Ships Log: Final Diagnostic Loop - All Systems (Mostly) Go

Cherished readers (I believe we’re now a bustling crowd of three), this was the final training ride. The last dress rehearsal. The final time I could pretend it wasn’t all becoming a bit too real.

After the Streatley Epic, I’d dialled things down to mere mortal levels: a couple of 30-40 mile jaunts, just enough to keep the legs ticking over and my anxiety levels bubbling gently. But then I got twitchy. Tapering too early felt like rolling the dice on residual fitness. So, one more medium-distance ride, a low-stakes sortie to test the engine, oil the war machine, and see if I’d become noticeably rounder in the process.

Target distance: just shy of 80 miles. Terrain: moderately undulating, with Bison Hill thrown in for good measure. Route: out through the lanes, over to Spoke Café (site of sacred toasties), and then a meander towards London with optional bonus hills, depending on mood, wind, and emotional resilience.

Let’s talk wind. The meteorological kind, not the digestive. It’s been relentless for weeks. Crosswinds. Headwinds. Winds from directions that don’t exist on standard compasses. Today, of course, it was a solid 12-13mph headwind. Not devastating, just tedious, like being heckled gently but persistently for six hours.

Also in the mix: new chain, fresh mechanical once-over, final seat position tinkering. If anything was going to fall off or explode, today would reveal it.

The opening third was smooth. Sunshine, familiar lanes, kit check: Chase the Sun uniform locked in. The only interruption was a driver who, in his desperation to get ahead of a cyclist on a minor B-road, decided to invent a new driving manoeuvre involving my right-hand signal, a blind crossroads, and his bonnet. I offered to stand there all day if he needed the road that badly. He drove off angry, presumably to go shout at a postbox.

Bison Hill was the major climb, always unpleasant. You can’t see the top, the bends are mean, and the gradient has the stability of a toddler on skates. But I knocked out a new PB, so I’ll allow it.

Then it was the blissful cruise through Harpenden to Spoke Café. Toastie time. Went cheese and tomato this time, a respectable sandwich, but let’s not pretend it holds a candle to the ham and cheese classic. Still, carbohydrates were absorbed. Morale: boosted.

The headwind, however, had other plans. Somewhere between Spoke and the outskirts of London, my right medial quad, which had been behaving for most of the ride, decided to pipe up again. Not catastrophically, just enough to make me cancel the planned extras (Swains Lane, Muswell Hill, both passed over with a wistful sigh and a whimper of self-preservation).

I was even overtaken by another cyclist. Truly, we suffer indignities in silence.

Despite that, energy levels were steady, flapjack reserves held, and most importantly, no parts fell off me or the bike. I rolled gently into London like a slightly injured courier delivering regret and Nutella sandwich crumbs.

The quad's been quiet since. I’ve entered the final countdown phase. Taper mode is live. The big one is three days away. I’ve done the work, tested the machine, yelled at the weather, eaten the toasties.

There’s nothing left but to ride.