I’ve always sworn at f’king cyclists when I drive past them – the w*!kers! GET A CAR for Christ sakes.

Now I look to see what they’re riding! Yes I caught the bug (there’s a lot of it going around).

For the last couple of months if the weathers fair I’m out putting in some miles on my meticulously over loved new road bike! And when I’m off the saddle I’m researching 0.889 saddle measurements, tyre pressures and lubes.

Yes im hooked.

But you have to draw the line somewhere and that somewhere is Lycra!

I dont want to be a racerboy. The gang is too big, too inexclusive! As I speed down a road at 18mph reaching for my Coke filled water bottle in my slightly chafing denim; no doubt a racerboy will speed past at 25mph, clad in Lycra with an expensive sounding drivetrain churping back at me like a smug cricket. But I won’t mind. I have my excuses on a flag strung high from my flat bar! (Incidentally, I saw a geeky looking man riding in a replica Team Sky top the other day. I mean PLEEASE!).

However the best part of resisting the Lycra is what I call the Recognition Deflection. You know that 60 year old couple in matching Lycra coming towards you on the other side of the road. Their look of “Hey we’re the same aren’t we?” Bounces right off!

Now then, Im off for a ride!

By Darren Cross

Picture featured in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by andyreevo

The post Recognition Deflection appeared first on Daily Cycle.

The sound of heavy rain rattling against the window wasn’t the wake up call any of us wanted. It added to our aching limbs. Even climbing in to the saddle was a major effort.

Finding the right route was another challenge and one we had to give up on. Thankfully we spotted a bike shop, where the proprietor informed us of the correct path to take.

This involved loosely following the M62. At times we took bridges over it. On other occasions we were underneath the motorway.

Weary from the efforts of the previous 48 hours, hunger set in quickly. That’s why the sight of a burger van on a layby seemed mirage-like. With nobody else in attendance, the vendor appeared as delighted to see us as we were to meet him. Large, greasy burgers were savoured as if they were juicy sirloin steaks.

Polishing them off concluded with the rain easing and once again we were shadowing the M62 in the direction of Liverpool.

When our route diverged it was replaced by flat tracks across green countryside. The lack of hills was very welcome. The only problem was the monotonous nature of the terrain. Everything seemed similar to what had gone before. We’d cross a main road to find ourselves back on a narrow lane. It was almost a cartoon like repetition of the same background over and over again.

The reappearance of rain didn’t help our cause either. By now, Dave in particular was struggling. Another puncture didn’t improve his mood.

“I’m getting the train home,” he declared as he flung his bike into a nearby ditch.

The outburst created laughter and eased the building tension. A joint effort meant repairs didn’t take too long as we located and removed the offending thorn.

St. Helens’ canal path proved to be a muddy challenge, with large puddles created by the earlier wet weather still present. Again the sight of a power station stalked us, on this occasion it was Fiddler’s Ferry constantly visible during our progress.

Another, more familiar marker soon became our point of focus; the Runcorn Bridge. Constantly mentioned as a problem spot on radio traffic updates, it was visible evidence that we were nearly home.

The usual gridlock wasn’t part of our itinerary as we gleefully went underneath the Mersey River crossing.

Through the picturesque village of Hale the skies began to darken and hunger once again arrived, this time with a vengeance. By now our supplies of sweets, bananas and cereal bars had been completely exhausted. Home was only a few miles away, but the lack of energy in our legs made it feel like we were scaling Everest.

One of many stops for a drink led to Mark having one more rummage in his bag in the hope of discovering some food. “Yes!,” he roared, before producing some beef jerky. Disgusting under normal circumstances, it tasted superb.

While sharing out the measly portions a woman and, probably, her granddaughter approached. “Are we going the right way for the Trans Pennine Trail they enquired?” Our explanation that we had been on it for the best part of three days was met with bemused smiles. The crazed looks on our faces, created by hunger and tiredness, probably had something to do with their reaction too. Nonetheless, they carried on.

The tremendous roar of jet engines landing and taking off was another – loud – boost. John Lennon Airport was just ahead, another marker on our way home.

A huge spill of rain from the black sky accompanied us along Speke Boulevard, where we stopped for drinks and food in a petrol station.

From there we navigated our way back to the bank of the Mersey via Otterspool. Finally the Liver Building on the city’s waterfront came in to sight. We were soaked, exhausted, sore, thirsty and still hungry. Yet I never felt better.

See the rest of the journey here.

picture featured in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by carl and sian

The post To Hull & Back Day Three appeared first on Daily Cycle.

Punctures are an inevitable part of being a cyclist. When you have 70 miles ahead of you, discovering one in Dave’s front tyre at dawn was the worst possible start to a day.

Thankfully, repairs prior to breakfast didn’t take too long. And after we’d all set a record for devouring a fry up the next leg of our adventure began.

Now and again we found ourselves not sure of our exact location. On one such occasion we ended up in a field containing a lot of cows grazing at the opposite end.

“Harmless,” we all agreed as we noticed one or two of the black and white beasts get to their feet. Clearly they’d spotted four bicycle pushers on their patch. Unfortunately they weren’t happy about it as they demonstrated by charging towards us. Thankfully their sprint in our direction began from such a distance that we had time to abandon our wheels and leap over a fence.

Once the cows had moved to the far end of the green space we returned to collect our mode of transport and quickly – very quickly – exited the area.

Initially returning to the saddle had been pain-free. A good night’s sleep had helped to ease the aches of the first day. Within an hour or two they returned and once again we all spoke of the gratitude we owed to the inventor of padded shorts.

In approximately the middle of the trail it branches off to Leeds, Sheffield and Chesterfield. This caused some confusion and eventually led to us leaving the route to discover exactly where we were.

“Barrrrnsley,” a man outside a shop informed us in a thick Yorkshire accent. That was exactly the answer we wanted as it confirmed we were still heading west.

The downside to being in the town that was featured in the Domesday Book was we were edging nearer to the Pennines.

Before entering the mountain range we learned from a sign on the trail that most people approached it from west to east, as the gradient favours that direction. That was something we could already attest to and were about to have further confirmation of.

Postcard perfect moors and reservoirs made for nice backgrounds, without distracting us enough from the climbs. At times it was necessary to demount and push the bike up the hill, particularly when ascending the 435ms of Windle Edge. Thankfully going down the other side of the area’s highest peak was an effortless task.

What we predicted to be the toughest day of our tour certainly proved correct. And it was pitch dark when we reached our stopover in Hyde. The place to lay our heads for the night was rooms over a pub on the eastern side of the town.

Inevitably the evening was spent downstairs sinking some well-deserved ales. Food arrived in the form of pizzas we had delivered from a takeaway the barwoman recommended.

A full day on the bike had created our hunger. The Saturday night crowd on the premises surely didn’t have the same excuse. Perhaps it was just the consumption of alcohol that made them stare in our direction once they sniffed our supper. Zombie-like, some of them even came over to ask if they could have a slice. When we explained how our day had been spent their requests relented.

Again, not many pints were needed to send us to sleep with thought of the last – and supposedly easiest – day of our cycle still remaining.

See the rest of the journey here.

picture featured in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by placid casual

The post To Hull & Back Day Two appeared first on Daily Cycle.

See the Prologue here.

Lime Street station’s early morning rush hour contained plenty of suited individuals heading to offices in the city and the odd builder in his typically filthy site wear. Our uniform of cycling shorts and a rucksack marked us out from the crowd.

Three of us glanced at a map as we contemplated what lay ahead. Then Dave arrived with his shiny new wheels, minus a pedal.

Somehow it, and the crank supporting it, had fallen off on the short cycle from his house to the station. After some laughter we set about attempting to fix the problem. There seemed little option but to hammer it back into place using a heavy lock.

A three-hour train journey that snaked through some of the highest peaks in England emphasised exactly what we’d have to contend with on the way back. The glorious sunshine couldn’t hide the sheer scale of some of the hills we’d be encountering.

More checks of the map led to agreement that we would turn right out of Hull train station and then head towards the Humber suspension bridge. This would set us on the correct westerly path.

Manouvering the bikes off a crowded train wasn’t an easy job. People looked at us with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. OAPs in particular didn’t seem to appreciate waiting patiently while we lifted our two-wheeled vehicles on to the platform.

And so it began. For about 30 seconds. “Stop, stop,” Dave shouted from the back of our mini-peleton. Already he was lagging behind.

There was a good reason for his lack of progress. In our haste to repair his bike earlier that morning we had forced the pedal arm back into place.

None of us had bothered to check if it was at the opposite angle to the other pedal. It wasn’t, hence his inability to cycle properly. All the bike was capable of was a strange almost clown-like movement that involved both feet going forward together in a parallel motion that got Dave nowhere.

As we all attempted to have a go at this new style of cycling we found it a hilarious, but ineffective method of powering the bike.

After much laughter and a few photos, we agreed the only option was to find a bike shop that could remedy the problem.

Properly re-attaching the pedal arm was lot easier to do with the necessary tools. After an hour our unscheduled pit stop was complete, for a fee of £60.

We were on the road again, and this time we didn’t halt until we’d exited the town and arrived at the impressive sight of the Humber Bridge. Once we figured out how to set the timer on the camera, a quick photo was captured under the structure that consists of 27,500 tonnes of steel and 480,000 tonnes of concrete.

From consulting our maps we calculated that following the estuary inland would set us on the correct route. What we hadn’t taken in to consideration was the impact of the wet mud and seaweed we were going through.

Within minutes it had accumulated to such a level that we needed to pause again to remove the slime from our tyres, as it was getting caught in the brakes.

That job complete, we finally began to progress towards our first scheduled stop of the day; the East Yorkshire village of Howden. Population of nearly 4,000 and once host to one of Europe’s most famous horse fairs, we never expected to see a familiar face in the hamlet.

When we encountered a former university friend walking down the main street a drink was necessary to celebrate the unplanned reunion.

While reminiscing we also chose something from the large menu. Only a few hours of cycling had actually been completed, yet the pains in our legs, necks, bums, etc. that we all mentioned brought further realisation of our task.

Bangers and mash never tasted so good and once it was gobbled down we said goodbye and returned to the saddles. Lost time had to be made up for.

The brilliant greenery of northern England, combined with incessant sunshine, kept our spirits aloft as we pedalled along country lanes, canal tow-paths, grass-dissected minor roads and over hills. All the while large chimneystacks belonging to smoke-chugging power stations randomly appeared on the horizon before vanishing just as quickly.

By 5pm we knew we still had at least another two hours ahead if we were to reach our stop for the night; Snaith.

Supplies of sweets and chocolate maintained our energy levels as we all expressed relief at donning the fashion faux pas’ that is cycling shorts. Ridiculous looking, their padding was a tremendous pain reliever even on just the first day of our expedition.

If pain wasn’t a problem, plotting a route proved more troublesome. Signs for the Trans Pennine Trail randomly appeared before vanishing again. Often we had to double back on ourselves to double-check we were on the right path. Or we just ventured forward on instinct rather than knowledge.

Minutes spent on busy and narrow country roads were also unwelcome. But just as we’d begin to lose patience something else would emerge in the distance.

During the first evening it was what appeared to be an old, abandoned airfield. Markings on the ground indicated it might have been occasionally used. The grass encroaching on the concrete runways and paths suggested not too often.

With the summer sun lowering in the sky a sign for Snaith was spotted. It was a place none of us had ever been. Yet the collective feeling of relief made it seem as though we were about to land in a great metropolis.

A simple B&B was our housing for the night. A long, hot shower was the first part of my evening’s itinerary, before dinner. Again, the simple food of burgers and chips tasted superb, proving the adage that hunger is a great sauce.

The staff serving us enquired where we’d come from and couldn’t believe we were on the way to Liverpool. Our presence didn’t leave them overworked; the exertions of the day meant two beers were enough to deem us ready for sleep.

The rest of the journey will be published here over the course of the week.

Picture found in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group - added by carl and sian

The post To Hull & Back Day One appeared first on Daily Cycle.

Prologue

A series of nights out to bid farewell to those leaving for new shores is usually the routine if people decide to emigrate. That was certainly the case when one of my friends announced he was moving to Australia.

Plenty of beer and fine food was consumed as we enjoyed a going away dinner, a going away lunch, a farewell pint and a bid you adieu breakfast. That was obviously enjoyable, but he also wanted to mark his departure in another way.

“Let’s cycle from Hull to Liverpool” he suggested, in the pub of course. This idea wasn’t as silly as it first sounded. After some research we agreed it was possible, by following a route known as the Trans Pennine Trail.

According to the AA this path across the north of England takes just over two hours by car and, as the name suggests, the journey brings you through the Pennine Mountains.

Four of us were interested in this adventure and came up with a three-day schedule that sounded achievable; 60 miles on Friday, 70 miles on Saturday then 50 miles on Sunday.

Some shorter training cycles were completed by three of us prior to embarking on the task, fail to prepare and all that…….

The fourth member of the crew, Dave, didn’t even own a bike. Instead he decided to hire one the night before we were due to catch the train from Merseyside to Humberside to start our voyage.

You can find Day 1 of this epic trip here.

Picture found in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by carl and sian

The post To Hull & Back appeared first on Daily Cycle.

That’s it. Not the loneliness of the long-distance, the good, bad or ugly cyclist. Just the cyclist.

I’m not in a club so I don’t cycle with others, except for Himself. Even that’s a largely solitary exercise, as I have to work really hard to keep up with him so that I can yell “I DON’T WANT TO GO THAT WAY TODAY!” before he makes a turn. I’m not complaining; I’m quite happy cycling by myself.

So why the loneliness?

Because there aren’t that many other cyclists on the road. Despite the wonderful successes in cycle sport in all its variety over the summer, there aren’t that many of us. One day last week I went around one of my regular short loops, seventeen miles, and I didn’t see a single other cyclist. Not one. Granted, I’m in a rural area, and most of the distance was on single track roads, and it was a Friday teatime, but I passed through one busy, pretty honeypot village and spent a couple of miles on a country A-road, carrying people home from work in the nearest big town ten miles away. Not a single other person was making a journey by bicycle.

In the few weeks in summer when the temperature rose, after the Tour de France and during the Olympic and Paralympic Games, there seemed to be more people out on bicycles. Cyclists seemed to nod to each other a bit more, with – though I may have been imagining this – an air of encouragement. ‘Go, fellow rider!’ seemed to be the message. It even seemed to infect some pedestrians. Once, just after the end of the Tour, I pedalled into the village for an icecream and passed a trio of young lads fishing. They applauded. Seriously, they clapped hands and everything. I gave them a cautious wave, expecting howls of derisive laughter, but none came. It seemed to be genuine (though I am no expert on reading the actions and faces of adolescent males). Same on the way back; more applause. It was really cheering (though they might still be doubled over with mirth at the memory). But now the country has gone back to work, the Tour of Britain just a little blip in post-cycle-carnival depression, and almost the only people I see on the road these days are serious road cyclists out training, heads down and going like the clappers. Good for them, but where are the commuters?

Since I got home from a two-month stint in France earlier in the year, I’ve only used my car when I’ve really needed to. I miss, badly, being one of lots of people just going about their business on a bike. In the Netherlands, a quarter of all journeys are made by bicycle, which knocks France into a cocked hat (whatever that is). It must be cycling heaven, because France was just wonderful. I was always in the company of people cycling, just using their bikes to get around, the way it should be. Old men with baguettes and carrots protruding from panniers, cool and happening students, kids, mothers, couples, racing snakes: all human life on every sort and shape of bicycle. Now, quite often I’m the only one wending my way to and from the village by bike. This makes me really sad.

It’s brilliant that there’s more interest in cycle sport as a result of the fantastic summer. It’ll be even more brilliant when people start looking at their bikes and thinking, ‘Hmm, wonder if I can ride to the shops on that for a change?’ The only way to get more people on the road is to keep going on the road. And that brings me to the biggest problem.

We have a dense population. There are more cars and lorries on the roads and the chances are that – unlike in France – the driver of the car or lorry impatiently revving behind a cyclist is not a cyclist. The driver may not have any understanding of the impact his bow wave has on a cyclist. The driver may not care. The driver may consider the cyclist an obstacle. The driver probably wonders why the cyclist is on the road at all. The driver might choose to overtake the cyclist at speed because the driver can’t be bothered to wait. The driver might indicate, by word and gesture, that the cyclist should be on the left of the white line at the road’s edge, in the rough tarmac and the pot-holes.

I really, really, want to keep on cycling and I don’t want to keep all my journeys to the ‘quiet’ roads. There are plenty of roads that are fine to cycle on IF cyclists are treated as fellow road users, and accorded the same respect that drivers are.

I’ve been experimenting with demanding this respect. Sometimes I’ll move out into the road if I suspect that the car approaching me will try to overtake me somewhere unsafe. Similarly, if there is a stream of traffic oncoming traffic, I’ll often move out to make it more difficult to overtake me, moving in again when there’s a space in oncoming traffic so that I can be overtaken using plenty of space. If cars wait, I always wave thanks when they do overtake. They don’t always wait patiently though. Some hoot – something I never experienced in France, ever, even when I made mistakes on roundabouts a couple of times – but even, worryingly, some cars overtake me anyway, barely moving out and passing with the slimmest of margins. I’ve been really frightened, in a way I simply wasn’t, in nine weeks of continuous cycle touring in France.

I don’t want to give up. I don’t want to be forced onto quieter roads through fear, because then there will be fewer visible cyclists, which means that drivers won’t learn to share the road and it will be another nail in the coffin of the dream of a cycling culture. Of course, I don’t want to be splatted across someone’s bonnet in the cause of the cycling culture dream either. But I don’t want to be lonely on the road forever, so for now I’ll just pedal on.

By Marie Madigan

picture featured in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by Allan Rostron

The post The Loneliness of the Cyclist appeared first on Daily Cycle.

To understand my relationship with cycling you really need to have a basic knowledge of me. I was born to a working class family on a council estate in Salford, and my first cycle was “rigged up” by a friend by combining bits from road bikes, Raleigh Choppers and unicycles. Though this bike was far from being the best on the market, I loved it. It allowed me to start my love affair with cycling and the joy of being able to feel the sun on my back and the wind in my hair.

As my life progressed through various jobs, two wives, one child and far too many currys, my love for cycling has endured. The quality of the bikes have gradually improved, which has helped counter the deteriation of my physical condition over the march of time.

It was with mixed feelings when my best mate started mentioning that he would like to start to cycle with me too. I must make it clear that I love his company but he is physically fit, slim and mentally strong. Whereas I am fat, wheezy and and mentally fragile. You see, up to that point, I had always cycled on my own. I liked to think that this was because I enjoyed being the master of my own destiny whilst out on the road, but perhaps it was really because my physical failings wouldn’t be so clearly shown up by comparison to a proper athlete. But my mate kept suggesting he tag along with me and I thought “The odd 15 mile bike ride with him wouldn’t do me any harm, would it?”.

Well guess what? It didn’t. In fact it did the complete opposite! My average speed increased, the distances travelled increased and as a result so did my confidence. My friend was the positive influence I needed to take me from being a leisurely cyclist to being a proper cyclist.

Don’t get me wrong, my cycling style is still not one of great beauty. It lacks the beautiful rhythm of the participants of the “Tour De France” rather it looks more like I am wrestling with the bike rather than riding it. Yes, my face is often glistening from the rivulets of sweat dripping of my contorted features (and that’s just me getting my bike out of the shed before we start) but I was now a cyclist who could venture further than my local environs. I could now go out into the hills of Bolton and Bury, enjoy the beautiful views, be intoxicated by the fresh air and appreciate the beauty that surrounds me. Whilst I enjoy cycling in Salford, after a while the noise, traffic and odd youth dropping breeze blocks on your head whilst you go under a underpass, can get you down.

The rides my friend and I did varied from the Lancashire routes to 35 mile rides down the coast at Blackpool, 50 mile rides on Welsh coast and the real killer, a 45 mile “up hill and down dale” ride from Scarborough to Whitby and back.

The more rides we did, the more I started thinking and acting like a cyclist. I invested in an alarming amount of padded lycra, chamois cream for my delicate regions and stylish looking sunglasses. I do realise however that I look less like a cyclist and more like a Lycra clad walrus on a bike, but I felt like a cyclist and that’s what matters.

I could now appreciate that the participants of the “Tour De France” and I have one thing in common. We may all be a various standards but we are all cyclists. We all know the feeling you get when climbing a hill, the exhilaration of a downhill descent and the fear of misjudging a bend and ending up head first in a bramble bush…… Well maybe thats just me?

But while I am a zealot of the joys of cycling, I can confirm it has not all been joy and the freedom of the open roads. I have experienced more than my fair share of accidents. Such one being the memorable moment when, in the attempt to gain as much speed as possible on approaching an oncoming hill, I hit the rear of a burger van at full speed. The memory of a middle aged women with a frying pan opening the rear of the burger van to find me in a crumpled heap remains vivid to this day.

Did this incident dampen my spirits and stop me from riding? The answer is YES. My bike was bent in two and I needed to save for a number of months before I could replace it. But I did replace it and I was soon back on the road.

The last 2 years have seen my bike rides increase in frequency and mileage. I have completed various charity bike rides such as the London to Brighton ride, London to Oxford, Manchester to Blackpool, Manchester 26 and Manchester 100 (sorry, thats kilometres and not miles).

Each ride has started off with me feeling like Tommy Simpson and finishing looking like Homer Simpson. However I had achieved something more than just raising cash for charities, I felt I have affirmed my place within the list that contains such greats as Eddie Mercyx, Lance Armstrong, Stephen Roche, Miguel Indurain and Salfords finest ….myself David Smith.

By David Smith

The post Loneliness of a Fat Cyclist appeared first on Daily Cycle.

To be fair, there was no shortage of cycling at London 2012. Road racing, time trials, BMX, mountain biking, not to mention the myriad of track events. It was great to see so many disciplines ridden to such an amazing standard (especially with the fantastic success of Team GB). To me though, there was one event that was missing – a peculiarly British event that the organisers could have snuck in there in much the same way that the Aussies brought us beach volleyball. Step forward the hill climb – that short and brutal race that tests riders like no other.

It was a week after the closing ceremony that I found myself on my first hill climb of the season, so the Olympics were fresh in my mind.

Ho-hum, those cheers still helped a little as I pushed on to the top and that familiar surge of nausea.

I couldn’t help thinking that things would have been so different had hill climbing been contested in the Olympics. What an event that would have been! There’s even a suitable course – Swains Lane in Highgate, site of the hugely popular Urban Hill Climb organised by Rollapaluza. Imagine the world’s best climbers giving it everything for the 90 odd seconds they would need to reach the top. Froome, Contador, Schleck and Nibali – all going into what Simon Warren calls the “pain cave” as they battled past Highgate Cemetry gates. Now that would have brought the crowds out in London and maybe even a few more on Terrace Hill.

By Andy Ward (@awkwardcyclist). Picture featured in the Daily Cycle Flickr Group – added by Carl and Sian

The post Hill climbing should be an Olympic sport appeared first on Daily Cycle.

]]> http://dailycycle.co.uk/hill-climbing-should-be-an-olympic-sport/feed/ 0 http://dailycycle.co.uk/hill-climbing-should-be-an-olympic-sport/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/co/BDSK/~3/dk90_m4vm9g/ http://dailycycle.co.uk/the-great-wall/#comments Tue, 28 Aug 2012 13:00:52 +0000 timbland http://dailycycle.co.uk/?p=79 The famous climbs beckon all riders. The cobbled climbs of Flanders, the peaks of the Pyrenees, the sublime allure of Stelviopas. When the offer to climb La Redoute and the Mur de Huy arrived, I agreed immediately. We planned a 100km route through the Wallonie region of Belgium that incorporated La Redoute and the Mur [...]

The post The Great Wall appeared first on Daily Cycle.

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The famous climbs beckon all riders. The cobbled climbs of Flanders, the peaks of the Pyrenees, the sublime allure of Stelviopas. When the offer to climb La Redoute and the Mur de Huy arrived, I agreed immediately.

We planned a 100km route through the Wallonie region of Belgium that incorporated La Redoute and the Mur de Huy. Since we were finishing on the Mur, we decided it would be best to park the van at the top and ride from there.

As the van chugged up the narrow local road in first gear my eyes began to widen–it was steep. And when the clutch started to slip around the renowned 26% corner, my eyes began to resemble a 58 blade. Thankfully, I had a few hours in the saddle through the country side to prepare myself for the “Great Wall”.

We left Huy and headed towards La Redoute for about 60km along beautiful rolling roads through forests and small Belgian towns. We arrived at the base of La Redoute, it seemed unassuming: it was just a small local road on the side of the highway. 500m later, however, and the climb, made famous by the one-day classic Liège–Bastogne–Liège, was making its mark on my legs. The 1.7km climb has an average of 8.8% and maxes out around 17%.

As I rolled (and I’m using that term loosely, “crawled” might be more accurate) up to the top, the famous painted names on the road, like “Phil” and “Andy,” seemed to quell the burden of the effort. Then the 17% section hit and no amount of history or paint could compensate for the sting in my legs.

After an easy 40km back to Huy in the sun, I began to get a little nervous for the Mur. Like the end of a race nerves when the adrenaline starts to build as the line seems to get exponentially closer. It was 1.3km. Average gradient of 9.6%. Max gradient of 26%. It wasn’t call “The Wall” for nothing.

When I turned onto to the main part of the climb, my eyes were overcome by the immense gradient. Trying to channel my inner Evelyn Stevens, 2012′s fastest woman up the climb with an average speed of 16.7km.hr during Fleche Wallonne, I attacked.

As if you didn’t know the climb had started, the pavement is stamped all the way from the bottom to top with “Huy” like the dashed lines on a highway, except these go by slower…much slower. As I approached the ominous 26%-er, staying on the outside line, I gripped my hoods tightly and leaned forward to find a few extra watts. 300m and 3 gradient kicks later, I pounded over the summit that has seen 76 years of cycling victory and defeat. I was out of breath, out of watts, but over the Great Wall.

By Sarah Bonner

The post The Great Wall appeared first on Daily Cycle.

]]> http://dailycycle.co.uk/the-great-wall/feed/ 0 http://dailycycle.co.uk/the-great-wall/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/co/BDSK/~3/OvWI-Gdpa8E/ http://dailycycle.co.uk/being-a-cycopath-my-lovehate-relationship-with-cycling/#comments Tue, 28 Aug 2012 12:46:56 +0000 timbland http://dailycycle.co.uk/?p=71 Being a cycopath (cycling osteopath): I’m in my third year studying as an osteopath in Leeds and have been cycling for about twice that time now. When I first started out, as my confidence grew, I was pretty fearless. I’d never crashed and I didn’t know anything about how good my tyres were on wet [...]

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Being a cycopath (cycling osteopath):

I’m in my third year studying as an osteopath in Leeds and have been cycling for about twice that time now. When I first started out, as my confidence grew, I was pretty fearless. I’d never crashed and I didn’t know anything about how good my tyres were on wet roads or anything like that.

I think ignorance was bliss for me, as it happens, because I just thoroughly enjoyed riding for what it was. Riding in the wet never bothered me, nor did descending, although I have always taken descents quite carefully.

This was the case until a fateful day back in 2008 where I lost all friction on my brakes in a flash flood at the top of a steep descent. Off I flew unable to slow myself down for the best part of 2 kilometers. The thoughts going through my head included “I’m gonna die”, “I’m gonna be leaving here in an ambulance” and “I’m gonna break my arms and legs”. At one point I saw a wall approaching on a bend, screamed and closed my eyes. I made it to the bottom in one piece luckily and managed to come to a stop halfway up the next little climb.

Obviously my survival mechanism took over and forced me to steer my bike even though I felt like I couldn’t move.

So I was pretty put off for a while after that and unfortunately my attitude towards cycling changed quite a lot. As a mother, should I be putting myself at risk in such a way? Could I ever enjoy riding my bike in the same way again knowing that in a split second something could go wrong or I could crash or be hit by a car? I took almost a year off with the occasional fair weather ride thrown in.

The next year I thought, enough is enough, I was going to fight my demons and start training more to build my confidence back up. It worked, I was probably the fittest I’ve ever been on my bike in 2010 and that’s when I even dabbled in a bit of racing (which I was rubbish at so obviously not THAT fit). But more importantly I felt a hell of a lot more confident and was enjoying myself on the bike again.

Fast forward to 2011 cyclo cross season. I decided to give it a go as it seemed like something that would be suited to me, given I like off road running and the bikes in my opinion are easier to handle than a mountain bike (don’t get me started on mountain biking).

The second race I tried, I had my first crash. There was a tricky descent and my brakes were not slowing me down, I ended up flying down, lost control and hit a tree root, which sent me straight over my handlebars. Unfortunately I landed on the only square of concrete in the whole park and bruised and battered myself all over.

It was in my practical lesson the next day, the tutor tried to demonstrate a cardiovascular examination on me which proved difficult as my ribs were too bruised and sore to touch or put the stethoscope on properly. My many grazes and bruises also drew attention,

“you’ll have to think about what’s more important to you”

Words that have haunted me since.

Do I want to jeopardise my career as an osteopath? My hands and my arms are my future. It’s something that always pops into my head when I hit over 25 miles per hour on a descent. I promptly get on my brakes. But, I am still cycling.

I could run. I really enjoy running and it is often what I turn to in the winter to keep myself fit. I can’t help myself though. Deep down, beneath all the anxiety and sense of responsibility is just a raw passion for cycling. There’s something that keeps drawing me to it after every near miss and several episodes of road rash. I will say, “I can’t do it anymore”. But I always do it again.

I have already pledged that 2012 is going to be the first proper season of racing for me and off I will be going to cyclo-cross training sessions which start in a couple of weeks.

What else can I do? I can’t give it up because that would solve nothing. The only option in my mind is to get bloody good at handling my bike and therefore reduce my perceived risk of having an accident. Actually, sod it, I could get struck by lightning so I officially promise to stop moaning and just get on with enjoying riding my bike.

Thoughts welcome…

By Amy O’Halloran

The post Being a Cycopath: my love/hate relationship with cycling appeared first on Daily Cycle.

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