Ship's Log: Re-Entry and Regret

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 first hill, it became abundantly clear that I'd made a critical miscalculation. By mile eight, I was marinating in my own sweat. A roadside striptease ensued, leaving me with a seat bag stuffed with damp merino and a faint sense of shame.

Fueling strategy continued apace. Flapjack Recipe 2.0—an unholy fusion of the internet's collective wisdom (I averaged out the ingredient quantities from 4 top-rated recipes)—proved far superior to its predecessor, though I still managed to under-eat and under-drink over the entirety of the ride. Lessons, as ever, remain theoretical.

The first climb was dispatched at a stately pace, yielding a minor PB on the overall ascent. Small victories. The second, more formidable hill extracted a heavier toll—my slowest time yet, no doubt due to the ill-advised bike adjustments I had made the day before in a fit of optimism. Saddle height, cleat position, bar height—latterly changed, regretted, partially undone. A masterclass in self-sabotage.

Then downhill to St Albans with the Abbey looming into view — a former stomping ground of my early cycling years, when I rode in football shirts and trainers, blissfully ignorant of cleats, chamois cream, or the abyss of expenditure that awaited. St Albans provided the customary pastry-based morale boost—this time in the form of a salted caramel brownie so dense it may have had its own gravitational field. The latte tasted suspiciously floral, in a good way - https://thepuddingstop.com/pages/st-albans

The final leg saw Strava route me down a cycle path cunningly disguised as an underpass as I departed St Albans, costing me valuable minutes as I meandered behind pedestrians. 

With a train to catch and the spectre of a missed haircut appointment looming, I powered on through the suburban hills of North London, abandoning a couple of planned climbs (Alexandra Palace and Swains Lane) in favour of making the train.

Arrival outside St Pancras: seven minutes to spare, legs reduced to pulp, dignity intact only by the narrowest of margins. One way or another I made it onto the train with two minutes to go. Three teenagers occupying the bike area—but they very kindly shifted up to allow me to squeeze on.

Mission accomplished. The long road to Chase the Sun grinds on.

70 miles. 3600 ft elevation.