Ride(l) - Galloway

Ok, so this weekend wasn't exactly training, but it did have a direct impact on it, so I'm going to write about it anyway. This might take a while...

It being a bank holiday, my touring bike being in good nick, and with nothing in particular to do, I decided to take advantage of my surroundings and explore some of the parts of Scotland that aren't directly linked to Glasgow or Edinburgh.

With the weather closing in from the north, the obvious direction to head was due south, into Ayrshire, and, ultimately, Galloway.

Saturday morning started fresh and bright, and after a short session of swearing lugging the absurdly heavy frame downstairs, I was ready to go on to nigh on infinity. The bike was well packed, with both panniers bulging (mostly with food) and sandwiching my tent on the rack. Up front, nothing unusual except a couple of bar extensions that I'd had sitting in my cupboard for years. I wasn't expecting to set any time-trial records, but I thought they'd make for a useful additional hand position, and were certainly a good map mount.

Less than ten minutes in, and they had already contributed to one of my life's most terrifying experiences on a bike - very nearly the last. The handling of the bike whilst loaded hadn't gotten any better for time, and the light front end was exceedingly twitchy in the sporadic crosswinds. Heading down to the heliport, I decided to see whether leaning on the exceedingly narrowly-spaced extensions might stabilise things a bit.

Tentatively, I shifted my left hand across and took a white-knuckle grip on the extension. No, this wasn't stabilising things at all. Maybe if I brought across the other hand? Look, I'm just coming to a downhill now, that ought to make it easier. Just shift it across....

OhmygodI'mactuallygoingtodierightnowandIhavenobrakesandnocontrolandmyelbowsaretouchingandthebarsaretwistingandarglebarglearggh!

With a terrified flinch, I withdrew my hand from the extension and brought it back onto the bar, sending the bike half-way across the road as I did so. I had been millimetres from clipping the curb, with no brakes and no real influence over which way the bike was pointing. That settled it, then. These extensions were going to be essentially overweight map-holders for the rest of the trip.

It took an excruciatingly long time to spin my way out of Glasgow, up the preposterously long hill that makes up roughly the entire south side of the city, stopping at every other traffic light and losing sight of the commuters I was tailing. Bursting out into rural Renfrewshire was a sudden, though not unexpected, relief, and by switching to back-roads I instantly found myself lost amongst not-so-gently rolling farmland, well out of sight of the motorway. A trio of road bikers towed me into Stewarton against the headwind, vastly increasing my average speed, but from there I was on my own.

After several attempts, I found my way onto the number 7 cycle route at Irvine, to avoid the worst of the dualled A-road. The stretch of coast between there and Ayr is dominated by a paper factory, the smell of resin and sawdust tackily clogging your nostrils as you weave back and forth by small nature reserves surrounded by heavily managed forestry land. The area isn't entirely charmless, and as I turned off the coast road just south of Ayr to cut across the Carrick hills to Maybole, the view was clear enough to just about make out Arran across the water. Still, I had more interesting places to visit than Ayrshire.

The smell of resin and sawdust

My speed down to Irvine had been so horrifically low that I'd actually stopped bothering to track it, and the short, steep rises and dips of the Carrick hills weren't doing it any favours. Despite the weight over it, my rear wheel seemed to have a worrying lack of traction that made going downhill a far more cautious undertaking than I would have liked (though not slow, by any stretch of the imagination). By the time I got into Maybole, I was in severe need of a caffeine boost to see me to the end of the day, but since the only coffee shop in the village had decided to close already (at 3 in the afternoon), I decided to try my luck at Culzean Castle.

This wasn't the first carriage I'd seen on Saturday

The castle is a Scottish National Trust property, and, as I drew up to the entrance gate, I was confronted by a large billboard with far too many long numbers on it informing me how much gentrified coastal piles of stones and the associated grounds cost to scum like me. Worried more than slightly, I flashed a nervous grin to the gateman and did my best to look like a bedraggled, world-weary traveller (not hard) who really only wanted a coffee.

He took a look at his watch.

"Yeah, alright."

As I whizzed down to the visitor's centre, I realised how rubbish a tourist I was being. I didn't even see the castle as I downed some coffee and cake and got back on the road. I felt like I was taking too long, but I wasn't really going anywhere... so what was too long? Regardless, I felt like I didn't really have time to explore. This was more about finding the shape of the country than its colour.

The bike by the overly-ornate visitors centre at Culzean castle

Back on the road, with some of my energy back, I headed on towards Galloway, thinking that maybe if I crossed that imaginary line it'd mean that I maybe wasn't as horrendously slow as I had thought. I was hardly pushing, but this was still a disappointingly short distance for the first day.

At Girvan, as drizzle moved in, I turned off the coast road and started climbing again. It wasn't that the coast wasn't lovely - it certainly had a sort of agricultural charm - but it didn't exactly feel very Scottish. I was surprised. I had expected the land of Robbie Burns to have a bit more... granite to it.

The long wind to Barrhill swiftly got over its vertical intentions and turned into a (mostly) flat run along the river to Barhill, the valley walls isolating the occasional farmhouse and village from anything more than the odd train running down to Stranryaer.

At Barrhill itself, I climbed steeply out and onto the moors, passing the bizarrely isolated train station that required a bus shuttle to get down into town - Barrhill hardly being a large one at that. Suddenly, I was in a world of space that was uniquely Scottish. You just can't fit this sort of landscape into any other part of the UK.

It just goes on and on

It was getting to that time of day when I wanted to be setting up camp, but there just seemed to be nothing up there to stop me. Open moor went into forestry went into even larger moor, with nothing for miles on each side but the odd crofter's cottage and wind farm, which, to be fair, looked entirely in scale with the landscape. There was just so much nothing that the turbines acted as a nice point of interest, a patch of white rotating trees in between the forestry lands.

I was well into Galloway when I finally spotted a gate through a low stone wall, and headed up the the back end to the field, where there was an almost-flat, almost-dry area. The wind and rain was closing in fast, so I set up quickly, downed some pasta, and fell almost instantly asleep, shivering in my increasingly damp sleeping-bag. The silence beyond the tent was astounding, until the rain started.

First night's camp

My long night, waiting for the rain to cease, was filled with strange dreams about what was going on outside my tent. I must have thought I'd woken up a half dozen times, only to find that someone had, completely logically it seemed, set-up a disco outside. When I finally, fully came-to, the rain had almost given up for the day and the cloud was rising. The wind and my shivering didn't make taking the tent down a particularly easy experience, but I was back on the road by 8, and for a full hour as I made my way down to Stranraer I didn't see a single moving car.

Stranraer being the lovely place that it is, I didn't stay any longer than was necessary to get a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich at the Morrisons, then headed straight on down to the Mull of Galloway.

The useful thing about cardinal points is, of course, that it takes one through an awful lot of the country to get to them, giving just a little flavour of everything between you and them. This part of Galloway was very much the home of the Caledonian Cheese company, with every farm being dairy and proudly displaying its approved credentials. A long line of small turbines oscillated on the ridge of the Rhinns, powering the milking plant with the strong westerly.

The bike at the mull

The mull itself tapers attractively to the white Stephenson lighthouse, and though I had to frequently pull aside for mobile homes to lumber past me on the singletrack road that leads down to it, I was satisfied with how picturesque it was. The Isle of man was just visible to the south, but Ireland was sadly invisible on the day, so I couldn't do the romantic thing and get to the end of one land mass only to look out to the next. One thing I wasn't satisfied with was finding out it is a whole 5 miles from Drummore to the Mull - an unfortunate sting in the tail that climbs steeply from the coast to get back onto the ridge.

As I turned back, the wind had picked up strongly. Pushing the bike off the peninsular was laboured and slow, but as soon as I got back onto the flat and turned west, I was practically flying.

I took the A75 to Newton Stewart - a fairly unremarkable A road that probably sees much more traffic than I saw on that Sunday - which I noted because it had a brand-new section of dual carriageway. As the signs counted me down to it, I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders, expecting several uncomfortable miles of holding my own against 70mph traffic. To my surprise and delight, this was not the case!

Forn both of the new duallings I road along on my trip, the developer had put an actually pretty decent segregated cycle lane alongside. Getting to and from them still required the nerve to ride a busy single carriageway A-road, and there was enough sharp gravel dragged onto it that I would worry about taking my road bike along there, but it was a pretty good start. Dutch-style segregation along a British road - it really is possible!

At Newton Stewart, I had the chance to turn the map over to the next page... and notice that I was an entire glen further west than I thought I was. Not that I was running slow or anything - I just hadn't noticed there was an entire extra section of hills when I had done my planning-at-a-glance session the previous night. I would have to get a move on, and the next stage was Galloway Forest Park.

For the past hour I had been watching the disturbingly high mountains of the park creep up on me, and now was the time to head straight through it. I could feel premonitions of pain as I slipped onto the start of the Queen's Way, noting the 8 ton weight limit.

Apparently red squirrels like blind corners.

The road rolled on, and the mountains got larger, and I got more and more nervous. When was this going to kick off? With the wind behind me, and a gradient of only 1 or 2 percent, things were nowhere near as difficult as I was expecting. There had to be a sting in the tail.

Galloway forest park - seriously underused

There had to be, but there wasn't. The road just flowed on and on, through epic, beautiful, fantastical, jaw-dropping scenery, and there was no challenge at all. I rolled through with the sort of insane smile on my face that you only expect to see on a serial killer who's just discovered a machine gun. This was just insanely good. The wind, the weather, the fact that I had just downed a can of energy drink - maybe all of these factors played into the hands of the park, but as it was then, that road became one of my favourite of all time.

The best road in southern Scotland?

I won't claim that it was an exciting road, but my goodness was it beautiful. It was just a few over-trimmed forestry sections away from me just saying "forks in my eyes" and leaving it at that.

It's arguable that in terms of land area, you could fit Scotland into England several times over. Well, you can't. Landscapes like this just don't fit. They can't. I can't believe that there's enough space in Britain full stop for vistas like this. I cannot believe that such a road was ever built, and am astounded by my luck to have the opportunity to ride it on such a beautiful day. Riding these roads - it feels like what I was born for.

It's the sheer scale that gets you

The end of the road, when it came, was abrupt, and left me clamouring for more. After a wrong turn at New Galloway, though, I was quickly back onto another A road that, well, just wasn't. It was a bit steeper getting onto this one, but after a short lumpy section, it was back into big glen country. A hundred spots a mile looked perfect to camp in, but I couldn't stop my legs, and didn't want to, either. The rolling green hills, the burn on my right or left, the sensation of gliding through a landscape so lightly inhabited that the time between villages could stretch into reasonable fractions of an hour - why would I stop?

The bike was in its element, and so was I.

As I stopped to check my map at a rare junction, tiredness hit me, and I was forced to contemplate finally stopping for the night. I made it to the far side of the valley, and found a campsite where I could get a shower and leave my stuff if necessary. The original plan was to stumble into town to find a pub, but I was tired enough that it didn't seem worth it, so I decided to leave a perfect day to end with the sun.

The second night was spent in slightly more civilised surroundings

The following morning, I didn't exactly get off to a rapid start. I had picked up a thorn through my front tyre, and repairing this seemed to set the rim slightly off, touching the brake. As I fiddled with this, I noticed how stiff the hub had become. Damn, this was bad.

I hadn't serviced my front wheel since I had picked the bike up, second-hand, thinking that I would replace it soon enough, anyway. Except that the parts were never in stock, and I forgot about the wheel... and now I was in trouble. All of that feedback through the bar that I had thought was just road buzz was, in fact, this hub telling me it was into its last days. I hoped it'd get me home without seizing.

The last day, then, went by with no small amount of trepidation on any downhill, as I worried that a bearing might fracture and skid the wheel, leaving bits of me and the bike all over the road. I took the most direct route back, straight up through Wanlockhead, the highest village in Scotland.

Up, up, and ever more up

What an isolated place to live. Despite only being 1530 ft above sea level, the climb seemed to last forever. With all the weight on the back, I was forced to just set the gearing low and spin for what seemed like hours. I was rewarded with a drab cluster of low houses that looked like they'd be just as at home outside a mining town somewhere in Canada, and I suppose the conditions probably wouldn't have been all that different. Getting chilly already, I decided not to hang around, and shot straight off down the other side of the mountain.

Wanlockhead. It's a really, really high village

To be honest, I wasn't really that bothered about getting home, which was an issue, since I did have to, and my legs seemed content to just keep on spinning along. As I joined the number 74 cycle path, I was overtaken by a couple of guys who seemed happy enough to settle about 200 metres in front of me.

Curse my competitive nature. I finally found a way to use the aero bars - by taking off my light, I could get my elbows wide on the normal grips, and hold onto the extensions from the sides. It was enough to get me past the two leadout men, but it still didn't feel safe enough to do any real descending - not least because going for the brakes might snag my coat on the bars and spin the whole thing. Nevertheless, I was glad that I had finally made use of the things.

The rest of the journey doesn't really seem worth commenting on. Sure enough, I took a few wrong turnings to get between Hamilton and Glasgow, but that was to be expected. I'm sorry to end the post like this, and I'm sorry that my account hasn't been particularly interesting, but, to be frank, I just wanted it down and out of the way. I might come back at some point and edit it to make it more intelligent, entertaining and insightful, but for now, at least it's something.

Good trails!

Ride(r) - Stockiemuir and being (not) a weight weenie

Sometimes, I really don't think this blog is getting my best. After a month or so of wanting to "step things up", I've actually got my act together and started proper interval training. Or, at least I would have, if I actually had a clue how to do so on the road. In the gym it's fairly obvious - set resistance, set speed, go until time's up. On the road, though, that interval could be at any time, and my rest periods could be into a heavy headwind. Even assuming I can scale things appropriately, I have the issue that when I do intervals, I don't kid around - anything less than full, leg-bursting effort isn't worth my time. This generally involves at any time longer than 90 seconds a heck of a lot of head-down tooth gritting and occasional gasps of pain (yes, in the gym. I know it's a bit distracting and funny, but that sort of effort hurts, is supposed to hurt, and that's how I deal with it, so go about your lives please). On the road, that's not generally an option - even if no-one else was around, I'd run the risk of falling off the tarmac. So far, then, for my really intense sessions, there's no record, and most of what goes up here are (to some degree) recovery rides. I'll work on it.

Today was just a quick jaunt up Stockiemuir (which I managed to storm without dropping below 14 kph on the first 3 switchbacks - not bad for a "recovery" day) in sporadic wind and squally rain. Even I couldn't stand going out without a coat today, despite the crosswind apparently of the opinion that it'd look better on the hedge on the opposite side of the road.

I wasn't the only guy out today, though. I was struggling with engagement on my new pedals when a young lad drew up alongside me before I'd even got to Ruchill park. Depressingly for him, at exactly that moment I "clicked", and was gone with a cheeky grin. Alas, he didn't chase.

The second was a gent on a steel frame climbing out of Milngavie, and as I breezed past him, I could tell from his wheezing that I was well away. I'm going to have to go on a club run soon, I think.

So, yeah. I have new pedals, and shoes to go with them, because (bless 'em) my venerable old set are a bit past their best and, to be frank, the creaking was getting a bit distracting. The shoes have been with me for 5 hard years, and the pedals 4, and together we've probably gone 25000 miles, off-road and on, so I can't complain about their durability. I'll probably still use them on occasions when I don't want to be skating on the floor whenever I arrive somewhere. I primarily bring this up, though, because I'd never actually thought about their weight.

As most people familiar with bikes know, the majority are sold without pedals, and their claimed and sold weights are sans pedals. The reason for this is fairly obvious - whilst a human body will contort to fit almost any saddle type or stem length you show it (though not necessarily comfortably), there's no way a round cleat will fit in a square retainer, so to speak.

Now, I'm not a weight-weenie. No, really! I like things to ride well, and if they happen to be a bit lighter then that's good, but I am well aware that I am by far and away the heaviest component in the system, and my weight alone can fluctuate by up to a couple of kilos in a day based on hydration levels. My basic philosophy, then, has always been: if it's less than the weight of a water bottle, don't sweat it.

Having said all that, Curiosity is my middle name, and with my complete pedal-shoe system off the bike and a kitchen scale near at hand, I decided to see what I'd been lugging around.

One and a half kilos.

That's two water bottles.

On my feet.

Alright, so I had a particularly heavy set-up. The shoes and cleats alone weighed over a kilos, and though I haven't weighed the pedals for the new set-up, the shoes plus cleats only come to 600g, so I'd expect the whole lot to be around the 900g mark. It still shocked me, though. At a very generous estimate, my bike weighs about 9kg (I don't have a scale big enough to know for sure at the moment), so I was lugging around an extra 17% of bike without even thinking about it!

So, there you go. Next time you're thinking about whether you want to put titanium bolts on your brake rotor, remember what's on your feet. Kind of puts things into perspective.

A very low perspective.

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(hc) - Crow Road. And Crow Road. And Crow Road. Again.

Whatever happened in April, the weather in Scotland has firmly got back on message in May - namely wet, and extremely blowy. My average speed's taken such a hit, I'm back down at April levels (which was influenced heavily by the Cowal ride), and yesterday didn't help, consisting, as it did, of me looking fretfully out the window for most of the day as the rain moved in 2 hours too soon. Normally, I'd go for a run to get moving without wetting my cycling kit through, but with my knee still having twinges from Thursday, I resigned to watching the Giro's assault on Monte Zoncolan and doing occasional stretches. It's not like I have all that many clear weekends left...

Today, things brightened up enough to hit the road, and in honor of Contador, Nibali, Scarponi and the rest slogging their way through 6000m of climbing today, I decided to simulate some alpine riding myself - namely, repeats of the Crow road. Oh, so many repeats.

Eight times I summited, and eight times I descended again, into or out of the driving westerly, doing over 2000m of climbing - which was disappointingly low, for a 5 hour ride, but I blame the shape of the road and the wind. At any rate, climbing wasn't really the aim of the day.

What I really wanted to do was get knackered, on the point of bonking, and see if I could pull myself up again. It was an excuse to see when the bonk is setting in at the moment, how severe it is, and whether I can stomach pretend-food (gels and whatnot) enough to get me out of the hole.

Most of the day, then, was just steady grinding. I love being on the bike. I love rolling anywhere, for any reason, at any speed. Even given that, though, it got boring. With the wind and weather as it was, I didn't really want to go further afield (especially with my recent record with punctures), so this was the only way I could think to put some serious elevation in my way, but face-down into the wind, crawling along below 15mph on shallow descents into the gale, it was tough to keep going. When the bonk finally came (after catching a group on the ascent that I had passed on my last descent and leading them down the far side) I was glad to be heading off. My route home on the flat was still into the wind, and tortuously slow. While the gels had the effect of postponing the worst, the take-home lesson was that if I need to ride for more than 4 and a half hours, I'd better have a proper food waypoint, and also that lucosade energy gels (the first of the bunch I'm experimenting with) taste rubbish, but I refrain from scoring them (zero) in case any of the others taste worse and I have to rescale the whole thing.

Probably the biggest success of the day, though, was in terms of descending. I'm still a pretty cautious guy, but running, re-running, and re-running again those descents really gave me a good feel for the bike. By the end, I was skittering over the rucked-up braking zones into tight hairpins with wheels alternately losing contact, and holding her steady (though maybe running a little wide through some left-handers that I couldn't strictly see the exit of). On my penultimate run, as I caught the group I'd gone past on the way down near the bothy at the top of the pass, taking them at full speed, a young guy on what I think was a blue CAAD 9 gave chase. Given my huge head tube and poor aerodynamics (you know it's windy when you can feel your shorts slowing you down!) I wouldn't have been surprised if he could have taken me in a couple of places, as his shadow crept up into my peripheral vision, but the road's in such a state that there's only one or two lines to take even on the straight bits, so maybe for that reason, maybe because he just wanted to follow my line, he stayed back, and I ended up pulling out a slight lead through the technical final part of the slope. It was a good run that really showed off what I'd learned through the day, and tipped me over the edge in the tiredness stakes, so I'm glad the guy was there and gave me a bit of a push to get down. Hopefully, knowing the roads in Wales, I'll be able to put some of that confidence into practice on the day.

Oh, and the picture below was supposed to show my state deteriorating on each summit. Beyond more hair sticking out of the helmet vents and barely-visible salt deposits on my forehead, it doesn't really work. Maybe would have worked better with clear specs.

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(r) - puncture city

After over 6 months with full pressure in my tyres, the seal has finally been broken, with two punctures in as many days. What are the odds, eh?

Well, actually pretty high, I suppose. Stands to reason that there'd be more chance of puncturing in or after some weather conditions compared to others, and a windy spell with frequent rain (essentially October-weather) sounds like a prime candidate for puncturing. You've got debris being blown onto the road, further debris moved by the rain, and yet further debris from cars taking unorthodox lines to avoid debris from the first two.

At least yesterday I managed to get almost all the way round before I picked up a sharp bead of glass in my front tyre - having curtailed the ride due to sidewinds that were, even with 35mm rims, pretty bloomin' hairy. It was walking distance home, so I trudged back and fixed it there.

Today I barely made it to Milngavie. Like most victims, I knew my killer - a sharp-looking shadow, part-rock, part-razorblade spotted moments too late. It slashed a centimetre-long gash in the sidewall of my rear tyre, and disappeared. About a year ago I'd suffered an identical puncture on my second ride on Gatorskins, and thus wrote them off as a supposedly puncture-resistant tyre. (To be fair, I've yet to puncture through the tread on my singlespeed, which faces a city every day, but I expect tough tyres to have sidewalls made out of something a bit harder than crepe paper) Luckily, I have a spare Ultra Sport to replace it with, though its lurid red tread will catastrophically throw off the aesthetics of the machine. Poor shame.

To keep the rhythm up, then, I was forced to run tonight. It went badly. My left knee started playing up so much I couldn't complete the hobble back, even at a tremendously reduced pace. I don't know what's wrong with it, but the pain comes and goes. I kinda just hope that if I can strengthen it enough, it'll stop being a problem.

Good trails!

http://virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

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Ride(hc) - Tak-ma-doon and Crow

After a very fun weekend of not training at all, Monday made for a spectacular return to complete-lack-of-form. I needed to get to a school near Falkirk to extol the virtues of wind farms and engineering to the kids, and figured that it'd be a good enough run to count as training for the day.

The ride in went well enough; with the exception of me starting late and getting slightly lost. It was a dreary, windy, grizzly day and by the time I was close enough to the school for my map, sellotaped to the rather ungainly flying gear cables sticking out the sides of my Sora shifters, to become useful, it had already become several smaller, damper, bits of map. With the poor weather and the lack of direction, I couldn't take advantage of the following wind, not wanting to arrive at the school smelling like a boil-in-the-bag steamed fish. (I really can't understand people who cycle in coats by choice. Half the time I end up as drenched on the inside as if I had just exposed myself to the rain. Bit warmer, though).

Riding back, I had originally planned to head north to Sterling and across, to extend things to a proper training run. By the time the first mile had passed, I was through with that idea.

Cycling into a headwind is far and away the most demoralising thing you can do on a bike. You can't get that same sense of flow as you get when climbing a mountain, and you are always, always in the wrong gear. In the end I just gave up on shifting - if all gears were equally wrong in the gusts and squalls, it was easier just to stick to one. Completely lacking motivation, I allowed myself to take it easy, and was rewarded by an average speed that dropped the wrong side of 25kph. This was terrible. I wasn't even sure I wanted to upload such a ride - the effect it would have on my monthly average speed would surely cripple the trend, unless I pulled some pretty impressive rides in the next couple of weeks.

Today, then, I got home after work just in time for it to start drizzling. Again. Refusing to kowtow to the vagaries of the Scottish climate, I pulled on a high-vis vest as concession to the fact that wearing almost completely grey gear on a black bike on a day like today might be a little low-contrast, I set off to do some hills.

It's surprising to me, as someone who hasn't been in Scotland for long, that there are fairly few decent climbs, especially around the northern Glasgow area. Tak-ma-doon is probably the longest, steepest climb within twenty miles (probably more), and even that is only a matter of about 300 hundred metres in 4 or 5 kilometres - at any rate, around 15 minutes of climbing, and it's an almost entirely level run in to get there. I'm probably going to have to increasingly turn to hill repeats to get my legs ready for Wales.

I set a couple of vague targets for myself, but given the conditions, they ended up being too easy. The first was to reach the foot of Tak-ma-doon at an average of 20mph or above, and with the strong westerly wind, I could to that with my feet practically off the pedals (well, not quite that easy. I did get a nice thrill from blasting past someone on a white... can't remember now, who was holding up traffic a bit. Again, I'd rather expected him to take the challenge, and my wheel, and move on a bit, but I guess I just keep overestimating the motivations of other riders).

The second target was just to attack the hills hard. This I could do, but I can't honestly claim to have reached the top any faster than on previous rides. Indeed, I'm struggling to see much improvement in my climbing yet. I'm about a 6th of the way through my training period, but I'm not a 6th of the way to bridging the gap in my threshold power, or average speed, or race weight. Every time I go out now, I think "today, I take it to the next level". Then, at some point in the ride, I remember - there isn't one. I'm going as fast as I can. I want to go faster. The only way to go faster is to keep going as fast as I can. That's all there is.

I hope it's enough.

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Run(r) - Kelvingrove Park and Heliport

Not an awful lot to report over the past couple of days - the weather's been intermittently showery (a hangover from the worryingly dry April) and I'm sitting exams at the moment, so yesterday was just a gym interval session, and today was a jogging recovery session along the Kelvin in the rain. I've got nothing against rain per se, but it does tend to shorten maintenance intervals on the bike (suspended debris burning through brake blocks and rims, washing away lubrication etc) so pedestrian motion seemed to be the way forward, so to speak.

Several (non engineering-based) things that I have learned in the past two days:

1. The maximum power that the gym "bikes" can "measure" (infer) is 600W. Looks like if I want to practice my sprinting, I'm just going to have to race for road signs.
2. It is really hard to make a run to Kelvingrove park last an hour.

I noticed something interesting behaviourally today, as well. As the rain started, I was struggling to find the enthusiasm to go out for what would be, after all, just a recovery run. In the end, I decided to go out for no better reason than gluttony - if I ran more, then I could eat more and not put on extra weight to drag up a mountain.

Have I basically just invented a new form of moral quandary here? Instead of asking - do the ends justify the means, is it possible to ask - do the means justify the ends?

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(s) - Stockiemuir x2

After watching today's Giro, I didn't really feel much like training, and now I don't feel like writing about it.

Deepest condolences to his family, friends and team-mates. Wouter Weylandt, today's ride was for you.

Good trails.

Ride(s) - Cheeky run to Helensburgh

No, that picture is not lying. But yes, that picture is cheating, and it totally didn't count.

Since I was heading out to Helensburgh to try and find a geocache, I stopped the clock there, with those magic numbers on it.

As you might have guessed, the wind was behind me. Strongly, all the way, and the ground was almost level - almost, though it was scary how quickly the average speed dived whenever I started climbing.

Positive points from this - I know how it feels to maintain my target average speed. Fast. For the vast majority of the distance, the minimum speed I wanted to be looking at on the speedo was 37. Whilst it wasn't a huge effort today, it was obvious how much of a challenge it would be on more challenging terrain, with changing wind.

Negative points from this - I now know how easy it would be for me to "game" my own targets. Whilst I'd never accept any speed that wasn't at least an out-and-back, if not a loop, it would be possible to find returns that are more sheltered than the outward ride. At that stage of desperation, though, I'd have to doubt my ability to hit the overall goal.

Heading back into the wind - having cut short my search due to ominous rumblings (and not just from my stomach) - as the torrential rain started, I watched my average speed plummet. By the time I got home, I was below 30, and whilst that was partly due to a lack of energy (my peak heart rate was a measly 166, and I only spent about half an hour above 150), it showed how much more the wind can take from you than it can ever give you. An average return speed of 25kph - that's just a bit embarrassing.

So why am I doing the hilliest stage of the tour into what is sure to be a persistent headwind?

Good question. First of all, because it's Wales - and have you seen the route? The whole thing's a cycling homecoming for me. Secondly, though, because I don't know whether I can do it.

I think I've proved today that over flat ground, with the right wind, completing a stage at 35kph is well within my grasp. About another month's training and I could just hold it there until August, safe in the knowledge that something would have to be terrifically wrong for me to not hit the target.

With the Welsh stage, I just don't know. There's no way I have enough time to train enough to be confident that I can do it on the day. Frankly, at the moment, I'm feeling like it's pretty unlikely I'll get to the necessary level. I'm not a climber - I've completely neglected my upper body for years now, but my arms still weigh about the same as a small horse - and, if I'm honest, I'm not a natural bike-rider. The speed increase I need seems beyond my reach, even if I can maintain a linear training progression - which is pretty much impossible. And I don't know if I have the discipline for it. My weight's still fluctuating, I'm not stretching as often or as well as I should, and I'm not preparing adequate food ready to eat post-ride.

There's a part of me, though - ever so small - saying "go on. You might surprise yourself"

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(hc) - Earlsburn Wind Farm

I wasn't sure whether to upload this one or not: training was only one of the two things I hoped to accomplish with this ride, and the other thing slowed me down a lot. In the end, I decided to put it down as "mountain biking" so it doesn't affect my speed stats. It seemed appropriate.

Thursday wasn't a complete write-off, but it was raining, so I decided to stay in the gym and work a bit on tempo, and try to correct some of my asymmetry. Despite a reasonable stretching session, though, my calves were still tight this evening.

With that in mind, I chose to ride out to the Tak-ma-doon road at a leisurely rate, and just attack the hills with gusto on my way to Earlsburn wind farm, where I planned to take a few pictures for a school visit in about a week. (NB - the picture isn't actually of Earlsburn, but the farm next door).

I managed to do so fairly well, keeping my heart-rate waaay down before being overtaken by a Ribble on the way to Torrance. I accepted the tow at 34 for about an eighth of a mile thinking all the while "well, if we're going to do this, let's do it properly" before taking my turn and bringing the speed up to 40. By the time I looked back, he was nowhere to be seen. Well, his loss.

Don't get me wrong - I have nothing against Ribble owners, or MAMILy in general (the "y" to distinguish "Lycra" from "Leather"). They're probably the reason why I can afford to ride, and it's fair to say that I ride an unashamedly MAMILy bike myself - an '09 Allez with a head-tube like a piece of scaffold pole. This guy only looked in his thirties anyway. I genuinely wasn't trying to be mean to the guy. I was just surprised at how easy it was to thoroughly drop him. It was at most a 60% effort.

The Tak-ma-doon road was a beast as always - I keep forgetting how long the false starts are - but I steadfastly refused to drop into my lowest gear. There's no getting around it, though - I still need a compact for climbs steeper than 7%. At least I was cheered up by news that Contador was trying out a 34x32 for the giro: http://www.cyclingnews.com/news/contador-scarponi-and-sastre-fear-giro-ditalia-mountain-finishes. Not that he'll actually use it, I don't suppose - and even if he did, he'd be spinning at twice my rate. But still.

I spent a lot of time on my approach to the wind farm stopping to take pictures, and when the turn-off finally came, it was far rougher than I had anticipated. Probably no worse than some of the dirt roads on the Giro, but I don't have a team car following me, and I certainly wasn't set up for that sort of riding. Creeping along at 10kph, I gave up at the first reservoir as spots of rain began to hit. The lighting wasn't playing fair, anyway.

The ride back was medium-effort, medium-speed. Even the climb up the Crow Road, I can't really claim to have been going all-out. I was struck by a thought that had never really sunk in before, though, as I ascended in 34x23:

This will never get easier. I will always have to put at least this amount of force in, in this gear, whether I go faster or not.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to realise that fully. It's the nature of climbing. It doesn't matter how fast I spin - I'm always going to have to put in the same amount of energy, the same force over the same distance. Unless I lose some significant weight (like, say, a leg), I'm always going to have to be at least as strong as I am now to climb at the same speed.

It really, genuinely, will never get any easier.

Scary thought.

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(tt) - Natural 20

It had to be today.

I don't believe in fate, but, sometimes, events conspire so that you can only ever see them resolving in one way. Today was one of those times.

I got my first inkling at half-past 7 with a knock on the door. Never, in the entire time I have lived here, has the post come at a time in the morning when I should actually be at home, but here it was. The crimson messenger from the gods of cycling handed me a brown cardboard box, and I had my bottom bracket.

I checked the weather - tomorrow the rain was closing in. It had to be today.

The urge to take the bike out right there and then was overwhelming, but I restrained myself to just installing it and wheeled into work. My singlespeed was a little the worse for wear after yesterday's excursion, and jumped its chain twice, but I was barely paying attention to it. The whole day, practically every movement, every thought, was directed to the evening's ride. Every bite of food, every jog up the stairs or otherwise. As the day drew to a close, I made myself an espresso, dosed up, and started my warm-up on the way home.

Careful of the chain, I span up and relaxed, span up and relaxed, taking my legs just past their aerobic limits and letting them settle. Once home, it was straight into my gear - tightest I've got, I know it'll be hot, but it won't be for long... Pressures checked, computer on, down the stairs, tracker started, HRM synced, time to go.

It was an inauspicious start. The traffic on Queen Margaret Drive was even worse than expected, but I was rolling fast and muscled my way through. Caught again on the lights from Bisland Drive onto Balmore Road - the temptation to jump for the left-hander was almost unbearable, but I held on and shot off at traffic speed up the hill. I shouldn't be going this fast - is the wind behind me? Shouldn't be. Heart rate's at 183 - back off, don't want to die half way; but wait for these lights to stop you, get your breath back there. Down the bus lane, shooting past the infuriated cars - I'm going to have to rejoin in a moment, and you're going to let me, because I'm working my arse off here and I deserve the space.

Over the lights at Blackhill Road at 40+, dodging the potholes - sorry whoever's behind, you'll have to wait 'til the cemetery before there's enough line of sight to pass, and I'm running over 25mph now so you can't complain. Climbing and falling, over the narrow bridge, now can I do this next hill in the big ring? There's traffic at the top, be aware. No need to shift, but I saw an 18 on the computer there - not good.

Sod, this traffic is insane. I know it's double-whites on a half-blind right-hander, but I'm going to have to go for it. Diving in and out between the cars, no horns - maybe my assertiveness and speed mean people actually appreciate how much effort I'm putting in. Nah, then they'd pull over enough that I wouldn't have to expose myself to oncoming traffic. Must just be too bored.

At the roundabout - going to have to use this car for cover, come on, don't slow down. The Auchenhowie road is empty. The micro turbines on the hill were right, the wind is against me. Just go. I'm touching 40 every now and again, but it's difficult. My quads feel like they're going to split my almost-aerodynamic XC shorts at the seams - strange that they would make cycling clothing that doesn't consider that having a small waist might not mean small legs.

No traffic at the A81 junction - oh no, I'm going to have to head straight up the hill and I'm half-spent. No, the lights are just changing. Ok, that's enough time to recover. It's a struggle up here, did I just see a 17? Ah, nuts. Caught at Milngavie lights, for the first time ever. Ok, crack on up the hill. The bike seems to be running so well - Conti Ultra Sports might be cheap, but I think they've conditioned me into expecting a far harsher ride. Bear that in mind. Ok, onto the broken-up section by the golf club. I'm still in the small ring and this is slowing me. That was a 23 just then. Come on, bring up the pace. 27 - it'll have to do. Heart rate's 172 - it'll have to do. Get to the top and it'll all be better.

Another 18 up the steep section - but I think on average I'm faster than normal. When will my legs come back so I can shift into the big ring? Best tighten my shoe as well - that was annoying through the whole climb. Ok, I'm rolling fast now - weird. The wind should be against me, but here I am, fastest descent into Strathblane ever. Still dropped out of the 40s over that brow, but I'm sure my highest was up near 60 this time. Lot of riders struggling up the other way. I'm hitting the switchbacks now - car, you can wait behind me, I need the room. Hold on, that 4x4 is taking its time up ahead - come on, you can do better than that. But he's still slowing. There's traffic.

A bus.

I thought I'd lost it there. Maybe it only cost me twenty seconds, but that was supposed to be the fastest section of the whole ride and I was stationary. I actually thumped my bars in exasperation.

Round the mini roundabout towards Lennoxtown and I try to let rip, but it's not happening. The wind is right in my face and my calves are feeling tight. I'm down in the twenties as I climb out of Strathblane, and as the road levels I start to get angry. This is supposed to be the fast section, the bit where I make up time, but I'm below 32. Come on, push.

COME ON!

I'm yelling at myself now. It's not a suggestion; it's a full-throated, roaring command. I don't care who hears. My mouth is hanging open, scooping air in, and thankfully precious few insects. I cough and hack, still not recovered from the cold from a week ago, and affected by Hay fever. I'm still not hitting 40s.

COME ON!

The wind seems to ease as I get into Lennoxtown. I'm too focussed, too low on the drops to fiddle with gearing, so I'm up out of the saddle on the rises, watching that bus' shadow creep up on mine. Tough luck, there's cars parked here, and the road's turning down. I'm moving out.

Through Lennoxtown almost on the speed limit. I'm only half-aware of the road - this isn't safe, but I don't care. My average has been dragged well into the early 30s. Dodge the potholes, let the cars behind you worry about when to overtake, this lane is yours.

Right-hander onto Torrance Road. Don't let up. I know it's starting you on a downhill. Don't let up. The wind is half behind you. You've never done this road this fast before. Getting to that right-hander by the Kirkintilloch Road - yes, I know there's a hill after it. Just go. You'll be over it in no time.

AARGH!

The rider coming in the other direction can't possibly have missed that cry, can't have failed to recognise that grimace, that sudden asymmetry to my pedaling. My right calf has completely cramped. I have to get up this hill, but now it's the wind doing most of the work. My left's starting to go, too. If I can just make it to the lights in Torrance, I can stretch for a second.

Cor blimey, this hurts.

The lights are enough, just. I'm still hesitant towards the roundabout, but as I slingshot out the wind is right behind me. I'm flying. I'm doing 40 and barely touching anything. That commuter in front of me is toast.

This is doable.

At Bardowie the impossible happens - I click over into an average speed of 32kph. And it's climbing.

It's not over yet. The wind might go against you. There's still hills. Keep pushing.

I take the roundabout without touching the brakes, hoping it'll slingshot me up the hill, but it's still a slog. I can't let my speed drop too far. I just can't.

Down, over the bridge, then up the next one. I've got to sit back and grind. It's the fastest way in the long run, trust me. You need to save yourself for once you get over the top.

It's the most difficult run past the cemetery I've ever done, but it's fast. Capitalise on it, roll up to the lights, straight over, up the next hill. Ok, you're at 27. I know you've done this faster, but Ok. Stop at the lights, and fly down the far side.

I'm traffic speed all the way down here, but stuck behind a stack to turn right at the lights. They're green - I'm still moving, this still counts. Come on!

Right onto Bisland Drive and it's clear the wind is behind me, for the first time I can remember. I'm going to do this. It's actually going to happen.

Past the school, down under the canal - I accelerate into the turn, watching the speedo touch 50. The lights are red, of course, and I'm stuck behind about 4 cars. They're slow to pull off, and amble their way down Queen Margaret's Drive. There's nothing I can do.

Two more streets, follow a car through the security gates, skid to a stop. Phone out of back pocket, HRM halted.

I've done it.

20 mph, for over an hour (not including time spent at lights).

109 days to find another 3kph, for four more hours.

It's still a long way.

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride(ss) - Clyde

Don't know whether this counts as a training session or not - didn't really feel like one, being just on my singlespeed, in trousers, after work. I suppose one could argue that the ridiculously low gearing on that machine would be improving "le souplesse", but I find it quite warm to spin that fast when my legs are covered and have things in the pockets, so it probably wasn't much good for that, either.

Sprinting and intervals, then? Well, that'd be a possibility, except that I'm paranoid about losing the chain on my singlespeed. As a rather poor 5-speed conversion, the chainline is far from straight, and needs a 9-speed chain to prevent it sounding like a coffee grinder. Add this to the fact that I haven't been able to remove the rear wheel for months due to a seized quick-release, and I really don't want to push too hard. The whole bike is starting to fall apart - the front rim practically conforms to my finger - but I don't want to replace anything, because it'd be prolonging the life of a bike that I no longer really want. It's too small, the chainline will never be right, the ride is practically cast-iron (it's one of the really poor Peugeot frames that they sullied their names with in the 80s), and it's a hassle finding 125mm hubs. In short, I want a new singlespeed, but I won't be able to afford one until after summer. Maybe it can be my after-season reward.

As you might have gathered, I'm still waiting for the bottom bracket for my road bike. Hopefully it'll arrive before the weather changes - until then, I'm holding myself back, mindful that I have 10 days to complete the "formality" of a 20mph ride. I don't want to fall at the first hurdle, so I need to be fresh and get it under my belt.

Good trails!

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/robrideswales

Ride/Hike(l) - Whitchurch and Snowdon

Apparently a couple of people got married this Friday, and because of that, a lot of people got the day off work. I have no comment on this, beyond that I enjoy days off. Well, actually, I do have one comment, which is that they might not have chosen the best year to chuck a bank holiday straight after Easter for students, with the school year already being thoroughly messed-up by the late falling of the holiday - but, weather wise, it turned out well. No complaints. Just exam worries.

I didn't actually catch any of the ceremony, since I was cycling at the time - as any self-proclaimed cyclist should have been, really. It's not like they didn't have highlights. The ride in question was between Manchester and Whitchurch to meet up with friends, and didn't get off to a particularly auspicious start when before I even got on the train to Manchester two rivets popped off my pannier. Regardless of how I loaded it, I really don't think it was a brilliant design decision of the people of Carradice to hold their panniers together with soft aluminium pop-rivets. Braced by a belt, it made it to Whitchurch, but is badly in need of some M4 machine screws to hold it more permanently.

The ride wasn't atrocious, with a rolling speed above 26 kph carrying weight, but this was with a following wind. I got marginally lost a couple of times, and some of the roads out of Manchester were ruinously dull and traffic-exposed, but really there was just a certain dullness to the ride. I suppose I'll just keep on blaming it on the seriously industrial front wheel on my tourer, until I replace it.

With this relaxed leg-loosening exercise waking me up from a fairly sedentary week, on Saturday we climbed Snowdon. I have never seen a mountain quite that busy - there was barely ten paces on average between groups, and in the unusually warm weather, I wasn't too surprised to see the mountain rescue helicopter out. I didn't see much point in rushing to the summit with this much human traffic, and with people to walk with, so I can't really class this as a training session, but it was at least a good excuse to get up Wales' tallest mountain again, and topping 3000 feet twice in a week felt like a good way to start the "summer".

On Sunday, I rode with a friend about 40km to Delamere Forest Park, where, unfortunately (in part due to spending an unexpected amount on bicycle maintenance this month) I was too skint to do the "Go Ape" ropes course, so contented myself with riding around looking for geocaches with my girlfriend on the back of the bike, which counts for something I reckon. It was also the first time I noticed how really twitchy the bike gets with weight that far back - I hope getting some lowriders will help stabilise things for long journeys, because it really does need you to stay on your toes. The combination of narrow bars, steep headtube and short trail are at odds with everything one would consider normal in a modern mountainbike, and I suppose just shows how much of a throwback the geometry on my tourer really is. I'm not prepared to change it, though - replacing threaded steerer forks would be a hassle, I like the internal brake cable routing through the stem (which is also high-lift, very necessary on an otherwise very low-fronted bike), and the narrow bars make me comfortable riding with bar ends in a city. Besides, it's comfortable enough unloaded, so I'm sure a more even weight distribution will sort things out.

Good trails!

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