Sunday 20 November 2011

Red Rooster

Despite the darkness of the commute home, I got back on my bike during the week. I really need the daily boost to my heart rate and metabolism to keep the weight moving in the right direction. IE ... down.

So having kicked off last week with a 43 miler on Sunday, I added another 30 miles getting to the office and back. Even with my basic maths, a 30 miler on Saturday would top 100 miles for the week. The only thing in the way was Friday night.

A confession. I haven't had a drink for six weeks. It's been part of the plan all along, ever since I got back from Italy I've pledged not to drink until my nephew's 18th on December 10th. To be honest, it's been easy - all I've had to do is not go down the pub. I've had a couple of close shaves along the way, but mostly I've found it easy to say no.

But the end of last week was the toughest moment of all. I really, really wanted a pint, the rugby's on down The Boat and the Guinness is flowing. Somehow - don't ask me how - I managed to stay strong and stick to the soda and limes. But watching the boys downing those beers took me to breaking point, I can tell you.

The good news is that I feel great on Saturday morning and head off for a regular 30 mile route with two biggish climbs book-ending a fast, flat section in the middle. The final climb up to the Beacon is a tough slog, but worth it when I top out on the highest point of the Chilterns.

Having toughed it out on Friday night, I'm back on the straight and narrow for Saturday evening watching the rugby and enjoying 40 pence pints of the dreaded soda and limes, while watching the boys descending into degeneracy.

Sunday, we have a group ride planned with Me, Chris, Kevin, David and Ali. I have a new route mapped out and everyone's keen: until Sunday morning that is. Incredibly, Ali is first to bail out with a text at 5am saying he is still on the sauce. Chris is next - unable to unglue himself from his bed. David's attendance is tenuous at best and is another no-show. Which leaves me and Kev.

Kev hasn't been doing much riding recently but he weighs 10.5 stone, so it makes no difference, plus he's a natural rider, so I'm always playing catch-up. But through the early morning mist we crank out the miles to Redbourn and then on to St Albans in a big loop that goes under and over the MI.

Disaster strikes near Apsley as Kev endures three punctures, but with his last tube we make it up to Bovingdon and the last few miles back into Berko via Whelpley Hill. Fortunately, we're going down Whelpley Hill, because it's a steep bastard. Unfortunately, it's a greasy, slippy death track as I discover when Kev locks up his rear wheel in front of me and I hang on the brakes so hard that I'm pitched into the crap on the wrong side of the road before losing my battle with adhesion and gravity.

It's not too bad. A bit of a graze and a big, dirty smear down my left side, but it could have been worse - there could have been a car coming the other way.

Back in the pub I refresh myself with a pot of tea in the company of David, who has finally shown up and bask in the self-righteousness of starting the new week with a solid 30 miles under my belt.

I've called the route Red Rooster because it goes through Redbourn and it was an early start. Plus, Little Red Rooster is a top blues choon, so there.

Here's the details:



Sunday 13 November 2011

SuperTrooper



There are times when your mind really lets you down.

On a three hour bike ride, you'd think my idiot brain would choose a song like American Pie, Like a Rolling Stone or The Long and Winding to stick in my head all the way round. Hell, even Bohemian Rhapsody would do at a pinch.

But no, instead I get Abba's Supertrooper looping through my bonce, hence the title of this blog post and the ride. I can tell you, the only thing worse than thinking of Bennie or Bjorn singing "oom pah pah, oom pah pah" was the growing feeling of pain and fatigue from my legs. Close run thing though.

I'd been wanting to do this ride for a while. It's in a different direction to our normal rides. Usually we end up cycling westwards towards the Vale of Aylesbury but this 44 mile jaunt aims north east to Welwyn Garden City before looping back under the M1 near Luton.

Out past Harpenden and Wheathampstead there's one of those classic, forgotten bits of English countryside: hemmed in by main roads but like another, older world. Here there are meandering lanes and signs to Ayots St Peter and Ayots St Lawrence and you can smell the old money behind the electronic gates as you cycle past. But its beautiful as only England can be in the low slanting Autumn sunlight.

I don't know why, but I really started to run out of power about three quarters of the way round. Near Luton Hoo, my legs stop responding and the remaining hills become a major trial. Maybe it's the fact I haven't been on my bike all week, or perhaps I'm just tired, or maybe I didn't fuel properly before I left. Whatever the case, by the time I got to Studham I'm calculating the easiest route back, because to be frank, I'm shagged and it's getting dark.

Back home, with a cup of tea in me, the memory fades. Until I try and walk up the stairs and I realise someone has stolen my legs.

Here's the stats:
43.31 miles
Avg Speed: 14.8mph
Calories burned: 2,800 (or thereabouts)

Here's the route:http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/57729668

Saturday 5 November 2011

It's dark out there ...

Monday evening, 5.20pm: The clocks have gone back and my commute home has changed from pale grey to squid ink black.

It wasn't so noticeable getting out of Apsley and Boxmoor, with enough ambient light to see the holes in the road by, but as the old A41 twists upwards from the Complete Outdoors to the church on the corner of Little Heath Lane it's like being plunged into tar. There's a crest of a hill here and beyond that a void where the road pitches down onto the flat, half mile run to the gates of Berkhamsted.

The speed limit changes from 30 to 60mph too, so the unlit road ahead might as well be the Mulsanne Straight at two in the morning. As I roll up to the crest, silhouetted by headlights, all I can hear is engines shifting down as drivers prepare to punch through the next 500 yards as quickly as they possibly can.

'Scary' is the word I would use, or 'fucking scary' if I'm allowed two words, because although I'm lit up like a christmas tree there's a nagging feeling in the middle of my back that someone in too much hurry is going to to make a mess of things.

I don't mind riding in the dark usually, but it's the way this bit of road twists and surges up towards the blackness that unnerves me.

Wish me luck.