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.

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?

The Mark of Shame

Cyclists gave a collective chuckle last year when - high on Grand Depart fever -- Transport for London claimed that the Capital was a "cycling city".

It is, of course, nothing of the sort. A sprawling, chaotic mess with a Roman and Medieval heart; built on haphazardly by the Elizabethans, Georgians and Victorians then knocked about and left dazed by the combined efforts of the Luftwaffe and sixties' planners -- London is about as much a cycling city as Fallujah is a destination for stag parties.

But that's not to say that Mayor Ken is not making excellent efforts on our behalf; nor that we're not all extremely grateful.

A couple of years ago, he introduced a much-needed system of identifying and categorising the city's worst, most anti-social and aggressive drivers. Under the scheme, the most serious offenders would be required to display a yellow badge at all times in the rear-windows of their vehicles.

If anyone thinks there are unfortunate historical echoes here, be reassured that Ken is ideologically beyond reproach.

The new system replaced the previous voluntary and informal scheme, which required such drivers to use ten-year old Nissan Primeras with one door painted in grey primer, a beaded-cover on the driver's seat and a magnetic aerial on the roof.

It's a foolproof scheme. Many a time I've been the victim of a particularly aggressive or stupid piece of driving; looked up to administer a mild verbal reproach to the person at the wheel and spotted the tell-tale yellow badge in the window.

"Ah," I think "It's OK. Mayor Ken is already on the case. God bless him, what would we do without?"

But there's been growing disquiet that the badges are not sufficient identification in such a crowded and busy metropolis, so supplementary signs are now being introduced.

Blue and white, displayed in the bottom right corner of the window, they state simply "Private Hire -- pre book only".

Straightforward words, but Londoners will immediately understand the deeper meaning. They are really saying:

"I am a sociopath with no driving skills. I have no knowledge of London, so I will be driving with my eyes fixed permanently not on the road -- but on my Satnav. Which is, temporarily, stuck on a map of Luton."

I applaud the new badges but wonder whether there isn't room for yet more clarity?

Under my scheme, these drivers would be required to be even more visible. I would force them to fit flashing lights to their roofs -- blue would be a suitable colour; red and yellow stripes on the side and two-tone horns just to make sure.

Then there'd be no confusion.

Fashion Crimes

Or not. My resolve to stick to a low HR diet lasted a couple of miles, until my riding partner cranked up the speed on the first hill and I had to step it up or be left behind. I genuinely see the long-term possible benefits, but it's much harder to stick to than I thought.

At one point we latched on to the back of a reasonably quick group of about 20, in fairly tight formation -- and I was able to wonder again at the beauty of a small peloton, the thrill of being part of such an efficient machine.

Two things spoiled my enjoyment. The first was the realisation that our rapid progress owed much more to a 20-mph tailwind than any efficiency on our part. The second was the way one of the riders in the pack was dressed.

Did I miss a meeting, or an e-mail from British Cycling HQ? Since when has it been acceptable to wear long football socks on a bike? The guy had fairly normal cycling clothes and shoes -- but spoiled the effect with knee-length white socks with stripes on.

I'm a tolerant man, and no-one who cycled through the '80's is free from some pretty serious fashion crimes on their cycling rap sheet, but there are limits. I know that new people are taking up cycling from all sorts of backgrounds and other sports, and they may not be aware of some of the unwritten rules. And some of those rules are probably due changing anyway.

And yes, all cycling clothing is capable of making even relatively stylish individuals look like numpties.

But knee-length socks? If you see him on the road, please have a word.

Spintime

The torrential rain forecast for London this morning never arrived.  But the wind did.  A horrible, howling headwind that meant I had to stand up for the slightest incline.

Which was another reason my training schedule took a bit of a dive.  I had an hour to get from home to Richmond Park, round it at least once and back home and, because of the threat of rain, I was riding my fully-mudguarded fixed.

I suspect that even Miguel Indurain would have struggled to do that on a 69-inch fixed and keep his heart-rate as low as mine is supposed to be at the moment.*

So it was head down, grit teeth and spin like buggery and I left the heart monitor in the drawer.

I think it's safe to say that the time spent "in zone" was zero -- certainly after I clipped my shoes in.

Back home, I frantically flipped through "the book" in the hope that I could somehow  categorise this morning's session as a "rapid cadence block" or a "threshold spinning period" or some such 21st Century shiznit.  

I eventually found it listed under a "slightly-better-than-stinking-in-your-pit-but-not-much session."

Made me feel better though. Back to the book tomorrow. If it doesn't rain.

*Actually I suspect Big Mig would have done it without even going above 30bpm.