But it’s freezing out there !!

January’s here, and all of a sudden I’m doing the LEJOG this year. Better start doing something about it, even though it’s -4C outside. Wrapped up accordingly but made the apparently time-honoured mistake of not doubling up on socks and gloves. So no surprises when my extremities start to fall off. At least that’s what it feels like. Meet a bunch of older cyclists on the Hartfield to Groombridge cycle path who show me the error of my ways. Chat to one very pleasant chap in an Alpe d’Huez cap (he did that particular climb last summer). Discuss the weather, obviously, and communal baths, less obviously. Shame I don’t catch his name.
At what point do I actually start booking things? That really would make it all too real. On my ride today (it’s got warmer), start thinking of my start date (May 13th) like a smoker must think of the date that he’s going to give up. Once you tell people, that’s it, no going back. Right, only positive thoughts from now on. What if it rains...?

A Summer of Content (and an Autumn of Discontent).

As it turns out, the hills around Tunbridge Wells are a right pain when you first get on a bike, but turn out to be rather good for training. The crest of Ditchling Beacon was met with an astonished ‘Is that it?’. Didn’t mean for it to slip out, guess I was just expecting it to be a bit longer \ steeper. I felt a right prat, as I’m sure I would have thought ‘what a plum’ if I’d heard it coming from someone else. Ho hum. A few months later, again with Damian and David, found myself on the Oxford to Cambridge bike ride. An early a start meant that we spent the first couple of hours in freezing fog. Once defrosted, the subsequent six hours were actually very pleasant indeed and the 90-odd miles past without too much bother. Will be doing that one again. Then, there I was, playing Fat Dad’s football on a Wednesday evening with other like-minded (and like-aged) individuals. Feeling rather good about my fitness after a summer of cycling and 3 rugby matches under my belt. He intercepts the ball in his own half, looks up and does a Jan Molby (remember him? short, square ball to the nearest team mate – why take any chances?) and runs into space looking for the return. Ghosts past the defence, back to goal now, shouting for the ball which is duly played to his feet. This is it, the opportunity he’s been waiting for, no defender within 5 yards, just need to control the ball, turn and coolly side-foot with unnerving accuracy past the stranded goalie. What happens instead is a rather nasty self-inflicted ankle injury, resulting in numerous trips to the physio and 3 months of doing nothing. Bugger.

The Later Years

So what do you do as you get older and your body starts to disintegrate? On hitting 30, give up the rugby and start jogging? Tried that, found that I was still rubbish at distance running but persevered until I could do a half-marathon. Then a marathon. 10 years and 3 marathons (16 or so halfs) later and the knees really are shot to bits. As my surgeon said after the last (of 3) knee operations, "You get one set of tyres in life, and yours are bald". So, gave up the jogging and started the rugby again. Now officially a Vet and ‘only here for the beer’, happy in the 4th team, although still keep getting dragged up to the 2nd team if I look the wrong way. STOP DOING THAT, I’m too old! Just when I was in need of another challenge, along came Damian and David with the London to Brighton cycle. They’d done it the year before and sold it as doable, 56 miles. Mostly flat, couple of little bumps, just the notorious Ditchling Beacon towards the end.

The Early Years

I’ve always had a fascination with maps. Even as a kid, I could spend ages pouring over one trying to work out how I’d get from A to B. And I liked chess. Not a complete spod, though, as I did also play lots of proper sports like football, rugby and swimming. Oh, and I always had a bike, which I used to explore every Lane, Close and Crescent in Stockwood, Bristol, BS14. The first long ride I ever did was the 13 miles to Almondsbury Scout Camp. Killer. Got a lift home. Never again, I thought. As a teenager I used to cycle to school, downhill all the way, pain in the butt coming home, especially as the wind was always against. Thinking about it, it must have been a Westerly. More of that please. As a student, I had a bike in London for the sole purpose of getting to lectures faster and cheaper than the tube. And you could ride it while pissed. Negotiating Hammersmith Roundabout with mates when completely smashed is both exhilarating and very funny and something I would never, ever condone. Ever. And then I started work and didn’t get back in the saddle for another 20 years or so. Ah no, there was that blip. One of the most painful few days of my life, wrapped up as a pleasant cycle trip with mates. Perhaps the training regime of cycling to work for a couple of days wasn’t enough for an off-road, coast to coast of Scotland. I guess the Grampian Mountains and Clapham Common aren’t. Common that is. And, unsurprisingly for Scotland, I seem to remember it rained quite a lot. Luckily, after the first couple of days, my body started to adjust to the task and I was even acclaimed as ‘The Fordmeister’ for my attempts at stream crossings. Typically, shortly after achieving the title I had an amusing (for everyone else), if rather painful, ‘endo’ from which I still bear the scars. Even though those hills still give me nightmares, my overriding memory is of a great time spent with my mates, laughing, sweating and earning those beers. Ian, Clive, Pete, Jamie, thanks.