Ship’s Log: "Why Do I Have a Glove on My Foot?" and Other Completely Normal Cycling Anecdotes

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 field study in cryogenics. Unfortunately, I’d also woken at 5 AM for no discernible reason, meaning I was already setting off in suboptimal condition.

An Important Digression About Coffee (Or: My Descent into Snobbery)

At this point, I should probably admit to my recent and entirely predictable obsession with coffee. For most of my life, I had written it off as an inexplicable addiction shared by the masses. Why the endless queues? Why had cafes seemingly replaced pubs as the cultural cornerstone of civilization? And then, one fateful day, a colleague handed me a small Starbucks latte as a thank-you gift. An epiphany. It turned out that, much like beer, coffee exists on a spectrum ranging from "liquid despair" to "nectar of the gods." And just like that, I found myself mutating—not just into an #unforgivablyobnoxious craft beer snob, but now also an #unforgivablyobnoxious latte snob to boot.

But I digress.

The Ride Begins: Cold, Mist, and a Seat Height Crisis

Artificially stimulated by a rare pre-ride coffee and wondering if this was a bold new strategy or a terrible mistake, I set off. The first minor victory? A personal best on one of the local hills—not one of the big three, but a moral victory nonetheless. However, the mist refused to clear, clinging stubbornly to the landscape and ensuring that everything remained cold, damp, and generally miserable. Visibility hovered at around 50 yards, which made for a wonderfully immersive cycling through a horror movie experience.

This was also the maiden voyage for my hastily adjusted bike fit. In a moment of DIY confidence, I had lowered my saddle by a full 2cm the night before, after consulting the sacred texts of The Internet (namely, something called the LeMond method and the "heel on the pedal" trick). Whether this was genius or madness remained to be seen.

The first major hill arrived at the 23-mile mark—steep, quiet, and completely engulfed in fog. I crawled to the top, feeling vaguely like a forgotten character in some bleak folk tale. At this point, I had a choice: take a shortcut, skipping the second big climb and shaving off about eight miles, or stubbornly continue in the desperate hope that the sun might finally make an appearance. Naturally, I chose the more punishing option.

Hill number two was a long, steady grind. This was where I began to notice an issue—despite layering up like a man preparing for an arctic expedition, my feet were turning into blocks of ice. This was unexpected. Thermal socks? Check. Toe covers? Check. Thermal overshoes? Check. And yet, here I was, with my feet slowly transitioning into permafrost. Something had to be done.

Glove-Foot: A New Low

I pulled over into a deserted driveway, hoping to both raise my saddle slightly and thaw out my toes before frostbite set in. At this point, I remembered my emergency stash of nitrile gloves—meant for situations exactly like this. With the logic of a desperate man, I removed my shoe, slid a glove over my right foot (the most affected), and laced back up.

Naturally, this was precisely when the homeowner arrived. Given that they had a Ring doorbell recording the entire scene, I can only imagine how that footage looks: some deranged cyclist, mid-driveway, engaged in what appears to be an inexplicable foot-gloving ritual. Eye contact was made. No words were exchanged.

I pressed on, dignity mostly intact.

A Brief Encounter with the Sun (Followed by Disappointment)

Approaching Bison Hill, I was momentarily rewarded with an almost mythical glimpse of sunlight. A sign, perhaps? A turning point in the ride? No. The mist promptly swallowed it whole, returning me to my featureless grey void. Bison Hill conquered, and after a swift energy gel, up Whipsnade Hill I went, reaching the top of Dunstable Downs, only to find zero scenic views thanks to the unrelenting fog.

I briefly considered taking a break at the visitor centre but instead opted for the more pressing matter of removing the glove from my foot—an act that once again drew puzzled glances from onlookers inside the café. I can only assume they thought I was either a next-level endurance athlete or a complete lunatic. Possibly both.

The Final Stretch: Coffee, Tiffin Disappointment, and Near-Death at a Roundabout

Descending into Leighton Buzzard, I had planned to stop at Espresso Head—until I realized, mid-ride, that it closed at 2 PM. Mildly inconvenienced by Google Maps inadequacy, but not defeated, I rerouted to Canal Street Coffee instead. The quality of coffee? Solid. The size of the large latte? Life-giving. The caramel tiffin? Mildly disappointing. I consoled myself with a blood orange San Pellegrino, which at least looked fancy.

And then, just as I was enjoying my newfound warmth, the sun finally decided to make an appearance. A full three hours later than promised. Naturally.

The ride home was far easier in the sunshine, though the final roundabout—less than half a mile from my house—provided one last moment of drama. A car, apparently driven by someone who had mistaken my entire existence for a suggestion rather than a reality, pulled out directly in front of me. Some emergency braking, some rapid gesticulation, and a few choice words later, I was safely home.

And so, another Gran Fondo in the bag. Another battle against cold, mist, and general absurdity. The quest continues… hopefully with fewer nitrile gloves involved next time.