Hubris In High Gear - A cycling odyssey

So this was it: the night before The Big One . The culmination of hundreds of miles, several chain lubings, and at least one spiritual reckoning with a jelly baby. Final kit check complete.  Weather forecast: unhelpfully hot. Morale: medium. Dinner? A tragic downgrade from Charlie Bigham's artisanal splendour to Sainsbury’s microwaveable mush, on account of the chalet’s medieval amenities. My wife, in a twist of either affection or sabotage, had also secured actual Bassett’s jelly babies. This would later prove controversial. The bike was freshly chain’d, rear wheel swapped due to a sheared spoke, and everything was theoretically functioning. Spirits lifted, I boarded the train south, joined gradually by a rising tide of cyclists until the HS1 carriage resembled a budget peloton. I met a fellow rider and, high on optimism and ignorance, told him I was aiming for a 16-17mph average. Reader: I did not achieve this aim. After a successful check-in and scenic trek to my digs on th...

Cherished readers (I believe we’re now a bustling crowd of three), this was the final training ride . The last dress rehearsal. The final time I could pretend it wasn’t all becoming a bit too real. After the Streatley Epic, I’d dialled things down to mere mortal levels: a couple of 30-40 mile jaunts, just enough to keep the legs ticking over and my anxiety levels bubbling gently. But then I got twitchy. Tapering too early felt like rolling the dice on residual fitness. So, one more medium-distance ride, a low-stakes sortie to test the engine, oil the war machine, and see if I’d become noticeably rounder in the process. Target distance: just shy of 80 miles. Terrain: moderately undulating, with Bison Hill thrown in for good measure. Route: out through the lanes, over to Spoke Café (site of sacred toasties), and then a meander towards London with optional bonus hills, depending on mood, wind, and emotional resilience. Let’s talk wind. The meteorological kind, not the digestive. It’s ...

This was it. The dress rehearsal. The grand proving ground. The moment where training met terrain, and flapjacks met destiny. 145 miles, with a charming cluster of climbs squatting in the middle third like a spiteful troll under a bridge. My fuelling strategy - now a well-refined ritual involving Nutella sandwiches and flapjacks calibrated to within a gram of tolerance - was getting its final shakeout. If this ride failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of sugary enthusiasm. The opening miles slid by on familiar roads - reliable, if unremarkable - until I reached the outer fortifications of the Chilterns.  There, the first test: The Crong . A name that sounds like a minor villain in an 80s fantasy movie. One hairpin, no drama. Then came Whiteleaf , which sounded genteel but climbed like it had a grudge. I paced it well, legs ticking over with the grim determination of a Victorian factory machine. I crested Kop Hill , caught a tantalising glimpse of the rolling Chilterns, then immediatel...

There’s not much to say about this ride except that I finally cracked the 150-mile mark - and did it with the bike fully laden, just to keep things spicy. The route was flat, the crosswind was irritatingly uncooperative, and the temperature was five degrees below the forecast because that's how we roll. Thankfully, I had my gilet, arm warmers, and my new Shokz headphones, which continue to be a revelation - especially when the only thing breaking the silence is the sound of your own slowly deteriorating morale. Around mile 60, I stopped for coffee and a bun, which just about kept the wheels turning.  Watsons Hill, the main climb, was as anticlimactic as an encore involving one of your least favourite songs, but it’s ticked off the list.  The flapjacks (best batch yet) and a steady stream of peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches kept me going until mile 94, where I was beginning to come unstuck. Then came Wetherspoons hove into view at 103 miles: swift service, soul-repairing ca...

This was meant to be the big one — the 150-mile test ride. Instead, I’ve been harbouring some suspicious pathogen since Monday, and while I briefly considered riding through it like some sort of Victorian invalid on a penny-farthing, even I could see it was a terrible idea. So, in a dramatic downgrade, I pointed my bike vaguely London-wards with the modest ambition of reaching Spoke Café before my legs gave out. Mission: toasted sandwich. On the plus side, I’ve finally mastered the fine art of not over-lubing my bike. No more baptising the chain in oil like it’s joining a cult. After a good clean yesterday, I adopted a minimalist approach, and surprise: the bike runs better when it’s not impersonating an oil refinery. The ride felt smooth. I even set a few PBs — though whether that’s progress or just tailwind deception is anyone’s guess. The sun couldn’t decide if it was attending or not, and I debuted both my new Castelli jersey and, critically, my Open run bone-conduction headphon...

It feels like we’re entering the home stretch of the training programme now. After last week’s climbing theatrics, I managed a token 30-mile recovery ride last Sunday — more to keep the guilt at bay than for any real training value. Today, however, was about distance. I’d cobbled together a route with an elevation profile that loosely mimicked Chase the Sun — including three of the climbs from the X-List, Midlands list and the original 100 Climbs, none of which were meant to be especially threatening. That optimism didn’t age well. The forecast was clear: sun. And not just British-springtime-sun — this was full-fat, Mediterranean cosplay. Highs of 27°C, which is about 7°C hotter than anything I’ve trained in this year. Gone were the toe warmers and base layers; in came industrial quantities of sun cream and faint existential dread. At least the journey to Nottingham was smooth. I’d gamed the system with advance single tickets and paid about half the usual price. Both trains were on tim...