I am officially an official chartered n'engineer.
Trepid Explorer CEng MIMechE. My name will actually appear in the Telegraph newspaper in about 3 months time.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
For 20 years I have approached cycling with the same philosophy. Miles = fitness. I dabbled in the science of heart-rate monitoring – measuring a maximum heart-rate – that which can be maintained for 8 minutes - and training at various percentages of it in order to achieve an aerobic performance (or otherwise).
Sitting in a pub (drinking orange juice) and talking to my team mates I heard them all talking about their lactate threshold which sounded like something terribly scientific that can only be measured in a lab.
When I proudly proclaimed I had measured my max heartrate, I was met with silence – not a stunned silence – but still an “Oh my god, max heart rate is soooo 90’s” silence. So I dug out a book. A book that I bought in February. And I gebun to read.
Accordindg to this book, my lack of energy and constant illness is not just brought on by me being crap but is as a result of me over-training. When I go-for-it hell for leather, I show a slight improvement then, oops – no brainer – I get sick or I injure myself, all the fitness is gone and… repeat for 20 years.
So finally the message has come across – stop over training and start training with a brain. The book is well written. The author makes an excellent case for his methods and reports that he has walked away from potential clients on the basis that they are unable to follow his regime - not because it's too hard but because they over-train and stress and beat themselves up when they are unable to train because the plan does not allow it. His book is littered with quotes from training manuals gone by, outlining the ludicrous ideas that we used to have in the old days. It is also filled with statements from today’s heros quoting that they “gave up 35 hours a week training years ago” (Phew).
Still, it doesn’t matter with this programme, whether you train 100 hours a year or 1000 hours a year, this programme is about distributing the efforts associated with training to build muscles, aerobic capacity, anaerobic capacity and endurance to achieve an all-round cycling skill which can then be adapted to the type of cycling you do and the areas in which one needs to improve. 2 weeks ago I sat down all day Saturday and came up with a plan.
I – it seems – ride about 350 hours a year. From now on I will be varying the hours I spend riding depending on when I am in a Base phase, a build phase, a peak phase or a rest phase. I get two peaks in a season which I am planning on being the 3 Peaks cyclo-cross in September and the nationals in January. Which phase I am in determines what percentage of my time is spent on Endurance, Force, Muscle Endurance, Power, Speed Skills and Anaerobic Endurance. As I build towards the beginning of my winter season I am doing most of my riding as endurance which is what I’ve been doing for years but even so, the proportion of rides which I need to do to fulfil the rest of the training is beginning to define the shape of my body as I develop hip extensor muscles, arm muscles (where there haven’t been any for years) and my thighs and calves return.
The program has so far turned out to be an excellent driver. When I look at my plan on a Wednesday and realise I still have some ME hours and some Force hours to do, it inspires me to get out on my bike – if only for half an hour – and play catch up.
Thus I found myself on Saturday leaving the comfort of a cool house lacking in commitment and responsibility to head for the hills in an effort to develop my thigh strength and tick-off 90 minutes of ME training. It was perfect and I returned home feeling exactly like I’d been to the gym, yet full of the joys of never-ending rolling fields filled with blue cornflower, red poppies and yellow oil-seed rape.
So on Sunday, when TSK suggested we ride to Andover I could see 4 hours ahead of endurance riding and signing off the rest of my ME with a little force training. What he neglected to tell me was he was opting for the hilly route to ensure plenty of breeze all-round. Following a hardride on Saturday I hauled up the first hill then spent the rest of the day settling in to whatever I could be settled with – including granny gear. It didn’t matter, we had a great day out filled with coffee, fruit juice, a marching band and good lunch. There were many hills and many lonely valleys where we felt like the only people on the road and we enjoyed Andover – despite the poor signposting around the town. 9 hours later we got back to the house, seriously having overdone the training doses for another week (last week was truly gourmande as far as the training went).
All I can think is the author of my book would not be imipressed but hell, if you’re going to break the rules you might as well have fun doing it.
Sitting in a pub (drinking orange juice) and talking to my team mates I heard them all talking about their lactate threshold which sounded like something terribly scientific that can only be measured in a lab.
When I proudly proclaimed I had measured my max heartrate, I was met with silence – not a stunned silence – but still an “Oh my god, max heart rate is soooo 90’s” silence. So I dug out a book. A book that I bought in February. And I gebun to read.
Accordindg to this book, my lack of energy and constant illness is not just brought on by me being crap but is as a result of me over-training. When I go-for-it hell for leather, I show a slight improvement then, oops – no brainer – I get sick or I injure myself, all the fitness is gone and… repeat for 20 years.
So finally the message has come across – stop over training and start training with a brain. The book is well written. The author makes an excellent case for his methods and reports that he has walked away from potential clients on the basis that they are unable to follow his regime - not because it's too hard but because they over-train and stress and beat themselves up when they are unable to train because the plan does not allow it. His book is littered with quotes from training manuals gone by, outlining the ludicrous ideas that we used to have in the old days. It is also filled with statements from today’s heros quoting that they “gave up 35 hours a week training years ago” (Phew).
Still, it doesn’t matter with this programme, whether you train 100 hours a year or 1000 hours a year, this programme is about distributing the efforts associated with training to build muscles, aerobic capacity, anaerobic capacity and endurance to achieve an all-round cycling skill which can then be adapted to the type of cycling you do and the areas in which one needs to improve. 2 weeks ago I sat down all day Saturday and came up with a plan.
I – it seems – ride about 350 hours a year. From now on I will be varying the hours I spend riding depending on when I am in a Base phase, a build phase, a peak phase or a rest phase. I get two peaks in a season which I am planning on being the 3 Peaks cyclo-cross in September and the nationals in January. Which phase I am in determines what percentage of my time is spent on Endurance, Force, Muscle Endurance, Power, Speed Skills and Anaerobic Endurance. As I build towards the beginning of my winter season I am doing most of my riding as endurance which is what I’ve been doing for years but even so, the proportion of rides which I need to do to fulfil the rest of the training is beginning to define the shape of my body as I develop hip extensor muscles, arm muscles (where there haven’t been any for years) and my thighs and calves return.
The program has so far turned out to be an excellent driver. When I look at my plan on a Wednesday and realise I still have some ME hours and some Force hours to do, it inspires me to get out on my bike – if only for half an hour – and play catch up.
Thus I found myself on Saturday leaving the comfort of a cool house lacking in commitment and responsibility to head for the hills in an effort to develop my thigh strength and tick-off 90 minutes of ME training. It was perfect and I returned home feeling exactly like I’d been to the gym, yet full of the joys of never-ending rolling fields filled with blue cornflower, red poppies and yellow oil-seed rape.
So on Sunday, when TSK suggested we ride to Andover I could see 4 hours ahead of endurance riding and signing off the rest of my ME with a little force training. What he neglected to tell me was he was opting for the hilly route to ensure plenty of breeze all-round. Following a hardride on Saturday I hauled up the first hill then spent the rest of the day settling in to whatever I could be settled with – including granny gear. It didn’t matter, we had a great day out filled with coffee, fruit juice, a marching band and good lunch. There were many hills and many lonely valleys where we felt like the only people on the road and we enjoyed Andover – despite the poor signposting around the town. 9 hours later we got back to the house, seriously having overdone the training doses for another week (last week was truly gourmande as far as the training went).
All I can think is the author of my book would not be imipressed but hell, if you’re going to break the rules you might as well have fun doing it.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Rolling to the Stones 2009
As Trepid Explorer takes a day-out to recover.
On Saturday we did sweet FA which was needed despite the impending stones ride. A busy week working with the Romania office made for a tired and grumpy Trep. We went back to bed about 12.55pm, lunched at 2 then set off for the station at 5 to arrive in London for pastie and beans at Paddington at 7 followed by an hour and a half of sitting around in the breeze at Speakers' corner. By 9pm most of the following had amassed for our ride.
Jason, TSK, fixie man, Darren, Dutch guy, Sam, Roger, George (sorry if I didn't get your names). There was also another lady named Nicki and her boyf and a nice older bloke who met us along the way and kept hanging with me at the back.
As well as the usual suspects from London Fixed Gear Forum were riders from Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire who had headed down on the train too. Most of the fixed wheel riders were heading out on gears and freaking out about the process of freewheeling and spinning gears. One guy ploughed on with his fixie and, I have to admit, did bloody well to hold a reasonable pace on the downhills without spinning-out too obviously.
We hammered out quite the pace through the city streets. Jumping lights and cheeky manoevres are not normally in my portfolio of riding techniques but as I promised myself 50-lashes later, prissy law abidingness was set to one-side in favour of good old-fashioned peer pressure and keeping up with the group for the next 89miles of riding. I have to say that with the average speed of motors in the city being around 15-20 mph, illegal manoevres take on less importance and my fellow riders did start to adhere to the law more as we made it out into the burbs.
Back to the quick pace - while 25kph is hardly race speed, it is my fast-riding speed and I was starting to doubt if I could hold it up for much longer. I hoped desperately that the pace would ease as the couriers found that long distance, more sustained riding was hard to maintain at 25kph. Sadly, not so and as I started to get tired and settled into my normal audax pace, they continued at speed, offsetting with more rest stops which TSK and I found hard to bear. Having got warm and endured fast pace, we then found ourselves chilling down to shivering before getting back on the bike and trying to force our muscles back into the 25kph pace.
By the time we reached Hartley Whitney we were all getting in need of a warm drink and spent the time hugging A-roads and scanning for open coffee shops, petrol stations selling coffee or even Kebab shops selling coffee. We found the worst kebab caravan in the world... well, he sold no coffee.
At about 1.45am we stopped at a petrol station in Basingstoke for some food and energy drink and for an emergency spoke repair on a bike which hadn't been ridden in ages. I took off my shoes to warm my feet on the tarmac and we all tried not to snigger as a lad pulled up in a taxi to the night-serve counter buy condoms for a successful end to his night out on the pull.
My consistent getting-dropped got me lost only once and I phoned TSK soon for directions to put me back on route. Our priority was to avoid slowing down the group too much so as they stopped to rest or wait for repairs and weary sprinters, we trundled along like the fairytale tortoise, pushing a less respectable 22kph average. I was saving myself on the climbs and freewheeling the downhills. By the time we hit the dual carriageways of the A303 we stuck our heads down and bolted for Amesbury, all thought of coffee gone from our minds - short of taking a leak in a lay by in emergency circumstances.
Arrival at the stones was profound but only in the sheer volume of people present. All roads were closed and we rode on through on our bikes, ignoring any geers or yells for it was difficult to tell if they were coming from flourescent clad cops or pissed people.
One chap said,
"Oi you're on a bike that's cheating".
He seemed incapable of processing,
"I left London at 8pm. Still think it's cheating?",
and gave up. There is no respect to be won from a drunk at 4am.
We weaved through the groups - families, drunks, witches, teenage girls out to flaunt their stuff, teenage boys out to look threatening or just cold and hiding behind hoodies, men in camo and cowboy hats, people carrying tambourines, drums, flutes and pennywhistles, more blankets than I thought remained in existence, people carrying staffs or big sticks that they once came across on a beach.
At the top of the dual carriageway (half set aside for people and half set aside for official vehicles) we dismounted and pushed our bikes alongside the masses of walkers. Dogs ran around in the long grass, possibly oblivious to the intrigue and weirdness going on around them. We still had a half mile to go to the stones but the cheering and singing and drum beat could be heard. Apparently this was it, this was the sunrise but short of the lightness of the sky, the sun itself was hidden from view by a thick blank of fluffy white and grey. Silver Lining was not even there. At the top of the path we locked our bikes to the fence as they weren't allowed in to the stones enclosure itself. Our bags were searched prior to entry, TSK confirming to the steward that he had in fact eaten everything that was in his bag.
TSK's first priority was to find his friends. Mine was to see stones, eat food. I'm amazed I got to the stones before the food but frankly, if there was any solstice revelry left over from the post-coital after-glow of the sunrise orgasm, I was going to get me a piece of it before the revelry rolled over and went to sleep. I'd been in the saddle for the last 6.5 hours to get there I was damn well going to get me some revelry. We made our way through the pissed, the tired, the rude, the ugly and the beautiful to get to the more determined outer ring of revelers - those that could still stand in a group without falling over or pissing off the people around them.
There was still dancing going on inside the circle, singing, whooping, drumming. Yada yada. A bit like being at a bad gig, I just lacked the motivation to get near the front and to be honest, was not sure I could walk upright enough to avoid pissing off the people around me so, I got the picture and regressed to the relative comfort of the queue for the crepes.
In the absense of good crockery or co-ordination, I spread chocolate sauce all over my chin before heading off to meet TSK's mates (what an intro - I am sure they remember the chocolate on my face, not my name) then sat in the grass for a bit feeling smug. Oliver and co couldn't get in to the stones enclosure since they'd not brought a bike lock. Thinking back, we should've volunteered to bike-sit whilst they went to sample the experience but I never thought to ask and to be fair neither did they. They were more consciously deciding to leave to ride to someone's mum's house and get driven to the station to go back to London.
TSK and I left the stones to ride back home. The path back to the road, still filled with pissed people was highly amusing including the woman who just couldn't walk without falling over and was most disgruntled there was no 4 am bus to take her home and about 6 people joking "that they wished they had their bikes". Is it impossible to say that pissed without sounding sarcastically spiteful or is it just me?
Back on the road I was happier. Looking through the fog of exhaustion it was a beautiful day for a ride as the skies cleared and we looked out across the Barrows and downs of wheat, corn shoots and oil seed rape. Every so often there was a lone person standing on a hill-top looking out across the countryside and I resolved that this is where I will spend next solstice.We
I joked (joked or fantasised?) about walking into camp-sites with a shotgun and tent-jacking sleeping bags whilst families ate breakfast. (Sorry TSK, this joke was in my head).
Eventually, though, exhaustion got the better of me and 25kph through London started to take its toll. Stopping for a comfort break, TSK took a pee whilst I dropped Lovely in the dirt and lay down on the soft dry chalk to briefly cry myself into sleep which came mercifully quickly. TSK lay beside me briefly before righting me, sticking me back on the bike which I could hardly balance and setting me back on up the hill to my next target, Avebury's Western Avenue. The keepers at Avebury had allowed the grass to grow long and amongst the grass, people slept, rested and read books. I have seen it busier with tourists on an ugly day but on Sunday morning, it seemed peaceful and graceful. Partygoers sat in the pub beergarden, giving us hope they had opened early for breakfast (it was still only 7:30 am) but sadly, there was no food to be had in Avebury.
What did keep me going was the stream of triathletes on the Malborough Triathlon, cycling the opposite direction to us. TSK even stopped to help one lady back on her bike after she crashed into the verge whilst trying to tighten her shoe.
We left them at the turn off to Broad Town and our spirits went sky-high when we saw a lady walking with a newspaper in her arms. Praise! the post office was open and we indulged in fig rolls and coconut macaroons. Sitting outside in the sun, the proprietor popped out to see if we wanted a lift home in his van but by that point we were refuelled and eager to make it all the way.
I flung the fastest descent ever down Broadtown hill (50kmph), landing in Wootton Bassett on a roll until the temporary traffic lights left me wondering if I'd get going again. However, approximately 12 hours after we'd left London we finally arrived back at the Mead to a very happy cat.
2 minutes later, the thought of my sweet, comfy bed made me whimper as I pealed of the layers of sticky clothing whilst walking up the stairs. Leaving my shoes and helmet by the toilet, were I'd removed them, I then fell into bed for 3 hours of close-to-death sleep. At 12:30 I was woken by my stomach so ate toast, showered then went back to bed from 2pm till 8pm. Having spent the afternoon dreaming about food I had an ambitious plot to grill steaks and serve them with new potatoes, mashed carrots and steamed pea plants but I was foiled by sore knees and an untidy kitchen so the nice folks at the pub obliged and made my tum very happy.
A wise woman once said to me, "try everything once and if you don't like it, try it again - just to make sure." In wisdom, I declare my overnight riding experience exhausted. Remind me of this for I fear the endorphins might argue their case in a day or so's time.
On Saturday we did sweet FA which was needed despite the impending stones ride. A busy week working with the Romania office made for a tired and grumpy Trep. We went back to bed about 12.55pm, lunched at 2 then set off for the station at 5 to arrive in London for pastie and beans at Paddington at 7 followed by an hour and a half of sitting around in the breeze at Speakers' corner. By 9pm most of the following had amassed for our ride.
Jason, TSK, fixie man, Darren, Dutch guy, Sam, Roger, George (sorry if I didn't get your names). There was also another lady named Nicki and her boyf and a nice older bloke who met us along the way and kept hanging with me at the back.As well as the usual suspects from London Fixed Gear Forum were riders from Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire who had headed down on the train too. Most of the fixed wheel riders were heading out on gears and freaking out about the process of freewheeling and spinning gears. One guy ploughed on with his fixie and, I have to admit, did bloody well to hold a reasonable pace on the downhills without spinning-out too obviously.
We hammered out quite the pace through the city streets. Jumping lights and cheeky manoevres are not normally in my portfolio of riding techniques but as I promised myself 50-lashes later, prissy law abidingness was set to one-side in favour of good old-fashioned peer pressure and keeping up with the group for the next 89miles of riding. I have to say that with the average speed of motors in the city being around 15-20 mph, illegal manoevres take on less importance and my fellow riders did start to adhere to the law more as we made it out into the burbs.
Back to the quick pace - while 25kph is hardly race speed, it is my fast-riding speed and I was starting to doubt if I could hold it up for much longer. I hoped desperately that the pace would ease as the couriers found that long distance, more sustained riding was hard to maintain at 25kph. Sadly, not so and as I started to get tired and settled into my normal audax pace, they continued at speed, offsetting with more rest stops which TSK and I found hard to bear. Having got warm and endured fast pace, we then found ourselves chilling down to shivering before getting back on the bike and trying to force our muscles back into the 25kph pace.
By the time we reached Hartley Whitney we were all getting in need of a warm drink and spent the time hugging A-roads and scanning for open coffee shops, petrol stations selling coffee or even Kebab shops selling coffee. We found the worst kebab caravan in the world... well, he sold no coffee.
At about 1.45am we stopped at a petrol station in Basingstoke for some food and energy drink and for an emergency spoke repair on a bike which hadn't been ridden in ages. I took off my shoes to warm my feet on the tarmac and we all tried not to snigger as a lad pulled up in a taxi to the night-serve counter buy condoms for a successful end to his night out on the pull.
My consistent getting-dropped got me lost only once and I phoned TSK soon for directions to put me back on route. Our priority was to avoid slowing down the group too much so as they stopped to rest or wait for repairs and weary sprinters, we trundled along like the fairytale tortoise, pushing a less respectable 22kph average. I was saving myself on the climbs and freewheeling the downhills. By the time we hit the dual carriageways of the A303 we stuck our heads down and bolted for Amesbury, all thought of coffee gone from our minds - short of taking a leak in a lay by in emergency circumstances.
Arrival at the stones was profound but only in the sheer volume of people present. All roads were closed and we rode on through on our bikes, ignoring any geers or yells for it was difficult to tell if they were coming from flourescent clad cops or pissed people.
One chap said,
"Oi you're on a bike that's cheating".
He seemed incapable of processing,
"I left London at 8pm. Still think it's cheating?",
and gave up. There is no respect to be won from a drunk at 4am.
We weaved through the groups - families, drunks, witches, teenage girls out to flaunt their stuff, teenage boys out to look threatening or just cold and hiding behind hoodies, men in camo and cowboy hats, people carrying tambourines, drums, flutes and pennywhistles, more blankets than I thought remained in existence, people carrying staffs or big sticks that they once came across on a beach.
At the top of the dual carriageway (half set aside for people and half set aside for official vehicles) we dismounted and pushed our bikes alongside the masses of walkers. Dogs ran around in the long grass, possibly oblivious to the intrigue and weirdness going on around them. We still had a half mile to go to the stones but the cheering and singing and drum beat could be heard. Apparently this was it, this was the sunrise but short of the lightness of the sky, the sun itself was hidden from view by a thick blank of fluffy white and grey. Silver Lining was not even there. At the top of the path we locked our bikes to the fence as they weren't allowed in to the stones enclosure itself. Our bags were searched prior to entry, TSK confirming to the steward that he had in fact eaten everything that was in his bag.
TSK's first priority was to find his friends. Mine was to see stones, eat food. I'm amazed I got to the stones before the food but frankly, if there was any solstice revelry left over from the post-coital after-glow of the sunrise orgasm, I was going to get me a piece of it before the revelry rolled over and went to sleep. I'd been in the saddle for the last 6.5 hours to get there I was damn well going to get me some revelry. We made our way through the pissed, the tired, the rude, the ugly and the beautiful to get to the more determined outer ring of revelers - those that could still stand in a group without falling over or pissing off the people around them.
There was still dancing going on inside the circle, singing, whooping, drumming. Yada yada. A bit like being at a bad gig, I just lacked the motivation to get near the front and to be honest, was not sure I could walk upright enough to avoid pissing off the people around me so, I got the picture and regressed to the relative comfort of the queue for the crepes.
In the absense of good crockery or co-ordination, I spread chocolate sauce all over my chin before heading off to meet TSK's mates (what an intro - I am sure they remember the chocolate on my face, not my name) then sat in the grass for a bit feeling smug. Oliver and co couldn't get in to the stones enclosure since they'd not brought a bike lock. Thinking back, we should've volunteered to bike-sit whilst they went to sample the experience but I never thought to ask and to be fair neither did they. They were more consciously deciding to leave to ride to someone's mum's house and get driven to the station to go back to London.
TSK and I left the stones to ride back home. The path back to the road, still filled with pissed people was highly amusing including the woman who just couldn't walk without falling over and was most disgruntled there was no 4 am bus to take her home and about 6 people joking "that they wished they had their bikes". Is it impossible to say that pissed without sounding sarcastically spiteful or is it just me?
Back on the road I was happier. Looking through the fog of exhaustion it was a beautiful day for a ride as the skies cleared and we looked out across the Barrows and downs of wheat, corn shoots and oil seed rape. Every so often there was a lone person standing on a hill-top looking out across the countryside and I resolved that this is where I will spend next solstice.
I joked (joked or fantasised?) about walking into camp-sites with a shotgun and tent-jacking sleeping bags whilst families ate breakfast. (Sorry TSK, this joke was in my head).
Eventually, though, exhaustion got the better of me and 25kph through London started to take its toll. Stopping for a comfort break, TSK took a pee whilst I dropped Lovely in the dirt and lay down on the soft dry chalk to briefly cry myself into sleep which came mercifully quickly. TSK lay beside me briefly before righting me, sticking me back on the bike which I could hardly balance and setting me back on up the hill to my next target, Avebury's Western Avenue. The keepers at Avebury had allowed the grass to grow long and amongst the grass, people slept, rested and read books. I have seen it busier with tourists on an ugly day but on Sunday morning, it seemed peaceful and graceful. Partygoers sat in the pub beergarden, giving us hope they had opened early for breakfast (it was still only 7:30 am) but sadly, there was no food to be had in Avebury.
What did keep me going was the stream of triathletes on the Malborough Triathlon, cycling the opposite direction to us. TSK even stopped to help one lady back on her bike after she crashed into the verge whilst trying to tighten her shoe.
We left them at the turn off to Broad Town and our spirits went sky-high when we saw a lady walking with a newspaper in her arms. Praise! the post office was open and we indulged in fig rolls and coconut macaroons. Sitting outside in the sun, the proprietor popped out to see if we wanted a lift home in his van but by that point we were refuelled and eager to make it all the way.
I flung the fastest descent ever down Broadtown hill (50kmph), landing in Wootton Bassett on a roll until the temporary traffic lights left me wondering if I'd get going again. However, approximately 12 hours after we'd left London we finally arrived back at the Mead to a very happy cat.
2 minutes later, the thought of my sweet, comfy bed made me whimper as I pealed of the layers of sticky clothing whilst walking up the stairs. Leaving my shoes and helmet by the toilet, were I'd removed them, I then fell into bed for 3 hours of close-to-death sleep. At 12:30 I was woken by my stomach so ate toast, showered then went back to bed from 2pm till 8pm. Having spent the afternoon dreaming about food I had an ambitious plot to grill steaks and serve them with new potatoes, mashed carrots and steamed pea plants but I was foiled by sore knees and an untidy kitchen so the nice folks at the pub obliged and made my tum very happy.
A wise woman once said to me, "try everything once and if you don't like it, try it again - just to make sure." In wisdom, I declare my overnight riding experience exhausted. Remind me of this for I fear the endorphins might argue their case in a day or so's time.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Rolling to the stones
I'm getting on a train this evening to London. At about 8pm we leave London to ride home again - via Stonehenge. The solstice is upon us and I will be spending the night riding with a bunch of cigarette-smoking, coffee drinking courier-types from the London Fixed-gear forum - mostly pedalling, drinking coffee, stopping for fags and whiskey. We plan to arrive at Stonhenge for sunrise and since the road to Avebury will be closed and full of druids and other various pagan spin-offs we expect our bikes will be the best way to get us there.
Last time I did an overnight ride I decided I didn't enjoy it but this one is tempting me. Mother nature seems to be being kind with good weather and it's a long time since TSK and I did anything profound together beyond scraping eachother up after gruelling solo events. I have booked Monday off work for recuperation purposes and expect to be spending tomorrow afternoon making bacon butties and coffee before bundling tired cyclists back onto the train to London.
I am forgoing the sprightly Phoenix race bike for the heavier, more comfortable Lovely stacked with a bag full of tasty morcels, munchies, a wee dram and some wooly clothes.
Last time I did an overnight ride I decided I didn't enjoy it but this one is tempting me. Mother nature seems to be being kind with good weather and it's a long time since TSK and I did anything profound together beyond scraping eachother up after gruelling solo events. I have booked Monday off work for recuperation purposes and expect to be spending tomorrow afternoon making bacon butties and coffee before bundling tired cyclists back onto the train to London.
I am forgoing the sprightly Phoenix race bike for the heavier, more comfortable Lovely stacked with a bag full of tasty morcels, munchies, a wee dram and some wooly clothes.
On being brave and grown up
For 10 years I have been trying to get around to becoming a chartered engineer. A number years of toying with the right route for me to take followed by many years of not being arsed, rejecting the prospect all together and finally deciding that I should have the accolades that go with the job position I find myself in. A few more months of report writing, deliberations and useless comments led to a 35,000 word report that was whittled down to 7,000 and 10 days ago I found myself facing a panel of my peers (all 15 years older than me so I think they mis-sell that one) for a question and answer and general chat session about my experiences, plans and all-round good-eggedness.
The outcome looked good. I felt like I had a good interview and resisted the urge to do aeroplane turns across the field as I walked away from the interview venue.
I promptly rushed into the nearest bike shop to drop £100 on my new wheels I'd bought. All as a celebration of my organisational skills, diligence and determination.
Now I have 4 weeks of pouncing on the post ahead of me.
The outcome looked good. I felt like I had a good interview and resisted the urge to do aeroplane turns across the field as I walked away from the interview venue.
I promptly rushed into the nearest bike shop to drop £100 on my new wheels I'd bought. All as a celebration of my organisational skills, diligence and determination.
Now I have 4 weeks of pouncing on the post ahead of me.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Contentment and interesting dynamics
I finished work at 10pm for no extra pay, glory or consideration. My boss just called expecting me to be at work (fool).
I have a new training regime which seems to be working when I can get enough rest for it to work.
I don't trust Type Pad to delete everything I wrote if I stop paying my subscription so there is one massive vehemouth disproportionate blog behind this one. I should put my past behind me but in reality, on days like this, when I think my life sucks, it's best to look back at how bad things were... and realise there's lots of good stuff in there too.
In fact, if you can ignore the formatting which I really can't be arsed to remove right now, and scroll through it's like my life flashing before my eyes.
Now I know how death might feel and I can live with it. I've had a great few years.
I have a new training regime which seems to be working when I can get enough rest for it to work.
I don't trust Type Pad to delete everything I wrote if I stop paying my subscription so there is one massive vehemouth disproportionate blog behind this one. I should put my past behind me but in reality, on days like this, when I think my life sucks, it's best to look back at how bad things were... and realise there's lots of good stuff in there too.
In fact, if you can ignore the formatting which I really can't be arsed to remove right now, and scroll through it's like my life flashing before my eyes.
Now I know how death might feel and I can live with it. I've had a great few years.
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