22 Stone Cyclist

I’m not a big one for religion. I went to a school that would appear to outsiders to be very similar to Hogwarts but without the magic, and as such religion was pretty much forced down our throats. Unfortunately, any discussion contrary to the notion that the world was created in 7 days by a supreme being was frowned upon. “Divinity” (or “R.E.” as it now called since someone spent valuable tax payers money coming up with a new name for the subject) was never my forte. I used to spend my time staring out of the vast windows in the old stone buildings that dated back to 1512 daydreaming of girls. I spent most of my first year at senior school with a massive crush on one senior member of Green House called Helen Sheard. She was not only good looking, but highly academic, a member of various sports teams, a prefect (or “Praeposter” as my school called them), and was one of the cool girls too. Not only that, she had sympathy for this rather podgy, regularly bullied 3rd former who had a crush on her and always had time for me. In fact, you could say she was my first love. I always wondered what happened to her, and have never been able to find her since. I digress. The point is, I didn’t really pay attention in Divinity, but for good reason. It wasn’t part of the curriculum, so it wasn’t important to me. However, I’m fairly certain I overheard something about Sunday being “the day of rest”. Whoever’s idea that was, they didn’t tell the Tyneside Vagabonds.

I spent most of my first year at senior school with a massive crush on one senior member of Green House called Helen Sheard.

Family commitments meant I couldn’t make the Saturday ride (but don’t worry, I made it very, very clear on several occasions that I was meant to be out on my bike). Instead, I’d be joining the “big boys” on a Sunday ride. The great thing about Sunday rides in the Winter is the distance is slightly shorter, making the rides more accessible for me.

The alarm went off (which luckily is now no longer Lady Ga Ga and Pink, but good music such as Lostprophets, Foo Fighters and Madina Lake) but to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to shift. I’ve been fighting something off over the last few days, probably a bout of “man flu”. I’ve been sneezing and sniffling, and generally feeling quite lousy. Regardless, I donned my Winter outfit, fueled up on porridge and toast, and braved the elements. The first positive was that it wasn’t as cold as I had imagined. There was a nip in the air, but nothing too abrasive on the face. The second positive was a lack of frost on the roads, so no scary moments as literally millimeters of tyre try to keep a 16 stone man and a bike vertical.

As the ride left Ponteland, I slotted in alongside Elaine. I should take the opportunity to give Elaine a little bit of a pat on the back. Elaine is one of the biggest reasons I joined the Vags. On my first couple of club rides as a non-member, it was Elaine who played Mum, and watched over a rather nervous James. It was her good nature and encouragement that helped me progress in those early days - and I know I’m not the only one who thinks this. Gratuitous pat on the back over. The ride today was to end at Gubeon driving range, which ironically is only a few miles away from Ponteland. If it had been up to me, we’d have turned right at Kirkley Hall and gone straight to Gubeon. Naturally, we turned left. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?

If it had been up to me, we’d have turned right at Kirkley Hall and gone straight to Gubeon. Naturally, we turned left. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?

I quickly became comfortable on the bike, unlike previous weekends. My legs were warm, and despite having a slightly fuzzy head and blocked nose, I felt quite good. It feels that recently the only route I have ridden is from Ponteland to Kirkley Hall, out to Ogle and over to the Dyke Nuek. We did this again today, and I don’t like it because the hill going up to the Dyke Nuek has a nasty sting in the tail. As we made our way towards the Dyke Nuek, we passed some runners - one of which was Lucy Sill who shouted, “Hello James” as I shouted back “Hello Lucy”. Actually, all I heard was, “Hello Jaaaa” so I guess all Lucy heard was, “Hello Looooo”, but the good intention was there. I thought cyclists were a bit loopy going out first thing on a cold Sunday morning, but runners really deserve a tip of the cap!

The ride was becoming reasonably well paced, around the 17-18mph mark, which is just about outside my comfort zone. It also got lumpy pretty quickly as an accident meant the road was closed and we took a diversion up the mother of all hills. OK, so it wasn’t the mother of all hills, but it went up and I didn’t like it much. I approached the hill with my usual mentality - that is to give it all I’ve got regardless of who I drop or who drops me. I prefer to do it this way rather than pacing myself up in a comfortable and measured way, as it gets the heart rate up and is the only way I will really improve when the road goes skyward.

I approached the hill with my usual mentality - that is to give it all I’ve got regardless of who I drop or who drops me.

The road continued to go up even after I had expected it to flatten out (you know the kind) and rounding a bend I saw a horrible looking “false flat” (this is where the road looks flat but is actually a long, steady incline). I started to suffer a little. I looked around to see who else was suffering, but there was no one. It was me, Adam Hogarth, Roger Clarke and a new guy who used to race alongside Bradley Wiggins as a junior. Assuming someone had punctured or had technical problems, I carried on struggling. Roger turned round to see who was there, and upon seeing me said, “Bloody hell, go James!” Unfortunately, now that he and Adam knew I was there, I wouldn’t be able to suffer in silence. The pace increased, and so did my heart rate and breathing. Adam looked back. Then Roger did. And I clicked. “Are you trying to break me?” I asked. “Yes” came the reply. I suddenly felt very worried. “Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to!” said Roger. The pace increased again, and Adam began to drop me and Roger. I changed up a gear, put my hands on the drops, my head down, and buried myself. What followed was as short lived as it was fulfilling. I went round Roger. His muttered the words, “Stuff that” and a few seconds later I had dropped him.

“Are you trying to break me?” I asked. “Yes” came the reply. I suddenly felt very worried.

Before anyone accuses me of being arrogant or presumptuous, I should point out a couple of things (without wishing to simultaneously massage anyone’s ego too much either). My aim for next year is to go round the Vag’s 10 mile course in under 26 minutes. Roger goes round in 25 minutes. So in no way am I comparing myself to him. Which is why dropping him on the climb felt so good, as I was mixing it with people fitter and faster than myself. However, I mentioned before that it was as short lived as it was fulfilling. After dropping Roger, I aimed my sights at catching Adam. Less than 10 seconds later, I sat up - realizing that whilst I might have the power, I don’t have the endurance. Roger breezed past me and I set about getting myself to the top. I had proved something to myself at least. I can climb, and I can mix it with Sunday riders, but I have to work on my endurance.

I once read a gun analogy in one of Lance Armstrong’s books. It said that a cyclist only has 2 bullets, and that both must be spent wisely. So in a race, one of the bullets would be escaping in a breakaway, and the second bullet would be the sprint for the finish line. Well that analogy filters down to club cycling - especially someone of my fitness. I don’t have limitless energy stores or the ability to be at maximum all the way round. The first of my 2 bullets had just been spent following Roger and Adam up the climb. I’d need to save the second for the ride back to Ponteland, as I was confident that the return leg would get fast and frenetic. I wouldn’t be disappointed.

At Gubeon we sat down and waited for food (whilst experiencing the most novel method of opening a catering size can of beans I’ve ever seen) and then chewed the fat. I will summarize for you - we came to the conclusion that there is no way that a certain Spanish hill climber should be able to beat Fabian Cancellara in a time trial, that Cadel Evans was awesome in the World Championships despite being a bit of a tool, that Mark Cavendish should win the BBC Sports Personality of the Year but probably won’t and that heptathlete Jessica Ennis is a hotty. Granted the Jessica Ennis bit was actually just me, but I’m not wrong. A word from the wise - if you are going to be a gentleman and not order the last piece of cake so that Bob Hollywell can have it, don’t expect any gratitude - he’ll just try and steal your pot of tea and your slice of cake anyway!!!

As we left the Gubeon, I asked if we’d be taking it steady back. The overall consensus was that the ride back would be brisk but nobody would be racing. All I can say is as I finally slumped into my chair at Anna’s cafe with a mug of tea, the words “brisk but nobody would be racing” seemed to be somewhat of a distortion of the truth. I sat on the front with Bob Hollywell and I pushed hard into a nasty headwind, whilst all behind me were chatting away, obviously sheltered. As we pulled off the front, Roger and Adam took over and it wasn’t long before they pulled over and someone else took the front. Before I knew it, I was back on the front again and really starting to suffer. My final turn ended, and I sat at the back of our group of 5 or 6 and hoped to get towed along to Pont. The pace increased and gaps started to appear and just before the Police headquarters on the outskirts of Ponteland Bob and I were finally unceremoniously dropped. My second bullet had been spent battling a headwind in the first few miles from Gubeon. I watched in pure frustration as Roger, Adam, Ritchie Case and the new guy steadily got smaller. For the second time in a day I’d been dropped after a promising start. Bob reassured me there was nothing to be ashamed of, and we limped back to Pont (I say limped, we were still doing 17mph).

In the cafe, I got something off my chest. It’s been bothering me the last few weeks, and it all stemmed from one person telling me they didn’t want to sell online because they couldn’t compete with the big names in their industry. It got me thinking, even if you can’t compete with the big boys, surely there’s still a niche to be carved up - surely the scraps are better than nothing? I transferred that train of thought to cycling. I’m no Bradley Wiggins. Even with a resting heart rate of 41 and a max of 195, if I got down to my ideal weight I’d still not challenge the big names of cycling. I’d probably be able to compete with some local boys, but never at the top level. So, equating that to the attitude of the aforementioned business person, what’s the point in me cycling? Why race? If I’m going to slog my guts out to achieve a time of 26-27 minutes next year knowing full well a Bradley Wiggins would take over 10 minutes out of me, why bother? What’s the point? Bob Hollywell and Ritchie Case both put it into perspective for me. Ritchie has been cycling with the Vags for 2 years, and admits that he’ll probably never be the fastest in the club. Bob is 61, and says he can only get slower from here on in. But they still turn up week in week out, because it’s their sport, their pastime, and their passion. All sports have levels. In football there’s everything from the Premiership right down to kids playing in the street with jumpers for goalposts. In running, there’s international athletes all the way down to people jogging in the park. In cycling you have the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia and the Vuelta d’Espagne at the top end and then me, on my bike, pushing myself around the Vag’s 10 mile course trying to beat my PB at the other end of the scale. You know what? They’re right. So what if I never win. So what if I never even win my category. I turn up. I give it all I’ve got. And I go home knowing that even though I didn’t win a trophy, I used to weigh 22 stone and now I weigh 15 stone 12 and I’m part of something. That’s my fuel. That’s my Premiership. That’s my Tour de France.

Ritchie has been cycling with the Vags for 2 years, and admits that he’ll probably never be the fastest in the club. Bob is 61, and says he can only get slower from here on in. But they still turn up week in week out, because it’s their sport, their pastime, and their passion.

By the time I got home, I’d (only) ridden 50 miles, but one thing I’ve learnt is it isn’t always about the quantity but sometimes it’s about the quality. There wasn’t an easy mile in the 50, especially the last 6 or 7 home. Desperate to get home and get a warm shower, I pushed myself all the way - bouncing off the 22-25mph range until I turned into a headwind and slowed to 17-18mph.

A hot shower and some chicken with quinoa and brocoli later, I’m feeling pretty good about my day’s riding. Day of rest, you say? My (sore) arse.

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 6th, 2009 at 9:56 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.