Tour de Fox 50

It's a lovely route but what really makes the Tour de Fox stand out is the medal...

Longfellow knew

Three relics

His poem was about a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, but it could apply equally to cycling, for when it is good it is very good indeed, and when it is bad it is horrid.

This weekend just gone was supposed to be very good indeed. Three nights camping and back-to-back century rides. Booked in March, I envisaged mid-July to be clear blue skies, warm without being too hot, fresh air and fun. Shows what I know.

Pitching a tent in the rain on Friday was bad, but not terrible - at least it was a quick tent to put up, and had just enough of a porch to enable me to cook my night-before pasta-based meal. But that was about the last thing that went right the whole weekend. I certainly didn't sleep well that night, even after raiding the car for an extra blanket - it was cold! Mid-July and too cold for my two-season sleeping bag. I was awake every two hours, pulling the blanket back onto myself, and grumbling. But that was minor compared to Saturday's ride.

Up at 6.30, fed, dressed and on the start line five minutes before the 8am start time, I felt okay. It was still raining, of course, but I had my Altura NV2 jacket on and felt okay, warm and dry. And despite heavy legs off the line, by the time I hit the main road I was starting to loosen up. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only thing that was loose. As it had rained very heavily all night, the roads were absolutely full of all manner of grit, gravel and other detritus from the hedgerows. Despite my best efforts to avoid it, and having Gatorskins on the bike, I picked up a puncture after just 6.5 miles.

I've got pretty slick at changing inner tubes, generally, so even though it was a back wheel that had to come off, and it was peeing down, and I was stood in the gateway to some farmer's field, cursing like a trooper, it didn't take me too long to break out a new tube and lay it over the famer's five-bar gate, remove the punctured tube and hang that over the gate too, check the inside of the tyre for whatever had caused the puncture (I found nothing), put a tube back in, get the wheel back on and start pumping with my excellent Lezyne mini-pump. But the damn thing wouldn't stay up. Had I missed something in the tyre after all? No... in my sleep-deprived, rain-soaked, glasses-splattered, sweary hurry I had simply put the punctured tube back in, leaving the new tube hanging over the gate. What. A. Tool. And I don't mean the tyre levers (a Park Tool set, the best levers I've ever had, hands down). So off came the wheel again, out came the punctured tube again, and in went the new tube this time. Lesson learnt - pump the tyre up, at least a little bit, before you remount it. I usually do this anyway, and can't think why I didn't on Saturday.

Anyway, job done, and on the road again, cursing my luck (and the weather) for costing me 25 minutes and all the benefit of getting up early for a prompt start. Still, at least I'd had my bad luck for the day, I thought.

Except that 3.5 miles later, I had another puncture. I actually felt it go, it was such a sudden loss of pressure. Cue another gateway to another farmer's field, and the whole sorry process of tube replacement in the lashing rain again. This time I did find something in the tyre, a substantial cube of grit (mica, maybe?) had embedded itself right in and through the Gatorskin, leaving a sharp corner inside the tyre to do the damage. Little bugger, I thought. Still, I got my second spare tube in, inflated it, remounted the wheel and got going again... still getting drenched, still dodging the worst of the crap on the road, and now feeling vulnerable as I had no more inner tubes with me and my rear wheel was inflated less than I would like (brilliant though the Lezyne is, it can't get you to the pressure of a track pump).

I rolled into the first feed stop after nearly three hours, when I had planned to be there in under two. They had a track pump (thank you, support crew) and one (yes, one) inner tube left in my size. Seems I was far from the only rider to get a puncture. I wasn't even the only rider to get two. But at least I was able to press on with a little more confidence... so press on I did.

After 42 miles, my old friend Lower Back Pain started to make his presence felt. LBP is an infrequent visitor, I am relieved to say, but when he shows up, he shows up. At the lunch stop a few miles later, I broke out the paracetamol, more in hope than expectation, tried to stretch it out, and pressed on.

But trying to stretch out LBP is like pulling over to a service station on the motorway because you're feeling sleepy behind the wheel. The service stop wakes you up for a little while, but twenty minutes later you're back to feeling sleepy again. So it is with LBP. By 60 miles I was hurting and, to compound things, had added an extra discomfort in my stomach, perhaps by trying to push my core forward too much or too often, in a futile attempt to alleviate the LBP.

And it was still raining. And windy. And cold.

So when I came to a junction that offered the choice with pressing on with the 100-mile route or bailing and switching to the 75, I'm sad to say I switched.

Now I know the Velominati's Rule #5. But I also know that I had booked the weekend of camping and cycling as a treat, and to enjoy myself ... and yet I wasn't enjoying anything about it. So I gave myself permission to bail out. 75 miles is still 75 miles, and in those conditions, and with those mechanicals, still something to have done. But self-permission or not, I felt a miserable failure.

It stopped raining for a bit, that evening in camp, and I had a walk around the grounds and tried to feel less sorry for myself. The LBP had not abated though, and I felt very tired. I had three layers on, yet longed to be warm. I tried to phone home to cheer myself up but no-one was answering. Still, I thought, maybe I could switch to a shorter ride the next day, perhaps the 50 (which would still help me raise my Eddington, after all)? But it wasn't to be; something I ate disagreed with me and I was unwell during the night, to the extent that when I woke up on Sunday I couldn't contemplate a ride at all. I got dressed, trudged to the rider check-in and scratched from the day's events, watching morosely as a sympathetic woman scrawled "DNF" next to my name. DNF? I didn't even start. What a way to go out.

In between rain showers, mercifully lighter than the day before, I packed my stuff up, took the tent down and headed home. Was I falling out of love with cycling, I wondered? Had I ever really been in love with it in the first place? Or had I just needed ... something?

Later, as I cleaned the crap from my bike with Monkey Juice gel, and applied a layer of Weldtite Ceramic Shield, it occurred to me that maybe I loved everything about cycling except actually riding the bike? You know, pouring over Strava stats, making routes on Ride With GPS, the kit, lightweight carbon components and weight-weenieism, all of that. But actually riding? My stats will tell you that, since LEJOG, I have cycled less and less. Maybe I'm done.

But then I think about how Imogen Cotter is one of my sporting heroes of recent years, and how Ginevra Gargantini's is one of my favourite Instagram accounts, and realise that maybe I do still have an interest. And look at that last paragraph? I didn't get a bucket of soapy water out to clean my bike, did I? Even in a low mood, I broke out the Monkey Juice and Weldtite. Oh, and did I mention I cleaned the chain too, with my Park Tools CM-5.3 Cyclone Chain Scrubber?

Conclusion? We may have hit a rocky patch, but we're still together, just - me and cycling haven't consciously uncoupled yet. Watch this space to see whether we can work through our problems or whether a painful, costly, messy divorce is on the horizon...

A reminder from Geraint Thomas that sometimes you're the hammer, sometimes you're the nail...

P.S. There are a lot of product links in this post, so a reminder's in order. I don't get given stuff for free, sadly. Everything I use here I paid for. If I say it's good, that's because it is good, not because I'm commercially obligated to pretend it is, simple as that.

Nelson 75

I'm not big on posting photos of myself, but here's the start and end of the Nelson sportive that, for me, turned into 75 miles rather than the planned 100.

Swarm II

I'm not big on posting photos of myself, etc, but here's me at the end of the Norwich Cycle Swarm sportive earlier today. Whoop, and indeed whoop. I had company from the better half and the boy, but they are even less keen than me on posting photographs, so I look like Billy No-mates. Oh well.

Norwich 60

I'm not big on posting photos of myself, but here's father and son midway through the Norwich 60 sportive earlier today. The ride turned into 70 miles with there and back, comfortably the boy's longest day in the saddle to date.

Insane in the membrane

I'm not big on posting photos of myself, but this is during and after the 150 mile Insanity Sportive today.

Proof, if proof were needed, that the focus of my bike weight reduction strategy should really be to reduce my belly...

Swarm

Finishing the Cycle Swarm 2023 25-mile sportive.

If Jung was a cyclist, AKA the 12 sportive types

I've done enough sportives now to recognise some very definite types amongst my fellow riders. For example:

The Passive-Aggressive Passer: overtakes you with a pseudo-cheery "Hello" which is really just there to draw attention to the fact that they are overtaking you, and with such ease that they have enough breath left to talk to you about it. Pass-Agg for short.

The US Military: so-called because they literally have all the gear but no idea. They've just bought a sliver of carbon to ride and a raft of lycra to wear, none of which helps as they cycle along with their saddle too low and in the wrong gear, feet flying almost as furiously as the sweat from their brow. When they overtake, you take comfort in the knowledge that you're a better cyclist but that they have bought their speed.

The Onanist: it doesn't matter how fast or slow anyone else is, because this rider just competes with themselves. Medals are of no import, it's PRs that matter. Overtakes you but doesn't care. Checking Strava after an event comes before food, drink or anything else.

The Gemini: a pair of cyclists, permanently two abreast, often having taken the trouble to co-ordinate their outfits (matching Castelli rain jackets - nice). Geminis chat together from start to finish, seemingly never running out of puff, and don't even notice you when they overtake you.

The Woggle Hopper: named after George Corner, Hoppers are at least a generation older than you yet are somehow also fitter, faster and stronger than you. Typically, Hoppers will overtake you on steep climbs just to really rub it in.

The Lone Gunman: cycling can be a very social activity, especially sportives. People bunch together on the ride, get chatting, take turns setting the pace, encourage each other... but the Lone Gunman cares not for this. He trains alone, he rides alone, he speaks to no-one. He doesn't cycle to be social, but to face the challenge of cycling ... alone. Overtakes you without a word.

The Unlikely Lad: a cyclist who looks too big, too heavy, for their bike, whose rotund physique suggests a general lack of cycling and yet who, somehow, is still faster than you. When he overtakes, you can't help but think, "How?"

The Squisher: named after the Two Ronnies sketch in which an ill-equipped and seemingly unfit beginner (Barker) beats an experienced, well-equipped and fit squash player (Corbett) in his first game. You've seen the cyclist who's borrowed an old bike off his mate, not all the gears work properly, he's wearing a t-shirt he got in Primark, his old school PE shorts and footwear from Sports Direct... but he doesn't care. He overtakes you but doesn't know how.

The Trigger: named after the Only Fools and Horses character whose broom famously had seventeen new heads and fourteen new handles. The Trigger spends all of his time, effort and money making tiny incremental upgrades to his bike in search of performance gains, without ever realising that it would have been a lot quicker, easier and cheaper to just buy a new bike. Overtakes you just so that he can later attribute it to the 15g he's saved by swapping out his seatpost...

FKW: top-to-toe in either designer cyclist gear (colour co-ordinated Rapha) or replica team kit. News flash: having an Ineos-branded jersey doesn't make you faster. Feels he has to overtake you because you don't have the right labels on, and so don't deserve your place in the pecking order.

The Envy Magnet: magnets just get everything right. Nice kit without going OTT. Well chosen, well thought out bikes. A physique that is testament to the fact that they've trained appropriately. They work hard on the ride, but it isn't effortless. They're faster than you, but you admire rather than begrudge them. They speak kindly and with sociable warmth as they overtake you. You really wish you could form a Gemini pair with them.

Did I miss any other sportive archetypes? Where do you fit? And yes, those of you who know me might recognise that I exhibit a lot (but hopefully not all) of these traits. That's because I am...

The Sampler: knows enough about bikes and kit to have a reasonable set-up. Trains, but could train harder. Would like to be a sociable cyclist but isn't very social by nature. Feels too invested in his "Trigger's broom" to bite the bullet and buy a fancy new bike. Doesn't overtake anyone very often but, when he does, attributes it to the other rider probably having some kind of mechanical problem.