The long and winding road

Next weekend is my season's goal (actually it's the only one I've had this season). It doesn't involve a long flight to Geelong, more a gentle roll down the hill to Herne Hill velodrome (save it!) where awaits the start line of The Ride of the Falling Leaves.

Whilst I have no illusions that I will better last years phenomenal 18th place (3hrs 40mins - it is my finest hour BAR NONE) I do still want to make a decent stab at it and attain gold standard (4hrs). Therefore I have been trying hard to stick to a training plan (if you call eating dried fruit and doing a few extra laps of Regents Park a training plan) in order to get race fit. Today was my last long spin before I 'taper' (love it - so pro!) which involved a demi-recce of the actual course.

Now, there has always been one hill on the course (which is also on my regular ride route) that I have hated - I'm sure we all have one and Hang Grove Hill is without doubt mine. It has a long sweeping descent to it's approach which before most hills would be a joy were it not for the pot-holed, Zipp-rattling, lumpy run of tarmac that forms it. I live in constant fear of a snapping fork or a Voigtesque face plant. Then begins the climb - equally pot-holed and grippier than Futurestar when he doesn't want to get in the swimming pool (ouch!).

So, imagine my utter, utter elation today as I steeled myself after successfully negotiating the descent. Ahead of me lay not a pot-holed ascent but a black, liquorice strip of sheer heaven. Hang Grove Hill has been resurfaced and is beautiful. It's made the pain so, so enjoyable that it has now become my favourite leg burner in a transformation last seen when Jesus turned the water into wine - and oh what a vintage! Roll on next Sunday.

*Photo for illustration purposes - if I got off to take an actual pic I would never have gotten back on

Are you sitting comfortably?.........

.....then (despite my beloved's protestations) I will begin.

Over the past months I have fussed and fretted like the Cannibal on a cannabis come down about my riding position and resultant sore lower back. I have measured every limb and inside leg, put saddle fore, aft, up and down and all to seemingly little success. I contacted a bike fitter only for him to tell me he had been thrown out of his workshop and couldn't help - he was cheap as it appears am I when it comes to spending money on something that actually could stop me from walking like a 98 year old rice farmer for the rest of my life. I took the matter no further.

Then, whilst riding back from work the other week it dawned on me to take radical action. I share this with you dear reader (or at least the slightly more hirsute of you) as it is my duty as a frank and cuttingly insightful scribe to do so. I took razor (electric, of course) to a certain part of my anatomy that does not oft see the light of day. Let's simply say that I don't know the anatomical name for it but the Maltese have a word for it and that word (forgive me if spelt incorrectly) is widgormi (aka biffin). At first I was tentative as once done there would be no going back for fear of constantly fidgeting but oh what a difference! There sheer comfort of not having the feeling that ones derrieiur is on fire after an hour in the saddle has completely distracted me from my backache - it's genius, simple, eppilated genius, chamois creamed genius.

So, to celebrate and really take this discovery to the max I have invested in a lovely new Prologo Pro Scratch Ti and a pair of Assos F1 Mille shorts - I am in absolute pedal-perched Nirvana.

Now - if only I can think of the best place to shave to stop the ache of rocking Futurestar to sleep.

Brightening up a ride on the bus

I had a rest day today. Always a pain as it means spending £8.60 on a travelcard and then spending the day knowing I have to face the scrum of Oxford Circus in the evening (they may have made it look like Shibuya but in Shibuya they have about 300 entrances to the station instead of the 2 that are currently in operation here!).

Today was an added stress as the trains were cancelled meaning a bus journey to Brixton was thrown into the commute bargain. So, imagine my glee as I sat on the top deck and looked out to see Team Garmin Transitions (I’m Tyler Farrar…..) cruising down the road. Not something that you see in the Brixton rush hour traffic every day.

Oh how I wished I had been on the PM – I imagined myself pulling up alongside, tapping the window, being handed a sticky bidon by a trusty soigneur and completing my journey to work. One can but dream

Au revoir Laurent

For the past couple of weeks I have been rounding off my evening by reading a chapter or 2 of 'We were young and carefree', the autobiographical account of Laurent Fignon's career. So yesterday's sad news of his death made reading a little more poignant as I arrived at the chapter about the twilight of his career.

Whilst (and sadly I am no exception here) many write of his 8 second Le Tour loss to Greg Lemond, you have to chapeau! the man in a grande way for his palmares and also for what he brought to the sport. As a poseur I think he is up there with some of the very best in terms of having a totally individual style - those glasses, that hair - c'est chic n'est-ce pas?

There's no denying that he was an awkward man to deal with and, like all greats, had an ego and a sense of what he deemed to be correct to match his stature as a rider. Read the book - he doesn't always come across as the sort of person you would lend your bidon to but it's still a great read (and it also makes me desparate for an English book about The Badger).