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?

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.

The Hell of the Ashdown

Early to bed tonight, I'm riding 100 hilly kilometres tomorrow in the charmingly-named "Hell of the Ashdown Challenge".

The event is organised with the usual friendly efficiency of the Catford Cycling Club, who've sent a route card and signing-on details.

One clause in the Terms and Conditions caught my eye:

"The cyclist named below acknowledges that this is a hilly and arduous route which they are confident they have the ability to complete."

Can I get back to you on that one?

A time for fixed

Richmond Park, Sunday morning. Traditional refuge of the London bikie.

Howling wind and dark, threatening skies but a break -- for an hour at least -- in the lashing rain that has afflicted the capital for the past five days.

The park is strangely quiet, even though I'm later than usual. Noticeably absent is the streaming peloton of city-boys, clad in Assos and Rapha, astride their Cervelos and Felts, who've become such a noticeable fixture of the park this year.

I don't really blame them for staying in their beds -- cycling is supposed to be fun, despite the hair-shirt nonsense of the old school clubman, which I sometimes find coming out of my own mouth.

In fact, I've previously been mystified by the way that some of the city cyclerati insist on taking their 5-grand carbon super-bikes on routine training runs in the pouring rain. You can almost hear the grit and muck grinding their delicate carbon and alloy into a paste.


In my day, your "best" bike was put away in September, not to reappear until March at the earliest. You rode through the off-season on your "winter"bike -- frequently with a 66 or 68-inch fixed gear and full mudguards.

For more than twenty years now, that's what I've done -- with a variety of old track and road frames and spare and salvaged bits. This year, thanks to the Government's excellent Ride to Work Scheme, I've been able to buy a beautiful fixed Condor Tempo to do the job. It's the perfect commuting bike, but also ideal for cold-month training. I may even try an audax or sportive on it -- although not Paris-Roubaix.

So go on, city boys -- stash the Cervelo 'till Spring, get yourself a winter hack and get out there.