Windy one
One unforeseen challenge I have encountered in this pursuit is the difficulty of getting around the country by train. Of course, my objective of riding to all the races in the Eastern League holds, but my lectures at 9:00 AM Monday morning have thus far precluded me from making a round trip. The weekend after Welwyn there was a race at Herne Hill.
Although it was not an Eastern Counties race, after a week disrupted by sickness and mechanical foibles, I felt compelled to get my mileage in. I had managed to get one Interval Session in, and between that and the race intensity would be taken care of, but I had hardly ridden my bike. Come Saturday a gale force wind was blowing across the UK's Western flank.
Setting off from Ely I headed South down the canal. No sooner than had the path come up onto top of the bank then was my momentum almost completely arrested by the strongest crosswind I have ever experienced in my life. It was the kind where you feel you must remain planted in the saddle, pressure on the drops, canted over into it and almost head-butting your way through it.
It cannot have been helped by the roughness of the path and the steep drops to either side. Every time there was a lull or a gust I had to catch myself before I rode straight over the side or into the canal. Fortunately the path soon took me down where the bank sheltered me for a period. I have never been quite so conscious of where the wind was coming from. I anticipated its relative change of direction with every corner and preselected my position and power to best counteract it.
In Cambridge I had lunch and bought a hydration pack; being a Cyclocross bike the frame has no bottle cage bosses. The weekend before I had had two bottles in my jersey and by London my back had been killing me. Lunch was rice with salmon, avocado, spinach, hardboiled eggs and edamame beans. The wind kept up its assault as I carried on down to Melbourn.
Crossing Newmarket road I had to reroute around a ditch full of brambles that was innavigable. After this, despite the wind, the journey was unremarkable. A few flecks threatened a rain which never fully materialised. A Father and Child passed in the other direction unperturbed by the storm. A pair of wedding-goers who had wondered off in search of a shop stopped in vain to ask me for directions. Nearing my destination I re-routed to meet my host at a pub in on the River Stort Navigaton.
We had dinner there, I the Chicken Katsu, he the Burger with Blue Cheese. Daylight escaping us we rode back along the canal, collecting sticks for fire-starters, and remarked with each other of the familiarity of the riding and of the adventurous spirit of our childhoods. We bought breakfast supplies and more burgers in the village shop, chopped wood in the marina car park and, fire lit, cooked a second supper of two bacon cheeseburgers apiece. I took a shower and took my berth at the stern and sank into a deep sleep.
Riding to Welwyn
So it began, this folly, breakfasted and kitted up on a Saturday morning. The bike just freshly built up and never having been off-road (under present ownership). A route planned to take us both through forest and farmland, down byway and country lane to the edge of London. There, a well earned rest ahead of the Sunday's action.
Mill Lane out of Great Ellingham marked the start of the "gravel sectors". At the side of the path I let some air out of my tires and beat off into the great unknown. Crossing Thetford Road and back into the rough I caught an unexpected Top Ten on an appropriately exclamation marked segment; Heath Road to Pingo!
Just out of Stonebridge I joined up with Peddar's Way, if I had not been on it already (a full navigation is on the to-do list). Here I was overtaken by some gentlemen on dirt-bikes who shot over the London road and into a section of humps and bumps that would not look out of place on a 'cross course.
Over High Bridham Road I saw a Police car parked at the continuation of the trail. I continued on down the Peddar's a little ways further until my route pitched a right and was arrested by a barbed wire fence. By the time I backtracked to find a gate, the local Constabulary had ventured down the trail on foot. Not wanting to trespass in their plain view and earnestly because my phone had died and needed reviving, I stood and fiddled for a while.
The two Police did not go back to their car nor further down the trail but stood there chattering on their radios and making small-talk. It was to my great relief then, when the putter of two-strokes came resounding down the trail. The police flagged down the bikers and were asking questions and making notes in their notebooks as I slipped through the gate and continued on my journey.
It is a not uncommon occurrence for the user-generated routing platforms of our times to feature the odd quirk. Typically what I imagine has happened is: that a rider's phone has died, and the route describes a line as the crow flies to the point at which it turned back on. Successive riders find a way to get it done and the error goes unreported for some time.
Certainly, there was nothing resembling the perfect diagonal path which my screen displayed. First, there was one Pheasant, then a few and suddenly hundreds of them. Pitching into flight as my tires and chain disturbed them, their wings making a distinctive throb more Dragonfly than bird. I am not such an urbanite as to not recognise that I could be about to get myself into a spot of bother.
Pheasants, of course, the game of choice for the sport of driven shooting. In this number there could be no doubt of the involvement of a gamekeeper. Fortunately I came across him shortly, or another attendant to the estate (the Pheasant plucker perhaps). He kindly directed me away from the shoot and on my way. On the way out I gave way to a veritable convoy of SUVs coming the other way. There are other ways of enjoying the countryside.
In Thetford I stopped to make my lunch, a staple of every long ride since my trip to the Dolomites, Mortadella, Mozzarella and Pesto in an olive Foccacia. I find it to be substantial enough whilst remaining light and soft enough to be comfortably eaten on the bike. Besides this my journey was fuelled by bananas and Medjool dates eaten at half-hour intervals.
By this point I was quite behind schedule. Thanks in no small part to my relaxed start, my run in with the law and subsequent run in with aristocracy, the assemblage of my sandwich and a thus-far-unmentioned tumble over the obscured heel of a young downed tree, into a tangle of brambles. I also spent rather too long in the company of a lovely couple who were dot-watching a passing Ultra-race.
The rest of the ride was something of a blur. There were tree tunnelled descents where foliage collected itself around your shoes and the spindles of your pedals. And wide open turnip fields with perfect diagonal paths of desire carved into them. In and out of country lanes, sometimes obstinately, detouring to take in a Roman road and then spitting one back out 100m down the country lane where the diversion began. I tried whenever the way was smooth to make up as much as possible.
Before I knew it I was punting down the familiar canal towpath in the absolute dregs of twilight. At Cheshunt I picked up a litre of Chocolate milk and an Erdinger isotonic and boarded the Overground. It's Transport for London, so it counts. A quick change in Hackney and up the hill from Caledonian Road to the top floor flat of one of my oldest and dearest courier friends. Another dear friend was crashing there too, and we shared in a feast of carbonara, after which I settled into my sofa berth and promptly passed out.
Welwyn CX
I rode up from Holloway through some lovely parks and just when I thought London would never end, I popped out of a hedgerow to a field and a sign: Welcome to Hertfordshire - County of Opportunity.
Having made an error in my calculations I found myself having to decide between Lunch and a pre-ride of the course. Unsure of which would have more of an impact on my performance I opted for the former. As I ate in the bike shed of a large Asda, it became cold and began to rain.
I figured as it was my first race of the season a set of warmup trackies would be a good investment. I needed a light puffa jacket anyway and it was £20. I had a shell jacket that was a bit big otherwise at home. Having procured these I set off again for the course.
I arrived with 20 minutes of pre-ride left and didn't complete a lap. The course at this time was hard despite the rain. My support were stuck in traffic and would not make the start of my race, so I spent the duration of the Masters race making friends.
My principle concerns were that I had nowhere to put my bags, and that I would be unable to pin my numbers on my skinsuit whilst preserving my modesty. Fortunately, the fraternity of 'cross is made up of lovely people, and I was soon pinned up and directed to the podium where I could stow my bags.
My bike shed of its burden, I let some air out of the tyres and set about keeping warm, stopping occasionally to cheer on the Women's race. Rooting for one in particular having spoken while unloading my bags. We were probably the only people there with inner tubes in our tyres. Tyres which in my case were bald in the centre to the point of being slick.
Perhaps it is getting older and perhaps it is the reassurance of a good excuse for a bad result, perhaps it was the shroud of anonymity but I felt no more than a flutter of pre-race nerves as I stood in the pen waiting to be called. I took off my coat and threw it out of the paddock and positioned myself in the third row.
Warming up I had felt a distinct lack of snap and this held true with a bikelength lost from the line. Still firmly in the pack into turn one and avoiding the pile-up in turn two, I promptly forgot I was in a bike race and failed to carry momentum up the climb stalling in the wheel and leaving lines open for overtaking riders.
I held the wheel I'd wound up on, cursing myself for not having taken advantage. I made an unforced error coming out of a descent and hung agonisingly close off the back of this feller until, preoccupied with the riders coming back from behind, I had my first off. The corner had been brought to our attention in the briefing, an incredibly slippy and wide hairpin into a climb.
One of the favourite riders passed me and I assumed I had been lapped, but they had been held up in the crash and must have had mechanical issues. The winning rider lapped me for real shortly thereafter. A fellow rider of relative inexperience came by, and we joked about seeing each other on the floor again soon. I shouldn't have joked as I never saw them again before the finish.
Assuming I was the back of the race I set the new aim of getting a clean lap and finishing the race. On the second lap my support arrived and their cheers carried me through the rest of the race. I did have a few more offs but in the end I managed to get my clean lap, took every section flat out (without ever quite stringing them together) and finished ahead of two riders, scoring minor points in the overall league.
I had not finished last and I had gotten points on the board despite my calamities and I could be pleased with that. And I had put on a good enough show for my travelling support, who it transpired had endured traffic from hell to come and see me. And all that having ridden to the race off-road and over a distance in excess of 100 miles. The next entry will detail the particulars of that fateful journey.
A season of Cyclocross, riding to every race.
The days were getting shorter, term rapidly approaching. I'd got back from a bikepacking trip around the Dolomites and quit my summer job as a cycle courier in London.
I moved a bootful of stuff out of the room I'd rented in an ex-council flat in Camberwell and watched my long-suffering mother drive off into what was sure to be a nightmarish throng of rush-hour traffic.
By this point it had become routine that I would make my journeys to and from East Anglia at either end of summer by bicycle. Despite the offer of a lift, I felt compelled to keep up the tradition.
Of a Sunday in late September, after breakfast with Courier friends, I threw my leg over the saddle and set off under threatening gunmetal skies. I had made it as far as Harlow before I felt the first flecks of rain.
Not so bad at first, but thickening all the time. On the home straight into Cambridge, shortcutting down a dual carriageway, visibility hit zero as roadspray and curtains of rain blended into an impermeable melange of grey. As I write this, the feeling is just returning to my ring and pinkie fingers.
Winter means different things to different cyclists. Couriers often measure their careers in winters. For road riders, the old adage "Winter miles, summer smiles" may come to mind. The thrum of turbo trainer under hum of xenon light.
For some, it means Cyclocross. I love Cyclocross. Of all the disciplines of cycling I feel it has the most potential for popular appeal in England. I picture crowds encircling the entire course on any given Sunday, beer or hot food in hand. The Sunday League of cycling.
I have had a few short weeks to turn the considerable base from courier work and bikepacking adventures into something resembling form. This is a personal challenge, but along the way perhaps I can demonstrate the accessibility of 'cross and shine a light on the promoters keeping 'cross alive. Stay tuned for updates each week.
This winter looks as follows: Monday-Friday work, study and train. Saturday-Sunday ride to and compete in every cyclocross race from London to Cambridge. I will document the attempt here and perhaps also on YouTube.