Look at the size of that bloody hill!

Five posts in a year. I think we can all agree that's a bit crap. Sorry, what can I say?

Once again, I blame the pressures of starting a business in the middle of the worst recession since the 1940's (we're doing very well, thanks for asking), raising a large family and just general - stuff. Plus, by the time I've spent all day updating Twitter, Facebook and the company blog, there's surprisingly little room left for making snarky comments about pro riders' shorts.

And everyone's at it now. Cycling, I mean. When I started, cyclists were the two wheeled equivalent of plane-spotters and traction engine enthusiasts - not positively harmful but to be viewed with healthy suspicion. Last weekend, I took my youngest to cricket practice and all the Dads were huddled together discussing the relative merits of Ultegra and Chorus. One of them has even started a new bike-related brand as a....no, I'd better not go there, he may be reading this.

And not just one, but two, cycling related cafes have opened within half-a-mile of our office. The Rapha Cafe is evil. It tempts me away from work with decent coffee and big screen bike racing (in the 'eighties I rode for a London Italian club and we used to go to the Bar Italia at Giro time and try to convince the guys behind the bar to turn the TV over to the RAI coverage). But it also tempts me to spend money I haven't got. Not entirely its fault, I agree - when I developed a painful neck and back recently, my remedy was to buy a Rapha backpack. A course of physiotherapy may have been cheaper and more effective.

So why am I rambling again? Well, I promised I'd tell you about the Stelvio - and I will. This September, I will be riding from Venice to Milan in three days - over the Dolomites and the frankly terrifying Stelvio Pass. It's to raise money for a cause that I care deeply about - the Geoff Thomas Foundation, now part of Leukemia and Lymphoma Research.

We're doing it in memory of Steve Mead - who was supposed to come with us last year from London to Paris but, tragically, died from his own leukaemia before the ride.

Please feel free to donate money here. I may even write some stuff about my half-hearted training, and take some pictures. Arriverderci....

Back to nearly normal

The rigorous dieting and training regime I promised myself has not quite gone to plan. I've given up alcohol - apart from an occasional glass of wine at the weekend, but my riding has been compromised by a combination of a bad chest cold and the worst weather in the UK for thirty years. Following the freezing cold day with Sky, the heavens opened and dumped feet of snow right across London and Southern England.

The Surrey Hills were a white wasteland and half of Richmond Park was closed off because it was little more than rutted ice. A few half-hearted attempts at the turbo were all I managed.

So this morning was eagerly anticipated. Clear blue sky, no snow or ice, my chest no longer sounding as though I smoked 40 a day - out to the park on the fixed gear. Along with every other cyclist in the southern half of the UK. At least that's what it seemed like.

After a couple of laps, we passed a young woman pushing her bike and, naturally, asked her what the problem was. It turned out that she'd forgotten her tyre levers, so I lent her mine on the understanding that she'd leave them behind the till at the cafe.

She said that dozens of cyclists had passed her while she was pushing the bike, but we were the first to stop and offer help. Not very chivalrous, but the old ways of the road seem to be disappearing.

Still, I'm back on the bike, so that's a start.

And why the picture of the Stelvio? Another story, which will have to wait.

Cold Sky

Well, we went. 0730 this morning, the secret text arrived - meet up at the Guildhall in the City of London. I'd already discovered (don't ask how, I'd have to kill you if you knew) that the actual team launch was going to be near the Mall, so that meant a 40 minute ride to the City, followed by half an hour back into the West End. On the coldest day of the decade. I know that's not saying much, but it was.....bloody cold this morning.

My son and I rolled up at the Guildhall, frozen to the bone, to find a huddle of cyclists of all shapes and sizes - from wannabe pros to old ladies on shopping bikes - standing round a collection of team cars. A cut above the usual Skodas as well - sleek grey Jaguars. I know that Jags are basically Fords these days but still, they look smart.

And so does the Sky team kit - black, white and blue Adidas, matching the gorgeous team Pinarellos.

Not much else to report, we rode through a bemused first-day-back-at-work London - led by Russell Downing and Edvald Boasson Hagen (who coped very well with the usual mix of idiot pedestrians, big red buses and psycho van drivers) and rolled onto the Mall, where we met up with the other two rides. Bradley had led people in from the London Eye.

Three laps round St James' Park with the pro riders at the front before we peeled off to get our stylish Sky musettes and the riders got on with the real business of launching a team.

Good day, one that my son (pictured above failing to listen to Tomas Lovkvist extolling the virtues of Shimano electric shifters) and I will remember for a long time.

And good on Team Sky, for at least making the effort to reach out to ordinary bike riders.

Plotting

Here's the deal. Team Sky announce a competition - if you're available for a ride Monday morning, sign up. If you're picked, then you get to ride with the team for an hour or so. I'm not free, really - I'm supposed to be working, and neither is my son, he's supposed to be at school. But we both entered.

Guess what? He got picked, and I didn't. Now, that's not going to work. I may have to sneak in somehow. Hope they don't notice. And before you say anything, I know that's not Team Sky in the picture, it's the Sky+HD track team. But how hot does Victoria look?

Just don't call it a fixie

A young colleague asked to interview me recently about "the fixie scene" in London. She was writing a piece for one of those style and music magazines aimed at a readership of 200 in Hoxton.

Once I'd told her never to use the word "fixie" ever again in my hearing, I agreed to the interview.

I struggled not to sound like a grumpy old man as I told her that there was no such thing as a "fixie scene" when I started riding bikes seriously. Riding fixed was just what you did in the Winter because, well, that's what everyone else did and there was a vague theory that someone in the club had once read that it improved your pedalling technique. Plus, it marked you out as someone who took their cycling a bit seriously - like shaving your legs or putting a twist in your Binda toestrap as it passed under the pedal.

I gave up riding fixed for several years because I used a mountain bike for work and a geared roadbike in the Summer. But then, sometime in the early nineties I spotted a couple of couriers on fixed, realised it could make a sensible but fun commuting bike, and dug my old track bike out of the loft.

For several years, it was a rarity to see another fixed on the road in London - probably no more than one a week. And if you came across another fixed rider you would automatically start chatting, usually comparing gear ratios and bemoaning the difficulties of getting decent and reasonably priced parts.

All that's changed now, of course, since everyone and their cousin seems to be riding fixed, or its less coherent relation - the singlespeed. And the bike shops near us had their Xmas windows stocked with racks of glittering ready-made fixed gears as ideal stocking fillers.

And I genuinely don't have a problem with that. It's much easier to get decent fixed parts like cogs and chains, and anything that gets more people out on bikes is a good thing. Plus I sold my lovely, but ancient, Condor track bike on eBay for a ludicrously inflated sum, having had serious inquiries from all over the world, including Tokyo and Milan.

And when the immediate fashion dies away, as it inevitably will, I hope that many of those attracted to bikes through the matching pastel gates of the "fixie scene" will remain committed riders.

That's what I said in the interview. Although I expect it will just end up sounding like a grumpy old man's droning.

Me again

Now, where was I? Oh yes, underneath the Eiffel Tower on the day that Michael Jackson died. For a second, as we rolled to a stop beneath one of the most famous landmarks in the world, we imagined that thousands of people carrying candles and wearing one glove had turned out to welcome us after our epic bike ride. Not so, and their off-key, multilingual renditions of "We are the World" provided a surreal backdrop to the rest of our weekend in that beautiful city.

I've been shamed into writing something by the realisation that I've got two new followers, which seems a bit odd given that there's been nothing to follow for at least six months. But welcome, both - and I'll see what I can do.

If you're unfamiliar with the blog, here's a quick recap. I started writing it because, after decades of riding, building and occasionally racing, bikes - I felt like having a new audience to drone on to. The specific impetus was a serious illness in 2007 which left me struggling to walk and unable to work for a couple of months. As part of the recuperation process, I built up a new bike - sort of occupational therapy, and began gentle riding around Richmond Park.

Within months, I hatched a ludicrous plan to ride the Paris-Roubaix sportive, which is why the blog is still called "A Year in Hell". That project was scuppered by a ski-related shoulder injury, but by then I already had plans for other ambitious rides, and was anyway busy blogging about random fashion-related issues, cycling etiquette and pro riders genitalia.

So what have I been up to since June? Working, mainly - trying to establish a new business in the face of the worst recession since the Second World War. And a bit of bike riding, when I can.

And I've bought a new bike. My trusty, much loved steel Casati has been replaced in my affections by an all-carbon Condor Baracchi, with Mavic Ksyriums and a Veloce groupset. It's gorgeous, but I can't help feeling a little sad that I've finally succumbed to the lure of the black magic.

Two things assuage my carbon guilt. First, the Casati has been passed on to my 16-year old son - who's showing a real interest in some serious riding next year. Second, the lousy weather in the UK has meant I've spent most of my time on my steel fixed Carbon Tempo, the ideal winter training iron.

So what does 2010 have in store? My son and I have committed to ride up the Tourmalet in July, the day before the pros cross it for the second time in the Tour. Ferry booked, hotel booked - all we've got to do is ride up 2-thousand metres of vicious Pyrenean col.

He needs to practice. I need to lose weight. A combination of long working hours and excessive food and drink have left me at least a stone over climbing weight. So, starting January 1st, a vicious new regime, inspired by the great Bradley. Goodbye exotic Belgian beers, chips, and bacon for breakfast. Hello abstinence.

Hope you can join me on the journey.

Londres-Paris - fin

Well.  That's that, then.  520km in three days, over some of the biggest hills in Southern England and Northern France, through torrential thunderstorms and 30-degree heat and finally an emotion-charged ride into Paris and the Eiffel Tower, roads closed, gendarmes blowing whistles and holding back traffic, motorbikes with their horns and lights blazing. A long, frequently painful, always challenging and occasionally ecstatic experience.  Three days later, random memories are probably all I can manage. 

• The sheer, grinding slog of dragging bike and body up the long final hill into Dover on Day 1  - after 170k in the saddle on a blisteringly hot day, it seemed like the final straw.  Until logistical issues delayed us getting to our French hotel until hours after our due arrival
• The remarkable restorative powers of one glass of red wine,  one hot shower and two dinners
• British motorists shouting abuse at the outrageous affront of cyclists getting in the way and delaying their progress on THEIR roads -- French motorists smiling and cheering, French people coming out of their houses to cheer the peloton on.
• The sheer exhilarating joy of flying through French towns at 40+kph in something approaching a racing peloton, with the brilliant motorbike outriders brushing your elbows as you take the bends.
• The camaraderie that shared suffering on the road quickly generates, among a group of widely differing backgrounds, skills, experience and nationalities
• The tears at the Eiffel Tower from some of our team, strong, tough blokes riding in memory of a friend lost to leukaemia
• The torrential, relentless rain that appeared seemingly from nowhere on Day 2, coating everything with a fine mixture of what the early US pros called Flemish Toothpaste - rainwater, agrochemicals and cowdung.  The wrong day to wear white shorts
• Learning a whole new language -- Australian pro.  Examples:   "Rolling" - bloody hilly.  "A bit lumpy" - really bloody hilly.  "A sporting challenge" - absolutely f****ing vertical.
• The enduring mystery of why triathletes can't hold a bloody wheel.  Don't they want to make things easier for themselves?
• The number of people who could tell you their exact wattage, power output and heart-rate but had never heard of picking  flints from their tyres after rainstorms.  So many punctures which could have been avoided. 
• 520k and not a single puncture or mechanical issue, apart from one set of knackered brake blocks.  Thank you, messrs Casati, Mavic, Campagnolo and Schwalbe.
• With ten kilometres to go, our team dropped to the back of the 300-strong peloton and tightened into a high-speed rolling pack of green jerseys. There is nothing, repeat nothing, in  cycling to match riding in tight formation with your team-mates through the traffic-free streets of Paris and seeing the Eiffel Tower loom unexectedly into view.
  
• As I swung my foot over my bike at the end of the third day, I made a solemn promise never to do anything so stupidly demanding on a bike again.  Now, I can't wait to sign up for 2010.

Londres-Paris

Two days to go before the start of the London-Paris -- only one day, really, because sign-on is tomorrow afternoon.

Now it's so close, I realise how much of an unknown quantity the next few days are going to be.   The first day is nearly 180km over 1500 metres of climbing -- further and nastier than I've ever ridden before.  And the following two days, although slightly flatter, are also 170k apiece.  

I'm hoping that the drafting of the pack and the rolling road closures will mean we can keep the optimistically high average speed targets set by the organisers.

A final e-mail from them urged everyone to get their bikes serviced before the ride -- tacit acknowledgment of how few people now service their own.   I tweaked the Casati at the weekend and, on the day after, had a traditional crisis of confidence on a 60kph descent.

"When I pulled the cable through on the front brake, did I actually screw in the holding bolt fully -- or just set it finger-tight, planning to finish it off later?"

But getting someone else to service it would only bring other worries -- "What if  that monkey in the shop didn't actually tighten the bolts when he replaced the brake blocks etc.?"

And there's a pleasure in getting your bike ready for a big event.  If it moves, grease it. If it doesn't, polish it.   Ten minutes with a cone spanner to get that final bit of play out of the rear Mavic.  And two rolls of fresh white bar tape.

Hey, we're going to Paris.  Wish us luck.

Good Day Out

I love the continuity of riding bikes -- the way that, no matter how fancy or sophisticated your equipment, you still have to use your legs to turn the wheels on the roads and the hills don't get any less steep.  

And many of the roads where you train have felt the treads of a million previous riders, especially in the South of England,  where cycle-friendly tarmac is at a premium.

120k yesterday on a route that would have been familiar to my father and his clubmates in the 1930's.  Richmond Park, Kingston, the Esher Road,  Cobham, Ockham, Leith Hill, Pitts Hill, Ranmore Common, Shere, Ewhurst, Whitedown, Abinger Hammer, Box Hill -- a roll-call of Sunday club runs, time trials and tea-stops.

And when things get really tough,  you can put aside your energy drinks, gels and recovery bars -- and just revel in a pot of English tea and a toasted teacake.

The Devil's Work

There was a point about five minutes into the Hot Chillee Devil Take the Hindmost at Donnington Park when I suddenly remembered why I hadn't actually raced a bike in nearly a quarter of a century.  It's bloody hard and unpleasant.  And frustrating.

The familiar despair settled on me when I got shot out the back of the 4th Cats after less than a lap of the 2.5 mile Grand Prix circuit and realised I was on my own.   Into a vicious headwind, with a long, merciless hill which left you knackered and boiling just before the finish line and the picnicking spectators.

The organisers had, with a rather literal turn of mind, booked an actual Beelzebub lookalike, complete with satanic girlfriend, to hop out and pull stragglers off the back of the pack but, with a cruelty worthy of Old Nick himself, they weren't actually going to start until an hour into the race so there was to be no salvation there.

I kept hoping that Julie the Commissaire might take pity and force me to retire on the grounds of being too old and fat to carry on but, cruelly, she just swept past every couple of laps -- leaning out the sunroof and cheerily shouting encouragement.

So on and on I went - on the hottest day in the UK this year, until the Devil finally wagged his fingers and allowed me to make way for the serious racers.

Why?  Because we raised some money and awareness for the Geoff Thomas Foundation -- a leukaemia charity that I passionately believe in. (If you enjoy this blog, please feel free to sponsor me on my ride to Paris by clicking here).

Because, nearly 70 years ago my father raced at Donnington Park in one of the rare pre-war massed start bike races, and it seemed a fitting way of honouring his memory.

And because I got to meet and talk to two of my all time cycling heroes - Stephen Roche and Graeme Obree, who both turned out to be as friendly, modest and charming as you could want your heroes to be.

Graeme spoke movingly and intelligently at a Question and Answer session about the sensitive subjects of depression and doping, especially when he said that drug cheats' worst crime was robbing the fans of the magic of a great performance, untainted by suspicion.

And I spent a whole warm-up lap cycling alongside, and chatting to, one of the greatest bike racers of all time -- surreally, every time I looked over , there he was - Tour De France and Giro winner, World Champion, a little larger and greyer than in his prime but still unmistakably a class act.  

For that alone, the pain was worth it.

Bambi rules

So, even in 21st Century London - deer take priority.  Hundreds of the things -- including swarms of tiny young ones -- decided to stage a mass migration in Richmond Park this afternoon, leaving motorists and cyclists no choice but to sit and relax for a bit.

All except for one nutcase driver.  Less than a minute after this photo was taken, he came up the outside of the line of cars you can see stretching off into the distance -- going at least twice the park's 20mph speed limit.  Narrowly avoiding a couple of deer, and deaf to the waving and shouting of other drivers - he swerved back on to the right side of the road and disappeared.

What possesses people to act like that?

Quotes of the week

Two that stood out this week.

The first, in a deadpan, resigned voice - came from the last rider in a group of eight or so roadies in Richmond Park midweek.

"Ok, lads.  If you haven't noticed, that is actually us being passed by a full-suspension mountain bike."

Second, from my clever and sensible 17-year-old daughter.

"Dad, when will you accept you are NOT French.  Even though you shave your legs and ride a bike, it does not make you French...."

All in the legs

To FA Headquarters last week, for the second time -- and the last, given that they're moving to new premises before next season.

The launch of the Geoff Thomas Foundation team for London to Paris, including a couple of sporting celebrities, some policemen inspired to ride by sick colleagues and, lurking somewhere at the back, me.

A great night, which I spent looking at people in a slightly bemused way, sure I recognised them but unfamiliar with seeing them without cycling kit, helmets or a distinctive bike.  The L2P "ride captains" include a number of strikingly attractive women, completely unrecognisable on the night in dresses and make-up rather than the familiar kit and wraparound shades.  But then, I completely failed to recognise the large, bald man who stood next to me for much of the evening as Magnus Backstedt, until I saw captioned pictures of him the next day.

Good conversation with an older gent whose name I don't remember. In his seventies, but still a keen rider who accompanied Geoff on a couple of stages at the end of his 2007 Tour de France attempt.  He was short and wiry and evidently extremely fit.

He reckoned he was doing about 100 miles a week in training at the moment -- but all on hills.  I said I wasn't "built" for hills, which drew a quizzical look.  Six feet tall, more than thirteen stone, I explained.

He looked at me scornfully for a few seconds before  slapping his thighs and saying "Well, it's all about the legs, really, isn't it?"

He's right of course, and on this morning's shortish training ride I determined to pass as many people as possible on the hills.  Didn't do too badly, either -- although my heart felt as though it was going to come out through my ears at one point.

White Assos shorts, incidentally, are worth at least 5 extra kph on your average speed.  The cruel insults of other riders are just jealousy.

Assos - an apology

It has been brought to my attention that some of the posts on this blog in the past two years may have been interpreted as critical of white Assos shorts and their wearers.  

The impression may have been unintentionally given that white Assos shorts were a ghastly fashion mistake comparable with comb-overs and leopardskin thong swimming costumes (on men); that white Assos shorts were worn in the main by overpaid, Johnny-come-lately city boys who'd taken up cycling as just the latest fad and had no understanding of the long, intricate and subtle history and culture of this wonderful sport.  Regrettably, on occasion, it may have been suggested that white Assos shorts were a sign of more money than sense, and less taste than either.

Year in Hell Blogging PLC would like to take this opportunity to apologise unreservedly for any such unintended implications.   It is happy to make clear that white Assos shorts are fine, stylish and comfortable garments made to the highest standards, and chosen by passionate and dedicated cyclists as an expression of their commitment to the sport and its traditions.

Since you ask, yes I have bought a pair.  They were cheap (relatively) on eBay and the box says they put 23 percent less pressure on genital areas and 18 percent more compression on the muscle zone.   I wasn't aware that I had a muscle zone, but what's not to like?

Put out more flags

I've always struggled with the idea of sporting patriotism.  I was eight years old when England last won the Football World Cup and, even though I was excited, I still didn't get why I should feel proud or inspired by the success of the eleven men on the pitch.  After all, I wasn't playing or contributing in any way, and it's an accident of birth that I happen to be English - not something that I can take any credit for.  

I still get annoyed when, as this week,  TV commentators assume that in a match between Chelsea and Barcelona, British fans will be rooting for the London team.   Thousands of "neutrals", like me, prefer a club with a long history of forward-looking, stylish play and deep roots in their community to the over-financed, arrogant plaything of a billionaire gangster.  And in a Barca/Man Utd final?  I won't be in a minority in cheering on the Catalans.

I've found it refreshing that, as a British cycling fan, the nationality of riders or teams has never been a big issue.

I loved Robert Millar's steely, obsessiveness and his superb style as a climber, but the fact that he was Scottish was largely irrelevant.   He was, anyway, more continental than most other members of the peloton and his rejection of so much that was parochial and small about British cycling was a key part of his personality. 

My other favourite riders and teams -- Bernard Hinault, Mario Cipollini,  Jens Voigt, Carlos Sastre -- have rarely been British.  You only have to read Tim Moore's brilliant comparison of photographs of Hinault and Boardman to understand why the Englishman is admired but never attracted a passionate following.

I enjoyed the success of the British track team but mainly because I admired them as athletes, their dedication and attitude, and the way that the team management brought focus and professionalism where none had existed before.

But now we have something different -- world class British road riders (Cavendish) and soon teams (Sky) -- that leave little excuse for not being patriotic in your support.

I'm going to enjoy this Giro, as one of the last where I can, conscience-free, support teams and riders of any nationality.

Crashing

Slightly subdued today, partly because of a late night as "plus one" to my high-flying executive wife, partly because I've seen two nasty bike accidents close-up in the past few days.

The first was on the gravel pedestrian/bike path which runs around Richmond Park.  

I'm not a huge fan or user of bike paths -- I prefer to take my chances on the road most of the time, but I have noticed a strange phenomenon.  Too many cyclists seem bemused as to which side of the path they should ride on.   In my simple way, I always assume that I should be riding on the left, like on the road (international readers may care to reverse this), and if people coming in the other direction do the same, we'll all be happy and safe.  But more than half of the cyclists I meet on my occasional bike-path forays seem to prefer the right hand side and refuse to move from their chosen line.

That's what happened the other day in the Park;  although I, thankfully, was on the adjoining stretch of road.  Two cyclists approaching each other at speed -- one on the left hand side, the other on the right.  One headed further left to avoid a collision, the other... headed right, and they smashed head on.  When I arrived, they were still in a dazed, dusty and slightly bloody heap.  One of the riders, an old fellow who turned out to be 77, had come off worse -- but mainly superficial.  The other, a young guy who appeared to speak very little English -- was just shaken up.   I dished out anti-septic wipes from my saddle-pack and listened while the older rider, who was on a mountain bike but dressed in full roadie kit, bemoaned the fact that no-one seemed to ride on the left any more.

The second, potentially more serious, came on a club run at the weekend.  Beautiful weather, riding with a slower group than usual.  It was also less experienced, and a bit twitchy on the brakes -- and the roads seemed busier and faster than normal.  I'd already been roundly (and rightly) told off for a bit of dangerous overtaking by one of the "ride captains", a fearsomely fast former Olympic track rider.  I was coasting at the back when some of the younger riders decided to sprint off the front.  Bad move.  One of the hundreds of potholes we'd passed that day (will the local authorities ever get round to fixing them?) connected with a carbon front wheel and the rider went cartwheeling off on a busy road, narrowly missing an oncoming, speeding car.

Again, not as bad as it could have been -- shock, and a badly gashed arm -- but a reminder of quite how difficult it can be to ride in a big group on Southern Britain's packed roads.

Not a bad ride, though, at a reasonable pace -- although my Cateye claimed afterwards that my maximum speed was nearly 78kph. Unlikely, unless someone had stolen my bike and dropped it off a cliff.

Sacre bleu

We're none of us as young as we used to be, but I was horrified to catch this news report on French TV, courtesy of Big Tex's Twitter.  Towards the end, a bald fat man appears -- looking for all the world like the missing third Mitchell brother.

Turns out to be suave, sophisticated two-time Tour winner Laurent Fignon, the only man in the 20th century to make a ponytail look stylish.

The film itself appears to be a reasonably balanced account of Armstrong's latest travails with the French authorities, but it's overshadowed by the shock of seeing the Professeur in such an advanced state of old codgerdom.

Onwards and Upwards

The reappearance of an unfamiliar yellow orb in the London sky coincided with a chest infection of particular unpleasantness.  Up all night coughing, and the return -- after 15 years -- of my asthma.  So that was nice.

Supposed to be doing a 100-mile sportive today, but gave it a miss -- managed a brisk 50k in the sun and wind instead, and already feeling better.

100k in the Surrey Hills next Sunday, better get the legs warmed up before then.

Look...just stop raining, will you?

I'm sure the Scots have a word for the weather that has brought misery to London over this Easter weekend.  On the principle that the Eskimos have 500 words for snow*,  and the Bedouin a thousand for sand, I'm sure there must be an appropriate Scottish description for the constant, damp dispiriting drizzle that has soaked into clothes and spirits without even the relief of an occasional downpour to liven things up.

Seven o'clock this morning, rolling out of South London for yet another session in spray and muck.

When will cycling get fun again?

*Apparently they don't. It's a myth - they just say "Bloody snow again..." and get on with it.

The Great British Bank Holiday

The Good Friday meeting at Herne Hill is more than a bike race, it's a gathering of the clans.  My father raced there before the war, I raced there in the eighties -- I dragged my son along as soon as he could see over the perimeter fence.

There's something reassuringly traditional about the day -- the same faces, the same stalls, the same comissaires (I'm sure one or two of them rang a bell at my Dad and they were probably getting on a bit even then).

And the same mad optimism that leads British families to sit out gales and hailstones on Bank Holiday beaches around the country in the belief that "it'll clear up in a minute", also pervades SE24.

The forecast was for thunderous showers.  The skies were lead grey and it had been raining for most of the morning, but still a good crowd turned up to watch the top quality international field.  They stayed despite the disruption caused by the frequent soakings, and the clear fact that the weather was only going to get worse.

The pilots of the mighty Thunderbird motorpace bikes huddled disconsolately -- in their back-to-front leathers and ridiculous helmets -- sheltering from the rain in the shipping containers in the car-park, and one of them even tried a few tentative laps, supposedly to help dry the track but really just to keep the crowd amused.

I bumped into an old racing colleague who said the banking was like an ice-rink - he'd eased off coming off a turn and his back wheel had locked solid. 

Eventually, even the most optimistic of us agreed to call it a day.  As always, I went home with a motley collection of unnecessary cycling accessories -- yet another Campagnolo cap, five Continental innertubes and a set of MKS rat-traps for my son's fixed.

We'll be back next year. Pray for sun.