour MP Gwyn Prosser tabled an Early Day Motion. “Politicians of all parties are rightly encouraging people to use bikes more,” Campbell said. “There are good environmental and health reasons for that. But… there has to be greater focus on the safety of cyclists”.
( Read more... )
Campbell called on the government to act fast after Labour MP Gwyn Prosser tabled an Early Day Motion. “Politicians of all parties are rightly encouraging people to use bikes more,” Campbell said. “There are good environmental and health reasons for that. But… there has to be greater focus on the safety of cyclists”.
( Read more... )
Everyone is ready to point out the problems with living in China, restrictions on what you can say, pollution, too many cars, eating rice everyday. All of these are reasonable points. I would counteract, however, by saying that at least over here we don't make our kids take a bicycle proficiency test.
I got to thinking about this after reading an article in the Guardian lamenting how few children get on their bikes these days. Accompanying the story was a photo of some kids participating in their bicycle proficiency test. A serious looking woman was leading the way, perched on a bike with a saddle so low it looked like her knees would be hitting the handlebars on the up stroke. She was wearing a helmet and a high visibiltiy vest. Presumably she had gone through one of those screening processes to ensure she wasn't a war criminal or had ever threatened a budgerigar(Melopsittacus undulatus to you mate). The kids in the background had expressions ranging from concentration to fear to total boredom. No one was smiling.
I looked up the bicycle proficiency test online. I was initially directed to a site that talked about“ bikability” - full of fun but short on information . I finally found the test at the CTC (the Cyclist Tourist Club) site another serious bunch of people who potter about on bikes sporting overloaded panniers and ridiculously low gear ratios.
I remember a couple of kids taking the test when I was at school, but I was surprised to find the first test was held back in 1947. It was always the sad bastards in the class who took the exam; they inevitably had overenthusiastic fathers who were course instructors and who would periodically show up in the classroom to give slide shows about the benefits of the program. This was before the days of high visibility vests and helmets so instead they would wear those reflective sashes and woolly hats during the talk that were the rage back then. Sure, they probably made you more visible at night, but at the cost of looking like a twat.
I downloaded the Level 1 test just to see what was expected of the modern day tyke.
The first four tasks are as follows: 1.Get on and off the bike without help. 2. start off and pedal without help. 3. Stop without help. 4. Ride along without help for roughly one minute or more.
Whatever happened to Dad taking off the stabilizers, sending you off down the hill with an energetic shove and then wandering back indoors to leave you to fend for yourself? By the time you came back looking for assistance with the de-biking procedure you had completely slipped Dad's mind and he was out laying concrete for a new path in the back garden or welding a bracket to the coal bunker so you cut a deep gash in your leg later that afternoon.
There was also a requirement in the test to “Use the gears”, without really specifying what was expected. Does that mean farting around with the levers and randomly shifting between the big bastard and piss easy rings at the front while at the same time running the rear derailleur back and forth across the block at the back so that one minute your feet are a blur and the next you are straining to maintain any type of forward motion? Also, if the instructor is expecting you to “Stop Quickly with Control” I somehow suspect he doesn't want the examinee to lock the back wheel and bring it out sideways so as to bury his mates in a shower of gravel. I can only guess what they might come up with to increase pass rates – laying next to the bike for a period of one minute? looking at the bike in a non threatening manner?
The proficiency test even teaches kids about cycling etiquette, which apparently involves communicating clearly with other road users. Personally i've found two fingers adequate for most situations. That and banging on the car roof.
I think that might be where the whole thing is going wrong. Kids don't want to get on their bike and learn a lot of rules. They get enough of that at school, and only have more of it to look forward to as adults. They want to get out and have fun and once you get adults involved you can probably forget all about that. Instructors should be teaching kids how to pop wheelies (front and back) and bunny hop the bike over immovable objects so that when they fail to achieve the necessary height they find themselves launched over the handlebars and into the air. Dangerous? Only if you try to hop the park bench so you land on the concrete side.
Doing stupid stuff like that can teach kids valuable lessons about what you can and cannot do, and acceptable levels of risk. One of the most important things I learned when trying to ride my bike along a wall (it seemed a good idea at the time) was that once you start you are absolutely committed, there is no backing out. It was a lesson that served me well many years later when downhill mountain biking in Colorado.
When you are kid, you don't want a certificate to acknowledge you are a proficient and sensible cyclist, your medal will be a pair of twisted forks or a buckled wheel. I can still remember my Dad watching me with a concerned expression as I rolled up to the house with a bleeding hand hanging at my side and a badly damaged bike. I'd assumed the crappy steering was because half the handlebar had sheared, although , technically, it was still attached because of the brake cable. But (as I later found out) the problem was compounded because I had also managed to snap the axle on the front wheel. A certificate on the wall could never stand next to my sense of achievement as we pulled out the front axle to find it in two parts and my Dad said “What exactly were you doing...?”
I got to thinking about this after reading an article in the Guardian lamenting how few children get on their bikes these days. Accompanying the story was a photo of some kids participating in their bicycle proficiency test. A serious looking woman was leading the way, perched on a bike with a saddle so low it looked like her knees would be hitting the handlebars on the up stroke. She was wearing a helmet and a high visibiltiy vest. Presumably she had gone through one of those screening processes to ensure she wasn't a war criminal or had ever threatened a budgerigar(Melopsittacus undulatus to you mate). The kids in the background had expressions ranging from concentration to fear to total boredom. No one was smiling.
I looked up the bicycle proficiency test online. I was initially directed to a site that talked about“ bikability” - full of fun but short on information . I finally found the test at the CTC (the Cyclist Tourist Club) site another serious bunch of people who potter about on bikes sporting overloaded panniers and ridiculously low gear ratios.
I remember a couple of kids taking the test when I was at school, but I was surprised to find the first test was held back in 1947. It was always the sad bastards in the class who took the exam; they inevitably had overenthusiastic fathers who were course instructors and who would periodically show up in the classroom to give slide shows about the benefits of the program. This was before the days of high visibility vests and helmets so instead they would wear those reflective sashes and woolly hats during the talk that were the rage back then. Sure, they probably made you more visible at night, but at the cost of looking like a twat.
I downloaded the Level 1 test just to see what was expected of the modern day tyke.
The first four tasks are as follows: 1.Get on and off the bike without help. 2. start off and pedal without help. 3. Stop without help. 4. Ride along without help for roughly one minute or more.
Whatever happened to Dad taking off the stabilizers, sending you off down the hill with an energetic shove and then wandering back indoors to leave you to fend for yourself? By the time you came back looking for assistance with the de-biking procedure you had completely slipped Dad's mind and he was out laying concrete for a new path in the back garden or welding a bracket to the coal bunker so you cut a deep gash in your leg later that afternoon.
There was also a requirement in the test to “Use the gears”, without really specifying what was expected. Does that mean farting around with the levers and randomly shifting between the big bastard and piss easy rings at the front while at the same time running the rear derailleur back and forth across the block at the back so that one minute your feet are a blur and the next you are straining to maintain any type of forward motion? Also, if the instructor is expecting you to “Stop Quickly with Control” I somehow suspect he doesn't want the examinee to lock the back wheel and bring it out sideways so as to bury his mates in a shower of gravel. I can only guess what they might come up with to increase pass rates – laying next to the bike for a period of one minute? looking at the bike in a non threatening manner?
The proficiency test even teaches kids about cycling etiquette, which apparently involves communicating clearly with other road users. Personally i've found two fingers adequate for most situations. That and banging on the car roof.
I think that might be where the whole thing is going wrong. Kids don't want to get on their bike and learn a lot of rules. They get enough of that at school, and only have more of it to look forward to as adults. They want to get out and have fun and once you get adults involved you can probably forget all about that. Instructors should be teaching kids how to pop wheelies (front and back) and bunny hop the bike over immovable objects so that when they fail to achieve the necessary height they find themselves launched over the handlebars and into the air. Dangerous? Only if you try to hop the park bench so you land on the concrete side.
Doing stupid stuff like that can teach kids valuable lessons about what you can and cannot do, and acceptable levels of risk. One of the most important things I learned when trying to ride my bike along a wall (it seemed a good idea at the time) was that once you start you are absolutely committed, there is no backing out. It was a lesson that served me well many years later when downhill mountain biking in Colorado.
When you are kid, you don't want a certificate to acknowledge you are a proficient and sensible cyclist, your medal will be a pair of twisted forks or a buckled wheel. I can still remember my Dad watching me with a concerned expression as I rolled up to the house with a bleeding hand hanging at my side and a badly damaged bike. I'd assumed the crappy steering was because half the handlebar had sheared, although , technically, it was still attached because of the brake cable. But (as I later found out) the problem was compounded because I had also managed to snap the axle on the front wheel. A certificate on the wall could never stand next to my sense of achievement as we pulled out the front axle to find it in two parts and my Dad said “What exactly were you doing...?”
My Chinese bicycle has had so many problems it’s got to the point where I can say “I’ve snapped more pedals than you’ve had hot dinners son” I was back down to riding along with a thin spindle of an axle to propel me on my way. I’d tried stopping at the old bloke who sits by the side of the street and fixes bicycles whom I pass every morning. He barely looked up from his bowl of noodles but a glance was enough for him to shake his head and send me on my wave with a dismissive wave of his chopsticks. Even a trip to best bike mechanic in town came up empty – I limped in accompanied by a backdrop of metal grinding against metal and a squeaking that my students have likened to the death throes of a donkey. Personally, I think it sounds more like a chicken breathing its last, but I suppose it’s a cultural thing. In any event, my arrival was greeted by raised eyebrows from the young kid who works in the shop who called his boss, who came out and burst into laughter.
Credit where it’s due, he did try to fix it, but after two aborted attempts which resulted in stripping the threads on new two pedals he put the original spindle back on and assembled a new pedal from the parts. It broke as soon as I tried riding away. I was resigned to riding the bike until the spindle snapped and then abandoning it but noticed an old post office bike standing majestically on the forecourt.
I asked how much it would set me back. “50 yuan if you trade it out with that bike” I thought I’d misheard him, but once I had established he really wanted about 5 quid for the bike I then suspiciously inspected it for signs of dry rot or other impending mechanical failure. Although the tyres looked in a bad way, it was starting to rain and I decided I could hold off buying a new set until the next morning. As I rode it away I was beginning to wonder whether I was riding a stolen bicycle, particularly since he made me sign my name in a large book and provide a phone number. I suppose I must have already been suspicious since, once I realized he wasn’t going to ask for ID, I gave a false name and a Beijing phone number.
Fortunately the back tyre didn’t explode until I reached the top of the long hill and could freewheel most of the way home with the rim bashing against the concrete. Nevertheless, it was loud enough to bring most of the local population into the street. One old guy thought it was a gunshot and refused to believe me even when I pointed at the shredded tyre sticking out at an odd angle from the back of the bike.
The owner stood outside the front of the shop and watched me nervously when I walked up with the bike making a thock-clang sound as the remains of the tyre alternately hit the frame and the rim hit the road where the tyre was missing.
I ordered two new tyres in the same manner in which I might say “fill her up” to a petrol station attendant (No self service here). And told him I’d be back in the afternoon. Seeing my old pigshit propped up against a wall I couldn’t help feeling a little bad about the way I had casually discarded it without a second thought, especially after all the collisions and new pedals we’d been through together.
When I returned later in the day the guy proudly presented me with a revamped pigshit. It had new forks, new kickstand, new crankset and new pedals. He’d even replaced the headset – if you want to split hairs, he’d installed ballbearings where previously there was only the ballrace. Oh yeah, and the brakes worked. Taking it for a test ride I’d gone from a rabid donkey swallowing a live chicken travelling sideshow to a silent assassin on two wheels. Amazingly, the guy said I could try it for 24 hours and if I decided I still wanted the post office bike I could switch it back out again.
It was the best of both worlds; I had a slick new bicycle but without the associated guilt of abandonment hanging over my head. There were no more glances over the shoulder from pedestrians when I approached from behind. When I collided with a cyclist later that evening, it was clear they never heard me coming.
Credit where it’s due, he did try to fix it, but after two aborted attempts which resulted in stripping the threads on new two pedals he put the original spindle back on and assembled a new pedal from the parts. It broke as soon as I tried riding away. I was resigned to riding the bike until the spindle snapped and then abandoning it but noticed an old post office bike standing majestically on the forecourt.
I asked how much it would set me back. “50 yuan if you trade it out with that bike” I thought I’d misheard him, but once I had established he really wanted about 5 quid for the bike I then suspiciously inspected it for signs of dry rot or other impending mechanical failure. Although the tyres looked in a bad way, it was starting to rain and I decided I could hold off buying a new set until the next morning. As I rode it away I was beginning to wonder whether I was riding a stolen bicycle, particularly since he made me sign my name in a large book and provide a phone number. I suppose I must have already been suspicious since, once I realized he wasn’t going to ask for ID, I gave a false name and a Beijing phone number.
Fortunately the back tyre didn’t explode until I reached the top of the long hill and could freewheel most of the way home with the rim bashing against the concrete. Nevertheless, it was loud enough to bring most of the local population into the street. One old guy thought it was a gunshot and refused to believe me even when I pointed at the shredded tyre sticking out at an odd angle from the back of the bike.
The owner stood outside the front of the shop and watched me nervously when I walked up with the bike making a thock-clang sound as the remains of the tyre alternately hit the frame and the rim hit the road where the tyre was missing.
I ordered two new tyres in the same manner in which I might say “fill her up” to a petrol station attendant (No self service here). And told him I’d be back in the afternoon. Seeing my old pigshit propped up against a wall I couldn’t help feeling a little bad about the way I had casually discarded it without a second thought, especially after all the collisions and new pedals we’d been through together.
When I returned later in the day the guy proudly presented me with a revamped pigshit. It had new forks, new kickstand, new crankset and new pedals. He’d even replaced the headset – if you want to split hairs, he’d installed ballbearings where previously there was only the ballrace. Oh yeah, and the brakes worked. Taking it for a test ride I’d gone from a rabid donkey swallowing a live chicken travelling sideshow to a silent assassin on two wheels. Amazingly, the guy said I could try it for 24 hours and if I decided I still wanted the post office bike I could switch it back out again.
It was the best of both worlds; I had a slick new bicycle but without the associated guilt of abandonment hanging over my head. There were no more glances over the shoulder from pedestrians when I approached from behind. When I collided with a cyclist later that evening, it was clear they never heard me coming.
Lot 31 of the Independent's annual Charity Auction is a money-can't-buy chance to see life inside the world's greatest bike race as you ride shotgun in Garmin-Transitions' team car during a stage of next year's Tour de France.
But, as some would-be bidders have noticed, the British cycling hero Bradley Wiggins last week switched to the new Sky team.
Rest assured, however, that despite the potentially confusing lot title ("Ride alongside Bradley Wiggins in the Tour de France") the deal, which includes a night's accommodation and flights for two as well as a team goodie bag, is definitely still on.
You'll get to sit next to the Garmin team's manager and 'ride along' with all the world's best riders (including Wiggins - he'll just be in Sky colours), as the car makes white-knuckle sorties to the team to supply food, water and mechanical help. To get some idea of what this is like, read my account of a similar trip during last year's Giro d'Italia, Italy's answer to the Tour de France.
See cycling website's Road.cc's report on this amazing opportunity here. And get bidding!
But, as some would-be bidders have noticed, the British cycling hero Bradley Wiggins last week switched to the new Sky team.
Rest assured, however, that despite the potentially confusing lot title ("Ride alongside Bradley Wiggins in the Tour de France") the deal, which includes a night's accommodation and flights for two as well as a team goodie bag, is definitely still on.
You'll get to sit next to the Garmin team's manager and 'ride along' with all the world's best riders (including Wiggins - he'll just be in Sky colours), as the car makes white-knuckle sorties to the team to supply food, water and mechanical help. To get some idea of what this is like, read my account of a similar trip during last year's Giro d'Italia, Italy's answer to the Tour de France.
See cycling website's Road.cc's report on this amazing opportunity here. And get bidding!
From now on I'll post my occasional column in the Saturday Magazine here. Scoll down for today's story of a strange encounter in the hills of Kent. In the meantime, catch up on what's been published since I took on the cyclotherapy mantle last April.
Keen but rarely cool 25 April
Mont Ventoux build-up 9 May
The inevitable crash 23 May
Tack Man sabotage 30 May
Parking problems 6 June
Cyclefit fiting 27 June
Shotgun on the Giro 18 July
Girls on Bikes 25 July
Mont Ventoux report 8 August
Helmet debate 15 August
Headphones on 22 August
Red light jumping 29 August
Enter the YikeBike 5 September
Satnav road test 12 September
Cycling as meditation 19 September
London to Brighton 26 September
Montreal bikehire roadtest 21 November
Today's column:
The kindred relationship between cyclists is usually coupled with a fierce sense of competition
By Simon Usborne
Saturday, 28 November 2009
On Sunday mornings all over the country, riders leave disbelieving families in their beds to take a kind of two-wheeled communion. Part of the credo that joins this peculiar congregation requires strangers to doff a helmet or exchange nods or waves. On solo rides, a nod sometimes turns into chat. I usually limit those exchanges to pleasantries, but on a recent morning in Kent, I was picked up by a 50-something Frenchman.
I had been pedalling fast, halfway into a 60-mile circuit through the North Downs of Kent, when a whippet-like man whirred past with enviable souplesse, a blur of Lycra and tanned forearms. He quickly opened a gap but I tried to keep him in sight – at least for as long as I could. We turned out to be following the same route and, as I approached the Pilgrim's Way near Sevenoaks, I saw that he had stopped at a deserted junction.
Preparing to give him the obligatory nod and, feeling relatively friendly, a "Morning!", I realised he was waiting for me. "'Allo," he said as I unclipped a shoe. "If you want, I can show you some 'ills." Some hills? Wow, er, yes, why not? I'll follow you. And so the French guy was off. The lanes too narrow to ride in a pair, I sat on his wheel in a strange silence during which Denis (we did at least introduce ourselves) seemed to be building up speed.
The kindred relationship between cyclists is usually coupled with an unspoken, fierce sense of competition. I got the sense Denis was testing me and a pointless sense of pride wasn't going to let me fail. After half a mile or so, during which my heart rate had already risen, he got out of his saddle and dropped through the gears as he took a sharp left up a steep ribbon of asphalt.
In our only other exchange beyond sharing names, I learned that Denis spends his summers back home, hauling himself up proper hills in the Alps. That and a significant weight advantage left me fighting to stay with him. I managed – just – and, failing to hide my breathlessness at the top, a serene Denis looked at me and said, "Okay. Good. I go zis way. You can go zat way." And that was that – he sprinted south and I plodded home, leaving behind the weird world of road cycling for another weekend. Back in London, the day was just beginning.
s.usborne@independent.co.uk
Keen but rarely cool 25 April
Mont Ventoux build-up 9 May
The inevitable crash 23 May
Tack Man sabotage 30 May
Parking problems 6 June
Cyclefit fiting 27 June
Shotgun on the Giro 18 July
Girls on Bikes 25 July
Mont Ventoux report 8 August
Helmet debate 15 August
Headphones on 22 August
Red light jumping 29 August
Enter the YikeBike 5 September
Satnav road test 12 September
Cycling as meditation 19 September
London to Brighton 26 September
Montreal bikehire roadtest 21 November
Today's column:
The kindred relationship between cyclists is usually coupled with a fierce sense of competition
By Simon Usborne
Saturday, 28 November 2009
On Sunday mornings all over the country, riders leave disbelieving families in their beds to take a kind of two-wheeled communion. Part of the credo that joins this peculiar congregation requires strangers to doff a helmet or exchange nods or waves. On solo rides, a nod sometimes turns into chat. I usually limit those exchanges to pleasantries, but on a recent morning in Kent, I was picked up by a 50-something Frenchman.
I had been pedalling fast, halfway into a 60-mile circuit through the North Downs of Kent, when a whippet-like man whirred past with enviable souplesse, a blur of Lycra and tanned forearms. He quickly opened a gap but I tried to keep him in sight – at least for as long as I could. We turned out to be following the same route and, as I approached the Pilgrim's Way near Sevenoaks, I saw that he had stopped at a deserted junction.
Preparing to give him the obligatory nod and, feeling relatively friendly, a "Morning!", I realised he was waiting for me. "'Allo," he said as I unclipped a shoe. "If you want, I can show you some 'ills." Some hills? Wow, er, yes, why not? I'll follow you. And so the French guy was off. The lanes too narrow to ride in a pair, I sat on his wheel in a strange silence during which Denis (we did at least introduce ourselves) seemed to be building up speed.
The kindred relationship between cyclists is usually coupled with an unspoken, fierce sense of competition. I got the sense Denis was testing me and a pointless sense of pride wasn't going to let me fail. After half a mile or so, during which my heart rate had already risen, he got out of his saddle and dropped through the gears as he took a sharp left up a steep ribbon of asphalt.
In our only other exchange beyond sharing names, I learned that Denis spends his summers back home, hauling himself up proper hills in the Alps. That and a significant weight advantage left me fighting to stay with him. I managed – just – and, failing to hide my breathlessness at the top, a serene Denis looked at me and said, "Okay. Good. I go zis way. You can go zat way." And that was that – he sprinted south and I plodded home, leaving behind the weird world of road cycling for another weekend. Back in London, the day was just beginning.
s.usborne@independent.co.uk
In my column in today's Saturday Magazine I go out on the road in Montreal to test the cycle hire set-up set to take London by storm next summer. My cousin, Esther, who lives in Montreal, was my guide during a day in which we toured the French-speaking metropolis on Bixi hire bikes. The Canadian company that makes the sturdy machines and the 400 or so automatic docking stations that dot downtown Montreal won the contract to supply London when Boris Johnson launches his vaunted Cycle Hire scheme in July.
( Read more... )
( Read more... )
Six Alps in three days on two wheels
Col du Galibier
A man in is lying in the foetal position on a tatty grey blanket. The blood has drained from his face; he is gently shaking and quietly muttering to himself.
After a couple of minutes he slowly sits up, the sweat on his face glistening in the sun, his forehead creased from more than an hour’s hard exertion.
I hand him a banana, which he slowly peels and then quickly devours. “I think I am beginning to get back my mojo,” he says with a weak smile.
We are at the top of the Col du Télégraphe in the French Alps. It is one of the classic mountains used in the Tour de France and we have just cycled up it at a brisk pace. The climb to the 1,566 metre summit, following an equally tough climb earlier in the day, has taken its toll on my friend and cycling partner, Adam.
We are half way through a three-day organised bike ride to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support. Our trip takes 50 cyclists over six legendary climbs that have witnessed countless battles and dramas in the sport of professional bike racing.
Today, we are engaged in our own personal battle – with ourselves. Welcome to fundraising by bike, the hard way.
Sponsored rides are in vogue. Charities are tapping into the boom in UK cycling, offering organised trips to cater for all abilities. Our own ride, the fabulously named “Legends of the Alps”, is set to raise more than £150,000 for Macmillan, so it isn’t difficult to see why charities are so keen on cycling.
Not everyone is impressed. Some hardcore cyclists turn their noses up at the idea of being packaged on a trip, where the food, drink and accommodation are sorted. It’s cycling for softies, they say.
In his recent blog for the Guardian, Matt Seaton, a self-certified cycling nut, dismissed charity rides. They are a “walk in the park”, he said. “Almost literally, you can't move for charity bike rides.” His point was why should anyone sponsor a cyclist to have a holiday doing what they love?
However, I would challenge even Mr Seaton, author of a cult book on amateur cycling, The Escape Artist, to describe our trip to the Alps as pootling.
The mountains that are used in the Tour de France are categorised by their severity: 4th category climbs are the “easiest” and 1st category are very tough. There is a further category of uber-climbs labeled Hors Catégorie, or “beyond categorisation”, which are the elite of the extreme mountains.
Our three-day trip took us over one 2nd category, two 1st and three HC climbs.
The first day included the 1,487 metre Col des Aravis that gave us a taste of Alpine climbing: the smooth French roads; the changeable climate; and the wooded foothills which thin out, teasing the rider with glimpses of dramatic vistas.
We then went onto the Col des Saisies. At 1,650 metres, this is a longer, more challenging climb that includes a sweeping descent south that reveals a stunning view of the snow-covered Mont Blanc.
On day two the serious business began. It opened with the longest climb of the trip, the 24.5 kilometre ascent of the Col de la Madeleine, a beautiful 1,993 metre mountain that requires the rider to find his rhythm and stick with it.
I cycled most of the col with a wiry Ulsterman whose sharp wit matched his pace. We chatted for the first few kilometres before simultaneous breathing and conversation were no longer possible.
I was left with my own thoughts. My mind wasn’t filled with big ideas, but bad pop songs from the 1970s and 80s that I unwittingly retrieved from a forgotten corner of my brain; the beat of the tunes matching the rhythm of my breathing, occasionally interrupted by the discordant clang of a cowbell as we passed cattle.
The day’s climbing ended on the Télégraphe, which nearly broke my friend Adam but who quickly recovered on the descent into the ski-resort of Valloire. While we both had to tap deep into our energy reserves during our trip, Adam’s “foetal moment” was, I am pleased to report, an extreme one-off.
To day three, the big one – straight onto the foot of the most imposing and the highest climb of the trip – the Col du Galibier. The mountain, first used in Tour de France in 1911 and which includes a stone monument to the founder of the Tour, Henri Desgrange, has captured the imagination of the French.
They call it “the roof of the Tour” and the “the sacred monster”. A few kilometres into the climb it is clear why. It’s a rugged, exposed, foreboding beast of a col with snow-capped, saw-tooth peaks that bear down on the rider as he climbs through the mist into the mountain’s chilly microclimate.
It is also immensely beautiful. As the road ramped up my body trickled endorphins into my bloodstream and as I reached the summit the feeling of euphoria was difficult to contain.
“If I wasn’t a bloke I would probably cry now,” I embarrassingly said to one of the event organisers stationed at the peak handing out bananas, as I coasted over the top.
But reaching the 2,646 metre summit of the Galibier is only half the story. On the other side is a long, technical descent south that pulls the rider down the mountain at over 65 kph through the cloud base in sub-zero temperatures.
The Galibier can play tricks on a rider. And I fell for an obvious one, stopping half way down to inspect my front tyre, concerned that I may have a flat before realising that my the bike’s unusual handling was due not to a mechanical problem but my uncontrollable shivering.
Refuelled and warm again, we reached the most iconic mountain – Alpe d’Huez, made up of 21 hairpin bends each marked with a signpost that bears the name of a famous cyclist that has triumphed on the slopes.
It isn’t the longest, highest or steepest, and it certainly isn’t the most beautiful climb. But this 1,815 metre mountain-top finish is steeped in history and has shaped the results of more Tours than any other.
It’s where teammates Bernard Hinault and Greg LeMond staged an epic dual in 1986 before agreeing a truce, crossing the finish line arm-in-arm. It’s where Lance Armstrong famously duped rival Jan Ullrich into thinking he was suffering before giving him “the look” and sprinting off to seal the win and the 2001 edition of the Tour.
Being the final mountain of our trip, there was only one way to climb it – flat out. I set my stopwatch at the base, got out of the saddle, clicked up a gear, and attacked the 13% ramp to the first hairpin.
The record for climbing of Alpe d’Huez was set in 1997 by the impish – and it later emerged, drug-fuelled – Italian grimpeur Marco Pantani, reaching the summit in 37m35s.
My more modest goal was to do a sub-hour, which I was told was the benchmark for a half-decent amateur. Maybe it was the five cols in my legs, but I was just 5 minutes shy of my goal.
There are two ways of looking at this. One is that I had been beaten by the Alpe and my own target. The other is that I have unfinished business with the mountain and that one day, perhaps on another charity expedition, I will be back to take revenge.
I discussed this with Adam on the way back to the UK. We didn’t have a long debate. See you on the d’Huez.
Alpe d'Huez
LINKS:
Our ride was to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support. Read why we chose the charity and make a donation at:
www.justgiving.com/adamandclayton/
Read Matt Seaton’s blog on charity rides at:
www.guardian.co.uk/environment/green-liv
Don't tell the missus.
First: the photos. Check out the rims (and other bits) on these. A Swiss bike nut has restored an amazing collection of vintage road bikes spanning a century and uploaded the pics to create a stunning virtual museum. Click here to order them by date.
From this (1905)
... to this (1997)
And now for the videos. Cervelo, a French-Canadian bike manufacturer, have sprung from nowhere to becoming one of the most desirable names in the business. They also run their own pro team. These professionally-made videos are essentially PR (albeit great PR) but also offer a fascinating insight into the politics and personalities that drive modern road racing. They span most of the season but for some reason stop before the Tour de France. Budget cuts?
Screen grab:
First: the photos. Check out the rims (and other bits) on these. A Swiss bike nut has restored an amazing collection of vintage road bikes spanning a century and uploaded the pics to create a stunning virtual museum. Click here to order them by date.
From this (1905)
... to this (1997)
And now for the videos. Cervelo, a French-Canadian bike manufacturer, have sprung from nowhere to becoming one of the most desirable names in the business. They also run their own pro team. These professionally-made videos are essentially PR (albeit great PR) but also offer a fascinating insight into the politics and personalities that drive modern road racing. They span most of the season but for some reason stop before the Tour de France. Budget cuts?
Screen grab:
I devoted my Cyclotherapy column in today's Saturday Magazine to the boom in electric bikes. I hate electric bikes but was intrigued enough by last week's launch of the YikeBike to have a go. Read the column here.
Meanwhile, here are the pics and videos, as promised.
( See videos )
Meanwhile, here are the pics and videos, as promised.
( See videos )
On Friday hundreds of cyclists will meet outside London’s National Film Theatre. From there they will form a colourful procession that tours the capital’s finest landmarks.
There will be environmentalists, anarchists, pacifists, activists and plain old cyclists. Fixie couriers, weather beaten commuters, mums and kids and the odd racer will form a slow moving chicane that is the monthly Critical Mass bike ride.
But not everyone will enjoy this two-wheeled spectacle.
The monthly go-slow through central London rush hour raises the hackles of many motorists. On the last couple of Critical Mass rides there have been reports of violence – a driver ramming a cyclist and fists flying.
So why do it?
Perhaps one reason for this lack of focus is that cycling in London and in many other UK cities is no longer the preserve of the brave and the foolhardy.
We share car-free lanes with buses and motorcycles. Most junctions have dedicated ‘advance stop lanes’.
In my 13 years of cycling in London I have seen a huge increase in the number of cyclists on the road. On my commute into the office the other day I spotted a woman cycling in high-heeled boots. Bonkers, yes, but proof that commuting by bike is now accepted by all.
What this adds up to is a cycling scene transformed. In fact, about the only thing that has stayed the same is Critical Mass and its monthly ride. There now has to be a concern that, without a purpose, it is doing more harm than good.
Cycling is on the up. Purposefully winding up other road users could undermine that.
Whenever I am back in the UK, I always make time for a visit to my mate Banjo. Known each other since university we have, when we got dumped next to each other in a first year teaching lab on account of being alphabetically adjacent in the list of new intakes. Despite the all the years that have gone by, we still remain friends with enough shared interests to see us through a visit and more. He likes computer games, plays squash, but most importantly of all he is a keen cyclist.
Being keen doesn't mean fast, but early on I came to realise that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Probably one of the most important things I learned from him is to take things in their stride and take time to enjoy life. I think he could make a mint from holding overpriced classes at expensive retreats to stressed out execs with more money than sense. But of course he could never be arsed.
This philosophy has been translated into a two wheel form by pottering along country lanes for an hour or two catching sight of all the things I always miss because I'm keeping my head down and worrying about stupid stuff like average speeds and beating my best time. Sometimes he occupies himself by listening to an Italian language tapes in preparation for his next wine soaked visit to the country. He also likes to stop at any cafe he might encounter for tea and cake.
I met up with him last week, supposedly taking the train to Norwich, but because of industrial action I found myself on the train to Kings Lynn. My original plan was to 'detrain' (their word, not mine) at Ely and ride the 50 miles across country to Norwich. I texted Banjo when I got on the train to Lynn, he replied 'have just purchased outstanding cheese and pickle sandwich from trolley that passed through the office unexpectedly'. When he found out about my proposed plan he immediately responded with a plan B which involved instead taking the train all the way to Lynn and cycling the 15 miles to Fakenham where I could wait at a friend's house until he could come by to pick me up. “I think they have chocolate digestives' he added. It turned out to be 26 miles,but it was a good plan nevertheless.
The next day, rested after the hassles of dealing with Network Rail and trying to maintain a decent average speed wearing an overloaded backpack we set out for our first meander through the leafy backroads of Norfolk. As soon as we hit the first 'hill' Banjo suddenly stepped on the pedals and took off. It took me a moment to process what was I was seeing. “where's he going?” I asked myself as I watched his shape slowly recede in the distance.
I caught him, but it took a while.
Gentle rides down country lanes were forgotten as we kept up the pace trying to see who would be the first to crack. He finally did, not due to lack of stamina but due rather to the excellent cooked breakfast we'd had an hour earlier and which he was still in the throes of digesting. We had to wait at his Aunt's house for two hours until his head stopped spinning. Rather ignominiously he had to call a friend to come and pick him up and drive him home. It was all a bit sad, rather like watching a rider withdrawing from the tour.
The next day he had learned his lesson and forewent the pre race fry-up and we waited until evening for the traffic to die down. “We're going to take it easy today” he announced as we rolled off down the road. 10 minutes later we were going so hard we were running out of gears. Turning on to the Marriott way slowed things down a little, but not much.
When you get a mountain bike above a certain speed offroad it begins to behave differently. The speed irons out a lot of the little bumps and the handling is smoother. Despite that, we were on single track and my front suspension was stuffed, but I thought i'd have a go at squeezing past using the gap presented by the undergrowth on the right. We almost collided when I bounced off a branch concealed in the long grass but I just managed to get by without going under his front wheel and we were presently moving along at a respectable 24 mph.
It was all going rather well until we encountered a a girl riding a very skittish horse. They were proceeded by boyfriend on bike who was clearing the way ahead. The sight of two riders side by side looking like they were winding it up for the final sprint down the Champs d'Elysee seemed to unsettle him badly. Of course, as soon as we caught sight of the procession, we stopped to allow them to pass unhindered, and to avoid getting kicked by the horse - we both used to ride so we abot that.
But the damage was done. We'd lost our rhythm and the pace dropped to something more sensible and appropriate for a couple of middle aged guys. It stayed that way until we were a mile from home and turned up the road that led to his house. A long straight road that was just ideal for a sprint.
It was the click of him changing down through the gears that gave him away. I'm sure Cavendish would never make that mistake. In any event I took off down the road as fast as my legs would take me,
When I thought I was in the clear, I turned around to flick a him V sign only to find he was still within 20 ft of me, although clearly running close to his limit. I nipped away again, narrowly avoiding some muppet who opened a car door on me, accompanied by Banjo's cries of 'Bastard!'
It's seems that after all these years, he's finally figured out that the one thing that really matters more than tea and cake is beating your mate in that final imaginary sprint.
Being keen doesn't mean fast, but early on I came to realise that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Probably one of the most important things I learned from him is to take things in their stride and take time to enjoy life. I think he could make a mint from holding overpriced classes at expensive retreats to stressed out execs with more money than sense. But of course he could never be arsed.
This philosophy has been translated into a two wheel form by pottering along country lanes for an hour or two catching sight of all the things I always miss because I'm keeping my head down and worrying about stupid stuff like average speeds and beating my best time. Sometimes he occupies himself by listening to an Italian language tapes in preparation for his next wine soaked visit to the country. He also likes to stop at any cafe he might encounter for tea and cake.
I met up with him last week, supposedly taking the train to Norwich, but because of industrial action I found myself on the train to Kings Lynn. My original plan was to 'detrain' (their word, not mine) at Ely and ride the 50 miles across country to Norwich. I texted Banjo when I got on the train to Lynn, he replied 'have just purchased outstanding cheese and pickle sandwich from trolley that passed through the office unexpectedly'. When he found out about my proposed plan he immediately responded with a plan B which involved instead taking the train all the way to Lynn and cycling the 15 miles to Fakenham where I could wait at a friend's house until he could come by to pick me up. “I think they have chocolate digestives' he added. It turned out to be 26 miles,but it was a good plan nevertheless.
The next day, rested after the hassles of dealing with Network Rail and trying to maintain a decent average speed wearing an overloaded backpack we set out for our first meander through the leafy backroads of Norfolk. As soon as we hit the first 'hill' Banjo suddenly stepped on the pedals and took off. It took me a moment to process what was I was seeing. “where's he going?” I asked myself as I watched his shape slowly recede in the distance.
I caught him, but it took a while.
Gentle rides down country lanes were forgotten as we kept up the pace trying to see who would be the first to crack. He finally did, not due to lack of stamina but due rather to the excellent cooked breakfast we'd had an hour earlier and which he was still in the throes of digesting. We had to wait at his Aunt's house for two hours until his head stopped spinning. Rather ignominiously he had to call a friend to come and pick him up and drive him home. It was all a bit sad, rather like watching a rider withdrawing from the tour.
The next day he had learned his lesson and forewent the pre race fry-up and we waited until evening for the traffic to die down. “We're going to take it easy today” he announced as we rolled off down the road. 10 minutes later we were going so hard we were running out of gears. Turning on to the Marriott way slowed things down a little, but not much.
When you get a mountain bike above a certain speed offroad it begins to behave differently. The speed irons out a lot of the little bumps and the handling is smoother. Despite that, we were on single track and my front suspension was stuffed, but I thought i'd have a go at squeezing past using the gap presented by the undergrowth on the right. We almost collided when I bounced off a branch concealed in the long grass but I just managed to get by without going under his front wheel and we were presently moving along at a respectable 24 mph.
It was all going rather well until we encountered a a girl riding a very skittish horse. They were proceeded by boyfriend on bike who was clearing the way ahead. The sight of two riders side by side looking like they were winding it up for the final sprint down the Champs d'Elysee seemed to unsettle him badly. Of course, as soon as we caught sight of the procession, we stopped to allow them to pass unhindered, and to avoid getting kicked by the horse - we both used to ride so we abot that.
But the damage was done. We'd lost our rhythm and the pace dropped to something more sensible and appropriate for a couple of middle aged guys. It stayed that way until we were a mile from home and turned up the road that led to his house. A long straight road that was just ideal for a sprint.
It was the click of him changing down through the gears that gave him away. I'm sure Cavendish would never make that mistake. In any event I took off down the road as fast as my legs would take me,
When I thought I was in the clear, I turned around to flick a him V sign only to find he was still within 20 ft of me, although clearly running close to his limit. I nipped away again, narrowly avoiding some muppet who opened a car door on me, accompanied by Banjo's cries of 'Bastard!'
It's seems that after all these years, he's finally figured out that the one thing that really matters more than tea and cake is beating your mate in that final imaginary sprint.
The thing is, cyclists come in all shapes, sizes and shades.
You can be a 17 stone brick-layer on his way to work or a 13-year-old school kid doing wheelies on the way to class.
You can be a touring cyclist with a sturdy bike laden with bulging bags whose idea of a good time is to cover 70 miles in a day or you could have a nice mountainbike, a rucksack and a smallish rackbag and spend just ten minutes pedalling from the ferry port to your hotel.
You can probably guess which category I'm in. Suffice to say I have never laid any Flemish Weave and pulled only the teeniest of wheelies – oh, and if I have to go 70 miles, I tend to drive.
But cyclists seem obsessed with distance. It's a bit of a problem when you and your coterie of fellow veloceraptors are chatting on the ferry waiting with your two-wheelers while the ferry guys shift several hundred cars and lorries first.
The other cyclists ask questions like "Have you been before?" "Where are you headed?"
Last year I was able to say "Not far. Cancale." Hoping they wouldn't know it and wouldn't ask. But they said "How far is that?" and I had to admit it was just ten kilometres.
This year it was worse. There were two other couples. One woman had calves like Madonna's arms - all bone, sinew and veins - and horrible bright yellow socks. Hard core. She and her small, wiry partner were pedalling down to the Vendee. She wanted to know how far we were going.
"Oh. Over the hill and not far away," I smiled, wondering if she'd get the reference to the Tale of Pigling Bland. She didn't.
"Going to get there before nightfall?" She wasn't giving up that easily.
"Oh yes. It's only a kilometre.." Damn. It was out. Pity flickered briefly across her raddled face. I will definitely have to fib next year.
Or maybe I won't. Should I feel apologetic because I don't see the attraction of clocking up huge numbers of miles every day? Non! It's not my idea of fun to be on the bike for more than two hours at a time - especially in France where there are bars and cafes and restaurants and viewpoints and beaches where you can linger or explore. I don't care if that makes me a wuss. Holidays are for enjoying yourself and I generally do.
It's a lovely feeling pedalling out of the port carrying everything you need. It seems natural to ride on the right in France. Bowling down the hill into the village of Roscoff, I knew I'd like it; a nice bay, beaches, harbour, old lighthouse, church tower, restaurants and one kiddies' roundabout on the quayside.
So good to be back in one of those countries where the tatty old buildings look more fascinating and endearing than the new. Lots of granite (three colours, including pink), carvings of dragons, gargoyles, arches and old old stone walls. Cobbles and then a stretch of low wall separated the road from the beach and I could smell the sea.
Behind the stately facade of our hotel facing the sea and the Ile de Batz, our room was in a kind of glorified shed but at least we could park the bikes in the secure little courtyard outside the window. These things matter - although we did have some noisy neighbours - a family of young swallows in the nest just outside our door. Twitterings to rival Stephen Fry.
We were out on the bikes every day with complete freedom and utterly at ease with French drivers, who are patient and forgiving (with the exception of that Transit driver who forced me to do an unplanned right turn, but it might have been my fault for slipping into his blind spot...so we'll give him the benefit of the doubt) and give you plenty of room - even when we did a stretch along the D10 it was much, much safer than the B road close to home in Glos. We also rode the little green cycle lanes which are alternative routes away from busy roads taking you across the back of people's back gardens and farmland where there are rose onions and artichokes everywhere.
Ile de Batz is a glorious sliver of land just off the coast where there are no vehicles apart from the island taxi, the fire brigade van and tractors. The roads all seem wider because there are no cars, just walkers and cyclists. A bit like a larger version of the set of The Prisoner. The only negative aspect was the lunchtime andouillette; truly vile.
Back on the mainland, one day was reserved for a big trip - a whole day meandering in a westerly direction exploring the lanes, stopping off at beaches, looking at churches, examining public notices and finding a particular castle. All fine except when the clouds blew in and I found myself chewing on a substantial "sandwich au jambon" (half a French stick slashed and stuffed with ham) in the rain sitting clad in black waterproof on the steps of a church on what was effectively a large traffic island.
"We might as well be sitting on a roundabout in the middle of Stroud," I observed, feeling for the first time that a car to get into might have been nice.
"How far are we from where we are going?" asked Capt Sensible. He hadn't gathered that we were going nowhere in particular and west in general.
"There's a chateau hereabouts...” I like to keep things vague when I have no idea.
It's surprising how an almond crossant cheers you up in the rain. And it's even better when the rain stops and you reach a cove where the resident seabirds seem to be busy auditioning for the next David Attenborough TV series. There was a kind of feeding frenzy with flittering sanderlings at the edge of the waves, ringed plovers picking among the rocks and cormorants diving for dinner watched by a pair of white egrets.
Winding back inland, we almost passed the sign for the fabled Chateau at Kerouzere. Fifteenth century. Worth a look, even at this late stage. It was classic country chateau, built a mile or so back from the coast but fully functional as a defensive establishment with six foot thick walls and holes where you could pour boiling water (oil was a bit pricey, even in those days) on the visitors.
The front door was open, a little wooden table inside had a price list - four euros for adultes - so we left the cash and strolled in to be accosted by a bespectacled chap who had the look of someone well-versed in good food and wine. He explained they did guided visits only as it was a private house. He spoke good English - he spent seven years working in Harpenden and his son was there. So gave us a personal tour. Being the owner, he decided he could spare the time.
We heard the entire history, including the way the chateau was inherited through the female line for at least two generations and that the evil chateau owner back in the 18th century who wanted to take the place down stone by stone and sell it, was fortunately killed by a bull. We heard how the huge and priceless Aubusson tapestries had been used to cover the potatoes outside so were a bit faded. We saw ancient manuscripts including a 16th century prescription in Old French for a purgative drink featuring senna and climbed to a spooky windowless room at the top of a tower with the pelt of an ermine hanging on the wall.
On the way back, I saw a man strolling along with a couple of dogs walking nicely to heel. Only they turned out to be goats. I adjusted my specs. Yep. Goats. Exactly the kind of thing that happens if you're in the saddle for too long.
I expunged my hallucination with a large glass of Breton cidre, a steak and salad. Then the goats trotted into the bar.
- Location:Glos
- Mood:
thirsty - Music:Joni Mitchell Shadows and Light
Back in May, I wrote how Mont Ventoux, "which rises out of lavender fields to finish in a barren moonscape of sunbaked limestone, is synonymous with sweat and broken men". I could not know then just how accurate this assessment would be. The final 22 kilometres (14 miles) of last month's L'Etape du Tour was a scene of serious suffering.
The 92 miles from Montelimar to Ventoux's base at Bedoin in southern France had been a joy as 8,500 amateur riders snaked over five craggy mounts and thrilling descents. But an air of nervous anticipation hung over the closed roads and stone villages of Provence as we hunted for slipstreams, took in breathtaking views and, crucially, calculated energy reserves. Those who got it wrong found themselves walking soon after Bedoin. And then it got messy.
The forest that blankets the lower slopes of the Ventoux seemed to suck oxygen out of the air, leaving behind a funereal quiet broken only by the whirr of chains, the rumble of rubber and the gasps of exhausted riders. Where they weren't walking they were standing, slumped over their handlebars in the heat. I spotted one man ramming his fingers down his throat so he could be sick.
( Read more... )
The 92 miles from Montelimar to Ventoux's base at Bedoin in southern France had been a joy as 8,500 amateur riders snaked over five craggy mounts and thrilling descents. But an air of nervous anticipation hung over the closed roads and stone villages of Provence as we hunted for slipstreams, took in breathtaking views and, crucially, calculated energy reserves. Those who got it wrong found themselves walking soon after Bedoin. And then it got messy.
The forest that blankets the lower slopes of the Ventoux seemed to suck oxygen out of the air, leaving behind a funereal quiet broken only by the whirr of chains, the rumble of rubber and the gasps of exhausted riders. Where they weren't walking they were standing, slumped over their handlebars in the heat. I spotted one man ramming his fingers down his throat so he could be sick.
( Read more... )
Strange, the post-Etape period. Life loses much of its meaning. The challenge that has taken over one’s mind and body for many months is suddenly all over. Supreme fitness has built up, and now there’s no real purpose to put it to.
Looked at another way, this is also perhaps the moment to re-balance one’s life. What Etaper can honestly say that this whole crazy venture has come without some cost to their personal relations, career, emotional wellbeing? But anyway - let’s forget about all that and get back to cycling, shall we.
I did not ride a bike for 10 whole days after dismounting at the Etape village at Mont Serein. Graham, Lewis and I drove home the next day, and the day after that I drove down to Cornwall with the family - minus the bike - for a week of messing about on the beach, dodging the showers, and sleeping. Boy did I sleep. Still hankered after the bike, especially given the climbs on our doorstep. There was a 33 per center in St Mawes, quite near where we were staying. Never seen one of those before.
( Read more... )
Looked at another way, this is also perhaps the moment to re-balance one’s life. What Etaper can honestly say that this whole crazy venture has come without some cost to their personal relations, career, emotional wellbeing? But anyway - let’s forget about all that and get back to cycling, shall we.
I did not ride a bike for 10 whole days after dismounting at the Etape village at Mont Serein. Graham, Lewis and I drove home the next day, and the day after that I drove down to Cornwall with the family - minus the bike - for a week of messing about on the beach, dodging the showers, and sleeping. Boy did I sleep. Still hankered after the bike, especially given the climbs on our doorstep. There was a 33 per center in St Mawes, quite near where we were staying. Never seen one of those before.
( Read more... )
As I waited in the start pen, the time ticking down to the official departure of this year’s L’Etape Du Tour I said to myself, Yes, yes I’m ready for this. Ready, yes, because of all the riding and training, the talking, the planning, and ready yes, because I didn’t mind if I hadn’t trained enough, or been slack with my preparation. I just wanted to get out on to those roads and ride my bike. We had arrived at our journey’s end and the reward was a ride we would never forget. It felt good.
My previous two Etape’s had been smash and grab affairs. Similar in many ways to the training that had preceded them. The logistics of an Etape are difficult to handle and I had generally only managed to arrive the day before the big event and would normally find myself heading home that night or certainly by the next morning. For this Etape I found myself with three whole days to acclimatise and recce the route. We rode our bikes, we cleaned our bikes, we looked at other people’s bikes, we went in bike shops, and one of us even considered buying a new bike. The most pleasing thing of all though was that there was no more time left to do anything.
The day started well enough, a not too restless night spent worrying about the day ahead, bowl of porridge for the pre ride breakfast and the safe and punctual arrival of team Independent at the start in Montelimar all boded well. The ride to the foot of Mount Ventoux would take us through some of the best cycling country in France and the clear blue sky above would show it off to its best. Lewis and myself had high numbers, around the 7,500 mark and for us the day would be one spent constantly in the company of other riders. The colours of a Provencal landscape were beautiful enough in the brightening morning light; the occasional purple lavender field would normally be the colourful highlight of the panorama. The winding multi coloured procession of cyclists offered the lavender fields stiff competition in that regard.
( Read more... )
My previous two Etape’s had been smash and grab affairs. Similar in many ways to the training that had preceded them. The logistics of an Etape are difficult to handle and I had generally only managed to arrive the day before the big event and would normally find myself heading home that night or certainly by the next morning. For this Etape I found myself with three whole days to acclimatise and recce the route. We rode our bikes, we cleaned our bikes, we looked at other people’s bikes, we went in bike shops, and one of us even considered buying a new bike. The most pleasing thing of all though was that there was no more time left to do anything.
The day started well enough, a not too restless night spent worrying about the day ahead, bowl of porridge for the pre ride breakfast and the safe and punctual arrival of team Independent at the start in Montelimar all boded well. The ride to the foot of Mount Ventoux would take us through some of the best cycling country in France and the clear blue sky above would show it off to its best. Lewis and myself had high numbers, around the 7,500 mark and for us the day would be one spent constantly in the company of other riders. The colours of a Provencal landscape were beautiful enough in the brightening morning light; the occasional purple lavender field would normally be the colourful highlight of the panorama. The winding multi coloured procession of cyclists offered the lavender fields stiff competition in that regard.
( Read more... )
We may as well start with the main event - Ventoux itself. As Simon Senior described so brilliantly, it was brutal. Never have I seen so many fit, capable riders utterly defeated. As well as scores of walkers, I saw men slouched over their bars, unable to gather the energy to dismount. One man used his hand to force himself to be sick. Higher up, a rider had toppled on to the road. He lay there, his shoes still clipped into his pedals and helmet-clad head resting on the baking Tarmac.
I had saved enough to escape the worst Ventoux can do to a rider, stopping only once on the way up to collect water at Chalet Reynard. But the climb, which I completed in two hours and 22 minutes, hurt. Here I am feeling the strain near the summit , the valley floor falling away almost 2,000 metres below me (click on photos to enlarge).
( Read more... )
I had saved enough to escape the worst Ventoux can do to a rider, stopping only once on the way up to collect water at Chalet Reynard. But the climb, which I completed in two hours and 22 minutes, hurt. Here I am feeling the strain near the summit , the valley floor falling away almost 2,000 metres below me (click on photos to enlarge).
( Read more... )
The ride is over, but the analysis has just begun. As with pro sport, even us (very) amateur types can spend for ever speculating on what was and what might-have-been, especially if aided by some mysterious and complex data. The organisers of the Etape quickly pumped out the times and placings of Monday's event into a website. It's been a quite evening, the saddle sores are subsiding, so I've been sitting here crunching the Team Independent numbers.
( Read more... )
I wonder, with Brits featuring so prominently in this year's Tour de France, why no-one here is blogging their thoughts about our guys' achievements so far?
Etape is all very well, but the Brits are out there doing better than any British riders have for many years.
We are watching the transformation, day on day, of Bradley Wiggins from world champion track rider to world class Tour rider.
Yet here on Cyclotherapy you can see the brushweed rolling softly down the empty highway. Odd.
So I'd just like to put on record my fervent hope that Wiggo will be on the podium in Paris on Sunday in spite of hot competition from the brilliant Schleck brothers, Andy in particular.
And I firmly believe and hope that Cav can wipe the smile off Thor Hushovd's face on the Champs Elysees.
Was also good to see another favourite of mine David Millar going for it and working well with Wiggo.
Great chance for both of them in the time trial today. Woo and moreover, hoo!!!
- Location:Glos
- Mood:
crazy - Music:Add It Up - Violent Femmes
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claytonhirst : Geraint Thomas: The Welsh Wingman [+0] - susborne : Drink cycling - are you guilty? [+3]
- susborne : Alastair Campbell backs cycle safety campaign [+3]
- cyanide_bunny : Cycling Proficiency Tests [+1]
- cyanide_bunny : Born Again [+1]
- susborne : Independent Charity Auction - Tour de France lot [+0]
- susborne : Saturday Column: Picked up by a Frenchman [+0]
- susborne : London cycle hire - a lesson from Montreal [+0]
- claytonhirst : Hitting the Roof [+1]
- susborne : Hardcore bike porn [+0]
- susborne : The world's only mini electric penny farthing [+0]
- claytonhirst : Rebels without a cause [+3]
- cyanide_bunny : Winning Attitudes [+3]
- janh1 : En vacances avec les velos [+0]
- susborne : 'One man lay defeated, shoes still clipped into his pedals and helmet resting on the asphalt' [+2]
- simon_ohagan : Life after the Etape [+0]
- grahambence : Road to Ventoux: Cracked [+0]
- susborne : Road to Ventoux: the photos [+0]
- lewisblackwell : Road to Ventoux: the numbers game [+0]
- janh1 : The Tour [+2]
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