Hubris In High Gear - A Chase the Sun South 2025 Chronicle

After a brief hiatus, I return—new drivetrain, slightly softer around the edges (me, not the bike), and facing the unsettling revelation that bicycle components apparently do not last indefinitely. After it's service and overhaul, the bike now glides with unerring smoothness, no longer emitting the grinding rattle that I'd assumed was just part of its personality. The replacement crankset is undeniably cooler-looking at least, which makes up for approximately 3% of the financial trauma of the replacements. Holiday weight gain: a mere 1.5kg, which I am choosing to view as a victory rather than evidence of muscle atrophy. My comeback ride loomed ahead, approached with a mixture of trepidation and vague optimism. The route: a familiar 70-mile point to point, revisiting the fog-shrouded hills of yore, this time in rare sunlight. The forecast, 5-8°C, a figure I interpreted as an invitation to gamble on my thermal base layer. However, as the sun beamed down and I ground my way up the...

Finally got round to replacing my cleats last night. Long overdue, as evidenced by the way the old ones had seemingly fused with my shoes. At the same time I took the opportunity to reposition them in the eternal quest for marginal gains. Today's mission: the standard 30-mile loop. Conditions? Overcast skies but decent visibility, and—shockingly—feet that did not enter a state of cryogenic suspension. Several PBs were recorded in the latter half of the ride, though honesty (and my unshakable commitment to self-deprecation) compels me to admit that a helpful tailwind did much of the heavy lifting. I’ll take it. A quick stop at the Cow Shed for a latte and Raspberry & Pistachio cake. I tuned in,  with thinly veiled jealousy,  to the live stream of a cycling race in Abu Dhabi. Sun, warmth, and an utter lack of overshoes— must be nice . Final waypoint: a rendezvous with the in-laws for yet another coffee, this time from a vast, soulless caffeine conglomerate, their choice. Wit...

And so, the cat is now officially halfway out of the bag. A Schrödinger’s confession—both public and secret at the same time. I have informed some of my colleagues that I have, in fact, signed up for a "cycling challenge". A deliberately vague phrase, designed to elicit interest without inviting immediate questions about my sanity. Of course, this means I am now in proper training mode. Not the half-hearted, I'll just ride a bit more training mode, but the kind that requires actual sacrifice. Case in point: I have just turned down a Jolly Boys brewery tour with my uncles in a few months' time—an event that would have involved beer, more beer, and possibly light-hearted debates on the correct pronunciation of “quinoa.” But alas, the cause demands discipline, and so I shall remain steadfast. Remarkably, despite yesterday’s adventure, I am not too achy. Either my body is adapting to the self-inflicted suffering, or I have simply lost the ability to detect pain. Eithe...

Ah yes, another day, another absurdly long self-inflicted ordeal in the name of a digital badge. This time, February’s Strava Gran Fondo challenge, which—because I never seem to choose the path of least resistance—was to feature three of the bigger, nastier hills in the region. I had planned ahead. A carefully curated music playlist, featuring a live Nero mix from a gig I’d missed before Christmas (sacrificed to the twin gods of Family and Social Obligations). Seven hours of music, though ideally, I’d be back home before the five-hour mark—because even I have my limits. The forecast? Misty but with promised sunshine at 11 AM. The reality? Well, let’s just say optimism is a dangerous thing. The night before had hit -4°C, so I sensibly delayed my start to let the roads thaw and to increase the chance of actually cycling in daylight rather than some grey purgatory. I was also wrapping up the last of my experimental frozen flapjacks—because apparently, I now treat my ride nutrition like a...