The Great Tour 2010

I can't have a cycling blog without writing something about The Great Tour.

This was one of my defining moments in cycling, encompassing all the joys associated with great rides - superb company, scenery, sunshine, mileage and accomplishment; just on a much bigger scale. In cycling, you have to accept that for every up there is a down, in every sense. The Great Tour also delivered the worst spill I have experienced.

In a nutshell, the 2010 ride was planned as a circumnavigation of the coastline of Great Britain in 64 days to raise money for The Prostate Cancer Charity and retail trade charity Caravan. Graeme Knott, Hugh Roberts, Alistair Cope, Mike Sweeney and Sam Mashford were the hardy souls who completed the whole thing, starting and finishing in Seaton, Devon.

My involvement was just to ride the first two weeks - Seaton to Scarborough - approx 900 miles. My trip was cut short on my home stage, close to St Osyth, when I had a nasty spill and was carted off to Colchester A&E. My focus then became getting fit enough to rejoin the ride, which I managed and subsequently had the priviledge of taking part in the final week.

It was special for me, and pulling the video clips together for this 8 minute summary of my time on The 2010 Great Tour was a really nice trip down memory lane. Sunshine, bikes, great people and an excuse to air the Superstars theme tune! My thanks go to Dan Broom for producing such a fine video record of a great event which I have randomly plundered and shoddily edited for my own purposes.

Solo Touring - East Anglia Day 3

Skegness to Colchester

Planned 129 miles

　

Hanging out the washing in Skegness

Third time lucky. The last day was the first I managed to leave on time. It probably helped that I wasn't worried about getting the tent as dry as possible before packing - it was unceremoniously screwed up and stuffed in a bag. The same went for the rest of my kit, with the notable exception of food, which I wanted in the best possible condition and close to hand!

Today was going to be a battle on three fronts versus 1. Distance; the longest day of the trip at 129 planned miles - 2. The Elements; although it promised to be dry, the wind was still howling from the South and - 3. My backside; sore after day one, painful after day two, it was now agony.

I had taken account of some of these challenges in planning - In most cases, you control the distance, so I couldn't grumble about this one. The elements are also in the lap of the gods, so again, no complaints. The state of my rear end could have been avoided.

You are always going feel two days of 100+ miles on a bike but there are things you can do to minimise the 'sensation'.

Chamois Creme? Never used it, probably never will - its another of those lines I am yet to cross, like shaving my legs. I am led to believe, however, that Chamois Creme is a good thing that helps minimise the nasty effects of friction at the rear.

The offending item

Saddle - that's the fella... biggest lesson learned on this trip - don't mess with a tried and tested saddle, and certainly don't change your saddle a week or two before a big trip. If you are going to stand any chance of surviving a trip like this in such a delicate area ( and I don't mean Lincolnshire), ride with a well worn in, well known, friendly saddle. I committed the cardinal sin and swapped my beaten up old Fizik Arione for a flash, tarty little Fizik Pave CX two weeks before leaving. A decision based purely on aesthetics came back and, literally, bit me on the arse.

I knew in the back of my mind this was a risk - I even took the remedial step of packing the Sudocreme. At least I wasn't going to get my welts infected. I was still using the stuff a week later, but am pleased to report that all is now well...

A mere 10 miles into the day, I felt like getting off and staying off. It had taken me just over an hour. The wind was ridiculous and Lincolnshire didn't help - pan flat, very few trees and roads that only seemed point into the wind.

I retraced my route from day two and ploughed on after popping a combo of ibuprofen and paracetemol, eventually grinding my way into Boston. I needed an espresso, cake and half an hour to pull myself together.

I got the message

Retracing yesterday's route again, I stuck as far left on the A16 and A17 as possible to minimise the risk of being added to the very helpful roadside kill-count-ometer signs and eventually pulled into the service area at Long Sutton where I had hidden in McDonalds from the thunderstorms. This time I opted to revisit my childhood and settled into Little Chef for today's Breakfast Number Two. With another ibuprofen/paracetemol top up, I was in good form and ready to roll.

Wisbech became my next target and I discovered roads flatter and straighter than anything Lincolnshire had to offer. I had previously thought this impossible. Further into The Fens, the flatness and straightness of these roads would be consistently trumped.

A very straight, long road

My mood darkened somewhat and having passed through Wisbech, 'The Capital of The Fens', and tweeting something about being stared at by too many "bog trotting Fen Monkeys" I hit upon the idea for a book - I would ride the nation, concocting insults for every town on my way. The combination of physical exertion, a mental inability to visualize getting home today and the unknown pharmacological effects of a sudocreme/ibuprofen/paracetemol/Little Chef Breakfast cocktail, led to something bordering paranoia. I was losing it a little.

I am not normally a swearer - my family would certainly attest to this, but when the going gets hard, and I am on my own on the bike, I will swear. I will do it a lot - sometimes mumbling, sometimes shouting. Its normally reserved for hard hills, but I discovered on this trip it is also helpful on the flat. I am sure I am not the only one - its something the cycling magazines will never tell you... the best aid to getting through a tough section on a ride is to swear yourself silly.

A very straight, long river

90 degree turn back into Norfolk

I can't really say much more about the Fens, apart from repeat the obvious - they are very, very, unimaginably flat, they go on for ever, the skies are massive and everything is in straight lines, that go on, and on, and on..Take a look on a map at the line of the New (and Old) Bedford Rivers between Earith and Downham Market. Dead, dead straight.... oh and it gets a bit breezy.

Shortly after Littleport, I began to notice the appearance of some left hand drive cars. The proportion increased steadily as they heralded my arrival in Mildenhall, one of the few remaining, large US Air Force bases of East Anglia. When I was a kid they were all over the place and the Yanks were a very common sight - I also loved the skies being full of Phantoms, Thunderchiefs, A-10s and Hercules - this really took me back to the 70's and I was surprised at the size of the current Mildenhall base. They only seem to have the boring stuff here now though - I saw one Hercules and a row of KC-135 tankers on the apron and that was it.

Back to civilisation

The landscape now changed, quite significantly and as I headed for Bury St Edmunds, I felt like I was back in familiar home territory. The roads were lined with trees, there were woods, undulations and bends in the roads! The pretty villages of my East Anglia returned and my mood lifted enormously. Once in Bury, I was reminded what a hill looked and felt like. I was pleasantly surprised my legs seemed to enjoy the challenge and the change in landscape led to some much needed shelter from the wind. My pace started to pick up again.

Last pitstop - Lavenham

After about 12 hours on the road, I stopped for a breather and some malt loaf in Lavenham. I had been carrying this large malt loaf for the whole trip and it probably weighed close to a kilo... it is one of those foods that I love once I am eating it, but I need a forceful nudge to start it. This is why I was on day 3 and it was unopened. I took the plunge and within 10 minutes the whole thing had been devoured. I followed that up with some more of the dry oats/raisins/nuts combo of the previous day and took on a couple of pints of water.

I was now ready for the final push. I wasn't showing quite as much mileage as planned, so decided to take a slightly more roundabout route home, using parts of my regular training routes from Nayland to Bures, Wormingford, Fordham, West Bergholt and on to home.

Home. I had left Skegness at 06:30 and arrived just a shade before 20:00. 131 miles at an average of 13.1mph with 9 hrs 57 mins spent in the saddle.

My first solo touring trip had taken 3 days, covered 377 miles and despite the rigours of some parts, left me itching to do more. I really enjoyed the experience and would highly recommend it. There were times on the road that I wished I had someone with me to share a joke or a sight but for the most part, I enjoyed being able to plod on at my own pace. It also would have been nice to have someone around to share the breaks and the stories of the day but the overiding feeling was one of achievement and when I achieve something completely on my own it is a very satisfying feeling. You learn a few things about yourself too....

Some lessons were learned and wise words from many sources were confirmed - I plan to break some of these down in the coming weeks to a series of short thoughts on individual aspects of touring.

Thanks for getting this far with my ramblings!

　
　
　

Solo Touring - East Anglia Day 2

Cromer to Skegness

Planned 110 miles.

Again, I managed to set off later than planned.

Breakfast, pack tent, check bike.

Check bike. That’s the one that held me up – I had that sinking feeling when I noticed the rear tyre was flat again, although my first reaction was to pump it up and see how it fared while I finished packing my kit.

The tyre held, but while checking, I noticed a very loose spoke. After all the detailed preparation that had gone into this trip, the most important item that I had on my list, but for some reason did not pack was… the bloody spoke key.

Burnham Deepdale

Using multi-tool pliers I tightened the spoke to the rough tension of the others and having spun the wheel, decided the slight wobble was within acceptable parameters to see me through the day.

None of this should have been a surprise – I knew that loading the bike this heavily, would be a risk – these were my cross wheels and not designed for touring. I simply decided to reallocate some of the weight, putting a slightly higher percentage in the front panniers.

Having called home, I headed off to cross the top of Norfolk.

The A149 might not sound like the most appealing road, but this was one of my favourite parts of the trip – beautiful countryside, a few ups and downs and a pretty quiet road. Passing through Sheringham, Cley, and Wells, my attention was firmly focussed on making Burnham Deepdale for my second breakfast of the day after 30 odd miles.

I had camped at Burnham Deepdale with my family back in April and been introduced to the amazing café there www.deepdalecafe.co.uk . I’d had their full English in April and the thought of another pulled me through the increasing crosswinds.

Breakfast didn’t disappoint and I topped it up with a slice of cake and an espresso chaser to follow the latte.

Being diligent, I thought I’d check the rear tyre and top it up with a little more air from my minipump before I had a chance to find somewhere with a track pump.

Here we go again

Of course, Sod’s law would dictate that I would snap the valve. Time for another tube… My stock of spare tubes was now down to 2 and at this rate I would be needing many more before this trip was done.

After spending way too long outside the café, and drawing far too much attention, I hit the road again. Despite the crosswinds, this section to Hunstanton was pretty quick. I love the villages in this part of Norfolk and the recent gentrification of the area has resulted in some beautifully restored flint and brick cottages together with some stunning new builds that follow the traditional basics. I did, however, begin to notice that gentrification can lead to homogeneity – I would swear that every farmshop, pub, restaurant, delli etc have had their sign writing done by one agency. Or they’re all owned by the same person. Smart, consistent, but ultimately dull.

Fatbirds. Or to give it its full name – Fatbirds Don’t Fly. Unlikely name, but it’s a bike shop in Hunstanton, and a very good one. www.fatbirds.co.uk I bought a couple of tubes and borrowed their track pump, but could have stayed for much longer – titanium is their speciality and they have some beautiful bikes from the likes of Lynskey, Litespeed, Van Nicholas and Sabbath.

Head down, plough on

This was the start of the hard stuff. To get from Hunstanton to Skegness you have to skirt The Wash (for about 70 miles), heading first in a southerly direction to Kings Lynn. Unless you have a boat, in which case its about 16 miles away. Today this meant throwing myself into the teeth of a nasty headwind. This made things tediously hard and it was just a case of grinding it out while the miles ticked over.

The Queen has a place around here, and for that I thank Her. The quality of the road surface as I got closer to Sandringham was like nothing I have ever cycled on. If those guys in jumpsuits in the Intel ads have scooters in their lab/factory – this is what I expect it would feel like. I’ve never been a fan of the monarchy, but if having one of her holiday homes near you means roads like this, I would like to recommend a nice little flat in Colchester. She’d love it, and so would I.

As I came into the outskirts of Kings Lynn, the rains started. Short, sharp, but very heavy showers. I was thankful of the shelter from the wind in the town, but had a bit of trouble finding my way out. Eventually, I took a chance on a cycle path and for once it paid off.

Crossing Terrington Marsh, I began to understand what flat actually means. The farmland just goes on, and on. The sky is huge and you can see the weather that’s coming your way. In my case, this meant thunder storms, but it was kind of fun to try and outrun the next shower or slow up to let one pass. Inevitably, they caught me and against all the rules, I sheltered under a tree. It was either that, or be pressure washed off the face of the planet. I took my chances.

Coming off the Marsh at Long Sutton, I dodged the next thunder storm my making a pre-emptive strike on McDonalds and sitting out the worst of it. I used some of the time to call home and ahead to some campsites near Skegness. The problem now was that the gaps between thunder storms were being filled by traditional heavy rain, so in the spirit of relativity I took advantage of one of these “breaks” to get going again.

This part of the ride was the worst so far. Soaked through, I just wanted to get my mileage done and get my head down in a relatively dry tent. So, I decided to use the mainroads as they looked the most direct on the map – this meant the A17, A16 and A52. I wouldn’t recommend any of them. Lincolnshire Council are kind enough to place signs at regular intervals telling you how dangerous the roads are and how many people have been killed on them so far this year – some even gave comparative scores against the same period last year. I am sure these stats look great on a Powerpoint presentation, but the roadside?

Still never a good idea to take your own picture

On the upside, turning right and starting to head North up the A17 meant my old friend the tailwind was back and I was delighted to renew our acquaintance. These roads are busy, fast and dangerous, but for large sections, they have wide hard shoulder/run off areas which keep you away from the cars. Almost like a cycle path, but they go where you want to go.

I ploughed on past scheduled stops, stuffed my face with salt and vinegar peanuts in Boston and took a wrong turn out of town which I realised 6 miles later. I cut across country and resumed the northerly slog on the A52. I didn’t realise it then, but I needed a good stop, some refreshment and a rest.

The trouble is, there is absolutely naff all around there – just flat, endless fields and straight roads full of speeding cars. Lincolnshire mostly smelled of poo, wet vegetables, diesel and onions. I decided to plough on.

Furthest point from home

Eventually, I just had to stop and pulled into a closed garage forecourt. I was so hungry that I opened one of my pre-packed breakfast bags of oats and raisins and consumed the whole lot. Dry. Strangely, it was really very nice. I also quickly downed the contents of  both of my bottles. With my senses reinvigorated, I established that my campsite was no more than half a mile away and headed straight there.

Unlike the night before, reception was open. Although this site was considerably more down-market, they couldn’t have been nicer – very interested in what I was doing, welcoming and best of all – they completely refused any payment because I was on a bike and just “passing through”. After the day I had endured I felt like shedding a tear at this unexpected kindness (a little bit of moisture might have just slipped out – I was tired!)

Tent pitched, fed and showered, I slept well.

116 miles completed at 14.6mph in 7 hrs 53 mins in the saddle.

Belgium

Perspective. Its how things look from where you are. As a cyclist, you immediately have a very different perspective to non-cycling members of our society. You see things differently. You might not think that you do, but believe me you do. It does no harm to remind yourself of this every now and then. Its good to get some perspective.

Examples of cycle-specfic perspective are many, but the most obvious include:

Lycra - to the cyclist it is practical, essential, even cool. To huge swathes of the public at large it is not acceptable in any polite circumstance. Ever. I do lycra quite a bit. Most days.

Shaved Legs (male) - again, completely acceptable to those in the know (although there appears to be no consensus on exactly why) and guaranteed to raise more than an eyebrow in most outside circles - particularly the non metro-sexual ones. Haven't taken the plunge personally - doubt I will.

Red Traffic Lights - for far too many of us on the cycling side of the fence, these appear to mean nothing. Perspective, bordering on blindness. To society in general a red traffic light means you stop and wait for a green one, or amber at the very least, but you stop, before ploughing on. I'll say one thing for motorists (I am one from time to time) at least the vast majority know a red light when they seen one and stop.

Belgium - for me, this is the big one. A country that separates itself as clearly as the cycling community can define itself from the nasty outside world. Belgium - a political basket case of a country which finds itself without a government for over a year, paralysed by the failure of the two populations to come together. Belgium - its a joke.

Can you even name a famous Belgian? Belgium - known for beer and chocolate that most people think is French anyway. Belgium - Plastic Bertrand, Tin Tin and  Poirot. Again, most people probably assume anything marginally famous and Belgian to be French.

We live in blissful ignorance of Belgium, until we cycle.

It is possible for your perspective on Belgium on its own to define you as a cyclist, even if you never ride a bike

Perspective. Belgium - commonly viewed by many as the epicentre of the cycling world. A cycling Garden of Eden, if you will. The spiritual home of cycling as a real sport. The races, the riders, the cobbles, the climbs - only in Belgium, and most of us want a little bit of Belge to rub off on us. We crave it. We even pay for it. Kit with a flash of black, yellow and red. Bikes from Ridley, Merckx, Flanders...

The greatest of the cycling greats? Why it can only be Eddy Merckx... the Belgian legend that grows each year - he is the starting point for most newbies to our sport (at least they can see past Armstrong). By the time my son is boring people in pubs about the unbeatable Mr Merckx, the legend will have grown yet further to prove that he won every single bike race on the face of the planet between 1967 and 1976.

Think about beer and sport... Budweiser/Carlsberg/Amstel, Official Beers of whichever football tournament is currently raking it in... talk to a cyclist about beer and you will get one of two responses - CTC leaning types will invariably go for "a pint of old stuff with bits in it" (beards are wonderful bit filters) but talk to anyone with a modicum of race interest and I would be surprised if you weren't bombarded with some of the most obscure Belgian brews available. I am a little more commercial in my tastes and happy to settle for Duvel or Leffe, but your hardcore race fan will swear by some Flemish Monkische Scrotebrau and settle for nothing less.

Belgium - produces more World Tour riders than any other country. Given the size of the place this is amazing. The Spring Classics fought out on the cobbles and climbs of Flanders and Wallonia each year are OWNED by Belgian winners in a way that French fans of the Tour de France or British Tennis fans at Wimledon can only dream of. Take the Ronde, or Tour of Flanders as an example - run on 95 occasions. Won by Belgians 67 times. They own it.

How many famous Belgians can you name? Newbie cyclists, probably at least five. More established riders and fans, at least 10 to 15. I bet many hardcore, long term race fans will be able to name 25 - 50, or even more.

Cyclocross - don't even get me started on cyclocross, my favourite racing discipline - I could be here all night... there will be many posts to follow on cyclocross in the coming months, but you cannot deny that 'cross is possibly more Belgian than Belgium itself.

Oh Belgium... how I have come to admire you... but only because I cycle.