the Jua Kali Word Factory

The problem with November, you see, is the cold. That and the rain. My Wednesday night races at the Velo Club are done until the spring; goals are not yet really set for next year and the long training rides are off the agenda for now. So I won’t be venturing out into the November cold too much to pit myself against Air and Gravity – I’m used to these two foes and enjoy our regular combat; but they aren’t playing fair now that the leaves are falling and the frost appears, and are increasingly teaming up with Traction to best me – an enemy that you want to watch out for, on a bike, as you can find yourself sliding along the road and bashing into things if you try to be too clever. That hurts, and I’ve got the scars from previous years as evidence.

Yep, at this time of year training is likely to mean turbo sessions; intervals, and plenty of time eating, drinking, and wondering what to aim for in 2013. So now is a good time to think back at the year gone by. My Cycle Sport magazine does a review of the year, but somehow failed to include any of my rides in it. Time to rectify this oversight, methinks.

So, in the spirit of nostalgia, I will mentally pour myself a wee dram, settle into the armchair by the open fire, and review my cycling year myself. After all, what’s the point of all that suffering if you don’t get to enjoy it afterwards?

2012 was the year I became a cyclist, really. I mean, I’ve been into cycling for years, and have ridden a road bike for a long time now, but going out for the occasional hour-long ride with Will and entering the occasional shorter sportive doesn’t really cut the mustard. But Will left to go to Wolverhampton (thus demonstrating either his bravery, or stupidity; I’m not sure which) and I was left without someone to go for rides with. Solution? Join Velo Club.

So January saw me riding up to the Sports Centre in the dark and setting up on a turbo trainer for the first time; finding that intervals, even just five, hurt a lot, and getting told off for not having proper warm gear to ride home in. But I met Roger – the one man encycolpedia of proper old-school cycling hardman wisdom and technique. Roger is Cycling, really, and to listen to him for a few minutes – perhaps holding forth on why the Spanish can’t ride echelons properly, or the benefits of training with one-leg pedalling – is to get a pure shot of proper, 100% proof cycling into your veins – like being vaccinated with a bicycle spoke. Just like Merckx.

And then there’s racing. The spring finally arrived, and Wednesday evenings then meant flogging myself to death around the Crit circuit, desperately trying not to get dropped in the corners. And on the straights. And failing – lots. You see, these ‘real cyclists’ are hard. And fast, and, typically, much older than me, and much, much faster. Apart from the 14-year olds, of course, who are much younger than me – but still faster. But there were a few people I could beat – and that was fun. Just finishing a race, getting to the end, looking back and talking over it with those you were competing against, is a lot of fun – enabling a previously dormant part of my masculine competitive nature to come out and play. I raced – I lost, of course, but I raced. Lesson 1? There’s nothing like racing. Certainly sportives would never seem the same again.

Lesson 2? Fix the flippin’ bike. Not being able to put the damn thing in the big ring without the gears slipping and the chain dropping doesn’t make it easy to crush the opposition. So, some online shopping later, and a new groupset was mine. Shame I only wanted to replace one chainring. Lesson 2a? Buy compatible parts, you muppet.

And then came the Grand Prix Sportive. The 80 mile version – the longest continual ride I’d done at that stage, and a suitable place to start writing my own epic stories of suffering and triumph. Of course, and perhaps inevitably, there was more suffering than triumph. But the triumph came first. One of the most pleasing aspects of my cycling career has been the shrinking numbers on the bathroom scales – underneath the flab I have always had the bone structure of a toothpick, with ridiculously skinny fingers and wrists and a head like a pencil. If I stand behind my wife with my head above hers we look like an exclamation  mark. But this means that I can get a lot lighter than some of the normally-bodied people who ride bikes, and, when the road started to go up on the sportive, I started to see the benefit. There I was, in a group of 7 or 8 guys averaging over 32kph (20mph to non-cyclists) – a bloc, for me, at the time – and when the road went up, I kicked hard and they all – all of them, mind – got dropped. Let’s just pause here for a second. I went riding with some strong, tough cyclists. They were pushing hard – too hard, really, as I wasn’t going to be able to sustain that pace forever. I was on the limit. Then came a hill, and I dropped them all.

Now, this was a small lump in a part of England where a bridge is considered a significant col, but still. Now that’s got to be a win for me, and perhaps the highlight of the first part of my cycling year. A Saturday ride with the club (a tame one, as it was still early spring) a week or two earlier had hinted at my climbing prowess, but had also proven I just didn’t have the legs to ride at over 20mph for a long period of time. So this was my peak – and my pride was swelling nicely.

But…. what does pride come before again? So, sure enough, two of the guys I dropped came back up to me on the flat (I ride on the flat like a one-legged Schleck), and once again I toiled hard to stay on their wheels. And then came a slight descent, under trees, and I just had enough time to register that that patch of mud in the middle of the road might be slippy before I unceremoniously joined the mud on the road. Bang. When I pulled myself back to my feet (quite slowly), I noticed that my nice new Velo Club kit had some holes in, as did the limbs underneath. Sportingly, the two guys I was with stopped to make sure that I was ok, which was nice. Clearly this sporting goodwill had limits, though, as when they saw that I was going to continue they blasted off as fast as they could. I did see them again, but not before the end of the ride. Cyclists, eh?

So I was sore, and, for a while, felt like I could hardly turn the pedals. Looking back I was in shock, I suppose, and I had to stop in a field for twenty minutes and cannonball four energy gels just try to regain some composure. I nearly didn’t get back on the bike. When I finished I was the slowest of all the people who had completed the ride at that stage, and I was suitably demoralised. But I finished, and I finished stronger than on my first sportive, when I neglected to eat properly and blew up spectacularly about 10 miles from home. So, now I’m looking back, and I’ll choose to remember not the crash, or the excrutiatingly steep ramps that I manhandled the bike up in the middle of the ride, but that first little climb. The one where I dropped everyone.

After that, I felt like a cyclist.

What else then? What was my ride of the year? Certainly not the Wednesday nights when everyone else got faster and I just kept getting it wrong in the corners. Scott, always just slower than me in the crits, suddenly found a load of extra pace and was winning sprints in the handicap races against A-riders. I was watching from a long way back, knackered. Suddenly everything seemed hard, and I just seemed to suck. Suffering was a mental game as well.

But how to get better then? Well, suffering even more is a good place to start. Cycling is about suffering. Pain is a badge of honour. You don’t quit if you can still pedal the bike. I knew all of this, but it took a ride through the County Durham fells to properly educate me in the art of suffering. 5 hours. 78 miles. Chapel Fell was supposed to be the highlight, but then came Hill End. And the Bollihope.

You see, I was planning to ride the Etape Pennines in October (thanks to the in-laws!) and had never ridden 5 hours over proper hills before. So off I went, on my own, to ride off from Darlington to Middelton, past High Force, and up Chapel Fell. This would be my test – if I could do Chapel Fell, and get back to Darlo, that would be roughly the same distance as the Etape Pennines itself. I would be able to line up with the confidence that I would actually manage to make it round – and hopefully not fall off. The day was sunny, the bike felt good, and so I set myself up nicely for lesson three – don’t go off too hard. I had one of my periodic rush-of-blood-to-the-head moments, I think. I felt strong, so I went fast. Yeah, I thought. I’m well hard! Hmmm. Not wise. By the time I had done 10 miles I was getting tired. By the time the road was climbing up out of Middleton I was struggling to maintain a good pace. At least the view was spectacular as I broke out of the treeline and civilisation dropped away. The fells looked barren, wild and remote – and I was very aware that they still towered above me.

When you turn off to Chapel Fell you’ve been climbing for a while already – and then you see it ahead; the road lazily angling up, and winding into the heart of the fells. It’s hard to judge the gradient as there’s little else up there that you can use for reference – but you know it is steep – steep enough to hurt. But I was excited – this was a real climb, one that my Father-in-Law, who knows a thing or two about this landscape, and about cycling through it – spoke of with respect. So off I went, and emptied the tank up the fell. It was great – hard, steep, but I attacked it, and rode up well. The descent was terrifying – for the first time I was well over 50mph and pulling hard on the brakes every time a corner appeared ahead. But the adrenaline-soaked rush of the descent masked the unfortunate truth – I was about done for the day. But I was a long way from home.

But, I thought, there might not be any more real hills now. I mean, I had looked at the map, and saw that the route I would be taking home through the fells (I didn’t know it’s name then – I do now) was longer, so presumably the gradient would be less, and I could just take my time. Well.

There’s a right turn out of Stanhope, and I knew it was my route. I stopped for a moment and had a bite to eat – I knew I was nearly empty. It hurt to pedal now, you see. Quite a lot. That was the rude shock that awaited me as I left the Chapel Fell descent. The pain flooding my weakening legs every time I pushed them through another rotation. This is when you start thinking “I’m supposed to be enjoying this…”

So as I set off again down the right turn out of Stanhope I hoped, somewhat forlornly, that the really steep bits were done. Maybe, I thought, we would go through that gap I could see in the fells – not over them.

We didn’t. Something called Hill End appeared ahead. There were hairpins. Hairpins. This isn’t the alps,  I thought,  this in England. What the hell is a road doing going over a hill so steep it needs hairpin bends?

I fought the bike up that hill. It was mind over matter now – just keep the pedals turning, just keep breathing, don’t think about the pain. But we got to the top, and it wasn’t the top. The road kept going up. Even after I dragged my aching body over the next crest – there was more. And more. And then, the ultimate insult. When I finally crested the last rise, and made it onto the tops, in real, proper pain now – praying for the road to stop – massively grateful I had even made it to the top – I saw it. Ahead, through the heart of the fells, the road dropped down into a valley, and once again, artlessly, cruelly, rose up the other side. I had only just made it, and now I had to do it all again.

I stopped. And took a photo – which to this day fails to capture just how steep and big the climb ahead looked to me. I stopped, really, because I had to – not because I wanted to. I felt like crying.

But I was always going to keep going. I had to – I had set out to do this ride, and I had no option but to do it and would fight on until I physically could not turn the pedals any more. But I was scared – because I knew that that moment wasn’t far off. And that’s in no way an exaggeration. So I stiffly dropped down the next descent, bitterly resenting every lost metre of altitude. When the road then turned skywards again, I was slow. I was glacial. I was just trying to keep the wheels going round. And it really, really hurt. I struggled to find any rythym – the pain was too much sitting down, so I had to stand in the pedals, but doing so I slowed to less than walking pace, and even then I couldn’t last long before sitting again, just to recover, before then having to stand, because it just hurt so damn much. The intervals of sitting, or standing, got shorter and shorter, and the landscape around me was no longer dynamic; it had stopped. Everything seemed static, and I was stuck, perhaps forever, on that gradient, with the sheep lethargically and disinterestedly watching my anguish. Just my luck, I remember thinking, if one of those sheep charges me. I couldn’t get away; I would just fall off the bike and lie there, being savaged by the most domesticated animal on the planet.

Slowly, intermidably, things changed. I gave up sitting down altogether, I set my mind and told myself that no matter how much it hurt, I would keep going. And I did. And, eventually, agonisingly slowly, the hill went by. At some point I crested the last rise, and started to escape the fells. I hardly remember it – I was passed caring; I just wanted to make it back.

So then started the long slog home – legs on fire, but still going, every mile more painful than the one before. I remember thinking that the Pros – well, they get paid for this. They get a reward at the end – money, champagne, flowers – a massage – perhaps a new contract, perhaps a car like Sagan got at the tour. What was my reward for this? But the answer was there the second the question formed – it was obvious, of course – my reward at the end of the ride was – the end of the ride. I wouldn’t have to pedal the bloody bike any more. The ride would end, and I would get home, and I wouldn’t be doing this any more. The pain, maybe, might just stop.

When I rode into Darlington there was no euphoria – I had known I would make it back for a while now, and I had left any enjoyment far behind on the fells. All I wanted was for it to stop – and until it did, it hadn’t yet. And so it went, until I pulled off the road onto the drive. Home.

When I went upstairs to run a bath my legs went into spasm – the pain was electric and overwhelming for a few minutes, until I lay down. And when the bath was run, I lay down in it and the pain melted away. Afterwards, I sat in the garden as my brilliantly barmy northern extended family cooked a barbeque, and my kids played happily. I was in Heaven. Now, after I had finished and the pain had finally morphed into a satisfying stiffness, I enjoyed every minute of the ride. And Ray told me that it was called the Bollihope – so now the cause of my suffering had a name, and I won’t forget it.

That’s cycling. The best rides are the ones that you can only enjoy afterwards.

I knew I had faced a real test, and had passed. I had made it back; I had dug deep, I had found something I didn’t know I had – I had learned how to suffer, and to keep going. That’s real cycling.

You see, that’s real life – uncompromisingly unartificial. No scriptwriters out there on the fells; no screen to filter your reality through. Just yourself, and the pain. And I made it home.

After that the real Etape turned out to be a breeze – well, it was great fun, and I finished 121st out of over 1400 riders, and 57th on the timed run up Chapel Fell. But I didn’t go out too hard. And I finished strong – over 25mph at the end, arms aloft as I crossed the line. I will never forget that ride – I was given a medal at the end (like all who finished) and the weather, and views, were exquisite. But to me, I earned that medal not that day, but weeks before, on the Bollihope.

So the two rides through the fells of County Durham are my rides of the year – the first, for the Battle of the Bollihope, and that vital cyclist’s rite of passage, an education in suffering. And the second – the Etape Pennines – my victory lap – far more climbing than the first, but ridden with (I would like to think) a bit of panache.

Anyway, I have drained the glass, the fire is dying, and it’s time to stir myself. Life awaits, and there is always next year.