Apologies to anyone who was looking forward to a review of dynamo lighting systems or more baseless speculation about pro riders' genitalia.
Instead, I thought I'd explain more about the core purpose of this blog -- to document the attempt by an overweight, under-trained, near fifty-year old to ride Paris-Roubaix, or at least the amateur sportive which runs over the same course as the classic race.
This late mid-life crisis was brought on by the realisation that half-a-century is a far more significant birthday than any previous one; and by a near-fatal illness that reminded me that putting things off until tomorrow is a privilege, not a right.
A Friday night in early 2007, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, I suddenly felt a bizarre, tingling paralysis in my neck and back, followed by a blinding headache and nausea. My wife had the presence of mind to call NHS Direct, who in turn called an ambulance which took me to the local hospital. Friday night in an inner-city A&E -- as a random headache case I wasn't a priority, until a spectacular vomiting fit convinced a doctor to see me in a side room.
It turned out that I'd had a subarachnoid brain haemorrhage -- a frightening condition which kills and cripples thousands each year. A week of tests and investigations produced a remarkably positive prognosis -- I would be one of the minority of sufferers who makes a full - or almost full - recovery.
I came back from hospital very different from the person who went in. Two years before, I had run a marathon -- now I could barely walk a hundred yards unaided. Leg and back pain -- apparently caused by blood leaving my brain via the nervous system -- meant that I couldn't sit on a bike, let alone pedal it.
But the bike was to prove vital in my recovery. A friend lent me his turbo trainer and I set it up next to my bed. Five minutes at a time at first, then longer and longer, until one day I was able to take the bike out of the front door and wobble down the road.
Even later, the same friend drove me to Richmond Park with my bike in the boot of the car. As I made the glorious freewheel down to Robin Hood Gate, I knew I was really on the way back.
As occupational therapy, I built a new bike. Oddly, the brain which struggled to remember simple daily tasks and refused to focus on reading, had no problems fine-tuning a ten-speed Campagnolo mech or installing a Chris King headset.
Five months later, my next door neighbour invited me to ride London to Brighton with him -- exactly twenty years after I last did it as a relatively fit club rider.
I made it up Ditchling Beacon: a few extra inches on my waist, a couple of extra teeth on the back cog, but otherwise unbowed.
As we sat on the prom, contemplating the sea over a couple of pints, my neighbour asked if I had any other rides planned.
"Oh, I don't know" I heard myself saying, full of sea air and lager "I've always fancied having a crack at Paris-Roubaix".
Instead, I thought I'd explain more about the core purpose of this blog -- to document the attempt by an overweight, under-trained, near fifty-year old to ride Paris-Roubaix, or at least the amateur sportive which runs over the same course as the classic race.
This late mid-life crisis was brought on by the realisation that half-a-century is a far more significant birthday than any previous one; and by a near-fatal illness that reminded me that putting things off until tomorrow is a privilege, not a right.
A Friday night in early 2007, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, I suddenly felt a bizarre, tingling paralysis in my neck and back, followed by a blinding headache and nausea. My wife had the presence of mind to call NHS Direct, who in turn called an ambulance which took me to the local hospital. Friday night in an inner-city A&E -- as a random headache case I wasn't a priority, until a spectacular vomiting fit convinced a doctor to see me in a side room.
It turned out that I'd had a subarachnoid brain haemorrhage -- a frightening condition which kills and cripples thousands each year. A week of tests and investigations produced a remarkably positive prognosis -- I would be one of the minority of sufferers who makes a full - or almost full - recovery.
I came back from hospital very different from the person who went in. Two years before, I had run a marathon -- now I could barely walk a hundred yards unaided. Leg and back pain -- apparently caused by blood leaving my brain via the nervous system -- meant that I couldn't sit on a bike, let alone pedal it.
But the bike was to prove vital in my recovery. A friend lent me his turbo trainer and I set it up next to my bed. Five minutes at a time at first, then longer and longer, until one day I was able to take the bike out of the front door and wobble down the road.
Even later, the same friend drove me to Richmond Park with my bike in the boot of the car. As I made the glorious freewheel down to Robin Hood Gate, I knew I was really on the way back.
As occupational therapy, I built a new bike. Oddly, the brain which struggled to remember simple daily tasks and refused to focus on reading, had no problems fine-tuning a ten-speed Campagnolo mech or installing a Chris King headset.
Five months later, my next door neighbour invited me to ride London to Brighton with him -- exactly twenty years after I last did it as a relatively fit club rider.
I made it up Ditchling Beacon: a few extra inches on my waist, a couple of extra teeth on the back cog, but otherwise unbowed.
As we sat on the prom, contemplating the sea over a couple of pints, my neighbour asked if I had any other rides planned.
"Oh, I don't know" I heard myself saying, full of sea air and lager "I've always fancied having a crack at Paris-Roubaix".
1 comment:
I'd written the cheque for the P-R when the organiser emailed to tell me it was full up. 2010 I guess..
It was going to be too much anyway I thin with Wessex Tour and Londres-Paris. Good luck!
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