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