A First SR Series: 2007 in Ride Reports

[Julian]

Willy Warmer:  27th January 2007

What a good day!

That was my first imperial century and my first 200 all in one.  To liven things up, I was using my new bike with a new Brooks saddle.  (To my enormous surprise, the Brooks gave me no hassle at all and I can happily report no Brooks related misery today.)

I drove down with Charlotte and Vicky.  Since I insisted that we leave Ealing at exactly 6.00am, we found that we were there by 6.30, which gave us plenty of time to drown ourselves in tea, get the bikes out of the car and mutter about the general temperature outside.  Wowbagger was next in, courtesy of the lovely train company chaps, and the centre began to fill up with people and bikes.  I spotted a couple of other ACFers whom I recognised - Mr Larrington among them - and then there was general readiness and setting off.  It was still not quite light when we headed off, a huge throng of blinking rear lights and yellow jackets.

Needless to say, the huge throng dissipated over the first few k, and I remained in a group with Hummers, Memyselfi, Charlotte and Vicky, the self dubbed Famous Five.  I knew that the first 80km were going to be tough, because Manotea had shown us the route profile.  It was indeed.  The first 80km, in my opinion, constituted inhuman and degrading treatment, emphasised by the little smiley faces in the routesheet after the word "climb."  The first real climb came in at 12k with Treadaway Hill.  I always find the first climb of any ride the most difficult, and it’s after the first climb that my legs stretch.  I puffed my way laboriously up, discovering where Charlotte’s reputation for sadism stems from as she cheerfully informed me that “fame comes with a price, and this is where you start paying!”

The first 25k went flying past, despite the climbs, and we stopped at an info control, where I removed a layer of clothing and my long fingered gloves, slugged back some juice and hopped back on the bike. 

This next 34k was the section which included the infamous Bix Hill.  It was definitely a hill, but not as bad as I’d imagined.  This was a steeper section, and it seemed that what went up was never going to go down, as we climbed hill after hill.  The stop at Pangbourne was enormously welcome and I was pleasantly surprised to find that it involved little cake shop which had the decency to be selling a special discounted cyclists menu.  Hastily cramming a caramel slice down my throat, it was grab a stamp, use the loo and get back on the bike for the next 21k.

The climbing continued and I was beginning to get tired.  The third quarter of a 100k ride is where I usually begin to flag, but on those occasions I console myself with the pleasant thought that I’m nearly there.  On this one, I couldn’t, so with a fabulous triumph of mind over matter (it helps that I don’t really do maths) I convinced myself that by virtue of being three quarters to lunch, we were really pretty much three quarters there.  Hmmm. 

The last section before lunch was tiring.  Again, it seemed to be upwards and upwards, and I was clinging to the rear wheels of the other four.  Fortunately they are nice people and didn’t mind towing me.  I informed the others that I knew I could get round the whole course, but that I may require gentle encouraging before lunch and downright bullying afterwards.  Then my gears started misbehaving, and repairing them involved Hummers obtaining a large garden cane (which may feature in NWS), so I changed my mind on the bullying.  It was a short section though, and I knew lunch was near.  This section also contained some of the most stunning scenery of the ride.  Another 20k brought us to the lunch stop.  At this stage I was conscious that I had come almost as far as I’d ever been before – and somehow, I didn’t feel nearly as knackered as I did at the end of any of the 100k rides I’ve done.  I felt…. well… like it was lunchtime, really, rather than like it was 100k in.  Mal Volio was manning a checkpoint inside and reassured us that we were still well within time.  We paused for quantities of stodge and tea, brought to us by ladies clad in some sort of Victorian reformatory outfits.  Perhaps they had heard of the acf reputation for kink, and this was beyond even our outer limits, or perhaps they always dress like that in Hungerford. Who knows.

Immediately after lunch I reached a bit of a low point.  I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the Famous Five, and the stodge and tea was sitting uncomfortably in my stomach.  I was suddenly horribly aware that there were another 100k to go…  I left all route-reading and decisions to the others, and just concentrated on keeping up, or keeping them in view on the hills.  From time to time one of them would hold back and tow me up to the group, and then I’d have a pulse-stopping five minutes on someone’s wheel before dropping off slightly again.  I was beginning to wonder whether I was really fit enough for this 200k malarkeying around, when suddenly the combined effect of lunch and endorphins hit me, and I found myself up at the front of the group and feeling no pain. 

From Kingsclere to Bramley we powered along, helped by a tailwind and a downhill(ish) route.  For a large part of it, Vicky’s computer was registering 30kph on the flat which impressed me no end, as I don’t generally do those sort of speeds!  Another 22k from Bramley to Winnersh, again at a decent pace, and I was still feeling great.  It was exactly the right temperature, I was chatting to a lovely band of people, the scenery was rolling gently past, and everything was generally perfect.  My legs were moving almost independently of any thought, and my mind was completely clear.  I can see how this becomes addictive.  The miles ticked by until we came to the Winnersh Sainsburys, where I realised that I must be tired as I misjudged the entrance and came to a slightly unplanned halt at the wall outside. 

This was quickly remedied with a can of red bull, honey roast cashews and jelly babies.  Sainsburys have helpfully labelled all of their food with traffic light colours for healthy eating.  There’s something wonderful about eating large quantities of fat, sugar and salt, knowing that it doesn’t matter to you.  Bring on those red lights, baby!   

I should add that Winnersh Sainsburys will now forever hold a certain significance for me, because this, at just over 160km, was my first imperial century. 

This meant that for the last 41k to the arrivee, I was busy feeling extremely proud of myself, too much to notice the ache that was developing in my legs.  There was a slight pause for thought for route-reading around White Waltham, where we overshot, but Hummers found us a route back to where we should be and we were soon back on track.  Another brief pause just outside Gerrards Cross to establish which of the two roads to Chalfont St Peter we needed, and we were soon back at the arrivee for quantities of tea, toasted cheese and rice pudding.

Many thanks to Hummers, Rob, Charlotte and Vicky for towing me up hills and slowing the pace for me when needed, which made the difference between a great day out and a miserable one, and of course to Manotea for a great route and careful organisation - I had a really memorable and enjoyable first 200k. 

[Julian]

Invicta 300: 14 April 2007

A proper write up, now that I have slept, fed, watered, pottered, and sitting happily with a cup of tea and the remainder of yesterday’s jelly babies!

I took the last train up with Charlotte, Vicky and Phil – the 23.38 from Victoria.  This set the tone nicely, as it happened, for meeting Kent’s motorised denizens.  The train was full of the undead, trying to hang on to consciousness until they reached their destination.  As we boarded, a young girl was vomiting copiously onto her feet.  Once on, we amused ourselves by watching a man in a city suit slowly piss himself (and his ensuing dismay when he woke up and staggered off the train), and a girl two seats down fell asleep with her feet up in the air against the window and her hair dangling precariously near to the puddle of wee pooling in the centre of the aisle.  Another chap fell asleep, elbow first, into the soggy remnants of his McShite burger.  Boy, did we feel fit, healthy and generally smug in comparison.

We arrived in Meopham at about 1am.  We got off the train with another group of audaxers including alexb and, I think, geraldc and mdja, although I didn’t know it was them at the time or I’d have said hello!

The scout hut opened shortly afterwards and we headed in, helped stick a couple of tables up and then tucked into breakfast #1.  Lack of sleep fuelled a major giggling session over ancient Viz cartoons.  We may have attracted a couple of odd looks, but, y’know, the man with the church up his ringpiece was funny.

 At 3am I set off with Phil, Vicky, Charlotte and alexb.  The group divided a bit into a fast group and a slower group, and I was stunned to find that I was on the back of the fast group.  For a little while, anyway.  We were powering along at some daft speed (to me) for quite a while, and then there was a short hill, at which point I fell off the back, about 40k in.  I continued along by myself for a while, until I came to the freezing fog where two others caught me up and we meandered along cautiously, combining our lights.  The temperature and the fog were having a bad effect on the three cups of tea I’d had before leaving, so I left them at the sea wall where there was a public loo.   It wasn’t open, as it happened, but to my great surprise the other four I’d set off with appeared…. they had taken the tourist route by mistake, having missed the turning for Love Lane.  At that point fixedwheelnut and others arrived, and we took the opportunity to hop on their wheel to the first control at Margate.  This was a lovely social bit of the route as the sun came up over the sea, and we were all chatting and, at stages, singing.  I like to think that FWN, his friend, and the good citizens of outer Margate were impressed by our rendition of that well known ditty, Do You Take It In The Ass? We reached Margate at 6.30, still with plenty of time in hand.  I am built for distance not speed, and I was extremely pleased to have done the first 80k so quickly.

The next hop over to Hythe was only 53k and should have been dead easy, but due to the GPS (we’ll blame the GPS, okay?) error, we took a long cut over a hill.  Hythe was breakfast #2, with lots of beans and tea.   Even allowing for our slight detour, we were at the café by 9.30.  I was feeling spectacularly good at this stage – we were nearly halfway there, sort of, and all before (official) breakfast!  Why don’t I ride 134km before breakfast more often?  My legs were still okay, far more okay than I had expected, the sun was up and it was turning into a beautiful day. 

However, I was now beginning to slow down, as the first 100k had been at a pace faster than I would usually do for an audax, and even if it’s only very slightly faster than comfortable, I knew I couldn’t keep it up for the rest of the ride.  The others are significantly faster and more experienced riders than I am, so I knew that I would be dropping off them at some stage.  I had said to Phil and Charlotte in advance that I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them and that they shouldn’t feel any need to nurse me round as 300k is too far to be riding at a pace too slow, and I would be absolutely fine by myself.  I had never gone any real distance other than in the cocoon of a group, and I can now admit that the thought of riding alone in unfamiliar roads completely terrified me and I hadn't meant this whatsoever.  

I dropped off the back before Newchurch, and after an initial, irrational, moment (what is there to be worried about?  Dead badgers might rise suddenly from the roadside and rip my throat out?  Flocks of starlings descending on my bleeding corpse?) I discovered that actually, I really like riding alone.  It was great.  I plodded happily along at my own pace, speeding up when I felt speedy and slowing down when I felt slower.  Occasionally I sang tunelessly.  In French.  The rapeseed plants loved it; I could see them flourishing (or maybe wincing) as I passed.  So I was surprised to catch the others 10k down the road, where they had stopped to remove excess clothing.  I decided to keep going, and caught a friendly wheel when I paused to puzzle over the L@T sp Brenzett (A2070) that was neither sp Brenzett nor apparently the A2070.  Even to a sleepless dullard such as I was by that stage, it was not a Mensa test (left or right, kids, and the instructions say left), and I took turns with the friendly wheel to lead out into Rye.  At some stage alexb passed me, pausing to say that the others hadn’t seen me take the left turning and Phil had gone off to look for me.  Oops.  This is how you know that your little brother really loves you and / or needs sectioning.  We made it down to the next control in Rye together, to sit in the sun and drink copious amounts of fluids.   

There I made the mistake of not really wanting to eat anything, so I just had one of the ryvita things I’d packed (peanut butter and jam between two ryvita - they go kind of squidgy and biscuity.  I like them.  Don’t judge me.)  This was an error as the hills began on the fourth stage between Rye and Ringmer.  Phil, Vicky and alexb powered off into the distance.  I rode with Charlotte for a while, who realised I was short on sugar (I don't know how, as I hadn't realised!) and provided gummy bears and a short lecture on Eating While Audaxing.  It's times like this that other people's experience is really, really, useful as the sugar perked me up immeasurably.  I did then fall behind on one of the hills, which were just starting.  I knew that I needed to take this stage as steady as possible if I was going to have any chance of doing the final 100k.  At approximately Windmill Hill, I began to question my own sanity and swear that I was never, never going to do such a silly thing again.  It was warm – too warm – and the roads were full of morons who had apparently never seen a sweaty, grimy, lycra-arsed female (I don’t think I could call myself a lady by this time) labouring up hills on a bicycle saying rude words.  I stopped for frequent drinks and jelly babies, as much for the comfort of the bottle and the sugar as anything (Freud would love this), and fantasised about becoming Ogri, the hardcore biker who rips the engines out of cars which annoy him.  This was just after a young gentleman had revved his way up a hill behind me – what he meant to say was “Well done on climbing that gruesome hill!” but unfortunately he mixed his words and what came out was “For fucks sake, can’t you go any faster?!”  I tried to summon up a witty and incisive response but only succeeded in dislodging a portion of my lower lung.  Anyway.  It was on one of these jelly baby stops that I noticed that I had done over 200k.  I got off the bike to eat my jelly baby (luxury!) and did a mental dance of victory.  Every k after that one would be one further than ever before. 

So it was in a spiffy frame of mind that I trundled into the village hall at Ringmer (thank you Rob for signalling where to turn!)  and saw Vicky’s distinctive pink bar tape.  I couldn’t see Phil’s or Charlotte’s bikes and assumed that they had been and gone, but I was informed that they had taken a wrong turn somewhere, which meant that I was not only at the hall before the faster two, but that I would have time for an extra cup of tea.  I performed The Short Gloating Dance to the amusement (and possible disapproval) of all assembled – all I can say is, (a) I was sleep deprived and (b) that would be the first (and likely to be the only) time I’ve reached a destination before either of them. 

Ambrosial rolls and cake later (thank you again to the providers of said manna) and I set off for the final leg with Charlotte and Richard on his fantastic Airnimal bike.  I was beginning to ache slightly, but feeling otherwise fine, and generally positive.  Then the hills began in earnest.  I started to ache more.  I was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than trying to move self and bicycle closer to the finish.  I’d already had four ibruprofen over the course of the day where my left knee was hurting (memo to self: getting hit by cars can continue to hurt after the initial event), including two at Ringmer, so I knew I couldn’t have any more of those.  Then something went pop and bloody hurt (the medical definition).  I called that I was stopping at the top of the hill we were climbing, but by the top of the hill I was in serious pain.  Lack of sleep and general tiredness meant that I’d lost the wits to know what to do about it, either.  Fortunately the others did.  Charlotte fed me some sort of elephant painkiller, a power bar, something containing honey and electrolytes, and Richard gave me some advice on how to climb without compressing my joints.  It all kicked in by Edenbridge, where, drugged, caffeinated and buzzing, I began to feel more like a human.  It perturbs me slightly that this may be my natural state.  At Edenbridge, still with time to go, we all stopped for a brief rest and a drink.

The rest of the hills were pretty torturous.  Spinning up them at about 8km/h meant that they felt never ending, but trying to grind up any faster was simply not an option by then.  The bike felt as though I was dragging a circus caravan along behind it.  But knowing that there were only 30k left meant that I knew that I would eventually get round, something which hadn’t quite been definite in my mind a couple of hours previous.  We had joined with another pair of riders, one of whom was local, and was heading for home with the grim determination and homing instinct of a WWI pigeon.  We followed.  I made a token effort to check the routesheet every so often.  At Ivy Hatch there were only ten miles left.  My brain had separated.  One side was screaming “Ten MILES??  Are you insane??  Ten miles is a Long Way!”  The other was chortling to itself and rejoicing that there were only ten miles.  Unfortunately neither side had a volume switch and so I had to drown them both out with a further rendition of “10 kilometres a pied,” a repetitive song I learned from horrible bratty French kids and which rivals only “I know a song that’ll get on your nerves” for sheer musicality.

The last climb up Wrotham Hill was of particular note.  As we trudged up there, in single file (wheels slightly overlapping in some places) we were overtaken by a man who appeared to be dressed as a Hollywood pastiche of a drug dealer, driving a shiny black car.  He felt he needed to warn us to get into single file (curious as we already were!) and so stopped his car to bellow “Single file, FOR F***S SAKE” with the intensity and volume of a hardy sea captain rounding Cape Horn in a gale.  Charlotte managed “Oh, piss off,” and I managed a grumpy sounding wheeze, intended to indicate to him that we didn’t need road safety lessons from a chap who had just stopped, in traffic, on the wrong side of the road, on a blind bend, halfway up a steep hill, to tell us to do something we weren’t legally obliged to do anyway.  :

And then it was down, down, down to Meopham and it felt bloody marvellous.  All 10k of downness erased (some) of the unmitigated agony of the last 60k from my mind and I got into the arrivee at about 8.30, elated and cross eyed (thanks FWN for the photo!)

Phil and Vicky were waiting for us at the arrivee and looking remarkably fresh and dandy.  Further cheese sandwiches, a chat with FWN and Mr Larrington, and we all headed back to the train, where it was our turn to be thoroughly antisocial, steaming gently in the warmth of the carriage.

Vicky has asked me to pass on her thanks to Phil, FWN and alexb for the company and I’ll join her in enormous appreciation to Swalecyclist and team!  A really good experience for my first 300.

[Julian]

Invicta 400:  May 2007

I was very prepared for this ride.  Not physically – the night out with work colleagues on Wednesday sorted that out – and not mentally – the whole being made redundant type thing doesn’t do wonders for a girl’s self esteem – but if preparation involves making copious lists, then I was prepared.

Lists of things to take, lists of parts of bike to fettle, lists of extra layers, lists of what to do in the event of train shutdown or badger attack – every conceivable item was covered.  I observed the early night on Friday and woke up to a neatly packed, well fettled bike, with suitable food in the cupboard.  Those who know me may be surprised, as my customary preparation involves muttering “Shit!” a lot as I try to get everything done at the last minute.  The trains were playing up and there were two options to Penshurst – the 9.03 or the 10.03.  Both got into Tonbridge at .59, leaving five minutes to get the 04 link to Penshurst.  Fearing that (a) the train would be late and strand me at Tonbridge, or (b) the guards would limit the number of bikes allowed onto the 10.03, I opted for the earlier train, sharing a carriage with a convention of snogging Goths, who looked at me pityingly.  This of course got me into Penshurst by 10.15, ludicrously early.  Also early was Stefan and a couple of others, and we put out chairs and drank tea.  I spent the next hour chatting to Stefan, Smutchin, Dave Kahn and a Spanish tandem team.

At midday we set off.  The group I was following was going relatively slowly, and GeraldC and I inadvertently found ourselves leaving them behind as we chatted.  Gerald is faster on the ups than me, although I’m quicker on the downs, and we rode together for quite a way before our differing speeds separated us.

I caught Gerald up at the first control where I sat and ingested cheese rolls and tea along with Silverback.  Didn’t stay too long – just enough to push food inside me and go.  The next stage up to Lewes was quite hard as it was directly into a stiff wind.  I was beginning to get bored with my own thoughts by the info control and so I stopped to put my lights on, change the lenses in my glasses, and put my music on.   What a difference that made.  I really can’t recommend it strongly enough.  I went from a relatively slow pace, achey knee, hmmm-why-am-I-doing-this-again mood straight back into riding strongly, happy as a pig in mucky stuff.  I was storming up hills, singing along, thinking I was completely alone until I saw someone peering at me anxiously as I screeched out Black Velvet at the top of my lungs, honking up a hill.  This was on the Windmill Hill – Boreham Street – Herstmonceaux section which knocked the stuffing out of me on the 300, so I was particularly pleased I was feeling good.  I can quite honestly say this is the free-est I’ve felt in a while, divesting myself of all job worries, little niggly things I should have done, and so on.  What a marvellous feeling.

I reached Lewes happy although now towards the back of the group, as one of the riders kindly reminded me as he left the Tesco control.  No worries, the metcheck said it was a southwesterly wind, and we were now heading north east for the next 150k   My knee (still not fully recovered from the knee-car interface last month) was aching and I invested in an elastic tubular bandage, hoping to channel Simon L3.  A good investment – half a mile up the road there was a serious pain in my knee and I felt something return to where it should have been, and it remained okay for the rest of the ride. 

Leaving Tescos after a bean and cheese wrap, and two bottles of tesco’s own isotonic drink (the cherry one is rather nice when mixed with electrolyte powder and water!), I was still feeling very positive.  Then I worked out what the rest of you know already – metcheck lies.  Lies, damned lies, statistics and metcheck.  The promised tailwind was not there – it was a blustery chilly cross wind instead.  Oh good. 

I plugged myself back into my mp3 player and let the hills roll past.  This is usually about when I begin to plunge into a vortex of misery.  At the very least, I should have been cursing myself as an inadequate, incompetent, useless lump, and following it up with a list of Everyone In the Whole World who concurs with this.  At best I should have managed to convince myself that I was a thoroughly miserable excuse for a human being and should, for the sake of the species, chuck myself over a bridge somewhere.  This is my usual form.  I had a gentle prod at my psyche.  No, nothing.  Quite chuffed with myself, in fact.  Despite being pretty much lanterne rouge, and it being dark, and the awful wind, and all the other things which usually trigger an attack of the miseries.  I awarded myself a further lump of flapjack in appreciation.

On the final bit back up to Chiddingstone Causeway I found myself riding with two older guys in yellow jackets (whose names I didn’t catch before I unplugged myself from the music – Tom Lehrer is marvellous but no substitute for human company) and chatting, and Ian Cox.  We rolled back into the village hall.  I ate pasta and rolls and had ten minutes of – well, not sleep, because I was still aware of stuff happening around me – but shut eye.  I think this was a mistake and I should probably have just pushed on.  I left Chiddingstone not long before the control was due to close along with Ian, leaving Silverback and my two erstwhile riding companions there.

The next part was good.  I was chatting most of the way with Ian, who was obviously able to go much faster but hung back with me.  Maidstone town centre at club chucking out time was fun (“Are you doing the London to Brighton?” called one young sot – we’d have been bloody lost if we had been!)  Most people were just drunkenly curious but the ride was a bit dampened by a couple of chavs leaning out of their car to try to hit us as they went past – they got Dave Kahn.

Ian hung back in Maidstone to help someone with their back lights and I continued through with two others.  We all walked up Stede Hill – they got up quicker than me and headed off ahead of me – unfortunately I think they missed the almost invisible Kentish Oak & Pine place which was the next info.  I was eating yet more flapjack here when Ian caught me up and we rode the next part together.  Just outside Sittingbourne I p*nct*red and Ian stuck with me and helped fix it – even though this made us both late for the next control, which we hit at exactly 4.44 which was the time it was meant to close.

I seriously thought about bailing out at this point, because by the time I had scarfed down some soup I was officially late.  I’ve been close time-wise before but not actually out of time, and given the distance we’d already done, and the wind, I didn’t think I had much chance of making it back to Chiddingstone in time.  Ian persuaded me to continue – I’m very glad he did.  The next couple of hours were horrendous as I kept falling asleep.  I stopped for an energy bar outside Reculver when I realised I could see two of most things. And some flapjack.  And some pro plus. And some ibruprofen as my knee was getting unhappy again.  While I was consuming energy stuff, Gerald caught us – to my complete amazement because I thought he was hours ahead of me!  My sleep deprived brain wasn’t capable of coherent conversation so I blurted out “What are you doing here?!” which fortunately he took in good part and explained his adventures.

The energy bar / flapjack / proplus combination did amazing things for me.  I turned from a barely-pedalling zombie into a reasonably competent cyclist.  It’s just a pity it hadn’t happened earlier!  It took a little while to kick in but post-Reculver I was back on track.

We were going quite well after that, by my standards anyway.  The next hundred k just went past, chatting with Ian and Gerald, and we were at Bethersden surprisingly soon.  Toast and tea at the hall, back on time with half an hour to spare! 

Then it was the last 36 miles.  We made up enough time that we were able to stop for ice cream at the Little Teapot (or something) on a bridge.  It’s a scary place though – a sign in the ladies informs you that only human waste and tissue is to be placed in the toilet.  Clearly the kind of place where people routinely dismember their nearest and dearest and stuff them in a lavatory. 

The last 10k were quite difficult for me as my knee was beginning to get quite painful again and I really couldn’t have any more painkillers – as I said to the others as I ingested yet more proplus and ibruprofen at one of the info controls, if I had a bottle of whisky this would be a suicide bid not a bike ride! 

Reached the arrivee with 17 minutes to spare!

Man of the match for me was Ian for helping me out before Sittingbourne, encouraging me not to bail, and then riding with me and Gerald when I know he could have gone faster and been more comfortably in time.  His utter niceness could potentially have jeopardised his PBP qualification.  What a hero.

I really enjoyed this ride – more than I enjoyed the 300, and I certainly feel in better shape than I did immediately after the 300.  I don’t know why but I avoided my usual attacks of the miseries which really do drag me down.  Maybe it was being out of time for so much of the last section – I didn’t have time to think about anything other than pushing the pedals as quick as I could.  Maybe it was the company – I couldn’t really throw a tantrum / sulk in front of people I don’t know, that’s reserved for solo riding (or riding with people I know well).  Maybe it was the strap on my knee that made the difference physically – nagging pain is difficult to deal with.  Who knows.  What I do know is that I didn’t think I’d do this, and I did, and now I’m sniffing out 600s…. 


 

[Julian]

Middle Road 600:  29 September 2007

I signed up to do this ride on (the only) sunny morning in Paris.  Spirits were high, morale was up, lunacy was in the air, and a certain Mr Teethgrinder appeared, like the tempting demon of medieval folklore, brandishing entry forms for the Middle Roads 600.  I DNF’d my first attempt at a 600 (the Three Coasts, in point of fact more like the Constant Coast due to the route being somewhat damp) and, with a few 2’s, a 3 and a 4 in the bag, quite wanted to have another stab at a 6, despite having vowed to myself post-Coast that there was nothing I would like less. 

In the weeks following France, as my clothes dried off, and the scent of petrol no longer accompanied my morning brew, I began to worry about what I had let myself in for.  I had done little distance since June (the Dun Run, a handful of 100km social rides, and commuting).  I was no more prepared and certainly no faster or fitter.  But I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain in the form of a shiny SR badge, and so it was after work on a Friday that I found myself lycra-d up and on the way out to Milton Keynes with Charlotte and Juliet.  Arriving chez Teethgrinder, we had a cuppa while he geared down (95” being a tad high ) and settled in for some sleep before the ride.

We were up at 5am and ready to head out for 6, but MattC was caught in the webby fingers of the Milton Keynes road system.  We finally set out at about 7 and headed out towards Oakham.  I should probably mention that I had – quite deliberately – not taken the precaution of looking at a map, on the basis that I didn’t want to scare myself.  At Oakham we found the Co-Op control, and consumed mass amounts of beans on toast to fuel up for what lay ahead.  The first 100k was rolling, but not stupidly so, and the next bit through Leicestershire to Lincoln was decidedly hilly.  A minor disaster when my chain committed hara-kiri by throwing itself into my spokes, but some brute force and coaxing got it out, and I was off again (not using my granniest gear, just in case). We were keeping up a decent pace, and I was enjoying myself.  It was a nice day – cold but not too cold, and not raining, which was the important thing!   

From Lincoln, the countryside levelled out to become flat, but windy.  I spent quite some time wheelsucking to avoid the wind.  At about 250km, my knee went ping – not a surprise, as this always happens on long rides, since I was SMIDSYd in March.  Although I know it happens, and I bring ibruprofen and knee supports, I always forget between rides quite how much it hurts when it happens.  :  I slowed down at that stage and fell off the back of the group, and by the time I caught them up was feeling decidedly sorry for myself – it was dark, I was miserable, cold and tired and my knee hurt.    I decided to wait until I caught the group before trying to find my ibruprofen, as it was too dark to be rummaging in panniers and I could still see their lights in the distance.  I stopped in a pub car park, pretended that I wasn’t crying really, and had some ibruprofen.  I knew there was only 120km (ish) to get to the Travelodge where we were stopping, and I knew that my knee would last that long, but the next hundred k were a bit of a trial. 

Crossing the Humber was quite a landmark – partly because it was nearly the “halfway point” and partly because looking out over the water, I could see the reflection of the waxing moon, and a spattering of streetlights from nearby towns.  It was almost entirely silent, and the effect was rather nice. 

We stopped in Howden, where we were just in time to pop into the shop to get sandwiches, and then went over to the pub where we sat and had some much needed coffee and warmed up.  Some friendly locals sitting outside (in that cold – I hope they’d had sufficient alcohol that they weren’t feeling it!) to smoke, and were very encouraging when they asked how far we’d come. 

Howden back down to the Travelodge was definitely the worst part of the ride for me.  I was tired, despite the caffeine, and tiredness makes me slow and dispirited.    My legs hurt, and although my knee pain had dulled to a manageable ache, it was enough to really begin to make me question my sanity.  We stopped at the petrol station in Lincoln again, where I put on my final layers and went into the station.  I had a coffee and bought a pack of jelly babies.  The man in the petrol station took one look at me and brought a stool out for me.    I sat on it sipping coffee and eating jelly babies until my hands stopped shaking, and then – reluctantly – headed back out.

Lincoln to Gonerby Moor was cold like I have never ridden in before.  In a way, it was very pretty, but really it was too cold to enjoy riding.  I had brought extra layers thinking I wouldn’t need them, but I did – and even so, my face was numb.  I wanted to stop at one stage – just for five minutes off the bike – but there was no way.  The air was thick with fog, and the droplets of moisture in the air were icy.  At that point, if I had seen a train station I would have stopped at it, no question.  Charlotte was tired too, and kept riding off the road.  Enormous kudos to Teethgrinder, who kept both of us awake, on the road, and managed to cheer me up with an impressive stash of really, really bad jokes.  (I can’t believe I fell for that chin-nuts one – I must have been tired!)

I was very relieved to see the services in the distance and to collapse into a bed with Charlotte and Juliet.  Sticky, smelly and still fully clothed, I awoke after an hour and a half…. feeling surprisingly good!  Someone had made coffee, which I drank without even asking, and I had a muffin.  A quick shower and change of shorts, and I was ready to go again.  Depending on whose computer we were looking at, we had covered 370 or 380, leaving 220 or 230 to do in fourteen hours.  The sun was up, and it was a beautiful crisp autumn morning – just my kind of weather.  My knee was much better for the rest, and I was feeling confident and enthusiastic.  I know I can cover 230 in fourteen hours, and the headwind we had suffered on the way up had ceased (although it was now a crosswind, not being kind enough to keep up and be a helpful tailwind). 

We hadn’t gone terribly far when we hit a hill and my knee went again.  Only this time, it didn’t just go ping, it imploded.  Some form of tendon or ligament or something sort of chewy popped out from under my kneecap, and was popping in-out-in-out with every turn of the pedals.  The pain was like nothing I have ever felt before – even breaking a wrist wasn’t this bad.  I stopped the bike (well, the bike stopped and I stumbled off it) and walked up the hill to where the others were waiting for me.  By the time I got there, I was crying again – only this time it wasn’t my usual attacks of getting teary through tiredness, frustration or despair, it was real pain.  I don’t think I’ve actually cried through pain since I was a child.  It wasn’t good.  My suggestion – gimme a route sheet, get going, and I’ll see you if I see you – was kindly but firmly rejected by the panel.  Charlotte fed me one of her Tramadol – and by golly, do those things work.  I set off again – gingerly – and after ten or fifteen minutes, the pill kicked in.  I could still feel the pop-pop-popping going on in my kneecap, but it didn’t hurt any more.  Nor, come to that, did any of the rest of me.  Down to Oakham for another Co-op stop and more beans.

To be honest, I don’t remember a lot of the part post-Oakham.  I remember knowing we had to get to Billing, then Thame, then back to Milton Keynes.  Billing, Buckingham, Thame, Back, became like a mantra.  I know that Oakham to Billing was hilly, and I had to walk quite a few of the hills (those Tramadol are good but not infallible, and I didn’t want to risk it.)  I became slightly obsessed with doing the mental arithmetic of how many km we had left, converting it to miles and back again, and working out how many miles / km per hour we had to cover.  At Billing, the Billing Mill appealed to me (sounds like my office, chortle chortle).  We stopped at another petrol station (I think) and I had another Tramadol (I think).  I forced down a tuna sandwich and a smoothie, neither of which I wanted, but I knew that not eating would just about finish me off. 

The last part of any ride is usually quite smooth for me, but by the end of this one I just wanted it to finish.  The painkillers had made me even more tired than I already was (a trade-off for not being in pain – there was no question which was worse).  We weren’t going to stop at Buckingham, but make it straight through to Thame and then hit the finish, but as we pulled out of the climb to Buckingham, I fell apart.  Charlotte had heaved up the hill and was waiting at the top.  I got off my bike, burst into tears, stumbled over to Charlotte and declared that I wasn’t going any further.  At that stage I didn’t care that there were only 80km to go.  There were only four hours left (I didn’t know about the extra two at that stage) and it may as well have been 800km for all the chance I felt I had of covering it.  The exhaustion, the knee, and the mental stress of being barely in time were all combining to look good for a DNF.  Between them, Charlotte and Teethgrinder calmed me down, waited for me to get a grip again, and reassured me that I would make it.  I pulled myself together, but I still wasn’t really functioning. Teethgrinder told me that the best thing to do was not to get down, but angry, and just attack the rest of the ride.  I was still in too many pieces to process this rationally, which would have led to the conclusion that he was either insane or a sadist, so I tried it – and whaddyaknow.  He’s right.  I sat on his wheel for the next 40k to Thame, at some tremendous pace (for me) and the increased speed and different mindset really worked.  I pushed the pain in my knee (which was starting again) to one side and just went for it (memo to self:  do not let the doctor hear of this) and somehow pushed my pace right up, with the result that when we got to the petrol station in Thame, the others were still there. 

I was very, very tired by this stage but beginning to feel again that I might make it.  I knew I was tired because sitting on Steve’s wheel, I’d begun to have imaginary conversations with his panniers, which I was convinced looked like a kitten face, with the reflective patches as ears and the red rear light as the nose.  I’d also begun to see things – imaginary rabbits running across the road, which I kept swerving to avoid before realizing they weren’t there, and huge, imposing sentries which turned back into road signs as I got near to them.  I was really grateful for Steve and Charlotte’s patter of conversation, anecdotes and jokes, which were keeping me focused and sane.

From Thame we had just over two hours to do the 40km back, which was still tight.  Again, I was dozy, and I was alternating between feeling that I could definitely do this, and that I definitely couldn’t.  With hindsight I should have had another painkiller at Thame, but something convinced me I shouldn’t.  I don’t know why.  I had to stop again at the top of a hill, as I was feeling sick, but I managed to avoid actually being sick, and continued.  Then it was just a case of pushing on, keeping to Teethgrinder’s wheel where I could, and hoping that we were nearly there.  We seemed to be 35km away for at least 15km… 

At about 10.45, I asked how far off we were (again – I must have sounded like a manic, overgrown child:  “are we nearly there yet?”) and Teethgrinder said it was about two miles.  Right.  That was it – I had not cycled 596km to arrive out of time.  Charlotte was slightly behind me at this stage, and I hung back, selfishly, to ask if she’d mind if I just sprinted for it.  She didn’t, and I did.    As it happened, we all sprinted for the finish, arriving at 10.57, with three minutes to spare for a 40-hour limit (and two hours 3 minutes for the actual limit! :)

I was quite overwhelmed to have made it.  It’s only just sunk in, really – I did this thing, yes, me, the slightly “curvy” bookish one with the violent abhorrence of exercise in all its forms.  At the time I just felt relieved to be finished, slightly disoriented and really, really grateful to my riding companions for all their help and encouragement – especially Teethgrinder.   

On the train on the way home, I fell asleep, sprawled like a drunk over three train seats.  The next day I woke up, dehydrated, sore, with inexplicable bruises on my legs and a serious craving for a fry-up and pints of strong tea.  I briefly wondered:  did I really cycle 600km or did I just have a major night out? 

I am still slightly shell-shocked that I made it round, but so very pleased.  I am particularly pleased that it was the last weekend in September – exactly two years since I first climbed astride a bicycle as an adult (my faithful Ridgeback Comet, with a ladies’ frame and knobblies, because I was scared of crossbars and narrow tyres.)   I’m also very chuffed that I’ve managed an SR series in my first season of audax.  My first audax was the Golden Tints 100 in October 2006, and I remember looking at the people doing the 200 and thinking “I’d never be able to do that.”  It’s largely thanks to the support, encouragement and gentle pushing of others on this forum that I managed to do anything more than a 200 this year, never mind anything as silly as an SR series.   I swore most of the way round this ride that I wouldn’t do it again next year – but now that the agony is abating, I’m already thinking of working on my hills and my speed, and maybe aiming for a 1000km brevet…

Plaudits etc to Juliet & Rich for their first SR too – I hope you guys enjoyed it, if that’s the right word, as much as me – and to Charlotte for losing her marbles sufficiently to ride it fixed.  But man of the match is Teethgrinder for taking this weekend “off” to guide a group of beginners, and for the encouragement, help, anecdotes and appalling jokes.  Here’s one for you:  why do gorillas have big nostrils?  Because they have big fingers.