The Man in Black

Freezing fog in Richmond Park this morning, an unexpected downer after days of clear blue skies.  

Halfway up the hill that leads to Richmond Gate, a police car was parked on the roadway -- doors open and a WPC standing alongside.  She took the opportunity to shout at me, berating my stupidity.  Given that I was grinding my way up a long hill on a fixed gear, she had quite a bit of time to express her opinions.  She was a bit like one of those mad Dutch fans on Alpe D'Huez, only slightly less encouraging.

"Oi, you!  Perhaps you should consider getting some lights on your bike!  Or maybe wearing a yellow jacket or something on your top?  'Cos you're not very visible in this weather, are you?  Just a little tip.  Bit of friendly advice, might stop you getting killed...."

And on she went.

In reply, I just waved in a friendly fashion and said "Thank you, officer!"  Partly because I was so short of breath that I didn't feel like engaging in longer discourse.  And partly, of course, because she was right.

I'd left my lights on the hall table -- it was daylight outside, after all.  And I was wearing my Rapha softshell -- highly commended for style and comfort, nuls points for its hi-viz police-friendliness. 

I skulked round for another few laps, chastened -- while idiots in cars with no lights hurtled past inches from me.  I met up with a club-mate, resplendent in our bright red and yellow winter kit and used her as a human shield from the half-blind four-wheelers.

I always use lights at night, and try to dress conspicuously - within reason -  but I'm not 100 percent convinced how much difference it makes.  At its worst, visibility today was down to a couple of hundred yards.  If you can't see another human being -- even one dressed all in black --- at that distance, you really shouldn't be out on the roads. 

Some of the drivers who went past today were engrossed in hand-held mobile conversations, one was texting.  It's a given that WPC Plod won't have shouted at them.

After 30 years of riding in London, I remain convinced that confident road positioning and speed are as important to your safety as bright clothing. 

To be honest, you could have lit yourself like a Christmas tree today, with a roman candle up your jacksie, and still not guaranteed that you were seen.

Let's be careful out there.

The Daily Grind

In a previous life, I was a ski instructor in Scotland. You have not experienced truly bad weather, nor plumbed the depths of human misery, until you have stood on a small patch of ice above Aviemore with a 70-mile an hour wind driving icy sleet into your eyes as the thermometer drops to minus 10 and you try to explain the rudiments of ski-ing to a bunch of bored and frozen Birmingham schoolkids.

But it's a good testing ground for ski kit. For years I gave any jacket, fleece or gloves a "Cairngorm" rating -- based on how well they would stand up to a couple of months on the Ptarmigan.

In some ways, London commuting provides a similar proving ground for bike gear. I know there are far more testing environments in the world but there's something unrelentingly grim about riding through a wet, cold, crowded London day. You get soaked not just by the rain, but by the constant spray from your own wheels and other vehicles.

When American racers first came to Europe, they were horrified by the mixture of rainwater, agrochemicals and animal faeces that formed a mist over the roads of Northern France in the early season, and called it "Flemish Toothpaste". I suppose the mix of rain, diesel, dissolved tarmac, kebabs and tramps' urine that I rode through this morning is something like "London Shower-gel".

A good test for winter commuting kit, though, and some of it fared better than the rest.

From the lowest point:

Nike MTB shoes -- absolute crap. A replacement for my long-serving Shimano lace-ups, they are too hot in Summer, too cold in Winter and soak up water like toilet paper.

Prendas Meraklon Oversocks. A nice product, but not right for today. Excellent at keeping chill winds and roadmuck off your best shoes, they just suck up the rain and make your whole lower leg wet. To be fair, it's not what they're designed for -- but Prendas do some rather nice neoprene versions.

Endura tights. Warm and comfortable, and the bright blue Roubaix lining gives an oddly pleasing two-tone Tonik effect to your legs. But the water-repellency disappeared with the first couple of washes, so I might have to get the Nikwax out.

Endura jacket. A surprise birthday present from Mrs F, who normally regards all cycle clothing and accessories as the work of the Devil, but made a superb choice here. Warm, waterproof and comfortable -- mine's black which gets maximum points for style and dirt-resistance, but less good for visibility.

Patagonia Capilene thermal underwear. My Patagonia stuff consistently shrugged off the worst that the Cairngorms could throw at it, and some of it's good for cycling too. The zip-polo neck is hardly cyclo-purist but it's practical and prevents the sore neck you get from some winter jerseys.

I could have got away with a lightweight jersey today under the Endura jacket, but opted for the Rapha softshell anyway. Ludicrously expensive, but very, very good. Probably too good for daily commuting, but I guess everytime I wear it the value-for-money increases.

Rapha hat. Falling apart now -- I think Rapha have occasional quality issues with some of their stitching etc., but a great, simple product which measurably increases my cycling pleasure.

Just time for it all to dry out before the return journey.

Half Way Home

In the words of the great Ice Cube, today was a good day.  You'll remember that in Ice's case, his life quality was largely dependent on whether he needed to use his AK or not.  My requirements are simpler, although equally subjective. 

I was out early, rolling into Richmond Park just as it was getting light.  And what light.  Pure blue sky, bright sunshine and thick white hoar-frost across the grass.  Some of the roads had a fine white coating, but not enough to cause any slipping or sliding.  Cold but not miserably so.

And for once my legs seemed to be working;  letting me spin 25 miles in a low gear and a low heart rate.  I think that book may have something going for it after all.

Quick coffee and back home, through largely empty streets and much of the city still asleep.

My cyber-training partner Brian was complaining earlier in the week about Force Nine gales keeping him off the roads of Islay.  Which is one of the advantages of living at the warm and crowded end of the country.

Back to work this week though, and the daily London commute.  I'll be needing that AK after all.

   

Hell of the Surrey Hills

The forecasts were for a Siberian Armageddon -- knee-deep snowdrifts and temperatures down to minus 17.  Well, some of the forecasts - mainly those used by some of the online news services. The Met Office, which supplies the BBC, was more cautious -- but there would definitely be snow.

Which wasn't an auspicious start to the first serious ride of the year - a planned 50 miles through the hills of Surrey.  

We were following a Cycling Plus route which shared some of the same terrain as the excellent Serpentine Three Hills Ride.  

I had visions of us ending the ride looking like Andy Hampsten in the '88 Giro.

Out of the car-park at Westhumble station, low grey skies but no sign of the impending blizzards. For the next 30 miles, not more than a few yards were flat.  Box Hill, Leith Hill, Ranmore Common -- I felt like I was pedaling squares up the hills.  When I dared look at the heart rate monitor, it was bouncing around the 160 mark -- so much for my training programme.

And it was cold.  Bitter, soul-sapping cold through two thermal vests, and two jackets.  Only briefly helped by a corned-beef sandwich and mug of coffee outside the cyclist-friendly Peaslake Village Stores.

We cut short the ride at under 40 miles just as a light snow began to fall.  By the time we reached the station again, it had turned to drizzle.

January can be a hard month to be a cyclist. 

Blow out

Last ride of 2007, and a bizarrely annoying way to end a bizarre year. Five laps of Richmond Park in low-heart-rate mode are brought to an end with the familiar weaving from the front wheel which indicates a slow puncture.

As I unwind the quick-release (with a silent prayer of thanks to Tullio Campagnolo and his frozen fingers on the Croce d'Aune) I reflect that I've done pretty well for punctures this year -- this is the first time I've had to take the Aksiums off since fitting them back in the Spring.

It will be a matter of moments to strip off the tyre, remove the offending tube, check for flints, half-fit the tyre, pull out a new tube, attach the shiny C02 canister and inflate just a little for installation.

Nothing. Not a single squirt. The CO2 canister that I have faithfully carried in my jersey for a year is, perhaps not surprisingly, completely empty.

After five minutes cursing everything imaginable, including my own stupidity -- I stand in the road clutching a wheel and looking hopeful for passing cyclists. This is Richmond Park, so I don't have to wait long. The first to stop, from London Dynamo, is apologetic -- he only has a single CO2 canister but offers, if I'm still stuck next time he comes round, to give it to me.

Another rider leaves me his mini-pump, with instructions to hide it behind a road sign so he can pick it up later.

In the next five minutes, I'm asked at least ten times whether I'm OK, or need any assistance -- a reassuring reminder that solidarity and comradeship among cyclists is not dead. Or perhaps I just look particularly hopeless.

My training plans go out of the window as I'm forced to time-trial the rest of the park and the South Circular in order to get home in time.

Time to reflect on the slightly worn state of the GP3000's and consider their replacement. I've heard bad reports of the new GP4000; so pretty soon I'm on-line, ordering a set of Vittoria Pave's.

And a mini-pump.

Happy New Year

Back for more

One week on, and Richmond Park is a different place. Low winter sun in a cloudless sky; warm despite a harsh wind; relatively few cars but hundreds of cyclists. Some are clearly the advance guard of the post-January 1st resolution brigade -- some, like me, are regular riders - refugees from a Christmas spent overindulging in food and drink.

Solo or in pairs, and packs of London Dynamo -- riding "through and off" with varying degrees of precision and speed.

I'm on my first day training from "the book", and finding it hard going. It's not an easy read, especially for someone who struggled with Maths and Science at school; and it seems to assume that you have access to a sports laboratory or a power meter. Neither is true for me -- especially since most power meters cost more than my bike.

But I've adopted and adapted the central message -- go slower to ride faster; keep your heart-rate below a predetermined level to encourage long term strength and efficiency. It goes against all your natural instincts but after a while it begins to make sense. I struggle when an overweight man on a mountain-bike seems about to overtake me, and sneak briefly into the red. I'm unable to climb even Richmond Park's gentle hills without going a little over; and on the return journey on the South Circular, there are points where you have to make like Cipollini simply to survive.

I get home with a set of figures: average speed 14.5 mph, average heart-rate 125 bpm. I have no idea what they mean or how to improve them, but it's a start.

'Tis the Season

Richmond Park, Sunday morning. Freezing fog and a hangover. Ice crystals making patterns on my gloves and overshoes. The road surface like a greasy, black skating rink and clubmates huddled disconsolately in the cafe car park -- like the penguins from Madagascar. ("Well, this sucks") A break for a few days, from the bike and the blog. Seems like a good time to take it.

Winter Draws On

Proper winter weather in London this morning -- gritting lorries out, ice on car windscreens and barely warming up on the six miles to work. Our Summer visitors -- the hordes of fair-weather cyclists, seem finally to have taken the hint. The number of bikes on the road today was about a quarter what it was two or three months ago.

I know we're supposed to be pleased when bike use rises, but I can't help thinking that it's not always a positive thing. It may make other road users more aware of bikes; or it may just annoy them even more. And some of our Summer bretheren do themselves -- and us -- no favours.

I'm not sure who I dislike more: the ones who just sail through red lights as if they're exempt from traffic laws; or those who stop at the lights, but force their way past you to the front of the queue then delay everyone by wobbling off at barely walking pace.

My favourites are those well-bred young women -- my commuting route takes me through Sloane Square and Knightsbridge -- who carve through the traffic on shopping bikes, wearing flip-flops and floral dresses. They combine impressive straight-line speed with a recklessness more suited to the last 100 metres of a Tour stage sprint finish. It's like watching Djamolidine Abdoujaparov, but dressed from the Boden catalogue.

If we could get some of them into GB kit and swap their Pashley's for a decent track bike, they'd give Vicky Pendleton a run for her money.

Anyway, the onset of cold weather has sent them back to the Picadilly Line and their 4X4's, leaving the roads to the grumpy hardcore.

If you're still out there, chapeau, take care and make the most of it -- it's the Winter Solstice in a week or so, and it's all downhill from then on.