Tuesday Ride VI: of energy bars, super-fit riding companions and Brooks Saddles

Hooray, the Tuesday Rides are back on. John was almost recovered from his illness, so at 1930 I was waiting on the kerb by the Bell Inn, hoping my food had gone down enough to allow me to ride without chucking it all back up. John turned up with one of his neighbours, Bradley. Bradley claimed to be unfit, but he was dressed in some pretty sporty gear, his legs looked strong and his bike was silky, a slightly under-sized black aluminium Cannondale with carbon forks and some tasty looking wheels. He looked like a pro, and actually it turns out he’s an excellent mountain biker. John was already on the Asthma inhaler and hadn’t ridden for two weeks, but as usual he was game and up for the ride. I started off at the front, pulling through the crosswind as we hit the A36, we took it easy to begin with, chatting, enjoying the dry weather and the bright evening. I pulled us to Black Dog Hill and started up at what I thought was a reasonable pace, then Bradley just flew past me. I was completely dropped by Black Dog Farm and I could only watch as he powered up the hill. I kept him in view, but it was little consolation. Looking behind I couldn’t see John at all. Then, oh the the shame, Bradley stopped and waited for us at the bridge. I slowed right down so I wouldn’t be wheezing as I arrived at the crest, as it happens I was only panting and not much good for conversation. John wasn’t too far behind, he’d taken it at a sensible pace, sensible chap. I don’t think John saw me get dropped, but I’m sure it would have looked impressive, it was an excellent burst of acceleration from Bradley and I had nothing to answer it with.

I pulled through the headwind to the Warminster roundabout that starts the bypass, I considered that I had therefore done my work for a few miles so was quite happy to sit on the others’ wheels for a while. Having three people riding was great, drafting in third place meant I was putting in around 40% less effort than whoever was in front at the time. It was going well until we slowed down and started chatting, I clipped John’s back wheel, luckily only at seven miles an hour, but it was embarrassing none-the-less.

Then as we passed Cley Hill Roundabout with me at the back, I realised a Range Rover had slowed right down and was driving at the same speed I was riding. It was a little worrying, especially as the window started to wind down. Then a guy lent out and handed me an energy bar! Apparently these guys were working for, or ran, the company, Mule Bar that produces them and wanted us to try them. They drove on and passed a bar each to John and Bradley too. Cool! I got the opportunity to try mine a little further up the road when John’s new Brooks saddle (unbroken in and bashing his buttocks about like a meat tenderiser) worked lose when he hit a pothole. We pulled into a layby so John could affect an immediate repair, and I tried the bar, Hunza Nut flavour. It was very tasty, more so than the normal energy bars you get. Pleasingly the bars are also Fairtrade, full of natural ingredients and a logo proclaims that 1% of the company’s sales goes to environmental work. It was quite moist too so I didn’t have to drain my bidon to rehydrate as you do with some very dry bars. Nice! Visit the Mule Bar website here for more details of their products. I don’t know if those guys were actively out looking for cyclists to hand the bars to, or if they just happened to be passing us and thought “hey those guys look like top racing athletes, let’s give ‘em some bars” or more likely “that guy on the Lemond etape at the back looks a bit fat and sickly let’s have mercy on him and give him a bar, also that chap coughing who’s obviously recovering from being ill. That bloke with the ponytail isn’t having any trouble but let’s give him a bar so he doesn’t get jealous”. Whatever the reason it was a pretty cool thing to happen.

When we set off again I thought I might try a sneaky breakaway by shooting down the left of the others on a layby, I powered out ahead of them, chuckling to myself, but on hearing some gears changing up, I looked over my shoulder there was Bradley, he said “left at the roundabout?” then he was away again. As John and I approached the roundabout he cycled back down the road to see where we’d gone, drat!

Thereafter we picked up the pace around Warminster, maybe it was the energy bars, or maybe it was the tailwind, but either way John was fully warmed up and his cadence was high, although he hadn’t ridden for two weeeks his recovery time was excellent. Out of Warminster up the hill towards Westbury. A beep from a twat in a car because we were riding in the dominant position, Bradley gave him the time-honoured signal for “there is plenty of room here good sir” (a hand held out to the right). Westbury was fast, damn fast! We entered the back pushing 40mph off the hill, then kept the speed high all the way through, leaning into the corners and pushing hard out of the bends. Riding in a group of three really increases the confidence, it’s like a mini-crtical mass in traffic and it was easier to control the road and keep things safe, fewer cars tried to squeeze past, knowing they’d have to get beyond all three of us at 26-28mph before moving back over. There was a bit too much chat for my liking on the approach to Yarnbrook, I like to be going about 23-26mph on that bit of road so I took to the front and on seeing me move off, the others didn’t hang around either. As we came up to the traffic lights they hit amber, Bradley urged me on and John, slightly behind us, raced across the garage forecourt and over the closed junction to avoid the lights all together. A nice move, well executed.

Again, maybe it was the energy bar, but I had plenty of legs left so I followed the chaps into Trowbridge itself, stupidly taking the bike lane. What a rubbish surface! Honestly! I quickly got back onto the road, shouted bye, and headed back for the village. Rode Hill was no trouble and by the time I put the bike away I saw I had put thirty miles on the clock, that makes 111 miles so far this week. I think I’ll have a day off from riding tomorrow.

The next time Someone tells John they are unfit I think he should ask for a BMI reading and a heart-rate! Having said that it was excellent having Brad along, he varied the pace, showed how far I have to go to get fit and wow it made the drafting easier. Basically it was harder work with someone pushing the pace higher, but there was more opportunity for resting by riding third in the group every now and again. I hope he wasn’t too bored with having to go easy on us and wait for us all the time as it would be great if he came out with us next week. Maybe we can work on becoming a proper chain gang, we may have to, John is threatening to bring some serious roadies along soon!

Naughty Medicine

I was watching today’s overview of the Tour de France on ITV4 with my five year old son. He was very interested in what he was seeing and had remembered the “spotty shirt man was the one who was best at climbing”. He liked the idea that the winner got a yellow jersey, and the fact that Tom Boonen was ‘big’. But things got a bit tricky when the Vinokourov and Rasmussen stuff came up. Also he wanted to know why Bradley Wiggins was being talked to by Policemen and why he was going home. So I tried to explain about doping and as is often the way when you try and explain something a bit tricky to a child it comes out kind of half-cocked.

So

Vinokourov had been taking “naughty medicine” and was told that he and his friends weren’t allowed to ride their bikes in the race and that they all had to go home. Rasmussen had lied to his friends about where he was so everyone thought he was taking ‘naughty medicine’ and because no one likes a liar his friends said they weren’t friends any more and he had to go home by himself and sit in his room. One of Bradley Wiggins’ friends had been caught taking ‘naughty medicine’ and Bradley was cross with him because the policemen asked Bradley if he had taken ‘naughty medicine’. Bradley hates ‘naughty medicine’ and thinks people who take it are very silly and they should go home and have to sit by themselves for a long time and not be allowed in races. David Millar had taken some ‘naughty medicine’ but he had been on the naughty step for a long time and now he was allowed to race again, now he doesn’t like ‘naughty medicine’ and promised he won’t take any ever again. Finally Alberto Contador was a very good rider and hopefully he hasn’t taken any ‘naughty medicine’, if he has he is not allowed to keep his smart yellow jersey or his golden bowl, but he hasn’t taken any so it will be ok.

I think there’s a children’s book in there somewhere.

Bike Service

I rode the Lemond Etape over to John Hayes’ house for a service. He was slaving away in his bicycle repair workshop when I arrived, trying to do something clever to some disc brakes. It had been a hot ride over, road works were everywhere and traffic had been at a bad tempered standstill. It felt nice to just breeze past everyone sat in their cars. Fans going full tilt, people trying to turn round, arms out of windows cigarette ash flicked onto the tarmac. I had little snatches of sound from each car, a hundred little plays about a traffic jam. Here an arguement, there raucous laughter, from this car someone singing along, someone with his head in his hands. And as you might imagine, from the wound down windows a brief sample of one side of a phone conversation repeated for the whole half mile:

“…oing to be late bec…”
“..about another half hour I…”
“..no mate facking roadworks…”
“…ould you let her know I’m going to b..”
“…aven’t moved for twen…”

I rode hard to get there and felt like not doing much but sittting down for a bit. John handed me an ice cool drink and hoisted the bike onto his workstand:

John used to be a bike shop mechanic and he’s lost none of his skills, he very quickly got the gears running properly again and adjusted the brakes so they bit before the levers hit the handlebars. The road where he lives is also nice for test runs on the newly serviced bike.

We made plans for the Tuesday ride this week, hopefully with an extra rider, John’s neighbour. With the bike running silky smooth, I headed back into Trowbridge, following a fellow called Andrew who John knows on his Hitchen(?) bike. It had amazing lugwork but it was a bit of a state, I could hear some appalling sounds coming from the gears as I rode in his slipstream. He was also dressed in some shocking pink lycra. At the big roundabout in Trowbridge centre there was an enormous queue of traffic. A pedestrian told me someone had run a red light and ended up with a lorry parked in their car for their trouble. Luckily no one had been hurt, but nothing was really getting through. “you’ll be allroit on yer boike though” he added. I scooted past the stationary cars, vans and buses, past the ‘incident’ (sheepish looking group of people standing by the side of the road, cross looking lorry driver, lots of glass) and back along the A361 to the village. In total seventeen miles.

Cley Hill to Dead Maids Junction – Edge of Dusk

Sunday saw me striking out down the A36, I had left it pretty late and already dewy dusk was settling over the landscape. The air was thinner and the temperature cool and pleasant affording me an easy ascent of Black Dog Hill. Dead Maids Junction seemed almost welcoming, evening sunlight raking the long grass on the kerb, butterflies flitting to drink one last proboscisfull of nectar before the warm golden light vanished behind the horizon. I gently rode round the bypass, following the A36 and oblivious to the traffic, a good solid session of just ‘cycling around’. On a whim I decided to head to Cley Hill.

Julian Cope in his Modern Antiquarian (Thorsons, Hapercollins, London) suggests that Cley Hill is a Recumbent Goddess figure, the swollen belly being the main hill, but Powells Folklore notes from South West Wilts (1901) has this origin story recounted by a local:

“The folk of Devizes had offended the devil, who swore he would serve them out. So he went “down the country” (ie into Somerset), and found a big “hump” and put it on his back, to carry it and fling it at them. On his journey back he met a man and asked the way to Devizes. The man replied,
That’s just what I want to know myself. I started for Devizes when my beard was black, and now it’s grey, and I haven’t got there yet.
The devil replied, “If that’s how it is, I won’t carry this thing no further, so here goes, ” and he flung the “girt (great) hump” off his shoulder, and there it is”.

I have also heard a story that the pile of earth was made by the people of Wiltshire who “had to wipe the Wiltshire earth off their feet before being allowed to step into Somerset”

Whatever the origin of this remarkable hill, there is a bastard of a Faux Plat as you come off the A36 and head for the Longleat roundabout. It looks flat from that direction, but on the return trip it’s apparent that it’s actually a pretty nasty gradient. The carpark is a mean potholey place with huge sharp chippings. Certainly not the place to leave one’s racing velocipede, so I walked up to the hill wheeling the bicycle with me. The clouds turned a beautiful shade of pink as the sun began to draw in the last of its rays. There was a gentle breeze, but with the sun gone, it got quite suddenly very cold, not the best time of day to cycle in three-quarter shorts and a short-sleeve cycle vest. The moon made a graceful ascent into the sky, marvellously full and glowing brightly. Easing back onto the A36 I found that the traffic had all but died away save for the nightfreight. I don’t mind lorries even they do swing a little too close as they pull back in after overtaking, the slipstream is wonderful. I was almost pulled up the slight gradient to Dead Maids Junction.

It didn’t look so welcoming now, as another huge truck rolled past me, something alive and fluttering hit me in the chest. It felt pretty big, perhaps a bat or a particularly heavy moth? No idea how fast I went down Black Dog Hill, there was no way of reading the display and I forgot to check the top speed on my computer before I cleared it. The Hi-Viz vest and helmet stickers seemed to be working as cars from behind were giving me a very wide berth. In the layby next to the Beckington roundabout artic lorries were bedding in for the night, orange glows from the cabins, glimpses of tired-looking men with newspapers and coffee, or perhaps cocoa. The scent of diesel, tyre rubber and cigarette smoke; waves of heat from the cooling engines offering brief respite from the cold generated by my speed. In the fields farm-workers took advantage of the dry day, tractors and combines working through the night, distant shouts, blazing headlights tracking across the corn, even at that distance I could see the moths dancing in the fierce white beams before the machines.

Waited for an age for the headlights behind me to pass so I could move into the right hand lane on the roundabout, only when I realised I couldn’t hear an engine did I look round to discover I had been fooled by the light of the full moon.

Back to the house, warm shower bringing life back to cold, aching limbs. A good ride.

The Old Roads are the Best

My Saturday evening ride started early at five in the afternoon with the threat of rain. I was in the mood for some meandering, so halfway up Black Dog Hill I turned left onto a hitherto unnoticed, tiny, but steep track. It climbed up swiftly into dank old growth forest, the banks encroaching on the decaying road surface. There were regular bumps in the centre of the track, I suddenly realised that they were the indentions left from torn out cats eyes. Clearly I was cycling up the old Black Dog Hill Road, the winding, narrow route that the coaches had to crawl up, the drivers fearfully scanning the banks for the ruthless highwayman and his evil black hound. Standing on the pedals and crawling up the slope, it was easy to imagine the huge ghost dog slinking through the undergrowth. The shattered crumbling tarmac swung up and right until the way was blocked by a padlocked gate with a sign warning that my number plate had been noted. Beyond the gate a mobile phone mast now stood in the centre of the road. Stand and deliver.

There was another road cut into the bank, this one was chippings, I cycled a little way up, but it seemed to turn into a farm’s driveway. I turned back and dropped down the hill, bouncing around on the mangled asphalt until I had to grab handfuls of brake to stop before being spat onto the A36, made a note to myself to get those brakes sorted. Back on the Black Dog Hill, I climbed up to Dead Maids Junction as the first fat drops of rain started to fall. A brief shower passed leaving steam rising from the warm tarmac and the distinctive smell of the road after rainfall. My legs felt strong so I just cycled round every little back-road I could find, Upton Scudamore, the road bridge over the A36, the edge of Westbury, the outskirts of Warminster. I didn’t turn back until I reached the roundabout at the Salisbury end of the Warminster Bypass. There I found more old road, the brambles were crawling all the way across, huge concrete blocks painted white stopped cars from going down. I took the bike a little way along, but it seemed to turn into undergrowth pretty quickly:

How long since the roundabout had caused this road to die? Ten years? Twenty? I suspect nature takes roads back surprisingly quickly. 43mph down Black Dog Hill, I was back home by seven, 34 miles, one whole bidon of water.

Cycling through the witching hour

At the turning point of the witching hour I set out for an evening ride, I just needed to spin the cranks after hearing about Vinokourov being thrown off the Tour de France. A fast ride out of the village, the feeder lane spitting me out onto the A36, I didn’t know where I was going but as long as the cranks were turning I didn’t care. The sun was under the horizon behind me as I sped into the gathering shadows, very little traffic around. Pretty soon I found myself heading down the gradient towards the Frome bypass, flying insects smacking into my helmet and goggles, breathing through clenched teeth to avoid ingesting unwanted winged protein. More pylons, one steel foot practically on the road by the new Frome Flyer Harvester-style motel thing in the middle of nowhere, always a full car park, I never see anyone there. The light is fading fast as I turn back down the bypass and head now towards Frome itself.

A hiss of airbrakes, flashing orange indicator and a rush of air. Huge artic easing past me, plenty of room on the empty road, nightfreight on the A361. Off right and up Beckington Hill, easier now that I’ve been riding regularly, fast through Beckington itself then right again towards the garage.

The western horizon has cooled to a dull orange tinged with gold; black, wet inky clouds moving in with their promise of rain for the coming night. Now as I speed beneath each street lamp the sulphurous light throws a shadow rider onto the tarmac behind me, moving into sharp relief the angle changes as I cycle towards the next light, the ghost racer moves to my right, now in front, matching me pedal stroke for pedal stroke but going faster before fading into the road and being replaced by the next shadow from the next lamp. For quarter of a mile I cycle with this shadow peloton, each doppleganger riding up from behind and dropping me.

Past the roundabout there is only my bike light to guide me, but as I turn off the A361 onto a narrow backroad the half-moon struggles clear of the cloud blanket and illuminates my route. A silent white ghost crosses my path at head height, Barn Owl. Though I have seen many, the eeriness of its sudden, quiet manifestation shocks me and I briefly forget to pedal. Now pacing a flying bat, the moon giving enough light to see 11mph or maybe 14mph on the computer, things seem much faster in the dark. Beneath the canopy of trees lining the road into the village there is no light save the feeble blue-white disc thrown out by my front lamp, it falls uselessly on the road illuminating only a blur of gravel, eyes scrambling in the darkness for a foothold on any shape the brain can process before I reach it. But soon I am in the village itself, all evening meals and blue static flicker of televisions in front rooms. It’s only half nine but there is no one to be seen.

The gradient up to the house scrubs off my speed enough to comfortably get through the gate and past the bins without putting a foot down. Eight and a half miles, enough to read the internet headlines about the Tour’s latest doping scandal without feeling anger. The brief flame of anger is lost to the road, now there is just that strange breed of disappointment that only comes when you find your heroes have cheated.

Winsley Hill – Begging the Granny

Despite stories of heavy rain and floods over the South of England (Gloustershire is not too far away) it was a lovely afternoon and evening here in Somerset. With the sprogs asleep and the Tour de France coverage over I thought it high time I had a crack at Winsley Hill. This is the hill opposite Brassknocker Hill, the A36 disappears into a sort of hole, once you are in it you have to cycle up steep hills in every direction to get out. The least steep is towards London Road in Bath, John Hayes and I cycled down that gradient when we did our first ‘Mountain Stage’ of our Tuesday Rides. So I cycled out of the village towards the main road. That lovely fresh stretch of tarmac is already starting to show signs of wear, probably as a result of all the rain. It was still pleasant to ride on though, and I guess it will remain so at least until the winter frosts start etching their mark into the asphalt. Right at Woolverton and onto the A36, not too much traffic, but in any case visibility was good and I was fully kitted out in my hi-viz gear. There’s a lot of up and down on that road, but I was shifting gear nicely and getting into a strong rhythm. Even so I had drank half my bidon by the time I reached the top of the hill by the Freshford turnings. Though I didn’t stop turning the cranks, the descent refreshed my legs. It felt like the bike knew where it was going and was driving the chainwheel of its own accord. A smooth road surface and some nice cambers made for a fast and exciting drop into the valley. As I was going 33 mph in a 30 area the car behind was in no hurry to overtake, in fact I managed to get some distance from it on the last switchback before the hill despatched me out onto the viaduct and up to the traffic lights. A mini trackstand while I waited for the traffic (about two seconds, my rubbish top limit for trackstands) then across the road towards Winsley. There was a bonfire smell in the air, I guess it was the houseboats on the canal.

On the stretch of canal between Bath and Bradford-on-Avon there is a halfway point were a large group of alternative houseboats have set up home. Here you will find a sort of commune like atmosphere, a lot of dreadlocks, bongos, didge and constant cooking smells. A few years ago a colleague and I were cycling down the canal path to get some practice in for a charity ride. As we passed the hippyish flotilla a gypsey-esque girl stepped out of one of the house boats wearing a gingham headscarf, and a shirt knotted underneath her somewhat ample bosom. My colleague, riding right behind me, called out “Cor! More tea Vicar?” at which point I reminded him that we had to go back the same way. Needless to say there were scowls aplenty on our return, not to mention a small pack of dogs which followed us at 16mph, barking and snarling for a good quarter of a mile. As far as I was concerned, our joint training was over, the next time I rode with him it was for the actual charity ride itself.

Back to today, for now I am at the bottom of Winsley Hill having just past under a bridge. My word it got steep quickly, this made Black Dog Hill feel like a minor slope. Without the ability to weave all over the road as I did at Iford I thought it best to resort to the much maligned granny gear, the small chainring on my triple. How John will laugh as he reads this, knowing my disdain for the granny gear, how I see its use as a failure when it is nothing of the sort. Even with the ultra-low gearing it was hard work. Mind you the Lemond Etape is a terrific climber, the stiffness of the Aluminum gives complete transferance of energy into the road, nothing is absorbed into the frame. The geometry is such that it’s easy to get over the bottom bracket when standing or when locked into the saddle, it feels comfortable and lighter than the 22.1lbs it weighs out of the box (with pedals and straps). The Hill goes on for quite a while and winds around the contours. On reaching the top, I saw that a sign warns motorists that the gradient is 12%, not horrendous, but challenging enough thank you very much. Iford hill on the Westwood side is 17%, but much, much shorter. I recovered quickly as I rode and was soon blasting past Church Farm at a reasonable 25mph. Bradford-on-Avon itself was quiet and I was able to open up on the descent into the town centre, this is one of the most polluted roads in the country, mainly due to the high walls on both side of the road, folding the fumes back into the miasmic cutting. It really did stink of internal combustion, but luckily I wasn’t taking in big lung-fulls of the reeking air. Out of this black-bricked, sulphurous canyon, tyres bouncing over the worn-down yellow markings of the box junction, past The Shambles and the Swan Inn, right at the roundabout and into the clean air over the Avon.

There was a lovely breeze blowing as I stood up to ride the town bridge, I half imagined the Bradford Gudgeon weathervane swinging on its mounting as it guided the fresh zephyrs in. Going too fast to see the swans and signets, but time seemed to slow as the edge of an elderly Asian woman’s white, cotton headscarf blew outwards from where she stood at the kerbside, translucent as it hung in the air with the evening sun behind the material’s frayed edges. I thought it might brush my face as I cycled past, but it hung an inch away, repelled by the turbulence of my approach. It seemed to me to be a beautiful moment. Out of the town, still in the middle chainring but the cadence felt right, fast but easy into the headwind. Standing on the pedals again to get up the hill by Sainsbury’s nee Budgeons, that corner is tight and I wanted to get past it quickly. Settling into the ride homewards, the spinning of the cranks broken only at the Wingfield crossroads. Standing at the lights I looked to the right at the wooden cross that stands as a wayside shrine. The flowers were in full bloom, their glorious scent drifting over the crossroads, belying the agony of the crucified oaken Christ. A photo, black and white, Eddy Merckx kneeling at prayer in a chapel in full racing gear. Have I imagined this image? Where in my cycling books does this photo exist? Have I miss-remembered a picture of a Columbian rider from ‘Kings of the Mountains’? Who tends this wayside shrine?

The lights have changed as I stood in a reverie, there is no traffic so I amble over as they hit amber again, feet searching for the straps and clips. Boring straight bit of road at Wingfield, cars always too fast, too close together. It doesn’t bother me, they give me a wide enough berth.

Back at the house, sobered by the hill. I think I will need the triple chainring for Brassknocker Hill after all… …and John will need his Mountainbike.

The Tour so far

I must say that, despite the (very) faint whiff of doping controversy, I’ve really been enjoying the Tour de France this year. Vinokourov crashing so badly so early on seemed to have blown the whole thing wide open, when he finished the first proper mountain stage in tears of agony I thought he wouldn’t be in the start up next day. Then there was his crazy solo breakaway on stage eleven with only 2km to go. Were you, like me, suddenly on your feet willing him to win it? It seemed so futile, so mad, he was breathing fast, the bandages on his stitched up knees a blur of white. It was inevitable that he would be swallowed up back into the Peloton, but for a moment it looked like a miracle was happening. However I was pleased that Robbie Hunter won it in the end, the first Maillot Jaune for South Africa. The British have performed well this year, sure the riders aren’t hugely high up in the general classification, but I think they have given good account of themselves. Bradley Wiggins in particular is worthy of praise. Early in week one, a suicidal solo breakaway into a headwind that looked just briefly like it might get somewhere, what a brave ride, even if it wasn’t planned. And then today, he really upped the ante on a day where many riders probably wanted to take it easy and prepare for the mountains. He started the time-trial in the dry and rode at a cracking rate through a downpour to set a time that stood as the fastest until Vinokourov blew it out of the water. Sixth against such powerful riders and on such poor road conditions was a major achievement.

Millar put in a solid performance today as well. Now there’s no real telling which way it will go. Vinokourov moved up ten places on one stage, Rasmussen looks precarious, Cadel Evans is doing well, I love a Tour when you can’t tell who is going to win.

Here, according to this week’s Cycling Weekly, are the winner’s average speeds for stages 1-8

Stage 1 – 27.12mph (43.65kph)
Stage 2 – 27.46mph (44.2kph)
Stage 3 – 22.25mph (35.81kph)
Stage 4 – 25.9 mph (41.69kph)
Stage 5 – 24.64mph (39.67kph)
Stage 6 – 23.17mph (37.29kph)
Stage 7 – 25.1 mph (40.41kph)
Stage 8 – 21.23mph (34.17kph)

the first one hundred kilometres of Stage three was raced at an average of 19.7mph (32kph) according to Bradley Wiggins’ cycle computer.

Although these speeds look pretty fast to me (remember my 19.3mph over 14.3 miles? Rubbish!) they are slower than normal for the Tour de France. Rumours abound that this is because a general doping clean-up has finally happened.

I can hardly wait for the Pyrennes… although that does mean I have to ride up Brassknocker Hill this week. I did ten hill-circuits in preparation today, it’s not going to be enough training so I think I’ll try and ride Winsley Hill first in the next couple of days, gulp!

Bicycles in disaster zones, Japan and Swindon

An old colleague of mine, Coop, is currently living and working in Japan where they recently suffered a very powerful earthquake. As soon as I read about it on the BBC news site I was straight onto her blog to check if she was ok. Luckily she had posted soon after the quake to reassure readers that she was fine. Although she did feel the quake, she was a long way from the danger zone. Some of the best bicycle stuff in the world comes from Japan (Nitto, Shimano, loads of small frame-builders outside Osaka etc) and they have a strong sense of the aesthetic in their bike-culture, Western Messenger/Fakenger chic looks sensible and conservative compared with the Japanese versions. It didn’t really surprise me then to see this brief article posted up on cyclelicio.us recently, showing how bikes can really come into their own in terms of getting things moving again in the affected areas in Japan.

Here in Britain, only yesterday an entire month’s worth of rain fell in one day. My mother was on her way home from looking after my sister’s children when she found the traffic coming to a complete halt on the dual carriageway out of Abbey Meads, Swindon. She had been there a little while and assumed there was just a crash or something that would soon clear, but then she saw a young man on a bicycle heading up the road through the downpour, stopping at each car and talking briefly to the occupants. When he reached my mother’s car he told her that it was total chaos in the road ahead, the canal had just burst its banks and the culverts couldn’t take the water off fast enough, cars were stranded in a huge pool of water that stretched across all the lanes. People were stuck, unable to turn round, unable to go forward. The lad himself had lifted his bike above his head and waded through the water to tell the cars further down the road to turn back. He then went on to help direct the cars as they turned round. She last saw him disappearing in her rear-view mirror, standing in the pouring rain, stopping cars and turning them back. It took my mother three hours twenty minutes longer than normal to get home, going far out of her way and getting redirected twice by the Police. But if it wasn’t for the young man on the bicycle who had quickly alerted the stationary drivers to what had happened, helped them turn round then redirected the oncoming traffic, long before the police got there, she would have been sat in that car a lot longer. I don’t know when the police turned up, but I bet it would have taken a lot longer to sort out and extract the traffic jam if that chap on the bike hadn’t have taken the initiative.

Surely that has to count as a good mark for cyclists in general and it must cancel out a few ‘red light jumpers’?

More on the Swindon floods from the BBC.

On riding to improve the average speed

The Tuesday ride was cancelled this week. John doesn’t have a chest infection, he does have a cold (or ‘man-flu’) and he sent me an inconclusive photo of his back wheel, which I am led to believe shows that it is ruined beyond repair. If he thinks this will get him out of riding up Brassknocker Hill then he is very much mistaken. To be fair he wasn’t looking well when I saw him on Monday.

So I had a rest day on Tuesday, especially needed after my gruelling ride through the wind on my 14.3 mile circuit on Monday.

By the time the evening arrived on Wednesday the sky was looking clear and the wind had dropped considerably, so at 6pm I thought I’d have another crack at the circuit, pretty certain I could beat my personal best of 18.3mph average speed. I spun slowly out of the village, normally I get too excited and leave at around 25mph, which from cold always leaves me breathless for the little gradient up to the Beckington roundabout. This time I left at 17mph and continued at that speed until the downhill that leads under a railway bridge to the Dilton Marsh turn off. By the time I left Dilton Marsh I was averaging 20.1mph. It was important to build up a high average at this stage because there is nowhere to rest past the Yarnbrook roundabout and there’s a long faux plat leading up to Rode Hill, all those things will suck down the average speed. I find it best to head into that final quarter of the ride with a high average, knowing that I will lose a lot of it to the hills at the end. by the time I’d finished I had acheived an average speed on 19.3 mph, a full 1 mph faster than by previous personal best of 18.3 mph. I was very pleased and I think with a bit more work, I might be able to push 20mph in the not too distant future.

Interestingly enough someone asked me about average cycle speed earlier this week, and I know because of the tags I use I get a lot of people coming to this blog looking for what the average speed of a bicycle is, to this end I have created the Average Speed Page, click here to go there now!