Hell of the Ashdown Pt.3

Right. I've washed the bike, had a bath, a glass of wine and a good night's sleep - and, in retrospect, the Hell of the Ashdown doesn't seem quite as bad.


On paper, it's a grim day out. 65 miles with 2000 metres of climbing, much of it steep.

From the saddle, it was actually OK. Helped by the friendly enthusiasm of the Catford volunteers; by unseasonally warm and sunny weather and the glory of the English countryside -- the pain was almost bearable.

Even Kidd's Hill - an apparently endless slog through the scrubland near Harftield, rewarded you with breathtaking views over the Ashdown Forest and the long, straight, rolling drop back down - where you could play at being Magnus Backstedt.

High point? Blasting through the best of Kent and Sussex without once having to look at a map -- following the well-placed signage and seen safely across dangerous junctions by cheerful marshals.

Low point? My Vittoria Pave tyres -- supposedly bulletproof Roubaix-busters, the back one blew out five miles into the ride after a minor encounter with a pothole. And they weave like a dolphin on high-speed descents.

Something a little flatter for my next outing, though. Is there a Hell of Norfolk?

Fashion Crimes Pt.2

Notwithstanding my earlier criticism of cyclists wearing long socks, a ghastly trend which owes much to Lance Armstrong and his Texan ways, I had to admire the stylishness of this woman at the Hell of The Ashdown yesterday.

The Hell of the Ashdown Pt. 2

Brand repositioning is maligned and misunderstood but, done well, incredibly effective.

Filofax showed the way in the 1980's, when a dull, loose-leaf diary and address book popular with Army officers and quantity surveyors became the must-have life accessory for every young professional.

And Belstaff, makers of practical but nerdy waxed cotton motorbike jackets, have transformed themselves into a successful high-fashion brand even though their core product makes you look like an off-duty policeman.

Cycling is not immune. For years, British clubs would stage "reliability trials" in January or February. The formula was simple: a few dozen riders would turn up at a bleak village hall and be sent off to ride a hard, rolling course -- normally accompanied by hail and howling wind.

It wasn't a race, but there would be a time limit -- and participants would often have their route card stamped Audax-style along the way.

A few "racing men" would put on a show of speed at the front, but most were content to work off the Xmas fat on their winter hacks, with a more measured performance.

There was the phenomenon of the "January racer" -- every club had one; the guy who turned up at the reliability trial in blistering form, tore everyone's legs off and then bored them witless with his predictions for the coming season.

Inevitably, his name never troubled the score sheets when the days got longer and the racing started in earnest -- normally because he'd succumbed to a virus, or clinical exhaustion, in May.

Reliability rides were familiar landmarks in the club calendar, with a strong whiff of black Alpaca and bulging saddlebags.

No longer. The Catford Reliability Ride has been renamed and rebranded as the Hell of The Ashdown, a 100k Sportive, first of the season.

Like Trinny and Susannah dragging a dowdy librarian into Topshop, the Catford have brought their event firmly into the 21st Century.

As a result, its 500 places were sold out well in advance, many of them to well-spoken young men and women with a wardrobe full of Rapha kit.

And, surreally, a Prius full of Americans -- who stopped us this morning in a Kentish lane to ask directions to "Knockholt Village Hall". (Incidentally, while I applaud their eco-consciousness, is anyone else freaked out when cars don't make a noise?)

But whatever name they chose -- it was an excellent event. Well-organised, friendly, hard but achievable, glorious countryside and amazing weather.

Full report to come.