Ships log: Taper Sequence Initiated - Final Diagnostics Before Chase the Sun
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.
At mile 50, I made a pit stop at The Biker Bean Café in Chinnor - expecting beards and Harleys, but instead finding oat milk and carbon frames. A delightful miscalculation. Latte: excellent. Rocky road: structurally sound. I also executed a mid-ride costume change, removing my thermal base layer with the elegance of a man in a pub toilet trying not to fall over.
Britwell Hill came next - all bark, minimal bite - followed by a long drag to Streatley. Very pretty, very quaint, and very much downhill into a trap.
Streatley Hill was long, rude, and clearly had unresolved personal issues. It was the kind of climb that makes you reflect on your life choices and consider alternate hobbies, like pottery or taxidermy.
Once I'd hauled myself up that, the fun continued with a 2-mile slog out of Goring valley, followed by yet another invisible-but-definitely-there uphill stretch that seemed designed by someone with a grudge against momentum. Somewhere in this zone I adjusted my saddle height - a decision made more from faith than reason, but seemingly effective.
Late afternoon food was at Wetherspoons Aylesbury, which continues to operate with the precision of a dystopian food-delivery algorithm. Fish and chips, served faster than I could regret my life. Perfect.
The return journey featured a persistent headwind which, while not catastrophic, felt personally invested in my slow demise. Still, I ploughed on through familiar lanes, fuelled by flapjack fragments and stubbornness.
By the time I reached home, I was deep in the existential fugue that only a long ride can bring - where your legs are jelly, your brain is mist, and you're 40% sure your bike is now part of your skeleton.
Recovery has been... protracted. A week on and I still feel like someone swapped out my muscles for cooked linguine. But that’s it now. No more tests. The taper has begun.
145 miles. 8,000 ft of climbing. No mechanicals. No catastrophes. Just quiet suffering and a vague sense of pride.
Now we wait.
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