The Cat and Fiddle Challenge - Not For The Feint Hearted

The Brian Rourke Cat and Fiddle is no cake ride but its description as a monster ride is a little dramatic. The Cat and Fiddle challenge takes riders on a route from Stoke on Trent through the Peak District Moors and includes two well known and challenging climbs. As the name suggests, the challenge takes riders up the Cat and Fiddle climb before negotiating the less well known but as taxing Axe Edge. An extremely popular challenge ride rather than a more commercial sportive, the 50 mile plus route was well attended by groups and individual riders and contained a high number of club riders, riding together.

The ride HQ can be found at the Community Centre a short distance from "Rourkies" shop and was well organised with alphabetical sign on & water and energy bars handed out on registration. Setting off from ride HQ in the centre of Stoke on Trent the early part of the ride takes in fast, traffic busy roads but fortunately the high numbers of riders and relatively flat terrain, allows for safety in larger groups. Unfortunately the road condition in a number of places made riding in groups a little more tricky but that's the risk many of us run everyday of the week.

At about 20 miles, riders are taken through the centre of Macclesfield and to the base of the Cat and Fiddle climb. The early part of the climb (which is about five and a half miles in total), is the steepest but can be ridden at tempo if you get the rhythm right. The Cat and Fiddle ascent winds it's way from the outskirts of Macclesfield through the Peak District version of 'switchbacks' before rising onto the open moorland, eventually rising to the top of the climb at the Cat and Fiddle pub, where organisers provide water and energy gels.

On leaving the comfort of the small but adequate pit stop, riders are taken across the undulating plateau before heading down the steep and technical descent towards Buxton. Before arriving in Buxton the route turns away from the picturesque Peak District town and up the challenging Axe Edge climb. Axe Edge is steeper but shorter than it's neighbour and once again the route takes riders across open and exposed moorland, allowing the elements to have an impact on riders progress.

Having negotiated the two signature climbs riders are taken into Leek, via a very fast descent before negotiating the town centre and then the testing climb out the other side and the lumpy final leg back into Stoke on Trent. Organisers have aimed to ensure that the challenging terrain isn't left to the big climbs and have included a few late surprises to keep complacency at bay.

Arriving back at the ride HQ riders are met with a very fine spread of cold refreshments including sandwiches, cake and hot drinks, a welcome sight after completing the tough 50 odd miles. In summary, this ride is indeed a challenge, well organised and sign posted, the terrain is testing but with an fast and pacey opening section.

If you hate hills or are a novice, give this ride a miss. If you can take or leave hills this ride is testing but manageable with some determination and a bit of grit. If you like hills, you'll love this ride.

- Mark Powell

Warwickshire Hill Climb 2011 report

"Matt, what do you think? How are we doing?" This is the question one of the group asked Matt Clinton a few months ago when he came out riding with us one summers eve. He thought about it for a while and then said, "You need to learn how to suffer". We waited for some elaboration on this point, but none came.

Yesterday saw the 2011 Warwickshire Hill Climb competition take place on Saintbury Hill and Dovers Hill. The event was attended by ten riders from Mike Vaughan Cycles and a host of friends and family. This competition has made me realise I didn't have a clue about suffering. I've now opened the door a crack and can see a world of pain beyond that would make Hieronymus Bosch nod with approval.

We assembled at the event HQ in Weston Sub Edge and made camp in the corner of the carpark. The HQ is situated near to the base of both hills. The organiser Alex Laycock and Warwickshire R.C. volunteers had rigged the Village Hall with the trappings of a typical cycling event (hot tea and cakes stacked high).

Megan, Jack and George preparing to give it all.

I can tell you that I was already super-nervous. I've ridden over a thousand miles of various Sportive events but never branched out into other cycling disciplines. The thought of pushing my hefty 100kg frame up two steep hills against the clock isn't in my top ten "things to do before I die" list. You're more likely to find it in my "things to do to make me die" list.

Mark Powell shortly before his head exploded.

As per Matt's advice, I started cycling about 30 minutes before my climb was due. Being number 21 meant I rode at 21 minutes past the hour. I was also the first MV rider to go, so I felt a slight burden of expectation from the various supporters lining the road. Waiting behind me was 16 year old Jack O'Neill and at 27 minutes was 15 year old George Goodwin. At 29 minutes our only lady (riding that is!), 14 year old Megan McDonald. Right near the bottom of the starting order was our not-so-secret weapon, Matt Clinton.

In one minute intervals the riders were unleashed on Saintbury Hill. Two chronologically challenged gents at the start-line organised the competitors as they rolled onto the thin chalk line. It was my turn in no time and I levelled the wheel onto the line and felt one of the gents take hold of the bike. I wanted to advise him against trying to hold me upright for thirty seconds, but he insisted I put my feet in the pedals. I let him take the strain as I clipped in. The other chap gave me the countdown and I started looking up the road.

"Don't go off too fast" Said Matt at the briefing. No problem there Matt. I pushed it enough to feel the effort hit my lungs and legs. However, as soon as the road swept to the left it became even steeper. I sat down and started to try and find a rhythm. It's at this point I realised that no amount of optimism and no amount of visualising would overcome the monalithic enormity of cold hard Physics. Power over Weight ratio, something very simple and indelibly real. If you weigh a lot, like I do, you need to produce an enormous amount of power to climb as fast as a smaller rider with less power. I don't have an enormous supply of power. I can stamp up a hillock or power along a flat, but this .... this is completely alien to me! I always nurse myself up hills like this, minimising my losses.

Saintbury continued in undulating waves of lung-bursting agony, delivering the occasional false summit for good measure. I settled into an uneasy tempo, riding above my threshold but knowing it was slow. Stealing a glimpse behind me half-way up I was relieved to see no sign of my minute man but that was really the only positive I could extract from the experience.

Racing up a hill is not fun. That's not the point. I could feel my airways burning and sweat was pouring onto the bike as I forced the crank round one revolution at a time. It got to the stage where I had to get out of the saddle to actually maintain forward momentum. I started to think that I would have to throttle back and just limp my way to the top when I saw the chequered flag in the distance. Mercifully the slope dropped away towards the end and I upped the pace to an eye-watering 10mph over the final few metres.

After riding off into the distance to get my lungs back in my chest I came back to the finish line to join up with the MV crew shouting support at the top. My time was 8:35.2. The first rider I saw was Jack O'Neill flying to the finish with a more controlled style and considerably more panache. He beat me comfortably. Then moments later, riding as if the hill was an optical illusion came George Goodwin, completing the climb in 7:20, more than a minute faster than me. It occurred to me that I hadn't been using a plaster on my nose and that was probably why he did so well.

The MV crew continued to make the ascent in markedly different styles. I made it to the bottom of the hill in order to grab a drink and was able to watch Mark start his climb. I asked him to take a camera up the hill for Liz but he wasn't having any of it. His start was ridiculously quick and I thought his oxygen debt would destroy him around the corner. But he failed to fail and turned out a time of 7:54, a good 12 seconds quicker than his time last year.

Shortly after that, the machine that is Matt unclipped himself from his turbo and made his way to the start making sure his legs were on tightly with a few tweaks of an allen key. After all his advice about starting steadily he proceeded to leave the start line as fired from a Tank. "It's all relative", explained one of our riders as I voiced my doubts about his advice. Good point.

Matt made the climb in 6:03.6 (yes ... the same climb I did, Saintbury Hill). His main rival was Tejvan Pettinger (Sri Chinmoy CT) who was riding out last. Mr Pettinger makes Bradley Wiggins look like Elvis in his latter years. He managed to climb Saintbury in 5:52.0 which I believe is a new course record!

With just under 12 seconds on Matt the stage was set for round 2, up Dovers Hill. This is a more predictable climb, where the slope remains pretty uniform all the way up. That doesn't mean this is an easier hill. For starters, the slope is steeper in general. It's a shorter climb but the increased gradient plays havoc on the power-weight ratio thing. I was contemplating giving up before I'd got round the first bend.

A total fear of failure kept me from dismounting, but I knew I was climbing slower than I had on Saintbury. To prove this for me, my minute man came past me at the finish line. Thanks to the misleading power of perspective and the fact I was in the traditional "overtaking" position on the road, my son thought I had caught up a rider and was about to catch him at the finish. Ahem.

Mike giving Dovers Hill his angry face

Megan managed to climb Dovers in an impressive 6:25. George Goodwin managed it in 4:55.7, which is just insane. Matt climbed Dovers in 4:10.5 and Tejvan Pettinger managed to fly up there in 4:03.2, an awesome feat.

Overall Matt finished 2nd to Tejvan and the rest of us walked away with varying degrees of satisfaction at our times. I know Chris Brock came away with the realisation that racing uphill is a different beast altogether. I share that sentiment Chris. Knowing you have raced up a hill is a good thing. Just take a look at the faces in these photos; there are lessons to be learned on those hills. I don't know what your lesson will be, but mine involves less donuts.

Warwick Cycle Races 2010

In September 2009 I entered the Warwick Cycle Races, my first ever criterium, and a first taste of sporting competition since school. I started the race at the back of the pack and finished somewhere in the middle. At the end of the race, having enjoyed the thrill of speeding around a closed circuit, taking outrageous chances on bends, I solemnly vowed to win the 2010 Warwick Races. My plan was vague, but the ultimate goal was clear; to win category 4, the entry level event for adults. The lowest category race of the day, and generally filled with a rag-tag bunch of cyclists, some there for the fun of it, and others there to win. In 2009 I was there for the fun. This year I entered to win.

On the 5th of September 2010, I cycled in the rain to possibly the last ever Warwick Races. I had planned to meet my family in Warwick town square. I signed up for the event and collected our numbers, entering my son into the under 12's and myself into the category 4 race. In the rain, my son and I stood nervously whilst my wife and her mum affixed the numbers to our backs. Our races were the first two of the day. I walked Jake down to the start/finish and looked at the array of colourfully dressed kids waiting for starters orders. It was fairly obvious that having just turned 10 years old, Jake was going to have his work cut out around the streets of Warwick. The kids were largely wearing lycra emblazoned with club names, and it's fair to say they looked formidable. Jake was happy to wait with the crowd of kids on his own and I left him to get a good view of the start.

Five minutes later, the side-barriers were opened and the kids were allowed to make their way onto the circuit to the start/finish line. The experienced children took the opportunity to sprint the short distance in order to get a better starting position. I watched the start of their race with a degree of sympathy for my son. Last year he had raced the under 10's on a mountain bike, and cheerfully finished the race in an undetermined position. This year he had a basic racer, but was entering an older and more competitive age group. The kids were maturing, and the 12 year olds in the pack were soon to show the soggy crowds in Warwick just how fast pre-teens can go.

I watched his race begin and realised at probably the same time Jake did, that he wasn't going to be finishing on the podium. I then made my way to the gathering point for my race and cheered him on as he spun around the circuit.

This was part A) of my victory plan; to get to the front of the starting grid. After five minutes, my fellow competitors started to assemble around me, and looking at the motley assortment of riders, I knew I hadn't mistakenly joined a professional race. The group represented most of the feasible physical incarnations of lycra clad cyclists, ranging from the rakishly lean to the more rotund. After seeing the winners take their prizes last year, I knew to fear the riders with grey hair and bulging quads. I firmly held my place at the front, trying not to glare at a man who kept nervously knocking my precious wheels with his front forks.

The leaders from the under 12's flew past us on their final lap. First place was taken by Charlotte Broughton and she flew past our position as if she was taking part in a 50 metre time trial. The rain started to patter down on our cycle helmets with more persistence as nervous glances at the town clock showed our race was about to get under way.

After a year of preparation and planning, and summer holidays filled with beer and inactivity, I was in strange shape. My brain knew exactly what to do and my body was quite possibly fitter than it had been last year. However, it had spent the summer looking after children whilst my wife worked my days off, leaving very little time for cycling. I was going to try and start fast and expected to fade with style. I wanted a glorious few early laps before being swallowed by the pack.

Part B) was equally simple. I was to get to the front of the race as soon as the race started. This was fraught with uncertainty because I had no idea how fast people were going to fly off the starting line. And so I waited nervously for the whistle to be blown. One good thing I realised was I was using Mountain Bike cleats, which are generally easier to clip into than Racer cleats. Someone beside me clipped both in before the race started (leaning on the barrier) and was told straight away to get one foot on the floor. All good. The whistle blew and I clipped in quickly, spinning up the revolutions fairly easily as one rider went past into the lead. I latched onto his wheel like an over-the-hill Cavendish, snapping onto him like a piece of Lego. Another rider spun past both of us and I ditched my leader to go after the front-man. Again, this was an almost split second decision. I caught his wheel before he went too far ahead and after about a minute I found myself in third place. Judging from lack of noise behind me we had gained a lead on the others!

Part C) was always going to be a contentious part of the plan, but I had surmised through the lazy summer that if I was going to contend for a podium spot, I wasn't going to be doing any work at the front. Quite bluntly, I planned to be a wheel sucker. Now I'm not entirely sure where I stand on this, if it is unethical to let other riders soak up the headwind. What I do know is, by not helping at the front means the average speed of the lead group will be reduced, thus increasing the likelihood of being caught up. I had to take my chances. As it turned out, there was no way I was going to take the lead. Just hanging onto the wheel of the 2nd place man was enough to almost kill me. I saw them exchange a quick verbal agreement and soon afterwards they started switching places to keep the speed up. They glanced at me puffing away a couple of metres behind and must have seen that I was on the ragged edge.

After about five minutes into the thirty five minutes race, I felt that the time had come. It was make or break. Every time we came out of a bend the two leaders would nudge ahead, carrying themselves out of range for me to draft them. After a complete circuit of playing catch-up I realised my end was nigh. The bursts of power required to keep up were wiping me out. And then, as if by magic, we hammered round a bend into a thicket of brightly coloured stragglers. We had started to lap the back of the pack. The circuit is generally the width of a road, but in the rain a bend can easily wipe out a rider going in too wide or too narrow. This is exacerbated by the numerous metal grids on a couple of the steeper bends around the course, which act as skid pans for the unwary. Our pace slackened as we navigated through the back-markers and I felt my energy levels bubbling back up.

After twenty five minutes in the drops, my hands were numb and shifting was becoming a slight issue. Rather than feeling the gear shifter, I was knocking the lever in the place I thought would change a gear. Fortunately the two leaders had now slowed their pace slightly and I decided to spend the rest of the race in the big ring, using power over cadence to carry me out of the bends. In the final five laps of the race I started to feel other riders gathering behind me, but I don't know if they were enthusiastic stragglers or the main pack having caught us up. Regardless, the final part of my race plan was about to be executed.

Part D) was theoretical. There are too many variables to have a concrete plan for the end of a race. However, finding myself in this situation, I wanted to take the lead on the last lap. I knew that I had enough power to give the other two some grief on the big straight before we hit the slope up to the finish. We raced into the final lap to the ringing of a bell and Hugh Porter shouting my name out to the crowds as I powered into first place! I pushed down through the town square in the lead and flowed through the next two gentle bends. At this point, I was primed for victory. I felt strong and was about to hit the longest straight in the race. I cranked up the speed into the sharp left bend, leaning into the bend and pushing my outside pedal down. Suddenly I felt and saw both of my wheels lose traction. The bike commenced an unstoppable acquiescence to the power of raw physics. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, tangled up in my bike. The bike I use for everything. The bike I need to get to work. I looked at it and saw straight away that it was broken. The front wheel looked twisted and the frame was at an odd angle to the handlebars. I started swearing loudly. Not only had I crashed, I had wiped out one or two riders behind me. I shouted the "F" word about five times before looking up at an elderly couple who were staring at me. I remember saying, "I apologise for my bad language" before following their gazes. I looked down at my arm and noted with mild interest that I appeared to be able to see the layer of fat under my skin along the left forearm. The other riders had got back on their bikes and were finishing the race as I picked up my bike and walked back towards my family.

Three steri-strips later and it was almost as good as new.

I have to say that after the initial outburst, I looked at my bike more objectively and found that the handlebars had twisted in the fall. Nothing was actually broken on the bike. My arm looked like it would need stitches and I knew my family would be worried, so I met up with them and impressed the kids with my wounds. Whilst sitting in the Ambulance I spoke with the son of a guy I had wiped out in the crash. I asked him to apologised to his father for me, but the lad sounded impressed at his dad's performance anyway. The eventual winner turned out to be one of the guys who had lead for most of the race, so I didn't feel too bad. Apologies to anyone harbouring thoughts of malice to the idiot who crashed and ruined their race. Later in the day there were more crashes, and I understand some of the bikes didn't fare quite so well.

After a few moments of panic I realised the handlebars were twisted, not the entire bike.

I have a scar which will probably over-heal and stay with me for the rest of my life (I was right about that), which is cool. I have now been in a race and had Hugh Porter shout my name, which is great. I've also learned a lot about racing in criteriums, some of it quite painful. I will no longer take such outrageous chances on bends, in the rain. At least not for a while.

The races went on all day, concluded by the professionals ripping up the tarmac, victory taken in a sprint finish by World and Olympic Champion Ed Clancy over Jeroen Janssen in second and James Moss in third. Warwick Cycle races may never take place again, and this is a real shame. It seems ironic that when British cycling is reaching new heights this event is facing its curtain call.

Manx E2E, a unique enduro event

Shop racer, Matt Clinton tells us about the Manx End to End Challenge, this forthcoming weekend.

For the second year running I'll be heading off to the Sleepwell Hotels Isle of Man End to End Challenge.  As you might expect, you ride from one end to the other, mainly off-road with a distance of about 42miles.

Still nowhere near the top!

Brian, one of my work colleagues and former GB team manager has been going to the island for many years and has pretty much participated in every E2E Challenge, which is where I got roped in last year!  Really, I didn't know what to expect, it came as quite a shock!

There'll be 4 riders sporting Mike Vaughan Cycles kit this year, myself and Brian, as well as local mountain bikers Steve and Paul.

The first 12miles of the event is on the road, luckily I'd snuck in on the front row last year. I told the marshall there was no-way I was heading to the back of 1500 riders - and it was a good decision.  At the gun the 1500 rider bunch navigates some narrow lanes, I'd been getting kind of itchy feet as I felt it was pretty steady (others tell me it's eye-balls out!), but stayed well within the bunch until we got within a couple of miles of the climb.  This was probably my downfall last year, I was overkeen on the first climb, little did I know after the road section you'd continue upwards for another 35minutes off road! Multiple National Champion and Olympian Nick Craig disappeared up the road and Elliot Baxter's local knowledge kept him ahead of me, I had to settle for 3rd in a time of 3h08min, some 11 mins off Mr Craig's winning time. Still, I won the senior (23-29) prize on my first attempt, so a worthwhile weekend!

So on to 2011, I've just got back from a few days in Barcelona, so despite a lot of walking, I'm well rested. Last weekend's 6th place at the British TT Championships was at the end of a fairly hard block of training, so I should have some form into the weekend.

I've not ridden my mtb for a couple of months since the Midlands XC at Hanchurch, but it's all running smoothly. I'm on a Trek Superfly Elite this year, it's a much better fit than the borrowed Trek 9.8 last year, as well as being about 4lb lighter, despite being a 29er.

Now I love 29ers, I can't see myself going back to 26" and the first thing I said on reflection of the E2E last year that the course suited one down to the ground... so we'll see what it can do!

Another advantage of the Superfly is the 2x10 gearing, I kept losing a lot of momentum and torque last year dropping into the granny ring, so the larger 26 ring should help, hopefully stopping me getting off and walking! (And yes, that's coming from me!)

Tyre choice has changed somewhat since last year where I used Bontrager XR2, these were great on the fire-roads and road sections, not so great on the slippier bits such as the moors. Tyres this year will be XR3, they won't be as fast on the road, but that's where the 29" wheels come into play, I'm just planning a bit more grip where I need it!

A muddy Superfly!

So, once again the target time is 3 hours, it's be tough keeping up with Nick Craig, but having ridden the course once is a huge advantage, I'd say into the tune of at least 5 minutes (especially if I don't ride the first ascent as if it is a hill-climb!)



One of my highlights of the year, I can't wait for Sunday!

Breaking Evens

Having spent the first Sportive of 2011 dragging myself up the daunting slopes on the Dragon Ride in Wales, I decided to iron out the bumps for my next big event. To this end I searched for route profiles that didn't look like a cardiogram of a twenty stone smoker running for the chippy before it closes. Eventually I found what I was looking for. Flat out in the Fens looks refreshingly uniform on the profile. In fact, short of riding on a frozen lake, this route is about as flat as you can get in the UK.

Having gained a bit of a belly over the last 12 months, I couldn't wait to level the playing field (so to speak) and ride a route that my frame is suited to. I have never been able to ride over 20mph for a 100miles, and this would be my goal. I chose the 112mile route and on Sunday 26th June I woke at 0400hrs and set off to Peterborough with my friend Neil. The plan was simple; I would share the pain with Neil until his body disintegrated, then I would tow his shattered husk to the finish. It's a plan we have used on a number of occasions.

We arrived at Peterborough Regional College just after 0700hours, the official start time, and made our way to the line for around 0720hours. Although several hundred cyclists had already departed there was still a large bunch waiting with us whilst the official read out the rules of the day. Soon we were waved off down the road and Neil pushed the pace to the front of the group.
After a few minutes of travelling through Peterborough we found ourselves entering the Fens. With fresh legs and a generous breeze, I upped the pace and we zipped along beside the picturesque waterways at around 23-24mph. Our group soon thinned and we were left with a guy who had ridden "The Long One" the day before (129 miles out of Goodwood) and was attempting the 154 mile Fens route. Hats off to him! Also we had a portly fifty year old man who looked like he should have been watching TV with a beer.

After another ten miles we had picked up some other riders as we trickled past and our train had grown to about ten riders in length. Of the ten riders, mostly men in their twenties and thirties, it was the fifty year old with the belly who kept taking turns from me and Neil at the front.
I would be tempted to say that the Fens are beautiful, as we were riding on a cloudy and warm summer morning. The roads are fringed with untamed wilderness, grasses and flowers bursting with life. But mentioning this to Neil, he noted that commuting during the winter on these roads would be hellish. He has a point. Whilst they are stunning, the roads are almost completely lacking any shelter. Hedgerows are few and far between. Houses look lonely and slightly out of place in the Fens (for a Midlander anyway), exposed as they are from all angles. I thought about this place in the winter, with the colours drained away from the land and the elements attacking relentlessly, and realised I probably wouldn't be able commute through the winter.

As the miles ticked by, our pace slowly began to fall. Our initial burst of speed for the first twenty miles was settling down to 21-22mph until we hit the first rest stop. After a very short and functional conversation with the fifty year old ("Come with us, you take turns on the front!"), the three of us left together for the next stage of the journey, after replenishing drinks and gels.
For the next thirty miles we stayed together, steadily accumulating another string of stragglers as we pushed slowly onwards. Sadly, it was at this point we lost contact with the older companion. At about 70miles there is a "hill" which climbs for a total of thirty metres (hardly the Bwlch). The slope is long and the gradient barely more than 4%. But after so many miles at such a pace, it was enough to fracture our group into pieces leaving Neil and me to push on alone.
After the second and final feed station, we had around 42 miles remaining. This final leg of the journey was beginning to concern me. I was starting to worry that my legs wouldn't be able to keep this pace going much longer. I desperately wanted to break the 20mph barrier and with the feed stops added on, our margin for error was dropping by the mile.

If the first two stages of the journey had been hard, this final leg was triple the pain of both combined. Looking at Neil it was clear that he was close to complete melt-down. His eyes were beginning to lose focus and salt was drying over his face. He looked listless and pained, at the same time. In fact, he looked exactly like he looks every time we get to around 80 or 90 miles. He locked onto my back wheel and we trundled onwards, keeping the pace just over 20mph.
In order to build some energy reserves up (and to keep Neil pushing onwards), we started to piggy-back the groups we overtook; Rather than riding straight past them, we would bridge the gap between groups and then rest at the back for a few minutes. This proved to be a very good way of regaining some strength. For twenty miles we hopped from pack to pack, steadily making headway.

Eventually, at around the 90 mile mark we reached a group of three riders who took some catching. We nestled in at the back and when I looked at Neil to see if he was ready to go, he shook his head and smiled grimly. "That's it for me, I'm staying with this lot." Fair enough. Little did I know I would be seeing him again in less than thirty minutes.

I bade him farewell and rode off, pushing my pace slightly higher in order to make some headway on them. I charged forwards a couple of hundred metres down the road before swinging over a bridge and 90 degrees to the right. At that point I found myself on a long straight road. Now, I've been on long straight roads before, but they have never been this hellishly flat. This road was like a line on a snooker table. The natural curve of the horizon meant the road had no visible ending. The sun had come out and the Fens was blasted by the hottest temperatures of the year. To compound this, a gentle but persistent headwind pushed against me.

No hedgerows, hardly any houses, few cars and very little wild-life. Just small dots that turned into exhausted cyclists as I struggled onwards, passing them with almost geological slowness. After five miles on this road, I looked over my shoulder. Down the arrow-straight tarmac, just two hundred metres behind me was Neil and his group.

Another couple of miles later, still fighting the wind and the heat, my right calf muscle started to cramp up. Like the breakaway groups on the Tour de France, caught at the end of the race, I gave up and let the group catch me. I had almost exhausted myself for no gain whatsoever. I hid at the back, sheltering from the wind and let my imaginary power-bar build itself back up.
Shortly afterwards Neil was hit by cramp, and then another rider in the group pulled over to the side of the road, clutching a leg. I stuck with the remaining two riders. With ten miles to go until the finish I overtook them, telling them I would probably see them again in ten minutes. Fortunately the road finally forked and our direction changed.

The last 10 miles were essentially a race against the clock. I performed some very basic maths (which took a long time) and came to the conclusion that if I turned myself inside-out, I might still break even. The headwind had dropped my pace down to 19-20mph and my strength was all but gone. By getting out of my saddle and stamping the pedals I found I could raise my pace temporarily, by pedalling normally after this effort I could keep the speed from falling too quickly. By doing this I bled the last of my reserves from my legs.

I completed the 112 miles in 5:30:52, which worked out as 20.3mph. Neil finished 5:40:21, just ten minutes behind and averaging a fraction under 20mph. Later that day I nearly puked out of the car window on our way home. Neil felt pains all over his body for the rest of the week. I can only put this down to the effort we put into this event. We both agreed that neither could have given any more than we put into that Sportive. We literally finished on empty. After riding the Fens, I have learnt a valuable lesson; I genuinely believed "flat" meant "easy". I stand corrected.

My First Winter

This morning I rode past a rabbit which was standing in the middle of a frost-laced A- road, staring blankly at the oncoming traffic. I didn't stop, I was far too cold and if I had stopped I would have felt like an idiot. The rabbit was probably suffering the effects of mixomatosis, but to all intents and purposes the little grey bag of fluffy bones looked frozen and suicidal. Standing there with a vacuum chill sucking the air out of its lungs, cars thundering past on both sides, staring fixedly along the white lines, the rabbit looked how part of me felt. This was my first experience of Winter on a bike, and it has left me uncomfortably numb.

My first real foray into proper Winter cycling was in November 2009. I went out with Leamington Wheelers one week and then bumped into my local Kenilworth Wheelers the following week. I was just finishing a fifty mile ride with a friend when the impressively drilled Kenilworth Wheelers came past us, a blurred fusion of flesh and metal. Six of them, all sporting modified extra-long mudguards (Duct tape and bits of plastic in the main), whirred past us. We decided to try and keep up with them and they kindly let us piggyback the remaining twelve miles. It was very pleasant drafting a bike with mudguards that actually stop the muddy spray from blinding you. It was also an education to see them warning each other of hazards with hand movements and loud shouts, switching the front two slots with clockwork efficiency. It was also an eye-opener to see six cyclists powering through the inclement weather conditions on their "Winter Rides". I learned a lot about club etiquette that day, and also realised that cycle clubs may be nice in the Summer, but through the crueller months they are a major motivator.

Charting the seasons by the farmers fields, Warwickshire and the surrounding counties started to look barren towards the middle of November. Harvest was gathered, ploughing was completed and seeding had left a thin green blanket of shoots over some fields. As I continued to put in my base miles, it became apparent that my bike was beginning to suffer. After each ride the urge to clean my bike was still present, but the thought of standing outside with a hose and a bucket seemed less than remotely appealing. So the bike stayed mucky for a little longer. During rides I became accustomed to hearing creaks and groans where before there was only a mechanic purr. The weekly deep-clean turned into a bi-monthly affair. And it wasn't long after this apathetic approach that my first spoke sheared off. This was followed the next week with another sheared spoke on the same wheel. A few days later, after getting these repaired at my LBS, the third spoke went and in a fit of consternation, I emailed customer support at Trek.

They got back to me promptly and after hearing the circumstances, agreed to replace the rear wheel for me. I'm new to the customer support in the cycling world, but Trek left me feeling warm and fuzzy inside. My LBS also helped out by liaising further with Trek for me, even though I got the bike from a shop some miles away. The new wheel was with me before the end of the next week and I vowed to keep tabs on my spokes in future, purchasing an inexpensive spoke tightener for good measure. I'm not totally blaming my reduced cleaning regime, but I would probably have noticed a loose spoke if I was cleaning the components more frequently.

It was late December when frost started to cover all of the roads on my way to work. I was forced to stop riding for a few days and instantly felt the calories coagulating around my midriff as I gorged on lard-based Christmas products. I haven't got a Turbo Trainer, mainly because I only have one road bike and don't want to keep swapping it on and off. So, on the 30th of December, as soon as the sun peeked out and the roads began to sweat, I met up with my friend Neil and we struck out for some distant hills.

We took the bikes along forty miles of familiar and enjoyable roads, taking in Stratford-Upon-Avon as the crowds braved the cold and thronged to the sales. Spinning out towards the village of Kineton, we aimed the bikes towards Sunrise Hill. This is a decent sized 16% incline, the steeper approach to Edge Hill. It has a delightful sign at the bottom suggesting that cyclists should dismount. We kept the pace to an acceptable post-Christmas trundle and grinned at our own stupidity as the temperature dropped to zero. We were about a mile from Sunrise Hill that I noticed my rear tyre was looking podgy at the bottom. I ignored it, attributing the bulge to my overindulgence. However, when the road levelled out and I started to spin faster I noticed my arse was bouncing the wheel rims into the road. I had a slow-puncture that was now ... flat.

We stopped outside Redwings Horse Sanctuary and I started to operate on the rear wheel. The problem was my clothing was only suitable for shielding me from the wind and keeping my body-temperature floating around "acceptable" levels whilst pedalling vigorously. Now that we had stopped and I had taken my big gloves off, the cold wet metal of the wheel on my hands and the wind were having a dramatic effect. My motor skills were rapidly deteriorating and my hands were very quickly rendered almost useless. The tyre levers started pinging off the wheel with machinegun rapidity as I struggled against the elements and my mannequin fingers. I watched a disaster movie recently where traumatic weather conditions caused the air to supercool in a matter of seconds, turning some poor actors into instant popsicles. The scene stuck in my mind for some reason.

Eventually I replaced the tyre and grabbed a CO2 canister from my saddle pouch. The canister was a recent purchase and it was only in the arctic conditions that I discovered it had no screw top with which to attach to my valve. Stupidly I had purchased the wrong canisters. Neil had a threaded one in his pouch and gave it to me. I then promptly burst the freshly prepared inner tube, which must have been pinched against the rim of the wheel due to my clumsiness. With the deflation of my spare came a morbid realisation. I was forty miles from home, shivering with the cold, in cleats and wearing tights. Luckily I had my phone secreted about my person and so I phoned my wife. She was in the shower (my 9 year old son told me). It took me a while to speak the right words, but eventually I stuttered to her my request for a lift. Even more luckily, Redwings has a nice warm cafe and Neil kindly gave me his emergency tenner. The majority of our journey had been along country roads devoid of civilisation. For me to get a flat less than fifty metres from a cafe was like a pinch on the backside by Lady Luck. I hobbled into the warmth and ordered a hot chocolate and coffee cake. Neil cycled off home hoping to avoid a flat. Less than an hour later my Father-in-law picked me and the bike up in his nice warm car. Thanks Ted.

The cold stayed in my bones for much of the day. The lesson of that journey has stayed with me longer. I was not adequately prepared and it almost cost me dearly. My first act upon returning home was to go and get some puncture resistant tyres from my LBS. The salesman informed me that farmers were cutting their hedges at this time of year and the resulting thorns on the roads were causing lots of problems for cyclists. I took his word for it at the time, but when I rode past the rabbit with the thousand yard stare, I also noticed the perfectly trimmed hedgerow down the side of the road. I ♥ my LBS, it's like an Oracle sitting atop a conveniently low placed mountain-top.

So why am I cycling in the cold and the dark and the wet? Why do I bother taking the bike out when bitter winds are making my eyes water and my ears freeze? Good question really. I suppose one reason is the physical benefits I am receiving by putting in this level of commitment. There's also the financial burden of paying for a bike I vowed to ride all year round instead of getting a second car. But the main purpose for putting in the miles is because I'm loving it.

Just because I love it doesn't mean that I don't occasionally get bored. I firmly believe that a goal makes for more relevant and purposeful exercise, and also keeps the enthusiasm up during more inclement periods of weather. I've also realised that cycling isn't just about the exercise, but equally important is the bike maintenance. For Christmas I got a big bucket of bike cleaning products from my telepathic wife. I spent the next day making the bike look like new. It now purrs once more. I realise now that the creaks and groans were mainly the loose/dying spokes on the rear wheel. I've come out of this harsh season a wiser man and once my festive waistline subsides, I'm certain I shall ride faster than ever come the Summer.

03/01/09