 |
| pic. Sean Hardy |
Nice write up via Endura.
https://stories.endurasport.com/cyclo-cross-custom-clothing
Wednesday, 25 October 2017
club class
Nice write up via Endura.
https://stories.endurasport.com/cyclo-cross-custom-clothing
Monday, 29 May 2017
The Rider
"Good riders? Bad riders? You can tell good riders by their faces, bad riders by their faces too - but that only goes for riders you already know."
In the spring of 2015 I was studying a map of France in anticipation of a family holiday to the Ardèche. Familiar names leapt out at me; Ales, Anduze, Nîmes, Uzès. Cycling clubs described in Tim Krabbé's "The Rider".
If you're not familiar with The Rider then beg, borrow or steal a copy. It's a great book which happens to be about cycling. It describes Krabbé's attempt to win a fictional road race: The Tour of Mont Aigoual. But the map suggested that this imaginary account borrowed real terrain. A kernel of an idea began to form. Was it possible to ride the route described in the book?
A closer look showed that Mont Aigoual lay in the heart of the Cévennes to the east of Meyreuis, the start town of the race. I had never considered that it might be possible to step into the world described in a work of fiction. The prospect was exciting. Would I be able to climb like Kléber, descend like Reilhan, ride like Lebusque or would I be climbing off early like Sauveplane?
Hours spent poring over a well thumbed book revealed enough detail to piece together the two loops of the race. The first loop seemed to fit the map but I just couldn't make the second loop work. Had the roads changed? Were the maps I had not good enough? Had my plan of recreating a fictional route run into the hard barrier of reality?
Satisfied that I had enough information to ride at least half the route I started to work out logistics. Meyreuis was about 2 hours drive from where we would be staying so with an early start that would be quite achievable. I was able to hire a bike in Prades, close to the route, which I could pick up on the morning of the ride. Now I just had to keep my fingers crossed for good weather, the Cevennes in summer is one of the wettest areas in France.
After arriving in France I bought a 1:25000 map of the Cevennes to complete the route planning. I was in luck. The route described in the book fitted the map perfectly, every place name and junction seemed to fit. This was going to work.
The south of France was in the midst of a heatwave with the mercury hitting 40 degrees most days. As luck would have it the day I had arranged to hire a bike was forecast to be the coolest of the week with an overcast start and a strong wind. With the weather in mind I elected to modify the route slightly. I would start in Les Vignes at the foot of the first climb. Hopefully this would allow me to minimise the climbing in the hottest part of the day and would leave me to finish with 50km of descending and easy riding.
After an early start I found myself on a magnificent driving road. Mile after mile of sweeping bends and no traffic provided an enjoyable start to the day and I arrived in Prades earlier than expected. I collected my steed for the day, a weighty but perfectly set-up Giant Defy. Driving though the amazing setting of the Gorges du Tarn I arrived at my starting point.
"Meyrueis, Lozère, June 26, 1977. Hot and overcast. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me."
It was overcast, windy and relatively cool as I started the first climb of the day. The hairpins of the climb wouldn't have been out of place in the Alps but as I gained height the view back into the Gorges du Tarn was unique. Six hundred meters abover my starting point I reached the Causse Méjean, a vast limestone plateau. A remote and desolate landscape even on a fine summers day. The frequent stone shelters at the side of the road gave an indication of how hostile this environment could be in a winter storm. Riding here was fantastic with no cars, no people and an amazing sense of isolation.
After a gradual descent I turned onto a slightly larger road heading south towards Meyreuis. Mile after mile of false flat was eased by the warmth of the sun on my back as the sky cleared and the day warmed up. The traffic was still incredibly light and it was ironic that I got stuck behind one of the few cars on the road as I descended into scenic Meyreuis. I took the opportunity to fill my bottles before setting out on the next remote section.
The heat was really starting to build and I was relieved to discover that much of the steep climb out of town was shaded by trees. Reaching the Causse Noir was stunning and my abiding memory of the day is riding through this amazing landscape with a strong tailwind speeding me along.
The race doesn't follow the main road to Mont Aigoual and I turned onto a minor road that passed through Lanuéjols but there was no-one there. I had barely seen another person since I left Meyreius. The descent into Treves began. Krabbé, the self confessed worst descender in the race, struggled here and so did I. He was overcome by thoughts of flying off the side of the mountain but my worries were more prosaic; greasy roads, gravel, blind corners and the overwhelming sense of being a long way from other people. Krabbé was dropped here but he quickly regained the lead group on the next climb. I stepped out of the novel for a moment and stopped for a coffee, une treve (a rest or let-up) in Treves. There was only one cafe in the tiny village but it was a perfect fit to this ride. A rustic, quiet place from another decade where I enjoyed an interesting chat with the owner who was was amazed to discover that her village formed part of the backdrop of a well known book.
There was no gendarme to wave me down the correct road but it wasn't difficult to find. The road started to climb into a narrow gorge with a strong headwind funnelling down it. I struggled to recall the description of this section but it was clear that I had underestimated it. An hour of climbing on heavy roads that didn't suit me. Not steep enough to be a real climb but enough to hurt and an ever-present headwind. I was starting to wonder if I had misjudged the route. It was now fiercly hot, I was barely half way through the 140 kilometres and I had been riding for close to 4 hours. I had to trust that the climbing was front loaded and the last 60 kilometres would be fast.
"Another four kilometres to Camprieu, another four kilometres to climb. Why am I whining about Camprieu? After Camprieu there are two kilometres of flat road, then an eight kilometre climb. Camprieu is a fallacy, an overgrown kilometre stone. Another four kilometres to Camprieu."
With no Lebusque, Kléber or Cycles Goff to share the work I was on my own and it was with a degree of relief that I reached Camprieu. After an hour of daydreaming about lunch my appetite abandoned me in the heat. Nothing seemed appealing and I ended up ordering a crêpe au citron and two scoops of vanilla ice cream. At least it was quick and I was soon back on the road, somewhat apprehensive about the climbing to come. But even suffering doesn't last for long when you don't have to worry about reality and a combination of smooth tarmac and a strong tailwind meant I was able to make short work of the climb.
The descent from the
top to the Col du Perjuret was punctuated by several small climbs but
rather than feeling like hard work they offered a chance to enjoy the
fabulous scenery. As I rode through this terrain it occured to me that the book reads like a genuine account of a road race taking almost no notice of anything outside the small bubble of the race. Most of the descriptions in the book deal with how the landscape affects the race and the few comments on the world beyond the road are offered with an element of detachment. Another dimension which the riders do not have the capacity to be troubled by.
On the long and straightforward descent off the Col du Perjuret I started to slip out of the story. My ride wouldn't finish in Meyreius and I certainly wouldn't be contesting the sprint. None the less I kept looking ahead for the 'CULTE PROTESTANTE' sign that marked the start of the sprint but it's long gone, or perhaps it was never there.
Several hours after my last visit I was back in the same shop to top up my water supplies. The temperature had risen significantly as I descended from the summit. The Gorges de la Jonte was beautiful but the headwind was strong enough that I had to pedal reasonably hard to make progress on the gentle downhill slope. The heat in the gorge was incredible, riding into the headwind felt like opening an oven door.
As I suffered in the heat my thoughts were dominated by the prospect of the sting in the tail; 20km into a headwind up the Gorges du Tarn. Again I was on the right side of the thin line between fiction and reality and when I reached Le Rozier I was greeted by an uplifting roadsign: "Les Vignes 10km". I turned into the Gorges du Tarn and it became clear how hazy my recollection of the final part of the route had been, the walls of the beautiful gorge provided shelter for an easy spin back to the car.
Recreating this route was one of my most enjoyable cycling experiences and I've struggled to get the same satisfaction from similar rides. The blurred boundary between the novel and real life allowed me to become part of the story. The heroes of this race never existed so there are no fallen idols to cast any shadows.
On a more practical level these were wonderful roads to ride offering lots of climbing in near solitude. Outside of Meyreius I only saw a handful of people all day, at one point riding for over an hour without being passed by a car.
After riding this route I discovered that others had made the pilgrimage before me. CyclingTips wrote an excellent article on their adventure, it looks like they stopped in the same cafe in Treves as I did. The fantastic InRng blog featured Mont Agioual as part of the Roads to Ride series.
"One more kilometre to climb. It's so incredibly pitiful that I ever wanted to do this, but now I'm stuck with it."
In the spring of 2015 I was studying a map of France in anticipation of a family holiday to the Ardèche. Familiar names leapt out at me; Ales, Anduze, Nîmes, Uzès. Cycling clubs described in Tim Krabbé's "The Rider".
If you're not familiar with The Rider then beg, borrow or steal a copy. It's a great book which happens to be about cycling. It describes Krabbé's attempt to win a fictional road race: The Tour of Mont Aigoual. But the map suggested that this imaginary account borrowed real terrain. A kernel of an idea began to form. Was it possible to ride the route described in the book?
A closer look showed that Mont Aigoual lay in the heart of the Cévennes to the east of Meyreuis, the start town of the race. I had never considered that it might be possible to step into the world described in a work of fiction. The prospect was exciting. Would I be able to climb like Kléber, descend like Reilhan, ride like Lebusque or would I be climbing off early like Sauveplane?
Hours spent poring over a well thumbed book revealed enough detail to piece together the two loops of the race. The first loop seemed to fit the map but I just couldn't make the second loop work. Had the roads changed? Were the maps I had not good enough? Had my plan of recreating a fictional route run into the hard barrier of reality?
Satisfied that I had enough information to ride at least half the route I started to work out logistics. Meyreuis was about 2 hours drive from where we would be staying so with an early start that would be quite achievable. I was able to hire a bike in Prades, close to the route, which I could pick up on the morning of the ride. Now I just had to keep my fingers crossed for good weather, the Cevennes in summer is one of the wettest areas in France.
After arriving in France I bought a 1:25000 map of the Cevennes to complete the route planning. I was in luck. The route described in the book fitted the map perfectly, every place name and junction seemed to fit. This was going to work.
The south of France was in the midst of a heatwave with the mercury hitting 40 degrees most days. As luck would have it the day I had arranged to hire a bike was forecast to be the coolest of the week with an overcast start and a strong wind. With the weather in mind I elected to modify the route slightly. I would start in Les Vignes at the foot of the first climb. Hopefully this would allow me to minimise the climbing in the hottest part of the day and would leave me to finish with 50km of descending and easy riding.
 | |
| Route planning and daydreaming |
After an early start I found myself on a magnificent driving road. Mile after mile of sweeping bends and no traffic provided an enjoyable start to the day and I arrived in Prades earlier than expected. I collected my steed for the day, a weighty but perfectly set-up Giant Defy. Driving though the amazing setting of the Gorges du Tarn I arrived at my starting point.
"Meyrueis, Lozère, June 26, 1977. Hot and overcast. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me."
It was overcast, windy and relatively cool as I started the first climb of the day. The hairpins of the climb wouldn't have been out of place in the Alps but as I gained height the view back into the Gorges du Tarn was unique. Six hundred meters abover my starting point I reached the Causse Méjean, a vast limestone plateau. A remote and desolate landscape even on a fine summers day. The frequent stone shelters at the side of the road gave an indication of how hostile this environment could be in a winter storm. Riding here was fantastic with no cars, no people and an amazing sense of isolation.
 |
| Looking back into the Gorges du Tarn above Les Vignes |
 | |
| Stone shelter on the Causse Méjean |
After a gradual descent I turned onto a slightly larger road heading south towards Meyreuis. Mile after mile of false flat was eased by the warmth of the sun on my back as the sky cleared and the day warmed up. The traffic was still incredibly light and it was ironic that I got stuck behind one of the few cars on the road as I descended into scenic Meyreuis. I took the opportunity to fill my bottles before setting out on the next remote section.
The heat was really starting to build and I was relieved to discover that much of the steep climb out of town was shaded by trees. Reaching the Causse Noir was stunning and my abiding memory of the day is riding through this amazing landscape with a strong tailwind speeding me along.
 |
| Enjoying the tailwind on the Causse Noir |
 |
| On the Causse Noir |
The race doesn't follow the main road to Mont Aigoual and I turned onto a minor road that passed through Lanuéjols but there was no-one there. I had barely seen another person since I left Meyreius. The descent into Treves began. Krabbé, the self confessed worst descender in the race, struggled here and so did I. He was overcome by thoughts of flying off the side of the mountain but my worries were more prosaic; greasy roads, gravel, blind corners and the overwhelming sense of being a long way from other people. Krabbé was dropped here but he quickly regained the lead group on the next climb. I stepped out of the novel for a moment and stopped for a coffee, une treve (a rest or let-up) in Treves. There was only one cafe in the tiny village but it was a perfect fit to this ride. A rustic, quiet place from another decade where I enjoyed an interesting chat with the owner who was was amazed to discover that her village formed part of the backdrop of a well known book.
There was no gendarme to wave me down the correct road but it wasn't difficult to find. The road started to climb into a narrow gorge with a strong headwind funnelling down it. I struggled to recall the description of this section but it was clear that I had underestimated it. An hour of climbing on heavy roads that didn't suit me. Not steep enough to be a real climb but enough to hurt and an ever-present headwind. I was starting to wonder if I had misjudged the route. It was now fiercly hot, I was barely half way through the 140 kilometres and I had been riding for close to 4 hours. I had to trust that the climbing was front loaded and the last 60 kilometres would be fast.
"Another four kilometres to Camprieu, another four kilometres to climb. Why am I whining about Camprieu? After Camprieu there are two kilometres of flat road, then an eight kilometre climb. Camprieu is a fallacy, an overgrown kilometre stone. Another four kilometres to Camprieu."
With no Lebusque, Kléber or Cycles Goff to share the work I was on my own and it was with a degree of relief that I reached Camprieu. After an hour of daydreaming about lunch my appetite abandoned me in the heat. Nothing seemed appealing and I ended up ordering a crêpe au citron and two scoops of vanilla ice cream. At least it was quick and I was soon back on the road, somewhat apprehensive about the climbing to come. But even suffering doesn't last for long when you don't have to worry about reality and a combination of smooth tarmac and a strong tailwind meant I was able to make short work of the climb.
 |
| Climbing towards Camprieu |
 |
| Looking back towards Mont Aigoual |
 |
| This is why I ride |
 |
| Approaching the Col du Perjuret |
On the long and straightforward descent off the Col du Perjuret I started to slip out of the story. My ride wouldn't finish in Meyreius and I certainly wouldn't be contesting the sprint. None the less I kept looking ahead for the 'CULTE PROTESTANTE' sign that marked the start of the sprint but it's long gone, or perhaps it was never there.
Several hours after my last visit I was back in the same shop to top up my water supplies. The temperature had risen significantly as I descended from the summit. The Gorges de la Jonte was beautiful but the headwind was strong enough that I had to pedal reasonably hard to make progress on the gentle downhill slope. The heat in the gorge was incredible, riding into the headwind felt like opening an oven door.
As I suffered in the heat my thoughts were dominated by the prospect of the sting in the tail; 20km into a headwind up the Gorges du Tarn. Again I was on the right side of the thin line between fiction and reality and when I reached Le Rozier I was greeted by an uplifting roadsign: "Les Vignes 10km". I turned into the Gorges du Tarn and it became clear how hazy my recollection of the final part of the route had been, the walls of the beautiful gorge provided shelter for an easy spin back to the car.
Recreating this route was one of my most enjoyable cycling experiences and I've struggled to get the same satisfaction from similar rides. The blurred boundary between the novel and real life allowed me to become part of the story. The heroes of this race never existed so there are no fallen idols to cast any shadows.
On a more practical level these were wonderful roads to ride offering lots of climbing in near solitude. Outside of Meyreius I only saw a handful of people all day, at one point riding for over an hour without being passed by a car.
After riding this route I discovered that others had made the pilgrimage before me. CyclingTips wrote an excellent article on their adventure, it looks like they stopped in the same cafe in Treves as I did. The fantastic InRng blog featured Mont Agioual as part of the Roads to Ride series.
 |
| Riding through the Gorges de la Jonte |
 |
"One more kilometre to climb. It's so incredibly pitiful that I ever wanted to do this, but now I'm stuck with it."
Sunday, 19 February 2017
A Month Of Cross
As it's prone to do life got in the way and as 2017 ticked over a year had elapsed since my last cross race and even longer since my last good crack at a season. In no particular order selling our house, buying a 'project', training for the London Marathon, illness and a lack of mojo had conspired to keep me off the bike and away from racing.
When it dawned on me that this was the longest period of my adult life without riding a bike I decided it was time for some shock therapy; the Super Quaich. I figured that if I missed the first round I would have a month to get myself into some sort of shape before the 'big comeback'. That didn't quite go to plan and I ended up spending practically every spare hour fixing up the new place. A couple of cross rides with friends left me in no doubt about what to expect, even my normally easy ride to work had become hard work.
Having seen photos of the mudfest at Doonbank in 2016 I decided to keep things simple and race on my singlespeed. Handily this meant that I could ignore the fact that I didn't have a working geared bike for another week or two. The evening before the race was spent searching frantically for my race kit which seemed to be spread across every unpacked box in the house.
Arriving at the race I had no idea how I was going to go, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty but just how ugly would it be? It was great to be back at a cross race and catch up with friends that I hadn't seen for a while.
One advantage of not expecting anything was that I felt really calm on the start line. I was planning to take the first lap easy but when the gun went I got the perfect start and a huge gap opened in front of me, that never happens! Left with no choice but to take advantage I managed to get to the bottom of the first climb in a good position. Half way up it was obvious that I needed to back off and ride a steadier race.
The course was a cracker and really suited the single speed. Lots of off camber after the lung bursting run ups gave me a chance to recover without losing too much time and I managed to hold it together for a decent result; 42nd. Better than I was expecting and best of all I had avoided relegation.
A few turbo sessions and I'd be able to kick on at Foxlake, a course that I know really well and have gone well at in the past. Well, that was the theory...
...eh, no. That's not quite how it went. Surprisingly the turbo sessions went to plan, once I'd found dusty turbo lurking unloved under yet more boxes in the garage. I even managed to find some tyres for my bike, a Limus for the front (perfect) and a Chicane for the back (I'm sure it will be fine).
The race didn't go so well. I started near the back, had a shocking start and an even worse first lap and went backwards from there. I felt like I was running on empty for the whole race and a disappointing 68th was the result. Luckily I had done just enough to avoid relegation but given the stacked field for Dig In I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
A stinking cold followed and that was the end of the training plan. Suddenly the weekend of Dig In arrived and I was feeling nervous. A great day of coaching with Helen and Stef Wyman on the Saturday left me feeling more confident in my skills and with plenty to work on. At least now I only had to worry about the pedalling in between the skills.
Another shocking start and I was at the back of the race. Man, please don't let me get dropped by the whole race in the first lap. I knew this was a possibility but now it seemed to be coming true. Fortunately Bo'ness is a lot more forgiving of a lack of top end fitness than the punchy climbs of Foxlake and I managed to get my head down and grind myself away from the tail of the race. 71st. Not exactly setting the world on fire but I'll take that.
So goals for next season:
1. Try and re-discover some mojo and the fitness that follows.
2. Fit an outside tap.
Having seen photos of the mudfest at Doonbank in 2016 I decided to keep things simple and race on my singlespeed. Handily this meant that I could ignore the fact that I didn't have a working geared bike for another week or two. The evening before the race was spent searching frantically for my race kit which seemed to be spread across every unpacked box in the house.
Arriving at the race I had no idea how I was going to go, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty but just how ugly would it be? It was great to be back at a cross race and catch up with friends that I hadn't seen for a while.
One advantage of not expecting anything was that I felt really calm on the start line. I was planning to take the first lap easy but when the gun went I got the perfect start and a huge gap opened in front of me, that never happens! Left with no choice but to take advantage I managed to get to the bottom of the first climb in a good position. Half way up it was obvious that I needed to back off and ride a steadier race.
The course was a cracker and really suited the single speed. Lots of off camber after the lung bursting run ups gave me a chance to recover without losing too much time and I managed to hold it together for a decent result; 42nd. Better than I was expecting and best of all I had avoided relegation.
 |
| Photo by Christopher Hogge |
A few turbo sessions and I'd be able to kick on at Foxlake, a course that I know really well and have gone well at in the past. Well, that was the theory...
...eh, no. That's not quite how it went. Surprisingly the turbo sessions went to plan, once I'd found dusty turbo lurking unloved under yet more boxes in the garage. I even managed to find some tyres for my bike, a Limus for the front (perfect) and a Chicane for the back (I'm sure it will be fine).
The race didn't go so well. I started near the back, had a shocking start and an even worse first lap and went backwards from there. I felt like I was running on empty for the whole race and a disappointing 68th was the result. Luckily I had done just enough to avoid relegation but given the stacked field for Dig In I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
 |
| Photo by Iona Fisher |
A stinking cold followed and that was the end of the training plan. Suddenly the weekend of Dig In arrived and I was feeling nervous. A great day of coaching with Helen and Stef Wyman on the Saturday left me feeling more confident in my skills and with plenty to work on. At least now I only had to worry about the pedalling in between the skills.
Another shocking start and I was at the back of the race. Man, please don't let me get dropped by the whole race in the first lap. I knew this was a possibility but now it seemed to be coming true. Fortunately Bo'ness is a lot more forgiving of a lack of top end fitness than the punchy climbs of Foxlake and I managed to get my head down and grind myself away from the tail of the race. 71st. Not exactly setting the world on fire but I'll take that.
So goals for next season:
1. Try and re-discover some mojo and the fitness that follows.
2. Fit an outside tap.
Sunday, 1 January 2017
Keeping VCM Weird - Always Exploring
This was never supposed to be some sort of New Year resolution post, or a pat on the back for rides in 2016, but the reality is that I only ever manage to sit down and type these things in the Christmas holidays.
I'll not claim to be the most adventurous rider (exploits of VCMers around Europe and further afield are far more glamorous) so this is more a call to arms to the local adventurers. A show of solidarity to those who, like me, currently lack the time, the money or the "family passes" to get further afield for their riding.
I've been lucky in having a new backyard since May, so having spent years getting to know the Pentlands like the back of my hand, I now have a vast new playground in Highland Perthshire. Every ride offers the opportunity for a new bit of trail, a new way to link things up, or a bit of "I wonder where that goes...". Evenings are spent hunched over OS maps (or their digital equivalent). Weekends are spent riding my trusty Kinesis hardtail or CX bike (now a combined 10 years old) from the back door with a new horizon over every hill.
Sure, you might get some weird looks in the office on a Monday morning (or from the hill runner who laughed in my face as I slid my CX bike down a section of muddy hillside that it was completely inappropriate for), but I've (almost) never come back from a ride in a worse mood than I left in, and there is beauty to be found in those hills.
Today, despite the 0 degree temperatures and the northerly headwind, I shouldered my bike over a heathery hike-a-bike section to be greeted with one of those "this is why we ride" moments: a genuinely stunning view of the Lawers hills covered in snow set against a blue sky. 5 minutes later I was metres from the herd of deer that had generously formed the "path" I was riding. An hour later, rays of sun between sleety squalls were illuminating stripes of snow covered glen, made all the more striking by the contrast with the surrounding greyness. Even in the gloom of midwinter, there is natural beauty to be found. There is nothing that a few extra layers of Endura kit and a positive attitude can't overcome.
As the ever wise(?!) Chris Duncan often says after his usual Pitlochry based forest loops, outside is free folks. Get out there and ride.
I'll not claim to be the most adventurous rider (exploits of VCMers around Europe and further afield are far more glamorous) so this is more a call to arms to the local adventurers. A show of solidarity to those who, like me, currently lack the time, the money or the "family passes" to get further afield for their riding.
I've been lucky in having a new backyard since May, so having spent years getting to know the Pentlands like the back of my hand, I now have a vast new playground in Highland Perthshire. Every ride offers the opportunity for a new bit of trail, a new way to link things up, or a bit of "I wonder where that goes...". Evenings are spent hunched over OS maps (or their digital equivalent). Weekends are spent riding my trusty Kinesis hardtail or CX bike (now a combined 10 years old) from the back door with a new horizon over every hill.
Sure, you might get some weird looks in the office on a Monday morning (or from the hill runner who laughed in my face as I slid my CX bike down a section of muddy hillside that it was completely inappropriate for), but I've (almost) never come back from a ride in a worse mood than I left in, and there is beauty to be found in those hills.
As the ever wise(?!) Chris Duncan often says after his usual Pitlochry based forest loops, outside is free folks. Get out there and ride.
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