The Aloha Spirit

I always have to suppress a smile when the perennial issue of cyclists' friendliness -- especially towards newcomers -- comes up.

There's a letter in the comic again this week, praising the pro Stefan Schumacher for saying "hi" on a training ride, in comparison to the allegedly aloof and unfriendly types the writer has met "around London and the Surrey Hills".

I was responsible for a small controversy in my own club a while ago, when I questioned why some people wouldn't even acknowledge other members out on the roads. Someone replied that, as first and foremost a running club with a strong cycling section, many members had come into the sport without any grounding in the conventions of cycling clubs. Like being friendly to fellow members, presumably.

But the main reason I smile is that my other sport is surfing. About three of four times a year, I like to go off and ride some waves -- badly but enthusiastically. And surfing's attitude to newcomers is very straightforward: "You're not welcome"

In fact, surfing's attitude to everyone is straightforward: "Whoever you are, you're not welcome".

Limited natural resources, an explosion of popularity and revolutions in internet forecasting have led to an inevitable conclusion -- too many surfers are chasing too few waves. Localism -- summed up in the phrase "if you're not from here, don't surf here" -- is on the increase everywhere.

It's not new, but it's becoming more vicious. There are areas of Hawaii -- indeed entire islands of Hawaii -- which are never photographed or mentioned in the surf media; because of explicit violence and death threats against journalists and editors.

A friend of mine has made a couple of short films about surfing near his home on the west coast of Ireland. When I asked him if he was going to put them on YouTube, he patiently explained that "some of the spots are too easy to identify" -- and there would be retaliation.

This week - wind, swell and sunshine combined to give a glorious, if cold, days' surfing on the South Coast of England. I spent a couple of idyllic hours at West Wittering -- a glorious spot known for its gentle longboard waves and hassle-free crowds. I was aware, though, that there were spots an hour-or-so's drive away where my reception would have been much more hostile.

Even in laid-back Devon, there are places where visiting surfers are lucky to escape without violence in the water; and find a combination of slashed tyres, waxed windscreens and excrement in their rucksacks on returning to their vehicles.

So, in comparision, the odd miserable git who doesn't wave back is not so bad, is it?

Flatlining

Still waiting for the book to arrive which will transform my training methods and drag me screaming into the 21st Century.

Brian claims that his method will make me faster, whilst allowing me to train less , and more slowly. I'm not sure that I could actually train more slowly without going backwards; and training less would simply involve staying in bed all day, but I'm willing to suspend disbelief.

So, in the interests of science, I dug my heart-rate monitor out of my running-gear drawer and strapped it on. Brian, who's a similar age to me, says his programme restricted him to less than 130 bpm on all rides.

This can't be right. I hit 150 putting my shoes on and barely dropped below it until I was sitting in the cafe afterwards. When I even approached a hill, a series of beeping alarms went off. I half expected a lugubrious Danish masseur to appear and say "Bjarne, look what you're doing to yourself, we are your friends, we can help".

(The previous line will only make sense if you've seen Overcoming -- which I recommend you do. It's very entertaining, especially now we know what Bjarne and Ivan were really up to).

Clearly this hi-tech training lark is more complicated than it seems. No wonder Chris Boardman always looked worried.

More from the Catford Hill Climb tomorrow.

How did we get here again?

So, to recap: a careless remark to my neighbour after the relatively gentle 56 miles between London and Brighton and it was all decided.

Less than 18 months after a life-threatening illness which had left me unable to walk more than a few steps, I was going to ride one of the world’s hardest bike events. On a training regime that, until now, consisted entirely of commuting through London traffic and a weekly, half-hearted spin round Richmond Park.

While it was hardly Lance Armstrong rising from his cancer ward to conquer the Tour de France, some training was clearly in order. And the only worthwhile training is specific training –something which would prepare me for a long, flat endurance event in the company of thousands of other riders over cobbled roads.

So I entered the Catford Hill Climb.

The Catford Hill Climb likes to bill itself as the world’s oldest bike race which, with some qualifications, is true. Strictly, it’s the competitive cycling event which has been run uninterrupted for the most years – but that wouldn’t look quite as snappy on the posters.

It’s organised by the Catford CC, one of England’s oldest cycling clubs and is held each year on the North Downs of Kent. “The Catford” as they are known, were formed in 1886 and, a year later, came up with the bright idea of staging a hill climbing competition near Westerham. Given the weight of Victorian bikes (at least 35lbs) and the rudimentary gearing, it was a miracle anyone got to the top at all. As it was, barely half of the 24 starters survived the course; but the event was clearly judged a success because it’s been an annual fixture ever since, on a variety of increasingly unpleasant inclines.

Since 1939, the Catford have settled on Yorks Hill, near Sevenoaks, which starts off innocuously enough before rearing up to a vicious 1-in-4 before the finish line. The course is around 700 yards long and the record stands at a shade over 1-minute 47seconds.

I still don’t understand the thought process which led me to think that this would in any way contribute to my being able to ride from Paris to Roubaix, but it was the only event I could contemplate entering at that stage. Yes, I was a couple of stone overweight; yes, I was a rubbish climber, but at least the agony would be over in a few minutes.

How wrong I was.

The Story So Far Pt. 2

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".

Perils of the Peloton Pt .1

In his excellent book The Escape Artist, Matt Seaton briefly touches on an issue of concern to all male cyclists -- shrinkage. This is, of course, a straightforward physiological phenomenon. At times of extreme effort, or extreme cold, the body is designed to channel blood and its vital oxygen to those areas which need it most -- in cyclists' case, usually the legs. It takes the blood from those areas it regards as superfluous -- fingers, noses and private parts.

So it is that after a particularly long or cold training session you find yourself with numb fingers and privates so shrivelled that you resemble a skinny Action Man doll.

In many ways the body is right. Cyclists are a weedy, asexual lot -- not renowned for their lustful behaviour: some old school pros believed in the theory that too much duvet activity had a detrimental effect on your performance the following day. They feared, as boxers did, "leaving their legs in the bedroom".

The legendary Sean Kelly once admitted abstaining from all such nocturnal functions before races -- for different periods depending on the length and severity of the event. One journalist calculated that -- taking into account the Grand Tours, the Classics, the World Championships, late-Summer criteriums and a couple of Six Days -- there was a good chance that Kelly's wife of several years was still a virgin.

Not everyone was so austere. Jacques Anquetil liked to prepare for a race with "a bottle of good burgundy and a woman", but he made both his daughter-in-law and his stepdaughter pregnant so was hardly a role model. Mario Cipollini was once asked whether he abstained from sex before racing. No, he replied, but I try not to have it while I'm racing.

I was reflecting on all of this as I surveyed my sadly depleted body after another long, cold training run this morning. How a sport that requires you to wear the most figure hugging and revealing of kit can leave you with so little to display.

A while ago, I bought a smart jersey and shorts combo from Dauphin Cycles near Box Hill. They are well made and stylish -- but with one fundamental flaw. They are almost see-through, especially in the wet; and pale blue and white are very unforgiving colours.

Unless, that is, you're Tom Boonen. Which is another reason -- along with his talent, palmares, money, and 16-year old model girlfriend -- to hate him. How can I put this delicately? Even after several hundred kilometres of racing and a full-on sprint, no matter how nippy the weather -- when Tornado Tom crosses the line and flings his hands in the air, he appears to have a toddler's arm stuck down his Quick Step shorts.

Put simply, and I apologise for offending more delicate readers -- Tom Boonen must have a huge cock.

The internet, a wonderful source of knowledge. I'm sorry for the slightly unfortunate tone of this post -- tomorrow I'll review dynamo lighting systems or something.