What a difference a day makes, or so goes the song.
Yesterday, I arrived home brimming with confidence after an enjoyable ride. Tonight, I am typing this completely deflated and very close to storing the bike in the loft.
This morning, I woke up feeling really good - the sun was shining and I wasn’t feeling tired. I’d already planned yesterday to take advantage of Sunday’s good weather - so I decided to try and ride the Tyneside Vagabonds Mountain Time Trial route. The riders who had competed in this race a few weeks ago have served as an inspiration to me, and it is my intention to race next year. I ate breakfast, and at about 11:30 I headed out first to get a spare inner tube and an SiS gel and then on to the race start in Belsay.
Mistake #1 - No lunch.
At this point, I must point out that I wasn’t 100% certain of the route. As far as I know, it basically goes from Belsay to Scot’s Gap, over the top into Rothbury, on to Hepple, over Bilsmoor, through Elsdon, up over that nasty climb onto the World’s straightest road to Cambo, and then through a few windy roads onto the A696.
Driving through Belsay, as expected, the pub garden was full of meat heads in stripey Henry Lloyd tank tops drinking pints of Stella with their air hostess look-alike wives wearing as little as possible and discussing, oh I don’t know, whatever bored glammed-up middle aged housewives talk about. As I passed them I thought to myself, “idiots - nothing better to do that sit and drink beer”.
I got to Belsay, put the bike together, lathered myself in sun tan lotion, and got going. Leaving Belsay, I felt fine. In fact, all the way to Rothley Farm I felt on top of the World - spinning a good gear, pacing myself at about the same speed as a Saturday ride. Since starting cycling to lose weight last August time, I’ve never once stopped on a hill. I’ve always stuck it out, no matter how much it hurt. The climb from Rothley Farm, I suddenly died. It wasn’t that my legs were hurting, there was just nothing there. I couldn’t even push to make myself hurt. I pulled over, ashamed and angry. As I got off the bike I stumbled backwards into a pile of nettles, stinging me right up the back of my legs. Luckily, there was no one around to see. The next thing I heard a siren - a bike race lead car had come round the corner with a group of roadies in tow. As they belted past me I gave them a half hearted cheer - at least it looked like I’d stopped to watch them! Seconds later it was just me and the countryside again, so I clipped back in, and got myself into the climb.
As I peaked the climb (and the race marshall tried to get me to turn left with the rest of race) I got myself back into a steady rhythm. A sensible person would have realised today was a rest day and gone back to Belsay. Not me.
Mistake #2 - Not going back when I still had the chance.
The miles from Rothley to Rothbury were a constant struggle, with me stopping several times on the climbs for air and give my legs a rest. As I approached the big climb that takes you over into Rothbury, the cycle race rejoined the road and the group had split. Rider after rider passed me, and being surrounded by racers gave me the strength I needed to go over the climb to Rothbury without stopping. In fact, this one climb made me believe I had come into my second wind.
I descended into Rothbury, the village I know so well (Lazy Grace is in East Newtown, Rothbury), went over the River Coquet (whose banks were full of sunbathing families and kids playing), turned left and headed out of Rothbury towards Thropton.
Mistake #3 - I didn’t stop to fill my bottles in Rothbury.
From Rothbury to Hepple I paced myself, emptied my bottles, and I found myself at the foot of Bilsmoor. I know all about Bilsmoor, from climbing it coming the opposite way when I ride in with the boss. As I turned the first corner, my head and heart said yes, but my legs said no. I tried both in and out of the saddle, but with each pedal revolution I slowly ground to a halt. I dismounted, checked both bottles were actually empty, and stood at the side of the road feeling really, really sorry for myself. I was miles from home, no shops for miles, and completely empty. As I climbed back on the bike, I clipped my right foot in to the pedal and in the most pathetic attempt to push off the bike toppled over and I landed with the most ungraceful thud in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Knackered, with nettle stings, road rash and no food or drink - you would have thought that was the low point, wouldn’t you?
Climbing back on the bike the adrenaline was running after the fall, and I belted it up and over Bilsmoor as hard as I could. As I go to the steep section at the top of Bilsmoor, I dropped into the smallest cog on the back, to find the rear mech was now rubbing the spokes. The crash had knocked the mech out, and I’d lost the smallest cog - just in time for the massive climb over the top from Elsdon.
Half way up the climb out of Elsdon I stopped again - and for the first time sat down at the side of the road. It was almost as this there was no point to continuing. I looked accross the fields to my bosses house, which had now come into view. I couldn’t see his car. The place looked deserted. I made a phone call to let my better half know I wouldn’t be home in time to pick her up from work, made my apologies, and got back on the bike and slowly but surely made it up over the top (which isn’t the top, it’s the top before the bit that goes up to the real top).
The long, straight road to the T-Junction for cambo seemed to go on forever. The slight uphills sapped everything I had left and with a head wind there was no respite on the downhills. I was averaging 10mph. At the T junction at the end of the long, straight road there were 2 cottages. A really kind man filled up my bottles and no longer bothered about following the MTT course, I set about getting myself home.
The water gave me a little lift - and the kind man had informed me that the water was out of his spring - no council pop here! Through Cambo I found companionship with a guy who had been out of cycling for 12 months and has lost 3/4 stone. We rode together until the A696, at which point he turned right and I turned left for Belsay. The signpost said 5 miles, but that 5 miles took half an hour.
I pulled up in the car park at Belsay, unlocked the car, opened the boot, and sat on the tailgate. Somewhere along the 45 mile ride, I’d begun to hate my road bike. No, not my road bike - all road bikes. Stupid skinny tyres. Pathetic, flimsy gear mechs. Uncomfortable, razor sharp saddles and ruthlessly unforgiving handlebars. I had convinced myself that this was it, no more cycling. The damn thing can go in the loft.
The truth of the matter is, in the words of the Governor of California, “I’ll be back” - and more than likely on Thursday for the 25 mile time trial. Today was a dark day for me. I’m sunburnt, with nettle stings, road rash, blisters, throbbing legs and a sore arse. I didn’t enjoy it one bit. After feeling like a cyclist yesterday, I once again feel like a “man with a bike”. However, lessons have be learnt. After best part of 60 miles yesterday, attempting a mountainous 47 today wasn’t a good idea - especially without proper food and drinks on board.
Driving home I passed the pub in Ponteland again - still full of meat heads and air hostesses.
“Who’s the idiot, now?” I thought.