This was not some strange way of having fun. Oh no. This was serious stuff. This was training. Such as élite athletes might be expected to do. But a little slower.

We had a schedule that included the words ‘hill training’, ‘rest day’ and ‘event’. Unfortunately, due to an error at the planning stage ‘rest day’ seemed to have filled almost every day since the end of March and ‘event’ was today.

And so it happened that we received an email from the good people at Lancaster CC reminding us that we should arrive at the Ashton Memorial at around 7 o’clock in the morning to sign on for Le Terrier, a sportive which is not only 78 miles long but also features a promised “no junk miles”.

Mrs Anorak had some sense and opted for the shorter 44 mile route. Her rigidly-adhered-to training plan of rest days, avoiding all big hills and gardening had prepared her better for this “puppy” route than the full version which I lovingly refer to as “the bitch”.

So the morning dawned and we realised that we really did have to haul our backsides out of bed. Fortunately, it was neither pouring down with sun nor with rain although a fine mist (referred to, surely for reasons of space, on motorway matrix signs as “fog”) seemed to cover the county.

Arriving at Williamson Park to sign on, we had a good dither about how many apples, bananas and layers of clothing to carry before starting the ride with a lovely descent to a small dip about 100 yards away before the beginning of the climb to Jubilee Tower.

The map suggests that the aforementioned architectural prominence offers scenic views and is but a short ride from Lancaster.

Cartographers lie. Kilogrammes of carbon fibre overtook me as I struggled climbed manfully upwards, allowing Mrs Anorak to set a more leisurely pace.

Descending from Jubilee Tower I had the choice either to have a blurred, spectacleless view of the road ahead or a blurred, windscreen wiperless view of the same. I opted for the latter, reckoning that I could wipe them with my gloves. Not such a bad plan, if only my gloves hadn’t already been used to wipe my breathing apparatus.

Sportive rides are entirely non-competitive. For this reason, the majority of riders blasted past me without so much as a “hello” or a twitched finger on their way to the first checkpoint at Marshaw from whence the puppy was to climb over the Trough of Bowland and the bitch was to whizz round to Scorton, Oakenclough, Chipping and Whitewell. This stretch was actually fairly fast.

And then I saw it. The route sign at Whitewell pointed skywards. (Several riders didn’t see and, I guess, found themselves accidentally on the shorter route.)

The ascent to Cow Ark is so quick as to be almost forgettable when attempted in reverse, as Mr and Mrs Anorak had indeed done only on Friday. From today’s perspective things were a little different. I engaged my granny ring and pedaled at something rather less than a snail’s pace as more kilogrammes of carbon fibre shot past me. One was almost certainly disqualified for asking after my health.

Shortly afterwards (in lateral distance terms) the road dropped. I don’t know quite how fast I descended but I know my Garmin was reporting a speed of 36mph as I passed a pair of surprised walkers near the top on the other side.

And then, more but slower climbing. The Garmin told me I had already climbed 1400 metres in 35 miles. Almost half of the distance was complete and slightly less than half of the ascent.

I began to hate descending, feeling these downward slopes were robbing me of the altitude I had worked so hard to acquire and knowing that I’d only have to labour more to regain those missing metres.

Plans to complete the whole of the bitch, which includes a challenging climb of Roeburndale, had already been shelved. The climb to Bowland Knotts was the location of the first forced dismount as my legs chose to go on strike.

By this point a CTC member wearing a Manche à la Méditerranée jersey and I were leapfrogging each other and having a friendly chat. Possibly he was allowed to do this as he, like me, had mudguards. He was a stronger climber, I overtook him on each descent.

The last of the puppy-riders were at the main feed station in a fine spot at the top of Lythe Fell. They had been passed by the entire field, possibly because of their mudguards, possibly because they were on a mission to buy and eat cake wherever they possibly could en route. They had already failed to reach one check point on time because of their conscientious devotion to this mission. With only thirty minutes to go before the next checkpoint shut, I decided to get a move on. They decided to assist in consuming cake.

I had decided to avoid the Roeburndale part of the long route, believing that the return leg would be made somehow easy by this choice. All I can say is that Roeburndale must be one heck of a climb.

A pinging in my back pocket informed me that Mrs Anorak had arrived back at the Ashton Memorial, comfortably ahead of schedule. An arrow on my Garmin let me know that I was 5 miles behind my own schedule. I refused to let my lack of concern show.

Le Terrier is a great ride, with happy, friendly people at the feed stations and checkpoints. It’s just a shame that so few of its participants appeared willing to reciprocate. I hope to be back next year. Who knows, by then Mrs Anorak might be ready to tackle the long route.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Gaythorne Ave,Preston,United Kingdom

Mow Cop is quite a climb. I’ve had one previous attempt at it and got as far as the front door of the pub (bear in mind this comes after the best part of a mile of quite steep climbing) before finding I could no longer keep my front wheel on the ground.

Today I followed the sage advice of keeping as much energy as possible in reserve for the section by the pub. For me this meant using 30/25 almost all the way up and chatting to one of those who had chosen to walk as a convenient means of ensuring that I wasn’t working too hard.

Looking up, it became quite clear that there was a whopper of a wall to climb from the pub upwards. ‘Clear’ isn’t quite the right word. I realised that I was sweating so much from my temples that my glasses were unpleasantly damp so I needed to find some way of safely stowing them in a back pocket while still pedaling up the climb.

As the gradient went from painful to insane, I stood up on the bike in order to keep my weight forward, pedalled as fast as I possibly could (an entire 40rpm!) and uttered every single Anglo-Saxon word I could manage in order to pretend that my legs weren’t experiencing the most agonising pain that can be achieved without causing permanent damage. Smile for the camera….

Several turns of the pedals got me to a point at which the gradient eased off. Slightly. A couple of spectators urged me to dig deep (like I hadn’t already done that!) while I concentrated on the blessed relief that might come twenty yards very much up the road as the road turned left and levelled off.

I had forgotten that this left turn led to a fine Cheshire false flat of about 7%. Just enough time to stop swearing, to give myself a little cheer while pedaling past some of the defeated and to consider the final few meters of climb that come after the road turns right.

A woman who appeared to live at one of the houses near the top on the left was urging me up to the summit near which the gradient hit 14% again.

And then it was over. 15 minutes and 13 seconds for the 2km from level crossing to summit.

Later I was told that it had been “absolute carnage” up Mow Cop for those who had attempted it earlier in the day. I was fortunate to have had a clear run at the hill. Others hadn’t been so fortunate: most mortals can only attempt a climb such as that at their own pace. And if one’s own pace happens to be just a little faster than that of the rider in front then there will be issues. Lots of people had fallen off while trying to avoid those who had ground to a dead halt.

4 kilometres of delightful, sweeping descent followed which offered fine opportunities to feel smug and to spin the agony from the legs in preparation for the next climb (of a total of four) at Bridestones.

I have only two criticisms of the day: a bag drop at the start / finish line (Gresty Road) would have been appreciated and it would have been useful for someone to have made the magenta and black “Caution Ahead” signs slightly less subtle. I missed one, hurtled at 40 km/h across the A523 and realised that I’d been a little too busy looking at the level crossing on the far side of the junction.

It was a tremendous day. I shall certainly be back next year.

Myth’s river- where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boyflowed on, his name on its lips. Without him, it was prophesised,
they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls’ sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs…
but when Odysseus came,

with an athlete’s build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd’s roar,
and it was sport, not war,

his charmed foot on the ball…

but then his heel, his heel, his heel…

I don’t love plastic hats, yet a tedious number of people who risk their lives by eating too much for their sedentary lifestyles, by not exercising enough or by stressing about other people’s wellbeing, seem to think that I and other cyclists am stupid for wearing a stylish cycling cap (well, I think it’s stylish) to keep the sun out of my eyes (at the moment the sun seems to be wet and forming puddles), rather than a plastic hat to act as some form of talisman.

If you are one of those people, please read on.

Dr. Mark Porter in The Scotsman writes:

Boris Johnson was recently pilloried for cycling without a helmet, but what sort of impact has their introduction really made? How much safer is Boris now that he reluctantly coats his cranium in carbon-fibre?

It may seem counterintuitive, but the benefits are far from clearcut. On the positive side, there are numerous reported cases where helmets appear to have protected cyclists from serious head injuries that could have left them permanently disabled or dead. Yet, on the negative side, these cases appear to be the exception rather than the rule, and need to be weighed against the fact that the wind-in-the-hair sensation appears to be one of the attractions of cycling, and that forcing cyclists to wear protective headgear discourages them from using their bikes.

[...] The Bicycle Helmet Research Foundation estimates that the average cyclist would have to pedal the roads for more than 3,000 years to suffer a serious head injury, let alone one that would be mitigated by a cycle helmet. And children are four times more likely to suffer a head injury as a pedestrian than when they are on their bikes (so why don’t we make them wear helmets when they are walking along the pavement?)

my third 50km ride of the week

I was cheating a little as I was starting from Beacon Fell, aware that I almost certainly would not as yet have the legs to complete my intended loop if starting from home.

About 2 km from the start of my route I am reminded, as my rear light bounces down the road [1], that I must buy some cable ties to attach it more inescapably to my seat pack, the road surface on the descent to Brock Mill having apparently been laid by Belgians.

Just before the first proper climb of the day, up to Grizedale reservoir, I discover that my front derailleur is no longer working as it has jammed against my big chainring. Conveniently, after a few minutes staring at it and threatening it with a multitool, a passing cyclist offers his assistance. 20 minutes later, and following some comparison with his steed, we realise that the derailleur has slipped southwards and that it is actually quite a simple problem to fix.

So, thoroughly warmed up (not) the 3km climb, up 140 metres or so, brings me to glorious views over Forton services to Morecambe Bay and the Lake District. The descent towards the River Wyre would have been quicker had the local farmers not insisted on scattering it with cattle grids. Still, it gives me plenty of time to enjoy the views.

A right turn brings me to the next climb and past some of the last vestiges of civilisation for the next dozen kilometres. I am now glad that my jersey has a full length zip as, even in the northern shadow of Catshaw Fell, I’m getting rather hot.

Seeing a short but near vertical wall of road ahead of me, I try to build up a good head of steam to get me up it, only to realise a little late that another farmer (maybe the same one, who knows) has not only placed a cattle grid at its base but also the road has a small but incredibly sharp hairpin after the grid. The 16% gradient here makes me glad that my front derailleur is now back in action and I realise that I’ve not seen any cyclists (or, for that matter, motorists) for the last 10 kms.

The short descent leads to a right turn after a fine looking stream before the road passes through the middle of Marshaw farm at the beginning of the 4 km climb between Winfold Fell and Blaze Moss. The start is gentle enough and the first two kilometres are demolished in seven minutes. The road now turns once more to give me a glimpse of the final mile of climb.

As the road snakes upwards and the gradient increases, I find myself grinning inanely as my speed slows to a walking pace and I take to counting roadside markings to take my mind off the pain. There are only eight more markers to the summit and, as I count them down, noticing that several more have fallen into the gulley below, I notice that I’ve misjudged the hill and that it continues for another 200 metres.

As the road briefly widens, I allow a red saloon car to overtake me. I will soon regret this move. Less than a minute later, I am over the summit now with beautiful views over the geographical centre of Great Britain. The descent is even steeper than the climb but the road is wide and I could descend at a heck of a speed if it weren’t for a certain red saloon car which is now, to my mind, travelling at a ludicrously slow 30 mph, obliging me to keep my hands on the brakes for at least half of the next 4 km through the Duke of Lancaster’s substantial estate.

As I pass the Inn at Whitewell and enter the woods, the cold hits my legs, the sun will shine directly into my eyes for the next fifteen minutes and I realise that my legs have about had enough. The thought of a large all-day breakfast back at the Visitor Centre keeps me going but another 200 metres of climb over the next 10 kilometres separates my stomach from its prey. I resist the temptation to call in at the Dog & Partridge in Hesketh Lane as I can now see Beacon Fell rising ahead of me.

Turning onto a singletrack road, sod’s law insists that I should now start to meet traffic and that that traffic should expect me to cycle on the muddy verge. I decline the offer and concentrate on the next three kilometres. Now that my legs feel most ready to give way, I have another 100 metres to climb. The sun is now at my side so I can appreciate the scenery and can see a badger by the road. Obviously, it’s not going anywhere in a hurry.

920 metres of climb and just short of 54 kilometres after I set out, I return to Beacon Fell’s Visitor Centre and café, ready to tuck into some lovely hot food. Service stopped twenty minutes previously.

Well, last summer was blooming miserable, wet and largely featured me not cycling except for the odd epic. I can now happily declare that I’ve got over my fears of cycling in the rain, cycling in the dark and cycling in the dark and wet. Wearing glasses can make wet cycling a challenge as I’ve yet to find an effective means of wiping the precipitation from my specs but it very much appears to me that the old adage is true: There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. I’ve been out of late in the dark, chased by the gritting lorry (it’s worse when he overtakes) and found that my problem is usually that I’m too warm. Cycle clothing really seems to have moved on a lot in the last ten years.

Stalkers may like to see where I’ve been over at longwayround.motionbased.com: the more boring rides (such as ten mile trips to the swimming pool) are omitted.

Potential purchasers of the Edge are cautioned that it is a better training device than a navigator and Frank Kinlan has a handy guide to using it for navigation. He suggests naming waypoints simply and sequentially such that LT01 is Waypoint 1 Left Turn and RT02 is Waypoint 2 Right Turn as all waypoints must be uniquely named.

Personally, I like to know not only that I am on track but also where I am. Consequently, I have named waypoints as, for example, RSTANLRD (Right: Stanley Rd) and SACLAYLA (Straight Across: Clay Lane). This also means I can keep my eyes open for other clues in the event that the road layout differs somewhat from what I see on my map.

It has also been suggested that users need to know the difference between a Course (which is for training purposes) and a Route (which is for navigational purposes). I have accidentally discovered that users can use a route to help navigate a course.

I use Tracklogs to set up my routes and transfer them to the Edge as both a Route and as a Course. If I tell the edge that I want to attempt the ‘Endon Loop’ Course and also that I want to navigate the identically named Route, it will warn me when I am off course and give me advance warning of turns.

When I tried this today, my only difficulties were that I forgot to press ‘Start’ as I began the Course, I had difficulty seeing the screen as my glasses don’t have windscreen wipers and I had to climb off on some of the hills: Staffordshire was designed with longer, steeper hills than Lancashire.

Fat Cyclist » Blog Archive » 2007 Tour De France Winner Stripped of Title
2007 Tour De France Winner Stripped of Title

“Really, it’s very simple,” said [Dick Pound,] the Chairman of WADA. “Follow my logic, if you please. Every single rider at the Tour de France is a superior athlete. If one person is able to beat all these other people, that person must be doing something the others aren’t doing. However, everybody knows that every single one of these athletes is doing every legitimate thing he can to be the best racer he can be. And since every racer is doing every allowable thing, but only one person can win, the person who wins must be doing something that is not allowed.”

“And what is not allowed?” asked Mr. Pound. “Doping is not allowed, that’s what.”
[...]

“I suddenly don’t feel so well,” said Ivan Basso, following the press conference. “Also, I have a pain in my knee and my goiter’s acting up. I intend to race still, but frankly don’t see my prospects as all that good.”

“My back is killing me,” commented Alexandre Vinokourov.

“I feel a general sense of malaise,” noted Iban Mayo, though nobody asked.

Concluding the presentation, Christian Prudhomme, Director of the Tour de France, said, “…All of this is null and void in the event of a Frenchman winning the Tour.”