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

After a few weeks of juggling rides, family Easter chaos, and pretending to be a responsible adult, I finally returned to something vaguely resembling a proper training regime. There was a hill climb challenge the following weekend, but thanks to the perennial British rail engineering works, I couldn't actually get there — so I figured I'd bodge together my own mini version on the Thursday beforehand. DIY spirit and all that. Worth noting: I was operating at peak sluggishness after a wedding weekend that saw me consume more beer in two days than I had since January. In short, I was in ideal shape for a climbing challenge. The day’s additional spice: my off-peak train ticket meant a surgical start at 11:11 and a brutal cutoff to make the 15:21 train home. Miss that, and I’d be sitting around Croydon for four hours — a fate worse than mechanical failure. I'd set some "mitigation strategies" (read: desperate contingency plans) in place, like cutting the final c...

Ah yes. Century rides. The beloved benchmark of masochists everywhere. With the “Big Day” creeping closer like a slow-motion landslide, I decided it was time to psychologically yank off the plaster and hit triple digits. A strategic manoeuvre, partly to bank some goodwill with the family for next Thursday, and partly to prove to myself that I wouldn’t dissolve into a pile of flapjack crumbs at mile 94. The plan: two elegant loops orbiting my home like a confused lunar satellite. This also allowed for a mid-morning rendezvous with a glazing firm (I know, glamour), and a late-afternoon haircut appointment that would act as a soft threat to get me home on time. Nothing says “motivational pacing strategy” like the promise of not arriving to the barbers looking like you’ve just been dug out of a hedge. The weather? “Light winds,” said the forecast. Naturally, that translated into a persistent headwind from all compass points, including—somehow—the ground. I wisely drank my coffee before ...

Cherished readers (both of you), fear not. My silence did not indicate a catastrophic derailment into inactivity or flapjack-based despair—though we did flirt briefly with both. Since the triumphant London escapade, my training schedule has been less "relentless cycling machine" and more "man with good intentions and conflicting obligations." Thursday rides, once the crown jewel of weekly mileage, have been relegated to the background—collateral damage in the ongoing war against time, commitments, and pineapple juice. Instead, I’ve cranked out two sub-30 milers and two longer efforts: one 49 miles, the other 66 miles of sheer discomfort disguised as a leisure activity. The 66 miler, despite having every possible checkbox ticked for “pleasant spring ride,” was the least enjoyable experience since the sideways hail episode. The weather was bright, the birds chirped optimistically, and cyclists were out in droves—presumably all delaying their group ride coffee stop...