I haven't been riding well lately. I crashed, buggered my knee, DNS 2 400s and DNF the Mosstrooper 300 through a combination of injury and misery. I'm lardy as a lardy thing from lardisville, eating like a pig, climbing like a slug. My Real Life Issues
(TM) have been getting me down, so my closest (geographically) friend said he'd come along on the Moors and Wolds to prop me up. And then developed Real Life Issues
(TM) of his own which rather pale mine into something approaching insignificance.
We spent Friday night at the Alfreton Travelodge. It was fucking awful. My room had a squeaky floor, a squeaky bed and squeaky neighbours. I don't know how the fucking bed had any springs to squeak as it was so soggy I woke (more than once) with the kind of backache that only square-faced Swedish masseuses with the build of a boxer and brutally firm fingers can cure.
Still, the ride was advertised as a bit of a breeze, with 2425m climbing. Perfect knee therapy for this flatlander. Like shite was it.
Being a world class sucker (of wheels, among other things) and a sucker for a tailwind, we set off, at the very civilised hour of 14.30, plied with CAKE from the good ladies of Alfreton CTC and, well, whored it along. Chris S was running a very manly 83" gear and I was making full use of 50x11 on the geared bike. Despite minor niggles (Oddly bulging sidewalls, dropped waterbottles and brevet cards) we hammered it to Howden rolling in at 6pm. Nice. I felt 'a bit funny' with the recently extracted tooth making it's absence felt. We made the aquaintance of Maidenhead Phil and ms (you never mentioned you lurked here- and I was wearing The Kit, and everything...), failed to have a MacD (closed for refurb) and set off again. A bit quickly. A flatlander train. It was fucking lovely to see Crinkly_Lion. She had fucking delicious scones and cakes and flapjacks, and I took some for 'ron. (Y'know, lateron).
Out of SB with a smile then, and it just all went a bit downhill. Though of course,
downhill would've been fine. No, what we had was fucking
up hill. It was like a fucking wall. Fucking Howardian Hills, no one told me about those. There was a 17%. That's like, fucking chevrons. We got to Helmsley, and somehow, between going into the co-op and buying the second of a fucking endless supply of forecourt-esque 'meals', it became night. Because it had been 'a bit rolling' Chris flipped his wheel to a somewhat less macho 70". This was indubitably 'a good thing'.
Because the North York Moors are beautiful, we went through them in the fucking dark. Although, it wouldn't have made that much difference in the day, as you had to constantly watch the road as the surface was fucking awful. My poor fucking arse.
I began to have a sense of humour failure. My wheelman was riding faster than my lardy legs could keep up with so I was left a little with my own thoughts and they're not fucking nice. Heading into Staxton I had to pedal down the hill, and I was not fucking impressed, if I'd wanted to pedal downhills I'd've taken a fixed wheel bicycle, and I'm not fucking stupid enough for that.
I petulantly ate Yet Another Forecourt Snack and huffily brooded about Moor(sic) Hills To Follow.
Fucking Staxton Hill is fucking steep and goes on for fucking ever. And is followed by fucking loads more fucking hills. I threw my toys out of the pram, I walked, I may (gasp) have said rude words. Fucking hills. I fucking wallowed over Real Life Issues
(TM), I failed to be friendly and supporting to my friends Real Life Issues
(TM), and was generally the worst company in the fucking world. It took fucking forever to get to the next Forecourt extravanza. In the fucking drizzle. Blowing a fucking gale. Feeling like fucking shite.
When I went into the garage, some people were already there and laughed. Apparently I had 'a look' on my face. Can't think what.
We were later than planned over the bridge, so missed Dawn in all her glory, and instead battled gusts. Barton is a fucking depressing town, isn't it? The sun was shining but it took an eternity to get to Brigg, and there was still another (far too many) fucking km to Rosies. It was clearly a bit much for Chris, as at one point I had to shout at him to wake up, riding with your eyes closed isn't a good thing. I scraped the bottom of the conversational barrel in trying to keep him awake- "O look, a bird."
Also, I wasn't the only one in a foul mood as he did announce to Gainsborough at large, that 'I hate this fucking country, it's got fucking shit roads, shit weather and fucking shit drivers.'
I was a little apprehensive about Rosie's. Northerners, an all that, like. But actually, it was fucking fantastic, and really hit the spot. But there was still fucking 60km to go. With fucking wind. And fucking hills. I fucking hated it. That was before I met the fucking drivers. What a bunch of fucking twatts. Every fucking driver in the fucking county. Honestly. Fucking knobs.
Fucking overtaking with no fucking regard for my fucking safety. Which I, being as I was fucking knackered, was fucking concerned about, as I was being blown all over the fucking road, by the fucking wind.
So, basically it was fucking shit.
Fuck qualifying. Fuck an SR. Fuck fucking PBP. Fuck Audax, tbh.
(Actually, back at Tom's house they were fucking lovely and gave me cherry pie and ice cream. But I'm fucking sore, and it was fucking hard.)
ETA: Photo