A week ago I got on my bike. Not any old bike mind you…more like a sword drawn by a 36th generation, cave dwelling Japanese master craftsswordmaker kind of bike. You canne beat steel. Well ye can…but ye need a hammer. And I rode like a madman to Brighton and back. Rolling hills, climbs through the forests, downhills to face certain mayhem and carnage if it all went wrong. Can my bike snap at 75kmph?
A rare need breed of Mamil caught on camera for the first time
Yup I look like a berk but it has it’s advantages when doing 230kms – less wind resistance and the perfect body temperature. You drink, you eat a biscuit, you pedal, you drink some more, eat a sweet and pedal. In nine hours of riding, 8000 calories get devoured by your hungry body and the trick is to know when to back off and be gentle on your knees and thighs. And when to hammer it! Like when you hit beautiful, smooth, flowing flats and hills through wooded glades and shady downs. Hitting 50 and the sounds are a blur, legs delivering power to a machine (the bike…not me) that really knows how to use it.
I only started ‘road riding’ six weeks ago but I’ve ridden bikes my whole life. Since I was three. Hell, my daddy got me a motorbike at four. But push bikes have always been my love. And I’m fast. Faster than I was aware of. Not drug addled pro fast, but quicker than most people you will come across. Big lungs are genetic. My father was a deep sea diver with a strong chest and I once heard a doctor say he had the biggest lung capacity he had ever seen. Bigger than Mike Tyson. I remember when I was a nipper saying to my da’ that if he could hold his breath underwater for four minutes I would run around the block naked. He came up at 3.56 I’m sure just to be nice.
I’m driven by the quest to constantly understand how the body ‘feels’. To experience, interpret and discover the essence of movement. How all movement is connected and to play with using it in its most efficient, poetic and beautiful way. We all mimic movement from early childhood. How to hold a fork, how to walk, use our hands. So if I try and move on a tennis court like Roger Federer, or imitate Boris Becker’s serve in my body, then I will experience something new. And that will give me a greater understanding of myself. And it’s fun to feel a sensation that Boris has spent a life exploring. He’s a master after all. The more I have watched, copied, tried, felt, analyzed the feeling and tried again, the faster I get at learning a new movement. Something we inherently are all capable of doing…it’s just that I have kept that channel pretty wide open. After riding a bike as a youngster, being a strong sportsman at school, then doing a degree in classical guitar, followed by five years under one of the great living Aikido instructors, Minoru Kanetsuka, a diploma in cranial-sacral therapy, single figure golf in two years, surfing all over the world and about twenty other things I don’t want to bang about cos it just sounds like I am being arrogant, I seem to have a knack for finding the essence of movement!
my dolls house framing the gorgeous eddy
So back to my bike ride. I started it the other day (bike riding – ok, six weeks ago), when my mate Steve wanted my vintage watch. He gave me his Cinelli aluminium racer. I rode it, but whilst it was quick I immediately sensed something was up. It was rigid. Uncomfortable. Now, I’m just a beginner (albeit with a rapid learning curve) and my body was telling me something. The first I had said to Steve was “ok..I have your bike now I need some mileage..where do I go?” Not bloody up and down Oxford Street. So he tells me Richmond Park. 15 miles there. 7 around. 15 back = 37 miles. Richmond Park…what a revelation…loads of Mamils, but beautiful. Deers, trees, winding hills and some speed. I’m overtaking 98% of the peeps on the road, something I have always done as a urban rider, but here in the world of lycra, where I expect to encounter fast guys I am still going past them. Odd methinks, but I’ll take it.
Next weekend let’s give it three laps. 50 miles. Full throttle. 2 hours 46. Steve said I had the computer set up wrong on the bike. I must have measured the wheels in wrong. But nope…it was just fine. Admittedly I was buggered, in bed the whole day, but when I recovered and asked a couple of proper riders if that was an acceptable tonk, they were encouraging as to my beginners capabilities.
The following week my vintage Eddy Merckx that I had spent three nights trawling Ebay to find, arrived. In mint condition. Shag the aluminium. I had cross examined every poor bike shop mechanic, sales rep, Steve, Deniz from Hadron and more on the steel vs aluminium vs carbon vs titanium vs lace vs petrol. Ok maybe not the last two but the intranet is awash with fools and timewasters, cycle geeks and anoraks, debating the benefits and cons of each material. Steel is real and you can bash it with a hammer if you come a cropper so I opted for Eddy. And what a decision. Now that it’s here and I’ve blasted it to Brighton and back I would definitely take Eddy over me mum.
brrrr it was pretty cold (especially in lycra)
Having competed my half century (50 miles) I now wanted a century and Brighton seemed like a decent place to go to get it. I teamed up with me old pal D who happened to bell me during the week where every fourth word leaving my mouth was either Eddy or Merckx. He was straight on the Ebay tip and kept mailing me to say he too was now hooked on bike porn. Within 17 hours he was mounted on a racey blue 70′s Pinarello and was gunning to join me on the Brighton sojourn. Steve lent us his Garmin sat nav and suddenly the front of Eddy had more technology mounted on the handlebars than Darth Vader has in his bathroom. We were off.I kept telling D were were nearly there (also neglected to tell him that we seemed to also add an extra 8km loop around a field) and at 90kms when I was sure the beach would come into view around each corner we stopped to ask a truck driver where the hell the sandy cove of Brighton was. His answer of 24 miles down the road left D slightly perturbed that we were a slightly more ambitious outing than we had planned for. We rolled into town with 120kms on the clock and me hungry for The Largest Spaghetti Vongole You Can Make Please With Extra Garlic Bread and A Big Coffee.
Needless to say D had had enough and hopped on the train home as I set off to see if the hairs on my chest were legitimate. The first 50kms back were up seemingly endless hills as I attempted to try a more direct route. Having had not a clue really what the Garmin was telling us on the way down I now tried to take more control.
The sat nav gave out 80kms from home and so I plotted as direct a route as I could using the Iphone and after encountering hell on a hill at Reigate Hill just outside the M25, I hit the A23 for some miles of blistering 50km speed, amongst the fast moving traffic.
very famous location called Horse In A Field Wee Stop
Finally central London beckoned and only on Park Lane did I finally experience some cramps in my thighs. A quick stretch next to the bus stop and home I galloped to collapse on the floor and begin 5 days of continual, inexhaustible, hamburger eating hunger and trough drinking thirst.
2 chevrons apart please M25
What next? I am not sure but something madcap beckons, such as a quick pop up to Paris. Possibly a tilt at a Half Ironman triathlon. It’s still taking shape in my skull dome.
What did I learn from this 229km experience.
1. It’s free to ride…after having spent numerous £40 every time I entered a bike shop for the previous two weeks.
2. Wearing lycra is something only to be done in areas where no-one knows you.
3. No-one recognizes me in Lycra anyway, so it may be suitable attire for a bank robbery.
4. Lycra makes me look like a total prat, but you should see me in my mankini. I look like a skinny russian wrestler
5. You don’t need to enter a bloody race, or charity ride to ride. Just open the front door and go.
6. Steel is stunning to ride as a material and Eddy Merckx factory makes an effin masterpiece
7. Nothing in cycling ever costs less than £40
8. You can’t eat enough spaghetti.
