The Hell of the North (Downs)

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.