One more gear

Fear and loathing in East Sussex

2011-06-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

Barcombe mad: The dizzying effects of too much caffeine
kicked in here

With apologies to Hunter S. Thompson, I was somewhere around Barcombe on the edge of the weald when the drugs began to take hold.

And they needed to, as the previous 30-odd miles had been ridden at such a pace, I could feel the legs stiffening up and losing power noticeably. The drugs to which I refer were caffeine and glucose, of course. Or whatever it is they put in SIS gels these days. They certainly had a galvanising effect on me and probably saw me through the last 15 miles to Seaford.

A mid-August cycle to Paris beckons, so while staying with my parents, I thought I’d run a recce over the last stage of our UK leg, from Maresfield to Newhaven. What I’d failed to bargain for was the distance I’d need to go to get to that point.

So after setting off into a frankly ridiculous wind that almost blew me back into the house, I mashed my way along the back route to Lewes and northwards without ever getting out of the big ring. Big mistake.

I was already feeling slightly tired by the time I pulled over at North Chailey to replenish my water supply. This hadn’t been helped by my insistence on engaging in some Silly Commuter Racing along the A275 with a bloke I’d seen in the distance and was determined to pass. Finally swooped past him at the brow of a hill, but the effort was as unnecessary as it was ultimately costly.

The only saving grace was the screaming tail wind that propelled me along the A272 towards Maresfield. It only lasted the five or so miles, but it gave me the much-needed chance to rest up and conserve my dwindling levels of energy.

A quick once-round the roundabout and I was off the bike for a quick stretch, a banana and a quick bottle-swap. Veolia’s recycling centre provided the backdrop and ensured the stop wouldn’t be a long one.

Only a hundred yards in to the return leg and I was already wishing I’d stopped elsewhere for longer. The wind whipped up and the road hardened and rose. Not steeply or for any real distance, but to the legs it was like I’d stumbled upon an alp in east Sussex.

With legs seemingly as dead as the Piltdown Man I was passing, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the first of two energy gels I’d deemed would perhaps be more than necessary for the journey. Gulped down in a flash, it provided sufficient zing for me to appear sprightly to the slew of racers taking part in the local criterium I came upon. Or was that the pique of pride; I’m unsure.

What was noticeable was the difference between my performance in the sheltered parts of the road and that on the more exposed terrain. So by the gentle slope that ascends into Barcombe Cross from Spithurst, I felt the need for further stimulus and gulped down another gel. A good move because one wrong turn later and I was out of the saddle trying to crest the brief rise of Town Littleworth Road towards Cooksbridge.

From there on in it seemed like damage limitation. I felt like David Millar looked on stage 9 of last year’s Tour de France, save for a blistering descent of Winterbourne Hollow and a wind-assisted tank along the A259. The irony of wincing through Northease and Southease barely escaped me.

But the reward? A 45-mile jaunt at an average of just over 18mph. Clearly there’s some residual fitness in the legs from last year. But it’ll take some serious training to get to the stage where I’m properly match fit and able to reel off three 50-odd mile stages on the bounce. In two months’ time.

Springtime in Sussex

2011-04-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

Valley parade: Cuckmere Haven offers stunning views and
breathtaking cycling.

The lot of a fair-weather cyclist is not a happy one over the winter months. Hours spent cleaning bikes, tinkering with sprockets and looking gloomily out at the even gloomier weather.

But the second weekend in April sees positively Mediterranean temperatures soak the south coast and I finally decide it's time to get out on the bike again. It's been a long lay-off. The best bike is still in bits in its bag under the bed, but the trainer has been used sporadically on commuting detail, so I hitch it up on the roof-rack and head down to my parents' new place in Seaford.

Sunday morning is a great time to cycle - precious little traffic around and what little there is tends to give you a wide enough berth. So I'm out at the crack of dawn (OK, 9am) and off to test out the atrophied legs along the country road to Lewes and back. It's only 24 miles, but you've got to start somewhere, I tell myself.

Good job it was only a short distance. The first mile seems like several as I battle a pretty fierce headwind along the A259 towards Newhaven. But once on the Lewes Road, there's a bit more shelter afforded and I get up to cruising speed. It's only mild undulating territory, but each uphill feels like a mountain to these rusty thighs. And what was once only a brief tester up Winterbourne Hollow seems like the upper slopes of the Galibier.

Fortunately, the wind's behind me on the return leg and I blast along in the big ring, only switching to the smaller one up Blatchington Hill, which is really only a slight incline. But it's miles in the legs, which is all that matters to me at this stage.

This morning I decide to tackle a tougher route - the A259 from Seaford to Eastbourne; a much hillier proposition. There's a 14% climb out of the Cuckmere Valley that sees me in my lowest gearing and a gentler but longer rise out of Eastdean to the top of Beachy Head. But as there's an up, so there's a down - 40mph+ into Eastbourne's Old Town if you're wondering.

The return leg is not so simple. The wind is up and the ascent from Meads to Beachy Head is conducted in the smallest gearing possible against a strong, blustery wind that's whipping off the tops. It drags onwards, draining the last vestiges of energy gel out of me and I'm gasping for air as I get to the A259 again.

A new lease of life helps combat the wind as I plummet down into Eastdean again, only to be faced with the 17% sting of Friston Hill. It's here where my hill legs seem to have returned. I grind up the steeper section at the bottom and am practically sprinting by the top. I can do this. The muscles remember how.

If you've been 'following' the blog, you might be asking how this is ever going to prepare me for the Marmotte. Well it's not. I've decided against it this year as there's just been way too much going on. The expense was difficult to justify as well.

But I'll be taking the bike to Sussex again after this weekend. Exhilarating stuff and some truly breathtaking views.

Wharfedale squeakers

2010-10-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

Otley disputed: after consideration, I decided
against climbing to Otley

Key to success in any venture is a full assessment of what needs to be done. A quantity surveying, if you will. You only need to look at the Sphinx to see how badly something can go wrong if you don't order enough stone, for example.

So I'm in Yorkshire for an extended weekend and I've taken the opportunity to turn the legs over on the roads that cut grey, mottled scars across the bellies of Wharfedale and Nidderdale. It's a chance to run the rule over my current fitness levels to see what scale of training programme lies ahead. If the two jaunts I've had so far are anything to go by, it'll be a long, hard winter.

A window on Thursday afternoon and I'm into the lycra like a man possessed, slapping on layer after layer against the bracing Yorkshire air. There's a nice 22-mile circuit that takes in a flat back four of Linton, Spofforth, Harrogate and Harewood before settling back into East Keswick along a straight, fast sprint of a lane. Although not a long ride, it takes in a few rises, dales and troughs along its length. Once within a sniff of home, the barrier of Harewood Bank stands brashly between you and your destination; a brusque, stocky Yorshireman, its chest puffed out defying you to pass. To a chippy Lancastrian, this is all the red rag I need and I power up it as best I can in the 21-tooth sprocket and small chainring.

My verdict? I've made the change to a more race-oriented cassette too soon. This is soft, southern gearing, not the kind you need for the harsher highways of the north. But I survived it nonetheless and feel I've carried at least some fitness through from the summer.

Friday morning's ride is an altogether longer, testier affair. I've plotted a route through Wetherby, Little Ribston and Knaresborough all the way up to Ripley, then down through Beckwithshaw and out up it's cruel, malevolent corkscrew towards Otley, Pool, Arthington and Harewood Bank once again. It's just under 40 miles and the terrain is enough to turn grown men into squeaking, squealing mice.

This time I head off way too quickly, overtaking another cyclist on the descent towards the A58 and feeling like I need to hold him off to make the pass stick. It's big chainring stuff all the way to Ripley and I feel I'm averaging around 20mph. Veering on to the B6161 is a sobering lesson and I'm quickly dispelled of any notion I'm Fabian Cancellara as the wind whips into my face and halves the average speed in an instant. It comes as no surprise that I choose this moment to try and eat a cereal bar and end up breathing in small particles of rolled oat as I pootle into the headwind.

The road helps assassinate any myth of my own prowess I seem to have built up on the way to Ripley. What appears a mere bump takes all my strength to negotiate. A 10% gradient sign shows how steeply I'll descend, but fails to warn me of the 15% beast on the other side of the valley and I'm up. Out of the saddle, breathing hard as a rutting warthog and clinging to the mercy of the 23-tooth sprocket that at least allows me to turn the pedals.

It's painful progress, but I reach Pool still in one piece, although in no state to tackle an ascent up to Otley. I shun the climb in favour of a blast along the valley, taking on an energy gel to help with Harewood Bank. I try this in the lowest gear possible (34x23), but soon feel confident enough to grind out the rest on the 21-tooth sprocket. Reassuringly, I'm able to gun it along Harewood Road, sprint through East Keswick and up Lumby Lane.

Quantities suitably surveyed, I've planned a 45-mile final exam tomorrow morning that takes in Darley Head, a climb made famous in the Milk Race in years gone by. If I pass that, I'll feel buoyed enough to really loosen the shackles when I get back to London. Failure will banish me to the turbo trainer for a crash course in interval training. The stakes are high.

A glutton for punishment

2010-10-26T16:18:00.000-07:00

On repeat: that nagging sensation of
unfinished business rears its head

Late October. I cycle back in the wet and dark wearing ever more clothes as the temperatures plummet. Hills I flew up in summer are proving trickier to negotiate now, despite regular practice.

So what better time to decide on another crack at the Marmotte? I've been deliberating for a couple of weeks; ever since the first cold snap bit at my cheekbones and trawled the water out of the sides of my eyes. Thoughts turned inevitably to warmer times in hotter climes and endless climbs.

There is the possibility, of course, that I've just forgotten how painful it was and how much work it took. Perhaps bravado has taken over. Maybe I've just lost a marble or two. But I know I can do it now. And I've been feeling there is unfinished business out there.

So the plan is to start training in earnest this weekend. A long weekend in Yorkshire will see me put in some bumpy miles, mostly to see where I am fitness-wise and assess how much work needs to be done. This time, I'm aiming to do it in less than nine hours, more than two hours quicker than my time last year.

This will be possible, I believe, for a number of reasons. Last year was all about whether I could do it and raising money; neither of which are factors any more. I also spent far too long at feedstops admiring the view when I could have been on the road last year. Then there were the two seated comfort breaks, which put on at least half an hour to the overall time. My descending could have been better too. I also failed to get down to my target weight and didn't put anywhere near as much training in as I'd have liked. Starting in January was possibly too late as well.

It will be different this time. To reach my target, I'll need to be more strict with myself, eat the right foods, structure my training better, put in more base fitness miles over the winter and lose about five kilos. Come July next year, I'm going to look like a toned-up whippet rather than the Labrador I currently resemble. At least, if all goes according to plan.

So I have just over eight months in which to lose weight and add speed, power and stamina. I'm about to board the roller-coaster again. Ups. Downs. Flats. I'll welcome them all.

Higher education

2010-09-21T15:05:00.000-07:00

College fees: one of London's earlier attempts
at the Congestion Charge

As with many things in life, what starts out as a lofty, worthy idea can often turn quite quickly into a ruddy millstone round your neck.

So it's proven so far with the hills challenge. I've compiled my list, put in place a plan of action and even cleaned my bike in preparation for the first tilt at the inclines.

But have I crossed any off yet? Alas no. My flat 3.5 mile commute is all the cycling I've done for the past three weeks.

I've thought a good game, mind. The number of times I've relived climbing the cols of the Alps in the recent past is uncanny. And both my bikes are now looking pristine. Yet still the ascents have failed miserably to get off the ground.

Until this evening, that is. A group of cyclists - players of the unspoken game of SCR - have instigated the College Road challenge. A simple, timed ascent of the upwardly immobile toll road in Dulwich, starting at the toll booth and finishing at the top of Fountain Drive. It's not quite a mile long and isn't particularly steep until you get to the top, but it's only a bit of fun.

So I had my first crack at it tonight. And didn't do too badly considering the only thing I've climbed of late is the stairs, recording a time of 3 minutes and 28 seconds. I think I can improve on that as well as I was stymied by a ponderous Volvo and one or two fellow cyclists who were weaving somewhat towards the peak.

And the bonus is, I get to put in 11 miles on my commute home, which is bound to help as I eventually get round to completing a few of the hills.

Next stop... the list.

The hills are alive

2010-09-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

Bone idle: Skeleton Hill in the Chilterns
might not make the list

Alive with all sorts of history. Of culture. Of tradition. And above all, of inclines that will sap muscles, strain sinews and possibly force confused lungs up through windpipes to see if this new perspective can help them work out what's going on for themselves.

There are hundreds of the things dotted about all over the place. Formed by glacial movements, ancient collisions of tectonic plates and even huge human excavations, hills have defined the British countryside by their beauty, stature and the views afforded by them once you've made the effort to scale them.

And having had a crack at a fair few in the last year or so while training for the Marmotte, I've decided my next challenge is to climb 100 of them in the south east of England in the next year. By bike.

It's taken just over a month to compile the list, which I realise is the easy bit. It's by no means a comprehensive one. Doubtless there will be some obvious omissions that I'm happy for people to point out in the comments section.

But these are the ones I've chosen. The criteria were that they are in the south east, so south of Watford Gap and east of the Solent. I know there are more impressive and challenging hills available in Wales, the north west, Yorkshire, the Peak District, Scotland and Cornwall. But all these places are too far away, so I'm not even going to try. Besides, someone's already listed the 100 best climbs by bike in the UK, so if that's what you want, buy that instead.

Other criteria were that they were around 100 metres or so in height gain, were conspicuous in some way, had a good pub nearby or had a daft enough name that it appealed. I've been helped in putting the list together by some kind people on the Bikeradar website and the Kent Cycling Association, so huge thanks to them for their assistance. They'll be credited as I go along.

Just got to pluck up the motivation to get started now, especially as the weather's on the turn. Time to head to the Downs for the first of the ups.

Huez wally?

2010-08-09T11:18:00.000-07:00

Twenty-one switchbacks to go, as So Solid Crew may have rapped if they'd been into cycling at all. And been at the bottom of Alpe d'Huez, with its 21 hairpin bends that lead you to the top.

A wholly unlikely scenario, I'll grant you. But then if you'd asked me this time last year if I'd be bowling up the first of the Alpe's ramps after 100 miles in the genuine belief I could make it, I'd have blinked and inwardly questioned your sanity.

As it was, I began to question my own in the sapping, insistent heat. Climbing hills, and ipso facto mountains, on a bike is both physical toil and a huge mental test. Your legs are in pain and they're telling your brain to stop, get off and push. Your lungs tell you there is no more oxygen left and that you should stop, get off and push. The limbs you've bent over a bicycle all day complain like a clutch of bored teenagers on a trip to a church of interest in the picturesque Breton countryside with their parents. And they too advise you to stop.

Then your mind chips in. Why are you doing this? Can't you see this is damaging? Stop now while you can. Look. Other people have stopped. Some are walking. So can you. It's so much easier that way. You haven't got the strength. You haven't got the energy. You are not cut out for this. Stop. Get off. Push.

But a small part - one that's been honed over the last six months of training - blocks out the common sense and drives you ever forward. Marshals the lungs to gulp in air, chivvies the leg muscles to carry on contracting and expanding. Tells the limbs they're fine. Shouting down its larger, more insistent brother.

And it wins. We count down the hairpins as we climb. I had wanted to make a note of who each corner was named after, as each bears the name of a previous winner of a Tour de France stage that's finished at the top. But my mind was too busy telling me to stop or urging me on, so that just didn't happen.

At the village of La Garde, a saint had rigged up a curtain of water across the road to douse the baked as they ascended. We stopped at hairpin 11 to take on more energy gels and bars. Then again at turn seven where the water stop provided much-needed liquid and a soaking from a French army private armed with a hose.

By turn four, I needed to take on more energy, so stopped under the shade of a minute tree for the last energy gel I'd secreted away for just such an eventuality. The last few switchbacks barely registered as we neared the summit and I felt I could put in a sprint by the time we saw the roundabout before the finish.

And so, it was done. Sheer elation on crossing the line, followed by a healthy stretch and the polishing off of water. An obligatory photo at the finish line, then back to soak in a bath and head out for a celebratory beer or two.

More than a month later, I'm finally finishing the blog as well. Much has changed since I set out.

I have lost about a stone in weight, most of which is still off. I have a swanky bike that's way too good for me, but which I need to grow into. I've developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of the hills around north Kent/south east London. I've used up an awful lot of brownie points that I'm keen to pay back. I'm considerably fitter and healthier. I've become quasi-addicted to quinoa and a dab hand at making flapjacks. I have no fear of any hill.

In practical terms, I've raised more than £1,500 for Macmillan Cancer Care and just over £100 for Coral Cay Conservation. That's thanks to some lovely and generous family and friends, without whom, etc. I am genuinely amazed to have raised so much, so a big thank to everyone who coughed up. If that wasn't you, I'm delighted to say you can still do so by visiting my Justgiving site.

And I did what's generally regarded as the hardest sportive in the world. I am, justifiably, proud of this.

I am also wondering what the next challenge will be. Would I do it again? I'm not sure. I'd like to post a competitive time, but I'm not sure I've earned the right to train that hard again.

Perhaps I'll leave it another year and see.

Savoie faire-well

2010-07-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

Let's just get one thing clear - going downhill on a bike isn't as easy as it sounds.

OK, so you don't have to pedal, power-to-weight ratio is really not an issue and it doesn't feel like every sinew in your body is about to splutter into uselessness. But it's an art nonetheless and takes a huge amount of dexterity, hand strength for the all-important braking and, above all, a flagrant disregard for what could happen.

Doesn't feel like much in a car on the open road, but hurtling down a mountainside at 40+ miles an hour on a bike along tightly bending roads is good enough for any speed-junkie.

So there you are. Blasting along the greatest descent in Europe surrounded by the stunning Savoie countryside. And you're looking at 100 yards of tarmac ahead of you the whole time. Knowing that a puncture or one lapse in concentration could see you rag-dolling along the road or careering off over the edge into the abyss. It's a situation where vision and line of sight is everything.

Hold that thought. Is it in there? Good.

Now imagine you're gunning it at more than 40 miles an hour along that twisty, turny road when, all of a sudden, someone turns out the lights and you're cycling blind. It's at this point the road gets rough and you need both hands on the bars to keep it upright. The buzz-saw of a million car exhausts is ringing in your ears. At odd intervals, you can just make out the whites of sad-eyed monsters creeping inexorably your way in a game of what is, for you anyway, suicidal chicken.

Welcome to my world in the tunnel before La Grave. I had been warned about it, but even my hopefully nightmarish description above doesn't do it justice. I have genuinely never been more scared on a bike than in the first few moments of the tunnel. There was no lighting to speak of, save a row of smogged-up bulbs overhead that were giving out about as much of a beam as a fading tea-light. I was doing a silly speed and the road began to bobble, so both hands were gripping the bars firmly, which probably didn't help.

Neither, I admit, did the sunglasses I was wearing, but I had no opportunity to remove them, so there they remained. A virtual blindfold I was unable to shed. I couldn't see the lines down the centre of the road. I couldn't see where the tunnel wall was. God knows what would have happened if the road had deviated from the gun-barrel straight. What seemed like years later, a dim light appeared at the end of the tunnel and I pedalled hard for it, hoping above hope it wasn't the light of an oncoming juggernaut.

Coming out of the tunnel was like being born again. I had been given life and it was precious. And I aimed to keep hold of it for a bit longer, so I pulled over and removed the offending sunglasses in preparation for the next few tunnels, which thankfully weren't as long.

Once through them, the road smoothed out and became a joy to ride on. It perhaps would have been even better without the freak, torrential 15-minute downpour that summoned up the road grease like a blackbird tapping up the morning worm.

A quick comfort break and banana stop at the bottom of the descent gave me the chance to stretch my legs and wait for Martin, which didn't take long. We hacked our way further along the valley past a glorious looking dammed lake and on towards Bourg d'Oisans, taking turns in a good, swift group that boosted our progress.

Up until we were stymied by my chain coming off after a routine gear change. Thanks, Shimano. No, really.

But it was all downhill to the bottom of the Alpe from there along nice, smooth roads. So determined was I to reach the timing mat before the cut-off point that I shouldered most of the burden of the headwind on the front of a long line of riders. But I felt strong enough to tow the rest and, as I'd been helped out earlier in the day, it seemed only fair.

The stop in Bourg d'Oisans was confusing, with plenty of people strewn around clearly going nowhere. Could they really be stopping now with just one more climb to go? Our water bottles filled, we made our way over the timing mat and pulled over out of the now searing heat in the shade afforded by a small hedge. Here, we topped up on gels and fruit bars in readiness for the final assault...

Better part of Valloire

2010-07-21T13:03:00.000-07:00

And so the slog begins. Galibier is a beast of a climb that drags upwards through a valley for several miles before switching back and upwards into the clouds.

I first heard of the mountain pass quite late in life at a bar in Toulouse while watching Le Tour. The Frenchman describing the next day's stage just said 'Col du Galibier' with such emphasis on the middle syllable that I couldn't help but wonder at its legend.

Watching that stage, and subsequent Tours de France, only added to the mountain's mythology. It was the one part of the Marmotte that I was genuinely afraid of and the highest point too, at 2645 metres above sea level. I've been on planes flying lower than that. When I'd started out at St Michel de Maurienne just before the Télégraphe, I was more than 2 kilometres lower.

If anything, the trail up the valley broke me into it gently and I was surprised at how high I'd already come by the time I reached Plan Lachat, more or less the halfway point of the climb. But it was here I had to stop courtesy of a return of the troublesome stomach issues that had seen me stay at the previous water stop for so long. I got chatting to an Irish guy in a Livestrong shirt while in the queue and asked him whether he'd be doing it again next year. No way, he said, pointing at the ramp that seared up from Plan Lachat and formed the first part of the route up the Col after the stop.

After several minutes, I saw Martin grinding up the valley, so motioned him to stop. We filled the water bottles, stretched out and contemplated the task ahead while munching down energy bars and topping up the gels.

Once on the ramp, I found the going surprisingly manageable. Maybe it was the altitude, but the further I climbed, the lighter I felt. The scenery was growing ever more spectacular and unearthly. People have compared it to a moonscape and I'd tend to agree in some parts. Except the bits where torrents of melting ice were cascading down the roads.

Higher, further up and along the road I pedalled, feeling inexorably drawn to the feed stop that was waiting for us just one kilometre below the summit. I knew water, gel, food, energy drink and a few laughs would be there, so ploughed on past crawlers and walkers ever closer to the peak.

Snow was more prevalent the longer the climb went on and it was on the other side of a huge drift that I finally saw the Veloventoux van. I guzzled and glugged like a caveman possessed for a good few minutes before calming down a bit and admiring the view. I felt almost overwhelmed by what I saw. Both the distance, height and terrain I'd covered were genuinely awe-inspiring. It was at this point I felt confident I'd finish the race intact. And as if signalling my more relaxed outlook, several loud blasts of wind entertained the gathered flock and many of the passing cyclists too.

Following a quick stop for some obligatory snaps just after cresting the summit, we began the 40-kilometre descent I'd been looking forward to for some weeks...

Télégraphe road

2010-07-16T15:26:00.000-07:00

Fortified by a couple of half bananas and a fruit bar, I hacked my way through a jungle of riders to the edge of the abyss - a 20-odd kilometre descent of the Glandon.

What goes up must come down. And down and down and down, judging by the road that sprung out down the mountainside before me like a deranged tarmac slinky.

The race organisers neutralised it - basically turned the timing chips off - so people would go down a bit more steadily. By all accounts, it can get quite hairy and certainly the top is what they call technical. Which means steep and twisty, as far as I can tell.

Martin had already fallen foul of it, puncturing as a result of an inner tube blow-out thanks to overheated rims caused by excessive braking. I tried to stop as I flew past at a daft lick, but it would have been dangerous to do so. Once off the tops, it really was a case of The Long And Winding Road. I lost count of the switchbacks and hairpins negotiated and was genuinely grateful when I saw the signs for St Etienne des Cuines, which signalled the end of the descent.

More fool me. What followed was possibly my worst time in cycling. Approaching 15 kilometres of main road in searing heat and a block headwind the size of Wales to boot. I did my level best to tag on to the end of groups, but they were all moving too quickly, so I wrestled the bike along by myself, feeling every inch like I was being blasted backwards.

I also began to feel the effects of too many energy drinks and bars, which were weighing heavily on the stomach. Cramps ensued, but thankfully respite was at hand in the form of a water stop replete with portaloos. You could say I outstayed my welcome there.

By the time I emerged, having taken an aeon to put my jersey back on, Martin had arrived, so we ploughed on to the base of the Col du Télégraphe in tandem. For the first few hundred yards, I exchanged pleasantries with a Dulwich Paragon rider, but felt stronger after the gel I'd ingested so span on ahead.

Known as being the easiest of the Cols, it lived up to its billing. But what a climb. Forested at the outset, the road snakes ever higher through thinning trees until you can look to your right and see just how high you've climbed from the plain below. An inspiring sight. Cresting the pass without stopping felt like an achievement by the time I got there. But I eagerly sought shade and a comfy seat on arrival.

Fatigue was beginning to set in now and Martin was certainly feeling the effects of little sleep, so we stopped for some time before hitting the descent - a nice 5 km drift down into Valloire. And you can relive that descent vicariously through the medium of internet video below.

Yes, yes, I know it looks slow, but that's just the video. Honest.

But I'd be forgiven for taking it easy over that stretch, as the gruesome Galibier was waiting in the wings...

Glandon the run

2010-07-14T13:36:00.000-07:00

A pitifully weak, nagging high-pitched bleep ushers in the big day with the kind of whimper I expect to be emitting by the end of it.

Muesli is eaten. Near tasteless pasta forced down. Coffee deals a gentle nudge to the ribs. Slowly, activity trumps torpor and we're waiting, bug-eyed, at the top of the Alpe.

From the off, Mark plunges down the mountain like a man on rails. I do my best to follow, but wimp out of some of the turns as I've much less confidence in the descent. But bravado or, more likely, fatigue from braking takes precedence and I match him on the lower slopes, reaching the bottom mere seconds after him and a good few minutes before the other two.

This means we start slightly ahead of Martin and Nick, but it's not long before they catch me and I hitch on to the back of the train they're in, heading for the first climb. These first few kilometres are tackled with unnerving ease, but this is shaken away by the sight of the first ramp up to the reservoir. It's a short hike, but it signals the beginning of a roller-coaster of mainly ups, with the odd down mixed in to keep it interesting.

Yet again, I save my first cereal bar for the bottom of a long climb, wheezing through the oats as I gasp in the air. My fellow Marmottees think I'm in serious trouble and I'm sure they wonder what I'm doing there. But I'm surprised at how easily I seem to be ascending, passing many competitors as I tap away at a fairly decent lick. Good old Westerham Hill has clearly served its purpose. But what's different is that this is like eight of them stacked up in a row, so by the time I crest the first false summit, I know I'm in a bit of a fight.

Luckily, there's a couple of kilometres' dip before the next climb, the bottom of which gives me the chance to shed the gilet. Unfortunately, halfway up the 12% ramp, my load lightens and I'm shouted at by passers-by. I've dropped the gilet, along with several energy bars, so I have to stop. Dismount. Walk jelly-legged downhill. Fold up the gilet and stow it properly. Then try to clip in on a steep gradient. I half pedal at least 100 yards before my left foot finally clips in, but the ire stoked by my stupidity sees me past the most severe slope and on to the steadier incline.

It's at this point I pass a man with one arm and one leg missing. He's cycling up the hill on an adapted bike with one pedal. I'm astounded and amazed. To enter the Marmotte is the reserve of the fairly daft or the braggadocio. But this is real drive and triumph over adversity stuff that puts my efforts into stunning context. I resolve to quit moaning and just get on with it.

And this perseverance is rewarded by incredible views over lakes, mountains, valleys and horizons. The Col du Glandon wheedles its way through daisy-strewn alpine meadows the like of which I haven't seen since Heidi was televised in the mid 1970s on children's television. The view keeps me going and I've practically forgotten the pain as I see the feed stop at the top.

I've conquered one alpine pass. Only two more remain before I scale the Alpe...

The long dud Friday

2010-07-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

Alpe d'Huez is like a Glastonbury Festival of cyclists. They are everywhere, crawling around the place in nervous anticipation with a combined £10 million worth of bikes beneath their legs in preparation for the big day.

Registration and preparation are the order of the day, but Martin and I, along with Mark who's in our apartment, want to get some hill miles in our legs to test the bikes out. We decide on the Col de Sarenne, a 7km pass that skirts around the edge of the 3320-metre Pic Blanc and out towards the Barrage du Chambon.

Once out of the confines of the paid-for roads, however, we discover it's more of a mountain bike route. Mark and I press on, but Martin heads back having seen enough poor road surfaces to know that punctures are never too far away.

The rough road plunges down into a gorge before rising up to its peak of 2,000 metres. It's dreadful, but I need the psychological boost of an alpine pass in my legs, so I graft up the 11% gradient till I reach the summit. Mark has gone beyond and down into the valley, but I stand at the top and drink in the fresh mountain air. It's fairly thin, but feels innately healthy. I see Mark sprinting back to the top up what looks a horrendously steep incline and decide he'll be in a different class come tomorrow's race.

We drift back and prepare to register, which takes none of us anywhere near as much time as we fear. The temperature is rising fast, so we seek solace indoors and watch the football. Given we're setting off to Bourg d'Oisans - where the race starts - at 6.30am, we take an early dinner of pasta at Smithy's Tavern while watching the Scottish Andy Murray lose to Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon.

Our evening is mercifully brief - we don't even see the end of the Uruguay v Ghana quarter final. A few hours' nervous sleep awaits before our longest day. I'm still totally unaware of how I'll handle the miles and the mountains and the tension is building. With luck, the nerves will be shaken off by a brisk descent from the Alpe in the morning.

The silence of the lambs

2010-07-07T12:15:00.000-07:00

Six grown men and their bikes in a minibus head along the péage from Valence to Grenoble, chatting enthusiastically about cycling, the countryside and the weather.

The atmosphere is relaxed, jovial and polite. Names are exchanged; questions are put. Once the minibus has joined the queue of traffic through Grenoble, however, there is only quiet. Terrain has turned from rolling valley to sharp, sheer inclines and craggy ruggedness. We're in mountain country and those of us planning to cycle in it are silenced by the scale of them.

I have to remind everyone that we'll be riding over the passes that skirt and hug these huge rock formations rather than going straight over the top of them, but it's cutting no ice. These things are frightening. We are the lambs to the slaughter and we're rendered silent by the enormity of our fate.

That or we've run out of superlatives to describe our surroundings. Once we're out of Grenoble, it becomes simply breathtaking.

But by far the longest silence is saved for the first ramp of the Alpe d'Huez. Our guide, Craig, from Veloventoux warns anyone who hasn't been here before to close their eyes, though none of us do. A clay-grey wall rears up like a striking concrete cobra as we round the bend and I'm dumbstruck.

It snakes on for hundreds of metres before switching backwards and upwards again, spitting gradients of sickening venom as it slithers skywards. We've come less than a kilometre and I want to go home already.

There is little let up in the slope and our collective jaw rests snugly in our chest as we reach the peak. We must climb this after 100 gruelling, mostly uphill miles. It's the first time I genuinely believe I haven't done enough; that I'll fail.

More on the psychological struggle in the next instalment tomorrow...

And we're off

2010-06-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

So that's it, then. Bag packed, training done, last-minute panics had. All that remains is the journey and the race.

I've borrowed a tiny digital video camera with which I hope to record some of the suffering and upload edited bits on to the blog after the event. Big thanks to Piers for answering the extremely last-minute call.

And a huge thanks to everyone who's coughed up their hard-earned so far. At the time of going to press (heh), I'm 88 per cent of the way towards achieving my upwardly revised target of £1,500. It really has been a source of inspiration to see the money mounting up, so thanks again to all of you, who are thankfully too many to mention. Although I might well post up a roll of honour if I ever get through this thing. There's still time to get your name on there as well - just follow this link.

That'll be it now until I return, so thanks for reading and following the ups and downs of what's been an interesting six months. There's no way of knowing whether I've done enough, but whatever happens, I'm a damn site fitter and thinner than I was at Christmas.

Stay tuned for next week's blow-by-blow account of what is more than likely going to be the hardest thing I've ever done.

Pip pip,

Ben

Box Hill cavalier

2010-06-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

What goes up must come down

Spinning wheel got to go 'round.

I have Blood, Sweat and Tears to thank for Sunday's earworm that accompanied me on my Father's Day jaunt to Box Hill.

Nestled on the east side of the Mole Valley, Box Hill is a delightful place and provides the Surrey cyclist with the merest soupçon of an Alpine climb. Averaging around a 5.5% gradient over its 2.5 km, the zig-zag road takes you from a roundabout on the A24 to a dizzying 172 metres above sea level. And a lovely little cake shop at the top is your reward.

But not for me the temptations of National Trust sponge slices. My aim was to do as many repetitions of the hill as I could in the measly hour and a half I had at my disposal. Thanks to the generosity of some early leavers, I procured a free ticket for the parking area at the summit and rolled my gentle way downhill to the start, admiring the stunning scenery as I descended.

Managed six ascents before having to call it a day, which equates to almost one full alpine climb. OK, maybe around three-quarters of the first ascent on the Marmotte, the Col du Glandon.

The good news is, I knew there was plenty more left in the tank. I'd barely broken sweat. The other tremendous thing I discovered was that I can fit my bike, sans wheels, into the boot of our tiny Renault Clio, which meant I didn't have to have my heart in my mouth as the lightly clamped bike swayed in the wind while pinned to the roof-rack.

On a slightly irksome note, my left calf muscle seems to be somewhat tender, but given I'll be more or less resting up over the next week and a half, it should settle down in time for the big day.

It certainly didn't stymie my SCR on the way home this evening. A guy on a Trek hybrid gave me the hurry-up from Tower Bridge Road all the way to Cold Blow Lane and I'm pleased he went his separate way as I'd had a bit of trouble shaking him off. Legs were juddering and the lungs were screaming as I dismounted, but the grin on my face was visible for some distance, I expect.

And I'm actually beginning to look forward to Saturday week now. I'll try a few more hill reps over the coming week and will simulate a two-hour alpine climb on the turbo, but other than that I think I'm as prepared as I'm going to be, so I may as well enjoy what's coming.

Bunce boost

2010-06-19T12:57:00.000-07:00

If a week is a long time in politics, it's an equinox in football.

Stuart Hall, possibly the greatest summariser the beautiful game has ever known, once brightened up a fairly dismal Saturday afternoon of mine many years ago with the above pearler.

Making a difference this week was Dr Em, one half of global party beatsters Funky Jim and Dr Em, who added much-needed impetus to my fund-raising effort this week. Just some well-placed words on the internet was all that was needed to push the amount collected over my one grand target. Chapeau, squire, and much appreciated.

Much like the Marmotte, though, having reached one peak, there's another just on the horizon. I decided to up the target to £1,500, which may or may not be achievable, but you've got to give it a whirl, haven't you?

Training's been practically non-existent this week, partly due to prudent planning and partly a result of the hammering I took in last week's Magnificat. The legs didn't feel up to anything at all up to and including Wednesday, so I allocated the following day to be my first cycle commute of the week.

And it was all going according to plan until around 6am on Thursday, when I was woken by an intense stabbing pain in my left shoulder. This spread to my chest and I've seen those ads on telly with the middle aged bloke having his chest crushed by an imaginary belt, so I immediately thought heart attack. A call to NHS Direct elicited precious little reassurance, especially as I was put through to the London Ambulance Service to book in for a quick trip to A&E.

Several prods, listens and ECG tests later, I was given a clean bill of health and dispatched to the streets of Lewisham two paracetamol to the good. Gotta love the NHS. Breathing was still slightly painful, though; a sensation amplified by my cycle into the bike shop to get the gearing sorted out. As well as having heavy legs, I found it insanely difficult and uncomfortable to breathe deeply.

Friday's commute in was more painful than usual, although some of that might be down to my pride forcing me to 'drop' the guy drafting me along Great Dover Street. The return journey was better, but it's still a worry. Nurofen seems to have done the trick, though, and there is now no pain to speak of. I'll be giving it a good work-out tomorrow at Box Hill, where I'm planning a few repetitions to keep the sharpness in the legs.

In exactly two weeks' time, I will have completed the challenge. Or failed. It's now so close I can touch it. I'm actually genuinely scared, having spent the evening viewing pictures of each of the climbs. But the surge in sponsorship has definitely provided a timely tonic, so thanks to everyone who's chipped in.

Rough riders

2010-06-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

I feel so broke up today

Lord, I feel so mash up today

Likewise, Prince. Likewise. Sunday's last long-distance sortie before the big day saw me tackle the 127-mile Magnificat on the variable roads of Berkshire, Wiltshire and Hampshire.

While the scenery was beautiful, breathtaking even, the terrain was rough. Save a relatively flat section after the first three climbs, almost the entire course was a series of annoying, morale-sapping ups and downs. This provided little opportunity for getting into a rhythm and tapping out the miles and instead made for a frustrating afternoon. After a 20-mile stretch of just such undulating terrain, I laughed at the ridiculousness of yet another crest and slough. Through gritted teeth, of course.

And despite the weather doing its bit and staying dry and fairly warm, a blustery wind did its best to hamper. But nothing - nothing - hurt more than the road surfaces. Dreadful. It was almost like I didn't have any tyres and was riding on rims of pure granite. With an iron seatpost. And an anvil for a seat. The great Sean Kelly would no doubt describe them as 'heavy roads' and I wouldn't disagree for a second.

Then there were the mechanical problems, with the front mech proving unreliable again. This meant having to scale the odd hill in the big chainring as well as riding the last 10 miles on the small chainring when I could have done with the speed afforded by the bigger one. I thought this had been sorted out by the bike shop at the beginning of the month, but alas no. So straight back it goes on Thursday. If there's one thing I'll need in three weeks' time, it's the certainty I can switch reliably between the two chainrings. It'll be bad enough climbing more than 5,000 metres as it is, without the added anxiety of potentially unsuitable gearing.

But despite all this, I did the 127 miles. Those hard, rough miles are in my legs. They're in my backside. And my hands. Feet. Ribs. Bones. All the slog and pain is now firmly implanted in my body's memory, where it'll need to stay up to and including 3 July. When my brain is ordering me to stop and is threatening to shut down various bits of my body halfway up the Alpe d'Huez, it'll be that memory I'll be calling on to remind my mind to mind its own business.

And that's pretty much it for the distance training. I know I can do the miles now, so there's no longer a need for that kind of exertion. Certainly not with the race so close anyway. I'll be carrying on with the silly commuting racing, though. And will be getting some early morning hill repetitions in as well to maintain sharpness on the inclines. A sharpness I definitely felt on the ascent of Stoner Hill near the aptly named village of Steep.

So all that then remains is to get out there and do it. And to hit my target of raising £1,000 for Macmillan Cancer Care, which is looking more likely than it was two months ago. By the looks of things, I think the amount raised is as good a barometer as you'll get for how ready I am for the Marmotte.

The incredible Bwlch

2010-06-08T14:12:00.000-07:00

We'll keep a welcome in the hillside

We'll keep a welcome in the Vales...

And so they did, as more than 4,000 eager cyclists pounded the streets and mountain passes of south Wales in the Dragon Ride. Literally tens of people lined the avenues to cheer on the bicycling faithful in surprisingly seasonable weather last Sunday, a heart-warming and strengthening sight to witness from the pain and discomfort of the saddle.

The event was my first ever 'sportive' and, having completed the 190 km course in a shade under eight hours (7h 55m 16s, to be exact), I'm taking some encouragement into what is the final month of training before the big day. While not in the same league as the Marmotte, the Dragon Ride is nevertheless a challenge, so finishing in a respectable time after what's been a difficult couple of weeks is no mean feat.

So do I feel more confident? Not particularly. Yet again, the knee went weird after 10 or so miles before easing off at the 20-mile mark. Great timing for tackling the Bwlch (pron. bulk) from the Ogmore Valley side, but not so good for taking on the mighty Col du Glandon, which begins after only 12 km of the Marmotte. And again, as time wore on, discomfort and fatigue began to take their toll.

But the crumbs of comfort I do take from the weekend just gone are in a way much more relevant. My climbing and descending really came together. After 100 miles, I still felt strong enough to blaze up the Bwlch from the Afan Valley side in marginally less than 15 minutes. Coming down the other side saw me reach speeds in excess of 45 mph, which was pretty exhilarating. It was only in the 'rouleur' undulating territory that I struggled a bit. And the good news is, there isn't any time for that in the Marmotte, because it is literally all up and down.

Next weekend, I'm taking part in the Magnificat, which covers just such rouleur ground. It's not ideal, but at 127 miles long, it'll certainly help with endurance. Then there are just two more weekends before the big day. I may or may not put in another long ride in that time, but more likely I'll be working on the turbo trainer or doing early morning hill repetitions.

Whatever I end up doing, it's mere tinkering now. The bwlch of my training has already happened.

Nice one, centurion

2010-05-24T12:58:00.000-07:00

I think he wants to know which way up you want to be crucified.

There was a point yesterday when I wondered whether crucifixion may have been a more pain-free option. Actually, there were several; the first being when the knee flared up after a mere six miles on the road. But the experience of the previous week taught me to carry on and it soon responded well to the heat of work.

And work it had to, as I was putting in my first ever attempt at a ride of 100+ miles, cycling to my sister's place near Lewes and back. According to gmaps pedometer, it was a round trip of 110 miles, which is around about the distance of La Marmotte, if not the climbing. Definitely not the climbing.

But knee aside, the outward stage was conspicuous by its lack of incident, save a few annoying chain drops that I'll need to get sorted soon. I passed many cyclists along the way, including a couple of bunches of contestants in the SERRL road race, but besides inconsiderate drivers and particularly poor road surfaces, it went smoothly and quickly - 55 miles in a shade over three hours.

A brief stopover at my sisters to top up the water and sun cream and I was back on the road, retracing my wheels homeward. Now I'm fully aware of the myth of London to Lewes being downhill, something to do with it being further south I expect, but my journey back went a long way to busting that myth, it being predominantly uphill. It was also distinctly hotter and I spent many a mile hugging the hedgerows seeking shade. As I passed an ambling cyclist at Maresfield who was heading for Tunbridge Wells, my chain dropped again and he caught me a short distance later. We chatted for a few minutes before he dropped back to his own pace, a sure sign I was definitely feeling fully capable of making the distance.

North of Maresfield, however, is the Anvil. A spot of brush just out of Ashdown Forest that offers zero protection from the sun and wind, the repeat of which I'd been dreading since I'd noted it on the way down. Yet neither the blazing heat nor the stiff breeze proved my undoing. No, it was a pot-hole. Nothing huge, just big enough to cause a slow puncture in my front wheel.

It was so slow, I only noticed it after I'd passed Chuck Hatch. Presumed it was a full puncture, only to find the inner tube still inflated when I'd pulled the tyre off. To save time (error), I stuffed it back in and pumped up the tyre as best I could with my heavy, use-free pocket pump (must buy a light one that locks on to the valve). I limped down Jacks Hill at a pace unbecoming of such a descent, bimbled through Hartfield and stopped again to administer further air to the chamber.

At this point, my thoughts were of quitting. I figured I could probably get to Edenbridge without wrecking the wheel rim and get a train back to London, but I would have failed, having only clocked up around 80-odd miles. I traipsed off towards Edenbridge with resignation after the third stop in as many 10-minute periods, when I chanced upon a couple of marshals from the cycle race I'd passed earlier. I stopped and chatted with them, mainly to see if they had a track pump I could borrow but also out of curiosity about the race. In stifling heat, they told me there might be a couple of people further up the road with what I was after, so I pressed on with the new hugely flat front. And there they were. Two people sat by the roadside with drinks, toolkits, laptops and, more importantly, track pumps. I hastily changed the tube and inflated the tyre, waving them a cheery goodbye as I sped off with renewed vigour. Huge thanks to them, whoever they were.

From the journey down, I knew I had two obstacles between me and home. Crockham Hill and Westerham Hill. I'd picked up a lot of speed coming down both, so I knew they'd be tough after 90 or so miles. Now I realise neither are exactly Alpe d'Huez, but they're pretty much all I've got in my area. And they're daunting enough as it is. Crockham wasn't too bad once I'd got myself into the shade - I even slipped out of the granny gear into the next sprocket down as I ground out the yards. The reward was a descent over possibly the worst road surface I've seen in a long time and I was highly fortunate not to hit one of several potholes on the way. I stopped at the bottom of Westerham Hill for a 'comfort break' and the last of my energy gels, then head down and ready for the final assault. As each of the metres went by I felt stronger. Then the road ramped up, but I was given a target of the shaded area, so sprinted for it. I just caught it and flipped to the granny gear, climbing steadily and with a reasonable heart rate too. By the time the gradient fell away, I was ready to change down a gear or two and climb out of the saddle for the last 150 metres or so.

And that was that. Long, swooping descent from Biggin Hill all the way to Hayes, next the rolling terrain of south east London, then a long drag up Crystal Palace Park Road and it was easy pickings from there on in. First time over 100 miles in a day. And the real beauty of it? Barely any stiffness at all today.

Good job I changed that saddle.

Rising damp

2010-05-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

Bad weather always looks worse through a window.

He was an astute cookie, that Tom Lehrer. Sunday morning's curtain twitch revealed a sight we'd been expecting and dreading in equal measure - relentless rain. Nothing's more likely to drive you back to bed on the morning of a long ride than foul weather, so we helped ourselves to another 15 minutes in the hope that might clear it. No chance.

Martin then ably proved the Duke of Gloucester's assertion in King Lear that the worst is not, so long as we can say: this is the worst. Upon declaring it looked as bad as it was going to get, the heavens conspired and issued forth untold torrents upon the undeserving Welsh countryside. And yet, by the time we crossed the threshold, the rain had stopped. We set off immediately. Five minutes up the road, it started again, around about the time my knee started to flare up again.

"I'll give it until the top of the hill and take a view," I said as we began the first climb of the Black Mountain. It held up OK on the ascent, but after a cold, windy, wet descent, it was screaming at me. I ploughed on, mentally giving myself another 10 miles before I'd really have to bail out. Six miles further down the road and, with the sun finally peeping through the clouds to witness proceedings, the joint seemed fine. Whether this was the extra warmth or the muscles getting used to moving, I wasn't sure, but the knee definitely felt better when pedalling, so I kept going.

From Brynamman, we followed the road along to Hirwaun, at the foot of the Rhigos pass, before heading for Brecon along the extended Dragon Ride route. Utterly stunning scenery. We take a brief break by the shores of a reservoir before heading down a magnificent descent at full pelt. Big ring, smallest sprocket, head down and pedalling. Great fun, but I can't help thinking I should be doing it the other way round.

We're halted further along the road by a 'bike event' - the National Youth Championships - which sees around 100 under-18s sprint past at impressive speed. Huge respect to the lads, which grows even more as we see (and descend) the 18% hill they'd just climbed before they passed us.

Further rain and wind dogs our progress homewards, back towards the Black Mountain and up a couple of nasty little testing hills we'd totally forgotten about on the way out. A well-needed energy gel provides just enough oomph to carry us over the pass and we descend like kings for the last time into Llangadog. At which point, the clouds clear and Mediterranean conditions break out.

So 87 hard miles covered and the knee held out, but I have learned I'll need to change my saddle. The Fizik Arione that came with the bike might be popular among some riders, but for me it was like perching on a sliver of seasoned mahogany. I'm still feeling the effects and there's no way I can countenance spending nearly 12 hours sitting on the thing in July, so I'll switch it with the one on my training bike and test ride that this weekend.

Training has been poor this week. First few days were spent resting the knee, then I made the misjudgement of meeting up with the guys responsible for Caught By The River on Wednesday, an immensely enjoyable evening, but not one likely to advance my cycling cause. This weekend sees my climb aboard the wagon and really start ratcheting up the fitness levels. I still have ever such a long way to go.

Misty mountain hop

2010-05-18T12:58:00.000-07:00

I'm packing my bags for the Misty Mountains
where the spirits go now,
over the hills where the spirits fly.
I really don't know.

Me neither, Robert, but I agree there's nothing like a spell in the misty mountains to get the spirits flying.

So it was with high hopes and a low-weight bike that I set off for Llangadog and the welcoming hearth of Mick and Julie's place, The Last. Dinner and a couple of b-grade Welsh pints took care of Friday night and I'd planned a morning's jaunt over the Black Mountain on the A4069, a road made famous by Top Gear presenters. This I postponed until the afternoon after persuading Martin it was still worth coming down, he having been psyched out by the heinous weather report for the weekend in the area.

On his arrival, we readied ourselves for an afternoon of hill climbing in what would be my new steed's first ever outing. The excitement was tempered by a sense of trepidation and the lingering effects of an unexpected hangover - surely my intake didn't warrant this?

The bike responds admirably to my laboured legs, but I can't keep up with Martin for long and soon find myself out of sight and a good distance behind, even before the climb proper begins. Nevertheless, I stick it out and find my rhythm, my breathing audible many metres away as I find out later. The toil is rewarded with literally breathtaking views across the western beacons in what is turning out to be a glorious sunny afternoon. And once peaked, the Black Mountain offers an exhilarating descent whichever way you climb it, so we head down to Brynamman at great pace.

A swift drink at the bottom of the hill, we turn and head back over the pass to Llangadog. A long, steady drag with a large section of heavy road contributes to the impression the ascent is longer than the first, but Cateye says otherwise - just the three miles as opposed to four and a half. Again, the descent is sweet reward for the effort sweated out on the climb, but with added hairpins for good measure.

We turn round again at the foot of the mountain and repeat the dose before calling it a day and, if anything, the legs seem more willing than they were the first time. But I'm pleased as we roll back into the village and dismount, not least because the saddle on the new bike is beginning to smart.

We're taken to an authentic old Welsh front-room pub in Llandovery for evening refreshments and I'm happy to wind down in hospitable surroundings with 40 miles of good, honest riding in the legs. Deep down, however, I know the next day holds the more serious challenge in potentially grim conditions.

More on that in the next instalment tomorrow...

Cooking on gas

2010-05-10T14:03:00.000-07:00

California tumbles into the sea

That'll be the day I go back to Cannondale.

Huge apologies to messers Becker and Fagen for that one, but it's what I've been singing in my own head ever since I'd heard of the bike brand. And now it looks like that poor, unsuspecting western US state has done just that, as I am now the proud owner of a Cannondale SuperSix, decked out in the eye-catching/garish/delete as applicable colours of Italy's Liquigas team.

The drivetrain elements aren't much to write about - Shimano's mid-range 105 groupset and Mavic's lower end Aksium Race wheels are reliable rather than top performers - but the frameset is sublime. Hi-modulus carbon fibre frame, carbon forks and steerer and oversized BB30 bottom bracket (fnarr) all add up to a terrific ride. Massive thank you to my parents for stumping up the cash for this fantastic bike, which I'm very much looking forward to putting through its paces in Wales this coming weekend.

In preparation for that training camp, I put in a solid 85 miles on Sunday in the North Downs. Another inclement day saw me tackling some hefty climbs, including the brutal Yorks Hill, scene of England's oldest hill climb. Coming after 35 miles, it's a mere slip of a bump at only 707 yards, but most of those are skywards, with it clocking up an average gradient of 16% and two morale-battering 25% sections. The first of which had me out of the saddle and breathing like a wheezing bronchial whale. The second saw me crawling along at a blistering 4.3 mph, the bike inching along in two-second shifts as each pedal stroke transferred the awesome power of two already weary legs to the rear, traction-losing wheel. A group of three riders taking a water break at the top said they'd heard me from around 100 yards away after I'd asked the bravado-laden question: "Bit of a tester that, isn't it?" I'm surprised I could muster anything comprehensible.

The rest of the climbs were piddling in comparison. Titsey Hill was dispatched with relative ease and Westerham Hill barely registered - I could have sworn it was longer than it turned out to be. Yet again, Biggin Hill proved difficult to descend due to the wind, so I turned round at the bottom and decided to be blown back up it to put in some extra miles.

Only issue is my knee. It hurt like mad after 10 miles and nagged on for the rest of the ride. It's still tender today, so I'm resting up until it clears. As it's hardly reared its head at all during my nearly five months of training, I'm hoping it won't become a serious impediment, but it'll need checking out, so a visit to the doctor is in order. Need to get my medical form signed anyway, so I'll get it looked at then.

Next up, Wales, the Black Mountain and a circuit of the Brecon Beacons.

Come hail, rain or shine

2010-05-04T12:56:00.000-07:00

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, and it's a hard, and it's a hard

It's a hard rains a-gonna fall.

Thanks for that insight, Bob. I wish I'd taken some notice yesterday morning when heading out on my weekend distance ride, because it rained very hard indeed. And at a few points, the rain itself was hard. Hail, to be exact. Nuggety, ice-cold, stinging hail. In your face.

It all looked so promising a couple of days before when the sun shone on my repeated ascents of the Col de Crystal Palace (or Dulwich Wood Park/College Road, as it's more widely known). I managed to put in 12 reps of the Col, and this after the brutal climb of Sydenham Hill, in nothing higher than a 23-tooth cog. Phase two of the three-pronged Bank Holiday weekend training regime completed successfully and just the distance ride to go.

But if experience has taught me anything so far on this journey, it's to take advantage of the fleeting bouts of good weather. And although only marginally overcast, the omens didn't look good for a dry outing.

So it was to prove. Having been a few minutes late to meet BassjunkieUK, the guy accompanying me on the trip, I was struck by the sheer strength of the wind. It remained stupidly blustery throughout the day, but the warning signs were already apparent as we left the relative shelter of London's suburbs and ventured into more open countryside. Or 'Keston' as it's named. It was, to borrow a phrase from Test Match Special, "Looking a bit black over Bill's Mum's."

Sure enough, the first pitter-patters of rain began to fall as we descended into Farnborough before the climb up Cudham Lane North. My short-fingered gloves were already feeling woefully inadequate, but unpredictability ruled as the sun came out and bore us up the hill. Wet weather duly returned to dampen our spirits just after we'd climbed and descended Toys Hill, although even that wasn't without incident as poor old Mark hit a rock on the way down and punctured. He also had another spoke work lose as a result, so once he'd caught up and we'd found some shelter, we decided to cut the ride short and head back. I was all for this, as I'd only just recovered from the coldest rain imaginable freezing the muscles off my face.

More filthy conditions and the first bout of vicious hail dogged our trundle along the A25 after an extremely pleasant descent of Ide Hill. It was around then that the first bout of swearing kicked in. By Westerham, the sun had come out again, so we decided an assault on Westerham Hill was in order. Now I've been down this one on a few occasions and tipped the speedo at well over 40mph, so I knew it'd be a testing climb. And I have to admit I sought the refuge of the granny gear for a couple of hundred yards of it, although in my defence it does kick up to 12% at that point.

Nothing was to prepare us for the downward trip on the other side, however. I have honestly never had to work so hard to go downhill as the wind lashed into our faces like a lariat-wielding cow-hand from Laramie. At one point, just after Biggin Hill airport, I had to change down into the small chainring to keep the momentum going. Utterly ridiculous. There was no let up or change in direction all the way back to Crystal Palace, where Mark went off to tend to his rear wheel.

Knowing I needed the miles in my legs, I decided to make up the distance with a few reps of the Col. It was still windy, but the sun had begun to win its tussle with the clouds, so swooping descents and gutsy climbs were the order of the day. But just as I'd notched up five satisfactory climbs, the rain returned, soaking my descent and massively dampening my spirits. I soldiered on, even when, feeling left out, the hail joined in for good measure, causing me to make almost an entire descent with one squinted eye open.

Still, it had all dried out again by the time I scuttled off to Denmark Hill on my way home and I finished the 75-mile jaunt in a shade under five hours, which given the conditions, I was mightily pleased with.

Feet up tonight as I allow the muscles to recover, but positivity has returned once again to the Onemoregear household. Next weekend, I'll approach 90 miles with renewed vigour before the first of my South Wales training camps the following weekend. The weekend weather's antics have, I feel, prepared me for that trip better than I could have hoped for, so instead of dread, there is only anticipation.

Nine and a half weeks

2010-04-28T13:15:00.000-07:00

Nine and a half weeks. Doesn't get any better on repetition.

And the same can be said of the film. When Mickey Rourke first instructed Kim Basinger (pron. Bay-sing-er) to take off her dress in the frankly risible eighties art-core porn film of the same name, he probably knew how unkindly posterity would smile on the scenes he then committed to celluloid. But he could never have known the amount of suffering that banal flick inflicted upon a waiting world would be roughly equivalent to that I'll be submitting myself to in the same two-month period. At the present rate, the ending will be just as disappointing.

So with a woefully inadequate amount of time left before the big day, how far have I come in my quest? I suspect not far enough. I haven't ridden more than 60-odd miles in one sitting. I haven't cycled up anything approaching a mountain. I don't have thighs the size and density of a tree trunk. I haven't got down to my 'race weight' yet. I haven't managed to buy a spare wheel for my bike to make the turbo training swap-over easier. I still don't really have a bike that's entirely suitable for the task in hand, nor any real chance of procuring one before the big day since the housing market is as flat as my impending route profile isn't.

And all the while, demands on my time seem to be mounting like the gradient of the Alpe d'Huez. To get anything like the amount of training in that's required, it looks like I'm going to have to start getting up at five in the morning. Meanwhile, work gets busier and I'm required to stay later. Pressure, pressure and then some more in case I haven't got enough.

But let's look at some positives. I've still got my health. I can get up hills easier than before. I'm way better at changing tyres. I can now fit into that new pair of Edwin jeans I bought around six years ago but rarely wore due to my expanding waistline. And I have raised hundreds of quids for charity, which is pretty much the whole point really.

So I'm resigned to it being something I'm unsure I'll manage. There is no time to get myself into the shape I'd need to be to approach it with quiet confidence. It's anyone's guess whether I'll get round in one piece, never mind if I'll quick enough to avoid the broom wagon or the closure of the last climb. All bets are off. From here on in, I'm dealing in unknowns.

At least, as Don Rumsfeld would say, it'll be something I know I don't know.

Commuted welcome

2010-04-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

I'm deadly serious. And don't call me Shirley.

Training's been a lot less than serious recently. In fact, it's been downright silly for the past few days after I discovered a secret society.

Silly Commuting Racing, or SCR, was set up in around 2008. It's known as the 'unspoken game' and pits commuter against commuter to make what's already a pretty dangerous pursuit that much more edgy.

I'm hooked. Although sadly, the Old Kent Road along which I travel has been pretty devoid of any competition of late. And it's been something of a wind tunnel - in both directions. Yep, whether I'm going to work or coming home, I have a headwind to negotiate. All good for the legs, no doubt.

The crux of the sport is to pick a fellow cycle commuter who's higher in the 'food chain' than you are and, well, beat them along a stretch of road. But you have to make it look like you're not really racing, so there's no straining of facial muscles or heavy panting as you pass. Oh no. A nonchalant whistle is best, or perhaps a joyful hum as you scoot past a cyclist on a much better bike than your own.

You work out where you are on the food chain by consulting the calculator. I'm down at a lowly 11 with my old, heavy MTB on skinnies, flat pedals and baggy clothing. This is great as it allows me to tackle many more people out there ostensibly above me in the food chain but in reality considerably lower down. I've notched up an enviable number of scalps so far this week already.

None of this is disguising the fact that the training is going slightly slower than planned. I've done some long, arduous sessions on the turbo, but didn't get out on the 75-miler I planned for my birthday last week. Some days you just need a lie-in, I believe.

But it's definitely giving me the added impetus to get out there on the bike and keep the pedalling cadence up, which has to be a good thing even if it's only a fairly flat four-mile dash.

Big weekend coming up, though. Few laps of Richmond Park on Saturday followed by my extended North Downs run on Sunday. Genuinely looking forward to it after the fun I've had so far.

The Hell of the North (Downs)

2010-04-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

Let the wind blow high, let the wind blow low,

Through the streets on a bike I go,

None of the lassies say hello,

'cos I'm wearing lycra troosers.

With apologies to Andy Stewart. The wind was certainly giving it its best shot yesterday as I tacked the North Downs again. As the elite of the cycling world tackled the Queen of the Classics itself - the Paris-Roubaix - a race dubbed 'the Hell of the North', I knuckled down to some proper mileage and climbing training.

Should have known it would be a bit breezy after my mum called to warn me of strong winds in the south east just before I left. A gentle waft troubled the branches of the trees outside the window, so I decided against going out in just shorts and pulled on the lycra tights instead. The kind of sensible choice I'm not famous for making, but one I was pleased with after leaving the shelter of the front yard.

I knew it would be bad when I had to change down a gear or two while descending to Penge from Crystal Palace. Clearly I would be in for a long day.

But despite the draughty conditions and the wrong turns and the diversions, I still managed to put in 62 bumpy miles at an average of 15.3 mph. And it's a terrific route too - up and over Crystal Palace via Sydenham Hill, down to Farnborough Village, up to Cudham, down a steep, twisty, mottled hill to Baxted, up the long two-mile drag to Toys Hill, round and over Ide Hill, through Westerham, along the wind tunnel that is the A25 until Limpsfield, up the 'mountainous' Titsey Hill, through a delightful valley to West Wickham, then back over Crystal Palace via Anerley Hill. And for good measure, I scaled Herne Hill and Dog Kennel hill too, still having the legs to burn past a hybrid rider on the latter.

The only downsides were the frequent occasions I didn't have a clue where I was or which way to go. Obviously I know the route now, but I did make at least six or seven errors that had me reaching for the badly printed and slightly damp map I had stuffed in my back pocket. Probably lost a good 20-30 minutes over the course of the ride through navigational errors. I also learned it's best not to try and eat a chocolate flavoured cereal bar when you're just starting out on a two-mile climb.

So the plan is to try again next week but cut out the mistakes and add a couple of laps of Crystal Palace at the end. Ideally, I'll keep on riding 10-15 miles longer every week, but we'll see how this week's turbo training goes.

Who knows - the weather might have improved to the extent that I can ditch the tights next week.

One from the heart

2010-04-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

Let's get to the point, get to the heart of it

Strip down to the bone and get to the heart of it.

A call to arms in 1986 from Easterhouse's Andy Perry, a band so far to the left they dismissed the then pretty lefty Labour Party as a bunch of imperialistic splitters.

But getting to the heart of it is exactly what I've been doing tonight. Yes, I've finally dug out the heart rate monitor from its packaging and read the instructions. It's fairly complicated, but not too bad to pick up the basics, which is all I need. Bit fiddly to set up and there's a fair amount of fannying around involved as you have to moisten electrodes and fit a transmitter strap to your chest. But it's only mildly uncomfortable at first and after 15 minutes, you barely notice it's there.

It revealed a chilling truth, however. Looks like I've been under-training. What I thought were tough efforts at around 85% of my maximum heart rate have been less intense, clocking in at around 75-80% tops. This is potentially bad news. On the other hand, it might mean I've become much fitter in the last three months or so to the extent that what would previously have been a harder effort has become easier. I'll get the chance to test that theory tomorrow as I head for the North Downs again.

And it looks like it'll be a decent day for it. Sunny spells, temperatures of around 13 degrees and little wind. Brilliant combination. I'll be aiming for long, steady grinders of hills rather than the short, steep shockers I encountered last time. And crucially, I haven't over-done it on the turbo this evening, so hopefully the legs will hold out and not be too fatigued like I think they were last weekend.

There are encouraging noises coming out of the estate agents too, so fingers crossed the flat might sell before the big day. Looks like bike choice will be based on what's available in a short space of time rather than what I'd like ideally, but I can't complain. Whatever it is will be lighter, comfier and more fit for purpose than the current steed, which is still serving me well even though it creaks a bit too much under stress.

Weald oblivion

2010-04-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

Confucius said it doesn't matter how slowly you go, so long as you don't stop.

Would that the ancient Chinese philosopher were making the rules for this year's Marmotte, although I'm not sure even an 'open' finishing time would help on the strength of this weekend's effort in Sussex.

If yesterday's jaunt around the low Weald is anything to go by - 46 tortured miles at an average of just under 16mph - I'll make it to the base of the first climb and just give up.

Now there's a list of excuses as long as your arm as to why the ride didn't go so well. But despite the cold, the rivers of farm run-off splattered all over the roads and the relative lack of freshness in the legs thanks to the previous day's marathon turbo effort, the truth is I felt knackered after a mere 30 miles. That's just over a quarter of the distance I'll need to cycle in France and nowhere near the altitude I'll be attempting to climb.

Thankfully, the terrain I tackled on a blustery Easter Sunday is nothing like what I'll be doing in France. The undulating roads thick with mud and, in several cases, running streams are a world away from the smooth, regular, consistent gradient-style routes of the Alps. I honestly couldn't settle into any kind of rhythm and, thanks to some tremendously helpful missing road signage, I often found myself hoping rather than knowing I was going in the right direction.

It got so bad that, once I reached the A26, I cut my losses and ran for Lewes rather than risk more uncertainty on the back roads. This shaved 14 miles off my intended distance and meant I missed out on scaling Ditchling Beacon. Probably for the best as I could barely ride up the drive by the time I finished.

There is a possibility I 'bonked' because I didn't really eat regularly, but I had a whopping great bowl of muesli with extra nuts before setting off and managed a fruit bar while looking for clues at a fork in the road near Mayfield. But if I'm lacking so much energy after such a short distance, I'm in deep, deep trouble.

Clearly, I need to get out more. What's been brought home with all the subtlety of a day-glo anvil is that I haven't got enough miles in my legs yet. With only three months before the big day, I'm massively behind schedule in terms of building up base fitness.

Now there's a fine line to be trodden between building up enough stamina and over-cooking it. I fear I've already missed the opportunity to do the latter.

Getting nowhere fast

2010-03-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

You're not looking forward and you're not looking back

You've lost your warranty, you'll never get your money back

My baby's buying me another life, getting nowhere fast.

So sang David Gedge of the Wedding Present more than 23 years ago, but little could he have known back then how prescient he was being about my current predicament. In short, I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere. Warning: this could get self-indulgent, so gloss over the next few paragraphs if you'd rather.

Training seems like one long, tedious drudge. And that's when I get the chance to train. I felt quite upbeat at the end of last week after the Kentish excursion, but in the seven short days since then, that optimism has evaporated. I've managed three hour-long turbo sessions since then and plan a two-hour one tonight, but I desperately need to get out for rides of four hours or more if I'm going to get the necessary miles in my legs. Unfortunately this weekend's weather report psyched me out of doing so. Relatively happy I didn't try yesterday having seen the filthy rain, but today would have been fine. Pleasant even. But the forecast said heavy showers, so I cowered indoors instead.

And it's not like I have bucketfuls of time to train. Full time job, two young kids and a missus who's just going back to work after an absence of several years mean my spare hours are about as rare as a clean Tour de France. With the race looming just over three months away, now's the time I should really be stepping up the mileage and hours rather than sitting here writing about it instead.

Then there's the knee, which has started playing up again after last week's ride. I broke my left leg when I was 15 by cycling into the back of a parked car at great speed. Wasn't looking where I was going, you see. Ever since, my left knee has felt dodgy in cold or wet weather and I swear I have one bow leg, which can't be any good for the poor patella. I'm beginning to wonder whether it'll hold out over the course of my training regime and, crucially, during the race.

Flat still hasn't sold either, so new bike purchase is as far away as it could possibly be. Still, it could be that I have the dubious cachet of having the oldest, heaviest bike in the race, so it'll be a terrific excuse if I fail to make the finish.

Which shouldn't matter too much, as the fundraising seems to have stagnated too. After a promising start, it's tailed off alarmingly (bit like the training, in fact) and I'm still a long way off reaching the target.

All of this, of course, is having a perfectly dreadful effect on the psyche, which is far from ideal and I'm sure a major contributor to the current malaise. Wading through treacle with snow-shoes is how it feels right now.

The weight doesn't seem to be shifting either, although one positive note is that it's not going up. And I appear to have added two centimetres to the thigh girth, which I'm taking as a good sign since there seem to be so few others.

I think I need a really good week to set me back on track. This will mean more cycle commuting to work, fewer fatty foods, longer turbo sessions, less knee pain, promising news on the flat front and, at the end of the week, a 60-plus mile ride in warm, sunny weather.

Uphill hardener

2010-03-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

If it's uphill all the way, you should be used to it by now.

And get used to it I'll have to, because on the evidence of today's 50-miler in the rolling Kent countryside, I'm a long way short of where I need to be.

Granted, there were some stiff climbs along the way and it's the furthest I've cycled for some considerable time, but after only 28 miles, I was beginning to feel the effects. And the climbs, as I've called them, were never longer than a couple of miles, unless you count the long drag up to Biggin Hill, which although undulating is around seven miles and gains about 600 metres.

By far the toughest of the day was Hogtrough Hill. It's got one of those chevron things on the Ordnance Survey map and rates at more than 14%. Mercifully, it's less than a kilometre long, but it feels longer, probably because I'm going so slowly I could keel over at any second. That it comes after I've tackled Toys Hill from the more difficult south side doesn't help one iota.

Mind you, I went down some absolute stinkers, including one incline that's named Cudham Test Hill and has a leaning road sign at the top that shows it's a 25% gradient. I think if I'd had to climb it, I'd have just sat down at the bottom and cried. On the route profile, it just looks like a sheer drop. As it happened, there was a bit of a tester at the other side of the valley, but thankfully not in the same league.

On the plus side, it was the first day out on the bike that my feet didn't freeze. If anything, I was too hot, having dressed for the weekend before.

The scenery was quite literally breathtaking too and I was kept amused by the fact I had to go up Pratt's Bottom twice. It was funnier the second time, but I put that down to my sense of giddiness along with my diminished responsibility by that point.

Next week, I'm going to put an extra 15 miles or so on the distance and try doing one or two of the hills in reverse. Not backwards, you understand. Just the other way up. If that's clear.

The body is illing

2010-03-10T12:24:00.000-08:00

Just because you're going forwards doesn't mean I'm going backwards.

Unshakeable logic from Billy Bragg there, but I'm afraid to say I do feel like I'm going backwards of late. I had great plans at the start of the week after posting a faster time on the Richmond Park Three-lap Challenge, shaving a considerable 44 seconds off my previous best and that after a six-mile round trip and a schlep up Star and Garter Hill. I now have a personal best of 67 minutes and 28 seconds, which isn't bad, but I'm aiming to be a lot quicker than that.

But after changing my tyre back to the trainer on Monday in another record time, the wheels have come off.

While fitting the trainer tyre, I began to feel the onset of a nagging and insistent sore throat. This developed overnight into a raging head cold that's since slipped down to the chest; hardly an ideal state in which to put in marathon training efforts.

I'm just about coming out the other side of it, so hope to get back on it tomorrow evening. But I'm beginning to feel that it's already too late to prepare adequately. In quieter moments, I'm really questioning whether I can get enough training done before the event. Whatever happens, it's going to be a compressed schedule.

And then there's the bike, or lack of it. Still the flat doesn't sell, so dreams of sleek, lightweight, fit-for-purpose bikes remain in the head rather than with even one foot in reality. It may well be I end up having to hire one, which is far from ideal, but I don't have much choice as it stands.

In short, things need to start coming together in a big way over the course of the next month, otherwise I'll be really up against it.

Penance extra

2010-03-03T02:53:00.000-08:00

"Put me back on my bike," as Tom Simpson famously didn't actually say when he was dying on the slopes of Mont Ventoux.

And after last week's dismal effort, getting back on my bike is exactly what I've done so far this week to startling effect. Started out gently on Sunday with an hour's effort during the exciting but ultimately disappointing Carling Cup Final, then upped the ante on Monday with a gruelling series of five 'pyramid' reps - three minutes on the centre cog, two minutes on the penultimate cog and one minute on the smallest cog, all at 80 rpm on the big chain ring. Two minutes recovery spinning between each.

Last night, I went for brutal grinding. The usual 10-minute warm-up followed by 10 minutes in the centre cog, 10 minutes in the penultimate cog, five minutes in the smallest, all on the big chain ring at as high a cadence as possible. Three minutes rest followed by another 10 minutes in the centre cog, five minutes in the penultimate cog and five minutes in the smallest.

Now I know this all sounds highly technical and tremendously boring, but I had the good fortune of being able to watch highlights of the duel between Michael Rasmussen and Alberto Contador on the Plateau de Beille in the 2007 Tour de France while doing it. I was as spent as Cadel Evans by the end of the effort too.

So heartening progress thus far and there's more punishment afoot tonight. Terrific progress too in the quest to raise a grand for charity. I've got a world of work drumming up more publicity to boost those numbers, so watch this space. Although quite when I'm going to get around to it under the new, strict training regime is anyone's guess.

Grinding halt

2010-02-26T02:22:00.000-08:00

Stopped short. Everything's coming to a grinding halt.

So far this week, I've done absolutely no training whatsoever. After the highs of last week, the contrast couldn't be greater. In fact, I've had almost no exercise at all, which is criminal really.

And my excuse? The weather. It's been dismal from Sunday onwards, which meant my high-minded ideas of getting out and about more often have been derailed. Back to the turbo trainer, then? Well, no. I did managed to change the tyre back with less difficulty than the first time I tried, but the wheel still sits forlornly in the hall with no bike attached.

What concerns me is that I haven't even bothered to even put the wheel back on. This is slacking right out of the top drawer. In my defence, I did go out on Wednesday night to sample a bottle of 32% stout. The best I can say about it, though, was that it wasn't as undrinkable as I imagined it would be.

On a brighter note, I have lost a little more weight, tipping the scales at just under 12 stone (76 kilos) earlier this week and keeping it off until this morning, when I was back to 12 stone on the dot.

I've also managed to set up my Justgiving site and have already raised the princely sum of £75. If you fancy throwing some pennies my way, you can do so at http://www.justgiving.com/onemoregear. You have a choice of donating to the Macmillan Cancer Care charity via that site or clicking on the link therein and putting some cash the way of Coral Cay Conservation, who unfortunately don't have a Justgiving account.

As punishment for this week's shirking, I'm going to be giving myself a hard time on the turbo for the whole of next week. It's the least I feel I can do.

Regal progress

2010-02-22T12:36:00.000-08:00

Slow as it's been here on the blog, in the outside world, things are moving on majestically.

Areas with royal connections have had their part to play in this. On Thursday last week, I went for my bike fitting in Windsor. The friendly and generous souls down at Swim, Bike, Run were offering free fittings last week, so I thought I'd take advantage and find out what geometry, size, etc., I should be looking for.

I now have two pieces of paper that tell me exactly what length of top tube, seat tube, down tube and head tube are best suited to my measurements. Armed with these, I should in theory be able to track down the perfect bike for me. Turns out none of the bikes I've been looking at are exact, but the CAAD9 isn't a million miles away, so that's still top of the list. The Boardman Pro Carbon is emerging on the horizon as a potential candidate as well.

As for actually buying one, that's still a long way off. Flat isn't sold, so I wait and covet instead. Mind you, having taken the old faithful off on its first outing of the year round Richmond Park on Saturday, I'm not sure I need any of your fancy new-fangled bikes. I did four laps of the park in just under and hour and a half, which is an average of around 18 miles an hour. And that on a comparatively old bone-shaker at that.

Many was the time I passed people on far more advanced and expensive bikes, but I'll reserve judgement as it's entirely possible they'd already done a fair few laps before I got there, while I stayed relatively fresh.

Having said that I did take a huge slice of pleasure passing sleek carbon racing machines ridden by Assos-clad fashionistas on my old wreck.

Rather annoyingly, that was the first and last outing for the trusty steed. My planned Sunday morning foray was stymied by dismal weather. And with the forecast set poor, it looks like it's back to the turbo.

Reach for the thigh

2010-02-11T14:18:00.000-08:00

Measure for measure, drop for drop and pound for pound we're taking stock.

Yes Ian McCulloch, you miserable Scouse git, we are indeed. Or rather, I am. Some bright spark suggested I include a 'Thigh-o-meter' in the blog to track how 'monstrously girthed' (don't Google it) I'm becoming.

I'm no graphics wizard, so there's absolutely no chance of anything clever appearing on the sidebar, but what I will do is commit to measuring my thighs every week and posting the measurements on here. You'll no doubt be delighted to know that pictures won't be accompanying said stats.

Of course, nothing is ever simple in life. The only tape measure in the house is one of the metal snap-back variety, more usually employed in routine DIY operations than press-ganged into limb-measuring detail. Now if you've never tried bending sharp-edged metal tape around the top of your thigh, especially near the sensitive inner parts, let me counsel against it right now.

Luckily, after a couple of frankly futile attempts, I have the (as I see it) inspired brainwave of using a piece of string and measuring that instead. And how long is a piece of string? Well, in this instance exactly 60 centimetres, which by amazing coincidence also happens to be the circumference of the top of my right leg. And my left too in a reassuring piece of symmetry.

This week's turbo torture sessions are somewhat misleadingly titled 'Stairway to Heaven'. They're designed to build hill strength (yes, I looked at the internet to find them) and consist of warming up for 10 minutes.

You then flip to the big chainring and pedal at a reasonably high cadence for three minutes. Then you change up two gears, maintaining the same cadence, for two minutes, then up two sprockets again for one minute. You're allowed two minutes 'rest' on the small chainring, then do the lot again. I repeat four times in a session, then spend a further five or six minutes spinning at the highest cadence possible in a fairly hefty gear before warming down for another 10 minutes.

It's ruddy hard. I don't think there's necessarily more exertion involved than what I was doing last week, but it's the sudden jumps in resistance that really take it out of you. But although it hurts while I'm doing it, recovery seems to be a lot quicker than before. Proof positive I'm getting fitter.

So perhaps it's not all about thighs after all.

Sprocket man...

2010-02-09T13:28:00.000-08:00

... burning out his fuse up here alone

It's a solitary lot, that of a turbo trainee. Nobody to speak to, shoved away in the corner, only you providing the motivation. Still, it's probably for the best as I can't imagine I look all that appealing puffing, wheezing and sweating like a maniac for an hour or so. My guess is I don't smell all that clever either.

While it does seem to be having an effect, I'm itching to get out on the road proper. This morning's commute in was fantastic - crisp, clear air, bright sunlight and barely any traffic. All the way in, I was imagining what it would have been like to have been climbing the foothills of Crystal Palace a few hours earlier on a twitching, taut, race-bred two-wheeled steed. Even this evening's slog up Pepys Road was far from unpleasant.

This against the backdrop of having been given the all-clear by the doctor. Her only comment was that I could do with losing a few pounds (well, duh) and that my cholesterol level was marginally high, but nothing to worry about. Optimism abounds.

So with legs freshly warmed up by a breezy ascent of Pepys Road, I took to the turbo with the idea of doling out a bit of punishment. I haven't been disappointed. Did some interval sprinting, some hard gear-crunching and some out-of-the-saddle 'climbing' in the smallest sprocket. This last torture was performed every five minutes. Managed to work my way through a litre and a half of water in the process.

None of this is particularly structured though, so I think I'm going to have to consult someone who knows what they're doing to find out how I ought to be using these hour-long sessions.

That or just search the internet.

Kilo to go

2010-02-07T14:58:00.000-08:00

OK, so it's only a bag of sugar, but for me it's a significant milestone.

I have, as I found out this morning, lost a whole kilogramme since my training began. This puts me down to a measly 77kg and an eighth of the way to my target of 70kg by July. I feel a bit leaner too and I could have sworn my jeans were easier to put on this morning.

Since I last updated this blog, I've put in four further stints in on the turbo trainer and have begun to build a hill into my commute home. It's a mere bump in the grand scheme of things, but it is a start. For those of you who know New Cross Gate, it's Pepys Road - two-thirds of a kilometre and rising from eight metres above sea level to a dizzying 45 metres. So around a five per cent incline, then. It feels way more than that on the lumbering workhorse and with a three-kilo full courier bag on my back.

In terms of turbo training, I'm grinding up the virtual hills still. Big chainring from five minutes into the session, 50-60 minutes of increasingly difficult gearing until I reach the smallest cog, a minute or two out of the saddle every 10 minutes, then a five-minute warm-down. In my mind's eye, I'm climbing a steadily rising gradient of around six or seven miles every night. In reality, it's not as simple as that. I have no wind resistance to contend with and I can control how fast or hard I pedal, two luxuries not commonly afforded one on genuine mountains. Grappling with some real hills is becoming more of a necessity as time draws on and that will mean some serious tyre changing or, more preferably, a new bike.

Speaking of which, I'm booked in for a free bike fitting on Thursday week. It's more than likely I'll buy my new steed from the shop when the time comes as they stock what I'm after, but it'll be good to get some expert advice on what size frame I should buy as well as a few hints on correct posture. If nothing else, it'll give me a few pointers on how to set up my current ride.

More pressing on my mind currently is tomorrow's appointment at the doctor's when I get to hear the results of the tests I underwent last week. I don't think there's too much up with me, but I'll find out for sure tomorrow.

There will be blood

2010-02-02T02:27:00.000-08:00

I don't mind giving a reasonable amount, but a pint! That's very nearly an armful!

With Tony Hancock's immortal words ringing in my ears, I rolled down the corridor to the bloodbank. The doctor had told me to warn the orderly I have a thing about blood samples and needles so as not to land them with a 'fainter' on their hands. The guy just shrugged, sat me down and started talking about football.

"Nobody likes having blood tests done," he said nonchalantly as he drained the very lifeblood from my right arm. "There you go... all done," he chirped, like a consoling mother telling her little soldier he'd been a very brave boy.

I swear I was a fair few shades whiter as I shuffled out of the clinic and headed straight for the newsagent to quell my enormous hunger. The blood test was the last in a three-pronged assualt on my person by the health services yesterday morning, which you may have read about in an earlier post. The ECG and chest x-ray were a breeze in comparison.

Somewhat wimpily, I felt too weak to do any training yesterday. It's now been some time since I sat on the trainer, but I am commuting on the steed more regularly, which I'm sure is helping. It's getting the two working in tandem that will be important in the coming weeks.

Balancing this out in no way at all is the fact that I've read thousands of words on how to train, what to eat, accessories I'll need and bikes to buy. Words that will be of great comfort when I'm burying myself in the side of a French mountain.

Getting nowhere fast

2010-01-29T14:30:00.000-08:00

Two steps forward, one step back. Not sure Paula Abdul had my cycling training in mind when she sang Opposites Attract, but she's hit the nail on the head all the same.

The week started well, with a properly difficult session on Sunday, a couple of days' break, then a really intense turbo hour on Wednesday while watching the Carling Cup semi-final. Real progress was being made.

Only for Thursday to come along and with it the first of the year's cycle commutes. A piddling distance of just less than four miles proved infinitely more difficult than the hours I've been putting in on the trainer and this has filled me with an awful sense of foreboding. I'm aware proper outdoor riding is more difficult than the pseudo-cycling I do indoors, but after only 500 yards I was feeling the pressure.

Granted, my old Specialized Crossroads Hu8, complete with juggernaut-weight rear wheel, is difficult to shift even with a tail wind. But I was seriously wheezing by the time I got to work and that's poor.

It could be something to do with the return of the catarrh, which yet again has raised it's mucoid head and ruined the end of my week. I've also had a visit to the doctors to get this aching chest pain looked at, but at least that was reassuring. Mind you, I came away with appointments for an ECG, a chest x-ray and, worst of all, a blood test. I fucking hate hypodermic needles, so Monday morning is going to take on an even more fearsome aura than usual.

Still, if I get a clean bill of health at least I'll know I can start hammering the training with more reassurance. I am beginning to feel slightly fitter and the doctor did say I have quite a low resting pulse rate, which apparently is a good thing.

The fear of Monday will be marginally offset by the fact I'm off to drool at bikes on Sunday. Can't buy one yet, but it's about time I started getting measured up and putting a few through their paces. And now the work steed is all fixed up, by my own hand as well, I can at least start testing myself against the local hills.

Meanwhile, I still haven't got around to sorting the justgiving sites. It's proving problematic as I don't know whether I need two separate ones for each charity or whether I can just set one up and divvy the moolah up at the end. If anyone knows, be a looby, let me know, yeah?

Ta.

Pay as you churn

2010-01-24T14:52:00.000-08:00

Wheels keep on turning and turning and turning and nothing's disturbing the way they go around.

Clearly Edie Brickell never did any turbo training, or she'd know there's plenty disturbing about the way these wheels go around.

But it's with a certain sense of relief that I can report the training has gone rather better than the blog updating this week.

Nothing doing for Monday or Tuesday, but since then I've been hammering the virtual hills, with Friday the only day I haven't been on the turbo trainer. It definitely feels like I've started in earnest.

As well as building up leg strength, turbo training gives you plenty of time to think. Perhaps too much time. This week, I've been mostly thinking about what kind of frame the bike I eventually use for the Marmotte will be made of. On Wednesday, I was still convinced carbon was the way to go. But Thursday and Saturday's training sessions had me thinking I might plump for aluminium. Friday was all about titanium and, for a brief period, custom-built steel.

Of course, it's entirely possible it doesn't matter a jot what the frame's made out of, it's what you do with it that counts. I expect most people doing the sportive will be riding carbon bikes as it is the lightest material, but I'm worried about how it'll hold up if I crash it. Not that I'm planning on crashing it, of course. But it could happen and I'd rather get something that can be repaired rather than something I'll just have to throw in the nearest ditch while I wait for the broom wagon.

I think I've decided on an aluminium framed CAAD9 (pictured above), which has been getting rave reviews in the cycling press and from owners. But this is by no means my final answer and I've been scouring web pages and bike forums for clues that I hope will help inform my decision.

My wife thinks I should write to a range of manufacturers to see if they'll give me a bike to do the training and race on, but I can't help thinking I do enough writing that isn't read by anyone, so there's little point adding to that burden.

Still, if anyone knows of any particularly generous manufacturers or pro teams with a bike to give away for a good cause, do get in touch. Rest assured, their name will be mentioned by me at every possible opportunity, wherever I am and whoever is there to listen.

But back to the training. I guess I must be getting stronger and fitter, but you wouldn't think it given my protests at the end of each session. Maybe I'm pushing myself harder each time, but that could be wishful thinking. Certainly they don't seem to be getting any easier. I dread to think what's going to happen once I start doing two-hour stints and actually getting out on the road.

Meanwhile, this week I'm determined to set up the websites through which you can all donate generously to my two chosen worthy causes. If nothing else, it'll give me a good excuse to update the blog.

The daily grind

2010-01-20T14:36:00.000-08:00

Balancing work with any kind of activity other than basic living is tricky at the best of times. So finding the time to train properly for the upcoming challenge is a bit like finding the eye of a needle and passing Giant Haystacks through it.

So it was pleasing to finally get back on the turbo trainer tonight for an hour's blast. After a five minute warm-up, I slapped the chain on to the big chainring, shifted down to the 16-tooth cog and ground it out for 10 minutes. For the next 20 minutes, I moved down to the 15-tooth, then the 14-tooth cog, before going back to the 16-tooth for a further 15 minutes, all at as high a cadence as I could manage. I shifted down again for five minutes, then had a five-minute warm down on the small chainring. If that was as interesting for you to read as it was for me to type, you'll be on your way to empathising with the monotony of turbo training.

My guess is that I simulated grinding away up a reasonably long but not particularly steep hill, but I've no real way of knowing. It's certainly the kind of thing I'll have to be doing more regularly and for much longer than I did today. What will be almost as difficult as the physical effort is the mental strain of being on a non-moving bike for periods of more than an hour. It really is deathly dull stuff. I've set the trainer up in front of the telly and had the football on this evening, but even then it was a struggle keeping the interest levels up.

Still, I'll need to crack that and keep pushing on. In the first three weeks of training, I've been on the bike three times. It's not good enough. By contrast, I've read thousands of words about cycling, looked at countless routes to try out, pored over a million permutations of frame/wheels/groupset that will help me in my quest to conquer La Marmotte and even bought a heart rate monitor to target my training better. Pretty much everything I can do except put in the actual hours in the saddle. This needs to change soon, which will either mean bunking off work earlier or, more worryingly, getting up a couple of hours before breakfast and doing a pre-work stint. Neither option is particularly appealing, but I guess both are preferable to blowing up on the first climb and having to limp back down the mountain and wait for the broom wagon.

That's the one I'd get

2010-01-10T11:22:00.000-08:00

We've only just started. Four words that have forever blighted mankind's slow and solemn plod from the murky morass of creation.

Uncle Mort's gloomy pronouncement to nephew Carter Brandon on the advent of their hilarious Peter Tinniswood-penned trip down south rings eerily true in these ears as I step off the bike after my first turbo training session of the year.

Only an hour long, I was suffrin', as Stephen Roche would say, after the first relatively gentle half hour. On the evidence of that last half hour, I've got an extremely long way to go.

It's nice to report the trusty steed held up pretty well under the strain. As did the CycleOps Magneto, which sounds a lot like a mythical Greek ice cream dessert but is actually a device you kind of plug your bike into, which allows you to pedal like mad without getting anywhere. Good for the legs and the Zen Buddhism at the same time, then.

And it's going to take some rather monk-like sacrifice to get myself into any kind of shape for the Herculean task ahead. Having just weighed myself post-cycle, I clock in at 78 kilos, or just over 12 stone for the older reader. I'm guessing I need to shed at least eight of those kilos - the weight of an entire bike, to give you some perspective - before July. Needless to say I'll keep you updated on my progress or otherwise.

Nevertheless, I do feel like I've got this ridiculous journey properly under way and that's heartening. What's frightening is that it's only going to get worse from here on in.

Not the kind of turbo I had in mind

2010-01-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

Well, as excuses for not getting on the bike go, this one's up there with the best.

Honest, guv'nor, I was just about to pull on the lycra and don the cleated shoes when - wallop. Some clown drives into the side of our flat, smashing the bathroom window in the process.

It's icy out there at the moment, but you'd have thought people would bear that in mind when approaching a t-junction. But no. So I'm sitting down at the kitchen table contemplating an hour of intensive spinning on the turbo and the next thing I hear is the thud of a turbocharged Toyota getting on first-name terms with our bathroom. I pull the curtain back to check what's going on and see a middle-aged, dark-haired, worried-looking woman reverse and pull away briskly.

Thing is, I know she saw me looking at her, but she obviously thought it was best to just brazen it out and clear off. She also must have seen me jotting down her registration number, so why she didn't just pull over and face the music I'll never know.

Still, she'll be getting a visit from the Plod soon enough and doubtless will learn a valuable and expensive lesson.

Speaking of which, the entire episode has taught me a lesson too, to wit: doing nothing and contemplating training can be just as bad for you as getting on with it. I will get on that bike tomorrow.

Enter the Dragon

2010-01-04T11:57:00.000-08:00

Day four of the intensive training regime sees me no nearer to actually sitting on the bike or pedalling. Although as this shot proves, I've succeeded in getting the trainer tyre on.

I have also taken the bold step of entering the Dragon Ride, a 190-km schlep through the hills and valleys of south Wales. According to the organisers and one or two tour operators who run packages for La Marmotte, this is a good sportive to get under your belt before the big day as the climbs are of a similar gradient (but not length) to those you'll be tackling in the Alps.

For a giggle, I did the 130km route last year, although not as part of the ride itself. The climbs seemed to go on forever. Grind after grind of relentless pedal turning and seemingly getting no nearer the top. On the last ascent - an approach from the west of The Bwlch - I honestly thought I was going to have to get off and walk. That I didn't says more about my misplaced masculine pride than it does about any particular cycling prowess.

But according to my cycling mate, that's just the kind of spirit you need to get yourself over the big continental climbs. That and considerably bigger thighs, I expect.

And it's the latter that's bothering me. I've been too ill to begin any kind of training, haven't touched a bike in well over a month and fear I've lost all the muscle I built up over the summer and autumn. No amount of reading cycling magazines, poring over websites vending expensive and lightweight bikes or entering long rides is going to get me to the finish line in July in one piece. As Robert Millar was once quoted as saying: "You don't get big legs by watching television." As well as having a slight cold, I expect I'm still mentally on my Christmas break.

I'd love to report that my diet, at least, is something approaching on the right track, but it's not. Mince pies are still a staple, as is that huge block of Stilton I bought before Christmas and have barely even made a dent in.

Worryingly, Enter The Dragon is also known as the Deadly Three. It's entirely possible the trio of peaks I've to scale in France may prove as liable to kill unless I start bucking my ideas up pronto.

Trainer tamer

2009-12-30T05:52:00.000-08:00

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags...

So began my first day of training at 6.30 this morning. It was an unplanned start too, the remnants of a vicious bout of catarrh putting paid to my slumber. All I intend doing today is fitting a training tyre to the rear wheel of my bike. It'll be a start and not before time.

On 3 July 2010, I hope to be taking my place among seven thousand other hardy souls at the start line of La Marmotte, a 'sportive' renowned the world over as being one of the toughest around. It involves scaling, on a bike, four infamous alpine mountain passes - the Cols du Glandon, Télégraphe and Galibier and, just for good measure, the 21-hairpin Alpe d'Huez. To give you some idea of how hard it is, you need a doctor's note to enter.

For a reasonably fit, regular cyclist, La Marmotte poses a significant challenge. For an irregular commuter by bike who's occasionally ridden the odd 60+ mile charity ride, it's essentially asking for trouble. In fact, it's so alien to my usual cycle - New Cross Gate to Southwark along the flat Old Kent Road - I can barely even comprehend the challenge ahead. The nearest I can get to a mountain is the mercifully brief ascent to Crystal Palace via the Sydenham Hill route.

So why? Why bother with this madness? I suppose there are a number of reasons. Mid-life crisis clearly has a part to play, along with a desire to win what's threatening to become a losing battle with middle-aged spread. But there is more to it than that. Around 15 years ago, my dad died after a relatively short battle with cancer. More recently, this year in fact, my uncle passed away following a marginally longer but equally unsuccessful struggle with the disease. I don't want to go the same way. I figure taking on such a ludicrous race will finally give me the impetus to kick the habit of smoking the odd cigar or cigarette when out drinking. For a start, I'll rarely be able to go out for the next six months as most of my training will have to be done in the early hours of the morning. And if I think I can carry on smoking and cycle up mountains, I'm kidding nobody but myself. So I had my last social smoke last week and now it's time to say no more.

But it's not all about me. For every pound I lose suffering up the local hills, I hope to gain the same and more in sterling for two causes close to my heart. Macmillan Cancer Support looked after my dad and uncle during their illness, so they'll be the main recipient of my fund-raising efforts. I'll also be channelling some cash towards Coral Cay Conservation, a charity into which my uncle put a lot of time and effort. Quite how I'll raise this money is anyone's guess, but I expect Justgiving or somesuch will assist. I'll keep you posted.

My first test is to get this trainer tyre on to the back wheel. Racing bike tyres are notoriously tricky to get on and off, but the Continental Ultra Sport Home Trainer Tyre takes things to a completely different level. I swear it's got a smaller circumference than the wheel. The only few times I've tried to put one on, I've had to practically jemmy it into place, leading to an instant puncture. Funny thing is, I took it to a local bike shop and the guy there did it with his bare hands.

There's a lesson in there somewhere about leaving things to the experts.