The Wessex 100

The Wessex 100 – Bath – Sunday, 12^th September 2010

Subtitle: What a great day!

Wonderful weather:

Wall-to-wall sunshine, and in September in England too! I couldn’t really believe it but here I was sitting on my bike ready to start the Wessex 100 mile charity ride.

07:00 hrs, the sun had just risen and the sky was that promising early morning steel-grey. We couldn’t have bought better weather for our long hours in the saddle. We needed good weather, the 100 mile ride, from Bath to Salisbury and back again would be the longest distance I’d ridden in one go in over 13 years.

Cycling in the UK:

I had arrived in England a week earlier for my younger brother’s wedding (an excellent and boozy affair), and had extended my trip especially to ride the Wessex. As it happens my older brother, Tim’s mansion, (I kid you not, it is a mansion), is near Salisbury, a mere stone’s throw away from the Wessex route so the ride was more-or-less on his doorstep.

Now, I need to remind you here, that the last time I’d cycled in the UK was back in 2003. I’ve now lived permanently in France since January 2007 and cycling there had spoiled me for the rigours of pedalling the roads in the UK. I was dreading the traffic!

Jan and I arrived at Tim’s place on Wednesday afternoon, just in time to see him return from a hard two-hour ride. He hadn’t bothered to wait for me and made the pitiful excuse that he had to pick up his kids from school. I reckoned he just wanted to get some extra miles in and psyche me out before the Wessex. Fat chance! The Donovans are like that though, a tad competitive (to say the least!).

Not to be outdone, I helped Jan unload the car (magnanimous of me wasn’t it?), rebuilt Yvette (my bike), and went directly out on a 35 miler. Being a stranger I followed Tim’s directions to get me off the main roads on onto the relatively quieter roads of the New Forrest.

Wow! I chose absolutely the wrong time – evening rush hour! The first 8 miles or so had me on a main drag south out of Salisbury. I nearly got creamed a couple of times by vehicles passing too close, before I was able to turn on to beautiful roads of the New Forrest. This was a real treat, but there were still more cars about than I am used to in glorious Brittany. The evening weather was good though and I had a pretty enjoyable ride despite the traffic; I’d not been on the bike for about a week and I had been feeling restless for the previous couple of days.

The following day Tim, his mate Neil, who would be joining us for the Wessex 100, and I went out for a shakedown ride. This was the first time I’d been out cycling with Tim since our childhood and of course, sibling rivalry being what it is, we had to test each other out.

Poor Neil, who was, shall we say, less cycle-fit than the brothers Donovan, was left struggling to keep up, especially on the hills. At one stage I think I heard him say something about Tim and me “measuring each other’s Dicks,” but I’m not sure.

Suffice it to say, Tim was not about to let his brother get the better of him and drove hard up all the hills. I let him take the lead a couple of times, just to make him feel good you understand; he was the route leader after all.

Did I let him get away from me? Did I heck as like; not blooming likely! I actually rode alongside him a lot of the time, just to show him that I could. You know how it is; the younger brother always has an inferiority complex.

Race tactics:

Those of you who have been reading my pitiful blogging efforts will be aware that I have competed, not always successfully, in a number of cycle races in Brittany this year. I felt that I was probably more cycle-ready Tim and Neil who had only accrued about 800 training miles each this year until that point.

To that point I had clocked up over 8,500 miles, (the benefits of having grown-up children and living in France), and so was definitely the most cycle-fit. Tim, on the other hand, always keeps himself in very good shape, and apart from the potential for saddle sores I knew he would make a very good fist of the ride. Neil, on the other hand, was an unknown factor. He was keen and determined, but not as fit as he’d like to have been (his words, not mine).

After just seeing the difficulty Neil was having trying to keep up with us on the hills we all agreed to that we would take the Wessex as a team and help Neil to the finish. However, once we’d reached the foot of the infamous Brassknocker Hill (98 miles into the race and only about 2 miles from the finish), all bets were off. Then, it would be ‘every man for himself’!

Brassknocker Hill would be where the battling Donovan brothers would be let off the leash and allowed to fight it out to the death. You think I jest?

The Wessex ‘race’:

Sunday morning. We made our way to the venue without incident. We registered and unpacked our bikes but missed our 7 o’clock start time due to a cock-up on the saddle adjustment front. A couple of dozen riders left before us but it wasn’t real problem. The organisers had arranged for a staggered start time (07:00 to 09:00) to reduce the chance of a large peloton-sized group forming on the busy and dangerous roads of England. We simply fell next in line and were on our way at 07:15 hrs; the three of us and a few other like-minded souls.

I was itching to get on with it, but, as arranged, we took it easy until we reached the outskirts of Bath and found ourselves on surprisingly quiet and steeply undulating country roads. Well, it was 07:30 on a Sunday morning and even English drivers need to sleep sometime.

As expected, Tim and I dropped Neil on the first stiff climb (about 8 miles), and had to take it easy for the next couple of miles to allow him time to catch up. He did so by sucking onto the back of a small group that passed us at about 10 miles.

Throughout the day, every time a group of cyclist passed us (thankfully there weren’t all that many), I was desperate to jump on their wheels and make a race of it. I did however manage to reign myself in and stick with Tim and Neil, (most of the time anyway). To reinforce my determination not to race, Neil, who could sense my twitchiness, kept reminding me of our tactics; I needed to take it easy and not chase. Grrrrrr!

Tim, a quiet man (compared with yours truly at least), didn’t say a lot during the day. I guess he was concentrating hard on the task in hand; he’d call it staying in the ‘zone’.

The longer we were out on the road, the more cyclists we managed to sweep up. We soon passed an unfortunate cyclist wearing a number ‘1’ on his back. I couldn’t resist making a daft comment and immediately regretted it, typical of me really.

The ride settled down for a while and the sun came up to bring cheer and warmth. The terrain flattened out and the countryside became more and more beautiful with rolling fields with tree spattered hedgerows. Were it not for the dreadful state of the roads (pothole after pothole) we could easily have been riding in my beautiful Morbihan; the French would be too embarrassed to allow their infrastructure to become so dilapidated. We managed to increase our speed a little.

After about 30 miles swept up a chap named Martin and encouraged him to latch on and join us. He stayed with us until about 75 mile in, but more of Martin later. A couple of others tried to keep with us but were soon dropped along the wayside. I didn’t think we were working very hard, but it was obviously too hard for most of the entrants.

During the run in to Salisbury both Neil and Martin took turns on the front, but the majority of the work was done by Tim and me. Neil did his best though, bless him.

The outward bound leg was relatively flat once we’d left the immediate vicinity of Bath and we made pretty good time considering and averaged around 18 mph. As we closed in on Salisbury the route became familiar to Tim and Neil. We were actually travelling on one of their training routes so it held no fears for them and we could enjoy that part of the day. The sun, higher in the sky now warmed us and all felt good.

Neil, on familiar ground, was riding really well at this stage with a big smile on his face. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I thought we were riding with a tailwind and the return leg promised to be much tougher. I left him happy in his ignorance. See how kind I am?

A chase:

About 3 miles outside Salisbury, (46 mile in), I spotted a small group of riders in the distance and, knowing there was an enforced rest stop at half way (more later), I really wanted to chase. Then I thought I heard Neil behind me saying “Go for it, Kerry!” He knew we’d have to stop in a few miles, and was happy to blast it for a short way. I took that as the green light to have a bit of a go and let rip.

It took about half a mile to catch the other riders and I was pleased to see, when I could finally spare the time look around, that Tim and Neil had kept with me. A reasonably tight-looking group formed and we all rode together towards the mandatory 30 minute rest-stop.

We reached the half way staging post in a time of about 2 hours and 44 minutes; a reasonable average speed of around 18 mph. Neil had slowed us up a little, but not much. The run for home would probably be more challenging and tell the true picture.

Half way rest stop:

Again, I kid you not, the race organisers had put in a Health & Safety inspired mandatory rest stop at half way point. It was probably related to their insurance as race licenses are not required for Sportifs in the UK. Bloody ridiculous if you ask me!

Fortunately the sun was out and the September temperature was high (I’d guess about 18 degrees), so my legs didn’t stiffen up too much while we sat for a drink and to devour a very tasty cheese roll, (thanks again Tim).

After about 10 minutes of this purgatory we’d had enough and broke the shackles.

The ‘back 9’, (sorry, slipped into golfing parlance there for a second):

Once on the bikes again and it was as I had feared. Not only had our legs stiffened up, but we found ourselves riding into the teeth of a 15 mph headwind. Typical! I knew it would be in our faces all the way back to Bath, but there was nothing to do but grin and bear it! So I swore for a bit and nearly spit my dummy out of the pram!

We took it relatively easy for about 5 miles and I made sure that Tim knew we needed to take shorter turns in front. Neil was excused lead duties in deference to his lack of fitness. Martin, who was still with us at this stage complained of the dreaded ‘bonk’, (cyclists’ exhaustion), at about 60 miles, and tucked in behind Neil.

A couple of miles outside of Salisbury we hooked up with Eric, mid-fifties, who was out for a training ride. Eric was really nice chap and came in very handy for the next 30 miles or so, taking his turn in front and shepherding Neil up the hills when needed. Eric eventually left us at about 85 miles, I think he’d reached the end of his energy reserves, but he will always be remembered with fondness, especially by a visibly flagging Neil.

Martin eventually recovered a little, took a couple of turns on the front, and then took off with a small passing group, much to Neil’s chagrin; he’d been sucking our wheels for much of the previous 50 miles. We later passed him again at the 75 mile refuelling stop. Apparently he’d taken a ‘lift’ with the faster pack to the fuel stop to avoid holding us up as he needed another pee! (We learned this at the end when Martin sought us out and offered us his thanks and an explanation for his disappearance.) All was eventually forgiven, but we didn’t stop to wait for him this time; we were all really keen to get the ride over with. Brassknocker Hill hung over us like the proverbial Sword of Damocles and the closer we got to it the more ominous the feeling became.

The run in to home:

I took most of the lead on the way home, but Tim kept his end up gamely until we closed in on the finish. He became more and more quiet, I think he was suffering a bit, but he wouldn’t let on. Neil, on the other hand, was really starting to struggle and kept asking us to slow down on the hills. His voice grew more and more plaintiff as the kept saying things like, “Don’t drop me now or I won’t be able to finish!”

On the increasingly rare occasions that we were passed, Neil would instantly tell me not to be tempted and to take it easy. I have to say, that I felt really good all the way around the course and could have worked a lot harder, but I was playing by the rules we’d set ourselves. We’d keep the team together until Brassknocker Hill and then we’d see what would happen.

I had to take more and more of the lead as Tim and Neil began to feel the strain. By mile 80 my legs had started to feel a little tired, but there were no real hills and I didn’t feel too bad. The real problem came from the stiff headwind which battered us all the way home.

By this stage, each time I pulled out to allow Tim to take a spell at the front, he took a little longer to respond; his lack of cycle training was beginning to tell. Our pace dropped to below 16 mph, but the miles were being eaten up and we were closing in on the finish.

At 85-odd miles in we reached a wide open area of land that reminded me of Salisbury Plain. It was beautiful, but the roads were in a dreadful state. Big potholes had to be avoided and the wind whipped across the fields into our faces and made any work at the front much more demanding that it could have been.

I drove doggedly on and Tim took his turn at the front when he could; I started to really need the rests his turns allowed me. At 10 miles from home, we finally lost the help of Eric, he disappeared into a small village and we never saw him again. I missed his occasional turns up front.

The organisers had ‘helpfully’ erected mile posts which counted down the distance to the finish from the 10 mile mark. 10, 9, 8 and so on; you get the picture. To be completely honest I could have done without them. I much prefer the French way which is to put out a 5 kms to go banner and leave it at that. To me the mile markers actually seemed to be taunting us; “Only 8, 7, 6 miles to go before Brassknocker, tee hee!”

I learned at the end that Tim and Neil both felt the same way. Interesting!

Brassknocker Hill:

With about two miles to go we swept down a long, steep and twisting descent; a final respite from the driving wind before the last-gasp climb up Brassknocker Hill. We sped down the hill and before we knew it we were confronted with the foot on the monster. Our momentum quickly disappeared up the steep incline and I soon reached for the gear-change levers.

It was steeper than I remembered from the drive in that morning. Gasping for air before climbing 100 yards, I dropped quickly down to the small chain-ring (for the first time that day), and slid the derailleur across until I reached my largest sprocket; a ratio of 39:27. This was my lowest gear; I had nothing left in the bag.

I dug in but the hill just got steeper and steeper. Neil had dropped back almost as soon as the hill had begun, but I could still ‘feel’ Tim behind me, probably already using his ‘granny’ ring (a 30).

By heck it was tough!

I ground it out, standing on the pedals and pulling hard on the handlebars. At one stage it was so steep that as I pulled up on the bars, I lifted the front wheel off the road and almost lost my balance.

Still I climbed.

Let me take a minute here to try and describe the hill to you. Think of a steep slope hill and then make it steeper (I guess it was no more that 40 degrees, but it certainly seemed steeper). Many blokes of my age would have struggled to walk up the bloody thing! Yet here I was trying to ride up the monster on a bike that didn’t have a ‘granny’ ring.

The first part of the hill was steep and straight but I knew that after about half a mile or so the road turned sharply left and then levelled out a tad. I knew that if I could make it to the turn I’d romp home the rest of the way.

Still I climbed.

About half way up the straight, I passed a couple of spectators who were sitting on a sty that allowed access through a beautiful stone wall on my side of the road. They cheered me on even though I must have looked like I was almost standing still.

I was near the end of my strength by this stage, but still managed to pass a couple of stragglers from the shorter rides. I started to feel a little lightheaded by this stage and I knew I was hyperventilating. I tried to calm my breathing rate and sat back down on the saddle relying on leg power only and not my bodyweight. It seemed to work for a while, but my thighs soon started to burn and I had to stand up again.

Still I climbed.

All that week I had been suffering from a cricked neck which made it difficult for me to turn my head and look behind me. It was even more difficult now since I was pulling so hard on the handlebars, but I was desperate to see where Tim was. As I passed the spectators on the sty I managed turn in the saddle enough to see him, still behind me but only by a few yards. Was he gaining on me?

His presence behind me was enough to stop me from getting off and walking; it was really a matter of personal pride. A glance at the trip meter showed that I was climbing at a mere 4.5 mph, only just above a fast walking pace. I’m sure I could have jogged it faster.

It would have been easier if I could have flattened the hill by zigzagging up it but oncoming traffic put paid to that idea so I had to take it directly, head-on. This was so tough.

The pre-race advertising bumph and had described the Wessex 100 as a ride with a ‘sting in its tail’ and they weren’t kidding. I had never climbed a hill as steep as this one before, not on a bike at least!

I knew that if I could make it to the left-hand turn no more than 400 yards ahead by now, I would be OK. So I ground it out some more. Either Tim was closing on me or his breathing was so becoming so loud that it seemed that way, but that sound spurred me onwards.

If Tim hadn’t been behind me, or if he’d passed me on the climb it would have felt like a body blow and I’d probably have given up and walked, but I drove doggedly onwards. Something made me keep going even though I had an ‘out’. Tim, after all, was using a ‘granny’ ring and I was in the 39. That alone would have enabled me to save face, but I was damned if I was going to stop after all those hours in the saddle. It wasn’t as if I’d work particularly hard that day, was it?

The blessed finish:

Somehow I managed to make the turn and, true enough, the hill, though still precipitous, levelled off a little. I was soon able to drop down into my next sprocket, a 24; then into the 21. I was over the worst and my speed started to climb once more; to the heady heights of 8 mph.

I finally and ever-so-gratefully reached the roundabout top of the climb. I whooped in huge volumes of air as I tried to pay back the oxygen debt that the hill owed me.

Once at the roundabout I contemplated driving hard to the finish but I thought that would be a little churlish so I waited for my brother. I didn’t have to wait very long though as Tim was hot on my heels. I hadn’t taken more than a few yards off him all the bloody way up! I knew he was strong but was still surprised at how well he’d managed the climb.

We came alongside each other and shook hands. He had a wide beam of satisfaction and relief on his face; I imagine that I looked the same way, I certainly felt it. We took it easy into the finish and crossed the line side-by-side.

I bet you think we immediately collapsed off our bikes in a big heap! Not likely. We still had a mate out there on the road. Like the Marines, we couldn’t leave a mate to finish on his own now could we?

We retraced our steps back to the roundabout (and no further); neither of us wanted to descend any part of that hill only to have to climb back up it again! We only had to circle the roundabout a couple of times before Neil appeared with the same silly smile of satisfaction and relief that Tim and I still had on our sweaty faces.

That’s it, done:

We returned with Neil to the finish and had a passing guy take the photo below as proof of life and proof of our finish. Apologies for the poor picture quality, it was taken with Neil’s camera-phone.

Tim (centre), and I completed the ride in a time of 6 hours and 7 minutes; Neil only lost about 5 minutes to us on Brassknocker.

And finally:

It was a bloody good day and we had a well-earned drink in a pub on the way home too. By the end of the session we had all pledged to continue our training and go hard for a time next year. I’d like to think that a sub 5-hour ride wouldn’t be beyond us; without the headwind, of course!

I think that’s it for the race reports this year. I might write a couple of blogs as the winter progresses, just to keep my hand in as it were.

Tra, and keep turning the pedals, K

Cyclosportif: - “Les Circuits Remy Corfmat” Inzinzac Lochrist – 29th Aug 2010

Cyclosportif: - “Les Circuits Remy Corfmat” Inzinzac Lochrist – 29^th Aug 2010

Subtitle: What a lovely ride!

05:00 - The insistent buzzing of the alarm clock disturbed my deep, peaceful sleep. I tumbled quietly out of bed to avoid waking Jan. A quick peek out of the window showed silver light from a Gibbous moon reflecting off a thin mist; it looked cold. “Why do I do this to myself?”

I thought of returning to my nice warm bed, but after last week' debacle (see the Plouay blog), I dared not cock up my schedule again so I padded downstairs. After tea, toast and the necessaries I loaded my bike into the car and cruised to Andy’s house; the mist thickened.

Club-mate Ian Cushway had cried off this race, he said he couldn’t face the thought of another early morning two weekends in a row. Truth be told, he probably hadn’t forgiven me for keeping him waiting outside his house in the pitch black on the cold and damp morning of the Plouay race. Sorry again Ian!

06:25 - We left Andy’s place in his Renault Espace, there was not enough room in my car to fit both bikes, and hit the road to Inzinzac Lochrist which is about 45 minutes away so we had plenty of time before race registration closed at 08:00 hrs.

07:10 - Once off the dual carriageway we found ourselves on quiet country roads which narrowed and wound generally downhill to the valley floor below. The early morning light enabled us to pick out steep wooded slopes that stretched upwards around us as we descended. I couldn’t help thinking that we'd probably soon be climbing back up these bloody steep hills; I looked forward to the race with some trepidation.

We soon arrived at the picturesque little town of Inzinzac Lochrist where pretty wooded slopes looked down over the sleeping houses. A river meandered through the dormant streets. Not a soul stirred and we searched in the dark for some signs of race organisation. Had I got the date and time wrong?

We eventually found a man putting up race signs who pointed us in the right direction. This was a bit of a relief for me. Just think how I would have felt if, a week after the timing cock-up before Plouay, I had the date wrong for this one! It doesn’t bear thinking about really.

07:20 - Arriving so early meant that we had the place to ourselves. We managed to use the facilities whilst they were still clean and the dispensers still full of paper and soap, and then registered for the race. Now how's about this for value; for the €6 race fee we received a drink, a cake and a free T-shirt (and a good quality one too!) - I doubt you'd get that in the UK.

A grey dawn had lightened the sky but the mist, having thickened, meant that the air was still cold and damp. We could tell that once the sun rose fully it would probably blossom into a nice warm day, but at that stage it was quite chilly. This made choice of race clothing tricky.

I went for a short shakedown ride in just my race top and shorts and I was frozen after a just few hundred metres. Decision made, I put a T-shirt under my club jersey and hoped for the best.

08:30: And they’re off!

The race starter announced that this was a charity Randonée, not a race. He reminded us that we were required to follow the rules of the road, stop at any red traffic lights, and keep to the right-hand carriageway at all times. I took a look at the cyclists that surrounded us (there were a good few hundred expectant riders waiting for the off), and thought, “Yeah, a likely story”.

Our bikes glinted softly in the weak morning light as we waited to be let loose. Most of the others, including Andy, looked fit, strong, determined and ready for the fray; as usual, I felt old and tired and out of place, and we hadn’t even started yet.

Andy gave me a nod of encouragement and we were off, slowly at first as usual, but gathering speed as we wound our way through the small town.

Scary stuff:

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to riding in a big group. You have to concentrate hard to avoid clipping the wheels of the guys in front and make sure you keep your line to prevent those behind riding into your rear wheel. And all this while negotiating narrow streets or winding country lanes - scary stuff but really exhilarating!

A good start:

The pace gradually increased but so not quickly enough for me to be dropped right away and I managed to stay in touch with the leading pack for the first 20 kilometres or so. I was still in touch with Andy at this point, a rarity for me. I actually felt quite sprightly at this stage.

The race wound along the relatively flat valley floor and our average speed rose to 36 kph, unheard of for me, but I was managing to stay in the middle of a big bunch of quick riders.

Here we go again:

The first real hills hit us after 20 kilometres and we climbed upwards along roads that clung to the sides of wooded valleys. The leading group, which included Andy, sped off into the distance, but I managed to stay with the main pack although I did have to dig really deep.

We stayed together for another 35 kms or so until the going became more difficult and the hills more frequent. Here the group began to fragment.

There was little or no wind and by the half way stage the sun, high in the sky, had burned off the early morning mist. The temperature rose steadily and it became almost uncomfortably hot.

I was finally dropped at about 65 kms but managed to hook up with a guy of the same hill climbing ability as me, i.e. piss poor.

We raced along in tandem, taking turns to lead but I’m guessing I did the majority of the work.

I waited for him when he fell back during a particularly tough climb at 80 kms, and he repaid my generosity by taking his fair share of the lead along the flats. We managed to sweep past a few back markers from the lesser races as we closed in on the finish.

Fast finish:

About 8 kms for the end we hit a long, fast, twisting descent. Our speed hit 65.6 kms - I kid you not, we were flying! I dropped my companion (I never did learn his name), half way down the descent. A sharp right-hander at the bottom nearly took me unawares but I managed to keep control, just; then the road flattened out for the run in to the town.

Doing the honourable thing, I waited for my companion to rejoin me for the sprint into the finish. Why? Well I’ll tell you.

A few kilometres earlier, just after we’d hooked up, he called me back when I’d taken a wrong turn at a poorly marked village junction. He even waited for me to rejoin him before powering on again.

Had he not done that, who knows where I would have ended up? I now repaid his kindness and led us both into the finish. We reached 48 kph along the final flat sprint and passed another couple of riders along the way before things sort of fizzled out!

No finish line:

Unlike all the other cyclosportifes I’d completed this year there was no actual finish line on this one.

In keeping with the charitable status of the race, the race simply faded to a stop outside the sports complex. It was a bit of an anti-climax really, but I wasn’t disappointed as I’d had a really good hard training ride and had beaten my best ever average speed over that distance.

I knew I could have beaten my companion on a sprint into the finish, but we’d slowed down and returned to the start line together. We parted with a handshake – nice chap, probably never see him again.

11:10 - When I finally made my way back to the park I found Andy sitting patiently on a wall by the car and asked how he’d done. I eventually managed to drag out of him that he’d finished at the head of the first group home – that’s a win in my book!

He really is a modest soul – I’d have been singing it from the rooftops like a dancing Topol in ‘Fiddler on the Roof’, but then again, the odds of that ever happening are so astronomical as to be non-existent! Bloody good job too, if you'd ever seen me dance!

As it had not been an actual race and no actual finish times or positions had been noted it was a purely unofficial victory, but a victory all the same. I was delighted for Andy.

Unofficial Results:

Andy’s average speed was over 38.5 kph; race duration about 2 hours 17 minutes.

I, on the other hand, completed the 91.2 kms race in a time of 2:38:10, at an average speed of 33.8kph (that’s a little over 21 mph). It was my fastest ever speed over that duration of ride! I was dead chuffed.

The course suited me and I felt really strong for the first two-thirds of the race. Might I actually be getting better? Next up is the Wessex 100 – bring it on!

(Steady boy, don’t get too cocky, the Wessex 100 is nothing to take for granted – Ed.).

There’s that bloody Ed again. Who is he? Why does he keep butting into my blog? Have I started talking to myself again? Where are my tablets?

La Cyclo de Morbihan – Plouay Friday 20th August 2010

La Cyclo de Morbihan – Plouay Friday 20^th August 2010

Subtitle: At least I finished this time!

Alarm cock-up:

So, Daniel Dunot called to confirm that I was due at his place at 06:15. I said I’d be there and hung up to continue my pre-race preparations, toast, tea and toilet (and not necessarily in that order). Then I glanced at the wall clock – 06:15! Duh – Daniel had actually phoned me to ask where the hell I was as it was already past the time for our rendezvous. Dammit, I really must learn to speak French!

Panicking, I hurried Jan (my wife) along, dived into the car and raced to collect my other team mate Ian Cushway; I was supposed to have been at his place by 05:40. It was now 06:21 according to the dashboard clock!

Profuse apologies later, we finally departed Daniel’s house, with a very unhappy team-mate Loic, in tow at 06:34, some thirty-four minutes later than we should have. Jan and I followed the others in our car. I simmered gently behind the steering wheel. The delay was entirely my fault, I had set the alarm one hour later than I should have and we were racing towards Plouay, desperate to arrive before race registration closed. We had just over the hour and my auto-route planner told us the journey would take just about an hour and ten minutes!

To cut this part of the story short we managed to avoid traffic snarl-ups and made the start without too much distress. None of us had time for our usual pre-race warm-up, but at least we had arrived in time. I was embarrassed and apologetic and not really ‘centred’ for the start of the race. Then, almost before I knew anything about it, we were off!

The Plouay Cycle Weekend:

You’ll notice from the title that, unusually, this race took place on a Friday. This was to allow for the historic Plouay race weekend to include other events. The first professional race here took place in 1933 and the event has since expanded and has taken on great importance. Nowadays there are two professional races, the Women’s is on the Saturday and the Men’s race follows on the Sunday; both events are part of their relative World Cycling Series. A number of other races are included to amuse the crowds.

As is fitting in this cycling-mad country, a number of amateur races are scheduled for the Friday. There are three cyclosportifs, (153 kms, 105 kms, and 81 kms); a couple of Randonées, a VTT and a Walk. Daniel, Ian and I were entered in the 105 kms Sportif, Loic had entered the 105 kms Rando as he had not booked in advance. Andy, here with his family in their very civilised Camper Van, had entered the 153 kms, Big Boy’s race.

The presence of Andy’s family was the reason for Jan’s appearance that day; she actually planned to spend the morning exploring the area with Andy’s wife and daughters; having absolutely no interest in the cycling or my efforts, of course! Typical of the support I receive from my family, but that’s a sad story for another time and place - maybe my memoirs.

The race:

La Cyclo Morbihan at Ployay is somewhat notorious in that it is hilly and almost as tough as the previously blogged La Bernard Hinault at St Briuc; and you know what that means as far as my performance is concerned!

The day was overcast, grey and a strengthening wind threatened to bring with it some light drizzle.

After the usual steady start, the pace gathered until we were ploughing through the lush Brittany countryside at quite a healthy pace. I managed to stay with Ian and a large group, (I was using Ian as my target man), and after about 30 kms our average speed had reached 32.8 kph. Then we hit a really long drag uphill through a windy road, forested slopes and all. The hill ground upwards forever.

Near the top I felt the gorge rise in my throat, but managed to avoid throwing up and, more to the point, as I crested the top of the climb I was still with the group! I was pleased; I’m normally dropped quickly during a climb of intensity and duration. I felt leg-weary and my lungs were bursting, but at least I was still in touch. The ensuing downhill stretch was as welcome as a drink to man dying of thirst in a desert.

My mild euphoria did not last.

I barely had time to consolidate my recovery when the next hill reared its ugly head. I finished this climb alone; the others had dropped me long before I crested the top. Gutted, I cycled on alone for the next 45 minutes, watching my average speed slowly fall away.

The threatened drizzle arrived and the wind seemed to strengthen; I was alone and without the protection of other riders. At 50 kms I was down to 32.5 and I knew this would only worsen unless I could latch on to another group.

The going became harder and I felt like the last rider in the race. As in previous races, I wondered whether to ease off a little and wait for the next group to pass; that way I might recover enough to be able to stay with them. This was not really an option; for all I knew I was the last rider on the road. I couldn’t wait for a possibly non-existent pack to join so I dragged on, working as hard as I could.

It took another 10 kms before a group of about 20 riders finally caught me. I managed to dig deep and, legs burning, suck to the wheel of the group's last rider. I clung to this group for the next 15 kms, watching my average speed inch up once more. They pulled me along nicely until about 25 kms to the finish when I was dropped again - you guessed it - another long, sharp climb.

The end game:

The final stages of the race are a bit of a blur really. I worked as hard as I possibly could; burning legs notwithstanding. Although I couldn’t hope to regain the group I’d just been dropped from, I did manage to catch and pass some other riders on the long run in to home. This was a bit of an ego boost. I didn’t even care that some of those I overtook were probably duffers from the Randonees or even the VTT, (yes, some were on mountain bikes).

I was heartened when I finally reached the 5 kms to go sign on the outskirts of Plouay. I managed to increase my cadence, despite the growing headwind and the increasingly tired legs. Then it happened!

A small group had formed by the time we were a couple of kms from the finish. We negotiated a sharp left-hand turn and were immediately faced with a steep hill about 500 metres long. The hill had been hidden by trees before the left-turn and I wasn't prepared it's severity. I found myself in completely the wrong setup - big ring and a high gear. Dammit!

Half way up the hill I ground to an almost complete stop; I had to sit down to drop to a better gear. By the time I was moving freely again I had been passed by half a dozen riders; one of which was a tiny little woman who seemed to fly up the slope. This time I got mad - I may have even growled out loud!

I finally crested the hill and, instead of the expected finish line, I found that the road stretched gently downwards into the distance. I thought that if I worked really hard, I might be able to regain some of the places I’d just lost, so I dropped into my biggest gear, stood up, gritted my teeth and punched the pedals hard.

That last kilometre into the finish was interminable. Flags and bunting hung over the road in preparation for the weekend’s professional races and if I’d had the time or the energy I could have imagined being in the pro race, challenging for the win. Truth be told, I was simply too knackered think about such things at the time. However, I was determined to catch the small woman who had passed me so easily on that last tough little climb.

My speed exceeded 40 kph on that final sprint finish.

The finishing straight was long, slightly downhill but into the wind. It was the wind that finally made the difference. I battered my way through it, but the ones I passed found it too much for them. I caught and overtook all but one of the guys who had beaten me to the top of that final climb. I eventually passed the woman (whom I later found out was Carol from Guernsey), just before the line.

It was little enough, but I did manage to assuage the male chauvinist in me by catching her at the death so to speak. I later discovered that five women had beaten me to the finish – so much for my chauvinist piggery!

My legs were dead, my lungs were raw, my water bottles were empty, and I could barely walk back to the parking spot with Ian. He on the other hand, had had enough time to finish his race, ride to the club car, stack his bike, have a lie down (probably even a cup of tea and a sandwich), and return to the finish line to await my sorry arse. Grrrr!

I honourably managed (through gritted teeth), to congratulate him for his strong performance when Loic arrived, fresh as a daisy. His Randonée had started 20 minutes after our race, had covered the same distance and the same route and he’d still managed to finish within 5 minutes of me! Damnit, why am I so slow? Hey ho!

Daniel rolled in some 14 minutes after me – but he’s not in full training so it doesn’t count.

Excuses/Reasons:

Well, the answers to that final plaintive question above are obvious really:

1. I’ve not been training for that long; I only started cycling again seriously last September. I need quite a few more miles under the belt before I can really call myself a cyclist

2. I’m old now, 53 yrs, and my recovery rate between efforts, both macro (training rides) and micro (hill climbing during rides) is much slower than the younger Turks

3. I am tall and heavy, not good for climbing; I’m still losing weight, but less quickly now (86 kgs currently down from 96 kgs last September)

4. I’ve discovered that the beloved Yvette (my bike), seems to be about twice as heavy as those of Ian, Loic and Andy. I know it seems like a cop-out to complain about one’s equipment (bad workmen and all that), but it really is a bit of a handicap to ride a heavy bike when I am already carrying more weight than most other cyclists on the planet. The trouble is I can’t really justify spending the €3,500 required to buy a significantly better bike, so I’ll just have to grin and bear it. I’ll train harder, try and lose some more weight, and see how things go. It’s only a game after all, not my living! (Thankfully as we'd soon starve to death).

N.B. – No more moaning about hills or heavy bikes (I promise, really I do)!

The results:

Race distance – 156 kms		Total number of competitors – 288
Name	Time/Average Speed	Race Position	Percentile	Comments
Andy Shaw	3:51:45 39.6 kph (24.8 mph)	19th	7%	There was a small accident on the run in to the finish which held Andy up and cost him a few places. He was really sanguine about it though – I would have been spitting nails, but I would never have been in that position in the first place!

Race distance – 105 kms		Total number of competitors – 246
Name	Time/Average Speed	Race Position	Percentile	Comments
Ian Cushway	3:13:38 32.5 kph (20.3 mph)	154th	63%	Late into the race he suffered from cramp and actually had to stop and stretch his legs. He still managed to produce an excellent average speed and came 45th in his age group (68%)
Kerry Donovan	3:24:54 31.4 kph (19.6 mph)	191st	78%	I finished 32 in my age group out of 51 (63%). Not that bad, but I still lost too much time on the hills.
Daniel Dunot	3:38:25 28.9 kph (18.1 mph)	217nd	88%	He suffered from cramp in his quads but considering his training has been curtailed this year due to work commitments, he did himself proud.

NB: The results of the Randonée have not been published so unfortunately, I don’t have Loic’s stats.

Next race: the Wessex 100 in the UK (Bath – Salisbury – Bath) on 12^th Sept. This will be my longest ride of the season and promises to be the hilliest. I’ll be in touch.

Tra, K.

Retraction.....

Apology:

I've literally been inundated with an email complaining about my apparently insulting remarks about playing boules with the Club de Retraite on Tuesday afternoons.

May I take this opportunity to completely withdraw that comment. There is absolutely nothing wrong with playing boules, whether it be on Tuesday afternoons or any other day of the week. I have in fact played boules with the club on a number of occasions. It is an enjoyable game and I spent time with thoroughly nice people. The wine flowed freely and a good time was had by all.

I was simply referring to my lack of fitness and strength for cycle racing. I apologies for any offence caused.

Just off training now - tail between legs.

Tra, K

La Ange Rousel - Rumengol - 25th July

La Ange Roussel – Remungol - Sunday 25^th July 2010-07-26

Subtitle: “I just knew I should have stayed in bed this morning!”

06:30 hrs. When I loaded my bike onto the club car (see picture), I discovered that my front cycle wheel had developed a puncture overnight. I didn’t take it as the portent of gloom it surely was, but added my spare wheel to back of the car and continued blissfully unaware of the events that were to come. I collected club mate Ian Cushway on the way and we covered the 30 minutes to the race start at Rumengol without incident.

The Start:

Well, here we were again at the start of a cyclosportif – grey skies promised drizzle during the upcoming race.

La Ange Roussel consists of a walk and two cyclosportifs; one of 100 kms, the other 60 kms – both of these races take place simultaneously.

Three Taupont Cyclisme (T.C.) members lined up at the start of the 100 kms race; Andy Shaw, Ian and yours truly. There were 100 kms ahead of us and not a massive bunch of competitors; maybe 150 in all, but I’m not great at estimating numbers.

This was Ian’s first cyclosportif and after our ignominious efforts in the Guilliers Pass’ Cyclisme in April he admitted to feeling somewhat nervous. Andy and I left him to psych himself into the zone and chatted briefly about the fancy satellite tracker that Andy had attached to his handlebars – he really does have all the toys; an advantage of owning a bike shop of course.

We barely heard the Starter’s command and we were off!

Bloody Hell! The leaders (which included some semi-professionals, visiting Koreans, a Japanese rider, and even a young semi-pro from Wales – who was staggered when I greeted him in Welsh when we met in the car part earlier – but that’s another story), went off like an express train. I had to dig really deep just to stay with the bunch along the narrow and winding roads that leading out of Remungol.

I worked like stink to keep with the main bunch for the first 8 kms or so but – yes, you guessed it, we arrived at the first long hill and I was dropped like a greased cannonball.

Now I know I’ve said this before and I really don’t know what’s wrong with me but I can’t climb hills.

I train hard. I actively search out the long climbs around my home during my many training sessions. I try my best, really I do, but I simply cannot climb hills with any degree of competence or ease.

That morning I started feeling ill even before cresting the top of that first climb. This was most unlike me and although I’m not a fast climber, I normally reach the top of hills without feeling like I’m going to lose my breakfast. Feeling that bad that early in the race I knew I’d had it.

Andy, of course, had dropped me just after the start as usual and was mixing it with the leaders. I was expecting this, but when Ian overtook me going like a locomotive at the start of the second long hill I realised that something was wrong. In our few training rides, Ian and I have been pretty closely matched, although he may have been taking it easy on the old-timer. I couldn’t understand that when I tried to put the hammer down nothing happened; I just dropped further and further back.

I managed to grind out the low gears and made the top of the drag with a few other cyclists around me.

Slow, slow, slow:

The next few miles were weird. My legs felt lifeless and I wasn’t really enjoying things at all. When we reached the 30 kms stage I did my usual speed check and was gutted to see that my average was only 31.3 kph (19.6 mph). Although the course was fairly hilly, I didn’t think it was as bad as say, the route of ‘La Bernard Hinault’ at St Brieuc. I can normally manage more than that during the early stages of a race and I look to exceed 33.5 kph (that’s 21 mph).

Today there was almost no wind and it was cool with just the tiniest bit of drizzle so I there were no excuses; I couldn’t blame the weather for my being so damnably slow. I couldn’t understand it; I felt knackered but was only a third of the way round the course.

I soon found myself well and truly alone when I came to a roundabout that was not signposted with race directions. I circled it a couple of times wondering what to do when a group of about ten riders appeared and turned right. I managed to jump onto the back of group and found myself pelting along the narrow, tree-lined roads.

Within the next 15 kilometres I was dropped again on yet another long climb.

Where am I?

It was not long after this that the sun decided it would be a good time to appear and boil what was left of my brains. I was feeling pretty hot when at about 48 kms I arrived at a T-junction.

At the junction there were two race signs, one pointing left, the other right. Neither sign indicated which direction the 100 kms racers should take. I decided to turn left for no other reason than I’d been turning right for a while; the climb continued.

About 5 kms later I found myself back in Rumengol; I had obviously turned the wrong way and cut the route short by about 40 kms! I was angry with myself.

What to do? Retrace my steps and return to the junction to complete the race or give up? Bravely, I turned into the finish and gave up.

60 kms and its over:

I felt rotten. I have no beef with the race organisation, or the lack of adequate directions. No, if I hadn’t been dropped by the various packs I would not have taken the wrong turn and become lost. It was well and truly my own fault.

About an hour after my ignominious finish, Andy arrived just behind the leaders in about 10^th place. A short while after this Ian came in with the second large group, finishing with a very creditable performance for his first sportif. He did say that he was a tad disappointed about not being able to keep with the main bunch. He also said that they too had taken a wrong turn at one stage which had cost them a few minutes. Neither statement makes me feel any better.

Why?

I have no idea why I performed so badly. I don’t think I am coming down with the ‘flu or anything, although I have been feeling unusually tired this week. I’m writing this on Thursday so I’ve had plenty of time to recover.

I can only say that I’ve been pretty miserable since the race. I’ve been and wondering whether I should throw in the towel as far as cycling is concerned. Perhaps I should join in with the rest of the old folk at the Retraite Club (Retirement Club) and play boules on Tuesday afternoons instead.

Must stop now; I’m going out for a ride.

Tra, K

Next race: “La Cyco Morbihan” - Plouay - 20^th August.