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Not many words in this post and in no particular order: Tarkovsky, Strugatskys, Vandermeer, sauna, ceramic obsession, hipster-burger, hail, sub-zero, hotdog, gravel, trust, love, Gilles Berthoud, Öresundståg, osprey, hare, elk, moose, auntie, weird b&b, memory, meatballs, past-present-future.

Adventure Commuting

So, it’s come to this. I am re-branding as an adventure-commuter. For too long I have ridden the same route in and out of work, once or twice a week. But since I am no longer an aspiring ultra racer (one race completed one race completed, no further plans) or randonneur (two SR Series but havent finished a brevet for over a year now) and have less time for weekend riding (although I will be cyclo-camping on holiday) the obvious thing is to upgrade my routes from Hebden Bridge (and probably also Manchester) to Leeds.

My current ‘fast’ route is fairly direct and follows the main roads (A646 and A58 mostly), dicing with the trucks,vans, buses and other lunatics. An adventure of a kind, and there are some wonderful vistas (such as the entry to the Calder Valley in the night). I know this route so well that I can identify the organic development of road defects and even recognise people walking to work. It takes about one and a half hours to two hours door to door, not much slower than train plus Brompton, my other default mode. And although it isn’t flat I only need the small ring once.

I have had a range of other routes, taking in the Aire Valley Cycleway (bit of a detour via Shipley), and bits of the Calder Vall Cycleway but I have failed to fully commit. I tend to baulk at a ride longer than two hours, but why stop there? Earlier this week I rode out of Hebden Bridge up the steepest hill (via Birchcliffe) and proceeded to take in as many climbs as possible before descending to the cycleway in Skipton (the first part of which is axle-breaking rocky path) and on into Leeds. Took about 3 hours. On the way back I descended into Luddenden Foot and rode along route 66 through the woods by the railway and river. The next phase will be to set off earlier and ride a more extensive loops up North or South, avoiding main roads and mixing in paths and cycleway as appropriate. Eventually I plan to set off for work from work, riding all night to arrrive back at work by morning. I could also add in a level of complexity by using trains to get me further from work, but that might be a different pursuit.

No wonder I am tired all the time. But sleep is for wimps.

(I would have written a blog about lovepacking, but that’s too private, and far too serious).

#adventurecommuting

Oh dear what can the matter be?

There was a time when throwing up in the middle of the night in a Northern town might have involved drink and drugs. These days I’m better prepared (bivvy bag) but it’s cycling that drives me past the point of physical no return. Two rides in a row now have ended in physical and mental collapse around the 300 km mark. You may think this is normal and unsurprising, but in over 20 years of long distance cycling I’ve only ever quit three audaxes: once through over sleeping and running out of time and the other two this season, in similar circumstances and in close succession.

My most recent ‘failure’ is particularly telling: having ridden 200 or so km to Glasson in the Fylde, and managed to navigate around a closed bridge and a swiftly mended puncture (first this year), I descended into chaotic failure mode surprisingly quickly. I clearly hadn’t eaten enough before reaching Glasson (where I inhaled a burger) and wasn’t functioning properly. I was following a mandatory route and hadn’t really had any navigational issues but my Garmin routed me in completely absurd way following my stop, dumping me onto a bizarre network of minor roads and cycle paths, all in roughly the right direction but none anywhere near my planned route. In a better mental state I might have noticed earlier, but I had clearly gone into ketosis and that state where the body is OK but brain is starved of fuel. 

Hence, Colne at around midnight, opposite a full hotel. 307 km but a fair way still from home. Sick twice and shivering. I was offered help by a lovely taxi driver and a BMX bandido, but by that time I’d called for help from my angelic partner as I was in a worse state than on the Old 240.

Learnings: I’m switching to using my smartphone and ride with gps app for navigation if I ever do this again. I’ve done two DIYs before with no issues but this was a complete navigation disaster. And some thoughts about taking on more fuel (possibly liquid). The main realisation though is that as I get older I may need to reduce the intensity of my training and ride longer distances (there’s lots of good advice from ironman triathletes on this it seems): I’ll let you know how I get on.

A tale of two rides: riding for love versus riding for glory…

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I’ve had a mixed experience riding long distances, mostly AUK randonneur events – which are a beautiful thing. I had a few inklings last year, on the way to my second Super Randonneur series that all was not well. At time I put that down to poor sleep hygiene before events and the added pressure of attempting to qualify for Paris-Brest-Paris. This year was going to be a mammoth year: Mille Pennines (1000 km with 10 km ascent) which I failed to start, and another SR series (looking unlikely now). I think I learnt a few things on the way from three of the long rides I did, and I’m going to share some of these in the hope they help others understand their relationship with motivation and capability…

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The three rides were very different in all but length, making for an interesting comparison. Two were AUK rides, one a calendar event, the other a permanent ridden with friends. The third was a solo ride mixing on and off-road sections. All were about 300 km in length and involved some night riding. But as you will see they mainly differed in my motivation for riding, and as a secondary factor, British weather.

So then, motivation: I rode a permanent with Gavin and George starting in Kent because I fancied riding in company – and on fresh roads. I started (but didn’t finish) the Old 240 from nearby Mytholmroyd because I fancied challenging myself as an alternative to the flatter Not Quite the Spurn Head 400 which runs the same day (and I’ve completed three times – also it’s the first 400 I ever rode, over ten years ago). The third ride was a solo trip to Brecon from Hebden Bridge, motivated by a sense of familial pilgrimage, with a postscript ride half way back after 24 hours in Brecon. All three of these rides were challenging, but two felt much more genuine. I’m wondering if the near disaster on the third was more about my head than about the physical and meteorological challenges I faced.

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I’ve written elsewhere about my excellent ride with Gavin and George so I won’t cover old ground. My ride to Brecon, however, hasn’t been covered here despite being in July, and my second attempt at the Old 240 deserves a post-mortem before my mind blocks out the good bits!

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So, Brecon. Literally the land of my father. And his father. It is the site of the Brecon Depot and Regimental Museum of the evolving Welsh Regimental (South Wales Borderers) and Brecon Cathedral. Also the Brecon Jazz Festival which should be more up my street. My father’s side of the family were unashamedly military, hence a paucity of relations. They carried out the orders of their superiors all around the world, however absurd or horrific. My childhood was full of strange and exotic stories and photographs of foreign lands and exotic peoples. Maybe I’ll write about that in a bit more detail one day. I never met my grandfather, and only really knew my father only as a rather creative teacher of English (who used to try to bring set texts alive through acting them out with his pupils, often outside).

The route I took mixed NCN paths of hugely varying quality and signage with a few sections of busier roads and a majority of minor roads. I had pretty good weather and got horrendously lost through and around Manchester’s supposedly bike friendly routes. I left early but an hour later than planned due to Garmin issues, and hence was against the clock as getting to Brecon in time to reach my guest house was always going to be a push – in the end my hosts stated up specially late after a slightly ill-advised long-cut and Garmin crash! I arrived… knackered – and went to bed after a shower to quell my shivering. The weather had been rather good, unlike my trip with Gavin and George, which I thought at the time to be about as bad as British weather can get…

The following day was all business I guess. My visit to the Cathedral to see the two plaques in the Regimental Chapel was really tough. I cried on my own in a pew and then walked in the beautiful and secluded grounds before a pie and pint and a trip to the bijoux yet extraordinary Regimental Museum. Having arrived purely by force of will felt good, and the trip back to get a train or two from Shrewsbury was fast and broken by tea and scones in Stretton.

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My second and failed attempt on the Old 240 was a real paradox. Beautiful weather and riding for about 12 hours then turning cold on Yad Moss the gathering clouds turned to torrential rain. I’d been feeling good until then but increasingly cold, sick and weak (couldn’t eat any solid food at Scotch Corner at 11 pm) I ended up climbing Kidstones on foot. Here it was that the Gods of Audax smiled on me and I was caught by a fellow rider (thanks Paul) who firstly paced me then when my sorry state became apparent lent me his bivvy bag and pointed me at an audax hotel before setting off for the finish through the rain (he got a brand new bivvy bag in return). Turns out I wasn’t the only one struggling on this ride…

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I slept a few fitful hours that night just 60 km from the finish in Mytholmroyd in Kettlewell on the bench in the lovely bus shelter (en suite facilities too). I was soaked through and shivering. and the cataclysmic thunderstorm storm right overhead before dawn was pretty terrifying. It might as well have been another 340 – I was done. I still couldn’t eat: after my saviour had left the night before I had tried to eat an emergency gel and threw it straight back up… I have only quit on two audax rides, and this was the second, thankfully not so far from

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home that my loving and understanding family couldn’t rescue me by car.

So – riding for family or with friends is one thing. For a badge another. At least that’s how it seems to me. Yet so much left unsaid…

Land of My Fathers (what do you want to go back to that shit hole for boyo…)

My first foray into cycle camping was a mixed experience: a week of scorching weather, fine company and challenging terrain followed by the twin insults of biblical weather and a stupid crash. Mix in a heroic rescue and a comic British Rail cameo and it sounds a story worth retelling one day. Caersws plays a minor role, a tiny settlement close to the route of the Plains 300 Audax: site of our dishevelled rail-transported return to London. Having arrived by bike, crossing into Wales via the Forest of Dean and having traversed Wales via Brecon, returning by train felt quite deflating. Not that we could have been much more punctured by fate. Continue reading

Not Quite the Spurn Head 2: accidental ride companions

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This post is light on photos, partly because I rode with Gavin Peacock (@themanfromicon) who is a proper photographer and will be writing this up elsewhere, but also because I was busy fixing punctures (rode over glass just after start) and for much of the ride, dealing with low temperatures and torrential rain. I could write a whole book on the weather we experienced, but suffice it say it was nearly as bad as this season’s Northwest Passage.

The key word was ‘we’: I have never ridden with anyone else for further than about 25 km on an audax, yet here I was riding 400 km with first one companion, then for the last 300 km or so a further 1-3. Apart from Gavin (who I only knew from twitter and dinner the night before) my most constant companion was Pete, a London – Edinburgh – London veteran, who like me, has designs on Paris – Brest – Paris next August. Although I love riding on my own, there are many advantages to steady companions who ride at about the same pace: we didn’t get lost, for one thing, and during the worst night section I have ever endured between Airmyn and Bretton it was a relief to be amongst friends. The companionship of the road is a beautiful thing, and I feel honoured to be part of it.

And the one photo I took: coincidentally it captured Pete and Calvin from London, just before Gavin and I met under a flyover to cape up at the end of the morning’s crisp but fragile sunshine.

I am already entered for this ride next year, as part of PBP qualification, and I am hopeful that it’s earlier May date will bring warmers and dryer weather. Do join me: it’s a fabulous route mixing flat and hills, and my post from last year gives some more details of the route and controls, as well as a lonelier account…

Technical Postscript: my front lighting (Exposure Toro) and Garmin functioned perfectly on this ride, although the custom way point function I used (via a .tcx file) was a bit of a mixed blessing. I carried too much food, and ate pretty well. I cursed my new tyres having suffered a slashed and finally unusable rear in the first 50 km, but the front reduced my hand pain considerably. I always carry a spare folding tyre, despite the bulk, and would have had to pack if I hadn’t. The whole experience was much less panicked than last year, where mechanical and navigational issues made running our of time a real possibility.

20 years on (part 2)

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Hilariously placed off-route TdF sign at top of Cragg Vale

20 years ago I was knocked off my bike in central London riding home to watch the highlights of the Tour de France, which visited that year for the first time since 1974. I also met my partner. I am delighted to say that only two of these events are having anniversary celebrations this year. I last wrote about 2014 in January, having started the year with more kilometrage than I have ever gathered in Winter, and some high hopes for the year.

I did complete a 600km Brevet de Randonneur this year, but won’t manage a Super Randonneur Series. I have really enjoyed my riding this year, and will ride just one more event I think, in August. The Tour did come, and I am still reeling from having this slice of French spectacle rushing past the end of my road, slowly. But most of all I am delighted to say that I am still together with @accidentobizaro. Our relationship isn’t about cycling, but it is interwoven within our lives both as an intermittently shared activity, but also as a topic of conversation and as a jumping-off point for many seemingly irrelevant features of our lives. We have climbed Pyrennean and Alpine Cols together, but it is the climbs of the Vosges which the Tour de France visits this year on stages 9 and 10 which I think are most apt – our last big cycling holiday before starting a family was an extraordinary experience. Hair-dryer winds on the flat, and the cool at the top of the mountains; birthday cakes; anniversaries; Cremant…

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BMC, Katusha and FdJ get stuck

So, let’s aim for a return to these shores for the Tour in 2034, I’m waiting… if it comes before, all well and good, but it’s something to aim at.

Addendum: as I was taking the photo of the rather misleading TdF sign at the beginning of this post I talked with and photographed a rider from London who had grown up in Hebden Bridge. His son had the same name as me, and lives in Stoke Newington, where I was living in 1994. Jung would like this very much.

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Chalk on the road, Stage 2