Floating on a Magic Carpet

Floating on a Magic Carpet

Saturday 21st October, and we were surfing on the coattails of Storm Babet that had dumped a shitload of rain on the region before pressing on northwards to bring death, destruction, flooding and misery to huge swathes of Scotland.

While the worst had passed, the morning was still engulfed in a suffocating, wet grey wall, as if the far side of the valley was being subject to some waterboarding under a layer of sodden cotton wool, and we would spend all day navigating new, unexpected waterways courtesy of the overwhelming amount of rainfall.

I’d passed the first of these at the bottom of the Heinous Hill, while a second, just before crossing a swollen, sullen river, was enough to breach socks, shoes and overshoes ensuring wet feet for the duration of the ride. Despite everything, it wasn’t especially cold, although to be fair that probably had a lot to do with the multiple layers and waterproof jacket I was wearing.

I was the first to arrive at the start point, diving into the multi-storey car park to shelter from the still lightly drifting rain while I waited to see which other brave souls would be daft enough to be venturing out on such a day.

“Hello boys,” I greeted the first to arrive, G-Dawg and his pair of canine companions as they rocked up just to see everyone off. G-Dawg has now been given a date for the procedure that will attempt to re-set his cardiac arrhythmia, much to the relief of his two labradors whom he’s managed to sicken of walking as he tries to compensate for limited riding opportunities.

OGL drove up as well, also in civvies and obviously needing to fulfil his traditional, breath-drawn-through-teeth, head-shaking, dire pronouncements of cataclysmic, life-threatening weather conditions out in the countryside. I must admit, it wasn’t looking good, with 5 souls huddled together in the gloom, looking out at the rain and only one of us either willing or capable of riding.

I confessed to G-Dawg that I would be quite happy if no one else turned up so I could just head home with a clear conscience, but naturally, I was just the first of the stubbornly willful and we soon had a sizeable group of eight riders all second guessing what they were doing.

Amongst the arrivals was Goose, astride the panzerkampfwagen, his iron horse touring bike, for the first time this winter. He declared himself pleased as punch with some of the servicing work he completed on the beast. A litany of new things included, a new cassette, new tyres and tubes, a set of silver brake blocks on the front and black ones on the rear. Goose was convinced the latter mismatch, whether intentional or not, gave his bike a certain stylish je ne sais quoi.

His most contentious upgrade however proved to be a new, rustless chain, the authenticity and merits of which were much debated.

“Perhaps they merely meant it was rust-free when you bought it?” someone suggested, but neither this nor any of the assertions that the chain would rust once the plating had worn off could dampen Goose’s enthusiasm for his new purchase.

Personally, I would have thought a bit of regular cleaning and re-lubing is more than sufficient to keep any chain rust-free no matter what conditions it’s used in. Today’s ride could be the ultimate test of this theory.

While we debated the merits of rustless chains and mismatched brake blocks, the Enigma cruised past as fluidly as ever – still in shorts, but he had made a concession to the weather with the addition of a long-sleeved T-shirt and some woolly gloves.

Then Not Anthony was fumbling around in his back pocket and trying to smooth out and read from what I at first thought was his shopping list, but was actually details of today’s ride. He used this not to remind us that he needed to pick up a pint of milk and half a dozen free-range eggs, but to outline the route we would be taking to the cafe at Capheaton. So armed, he briefed in the ride, only stumbling once or twice as he tried to decipher his own writing in the murky light of our makeshift shelter.

And then we were off, Goose and Not Anthony led us out while I dropped in behind them, joining Crazy Legs for some inane natter about The Professionals (CI5’s Bodie, Doyle and Cowley, not Remco, Van der Poel and Van Aert), The Bug Club, One Piece, the meaning of the word ‘boujee’ (ask your kids), mysteriously missing pine cones and ubiquitous acorns. Amongst other things.

Even our turn to take the lead didn’t perturb us too much, and at least gave us good sight of the huge puddles we were forced to traverse – like a latter-day Columbus setting sail accompanied only by blind faith that we’d find dry land somewhere on the other side of the corners we were circumnavigating.

It’s probably unwise to suggest things were going ‘swimmingly’ but we were doing okay as we made the turn on the lane toward Dalton, very much rowing upstream against the flow of water coming the other way. There we were brought to a sudden halt by a road-closed sign and reasoned the bridge was probably underwater.

We turned round, rode on for a while then stopped at the next junction with a decision to make. It was 7 miles to the cafe at Capheaton on our current heading, but we had the option of trying to re-join the planned route and loop around the cafe to add on a few more miles. As we tried to decide, a driver stopped for a chat and she told us the roads through Ponteland seemed the worst affected and we shouldn’t have too much trouble elsewhere.

Four of the group decided to take the longer route, while I joined Carlton, Crazy Legs and Cowin’ Bovril on the shorter run to the cafe. The rain had stopped falling directly on us by this time and it was a pleasant ride, marred only by the fact that Cowin’ Bovril, insulated in a cap, helmet and high viz, baggy helmet cover, had obviously lost all connection with the mothership and seemed to think he was now invincible to traffic.

We arrived at the cafe at the same time as another pair of cyclists – the only other riders we’d seen all day. “I hope you’re not going to hog all the seats,” they warned us. We didn’t, but sat and enjoyed our coffee and cake while waiting for the arrival of the rest of the group. They were finally led in by Not Anthony, who promptly bought and then quickly inhaled two whole slices of cake. Those additional miles must have been a lot harder than I thought.

Crazy Legs turned to Binder as the youngest member of our group and asked her if she could explain the meaning of boujee, which turned out not to be as pejorative a term as he thought. Having now uncovered a potential source to explain ‘yoof speak’ to all of us old farts, Crazy Legs next wanted to know about ‘gaslighting’ what it meant and why it now seems so over-used.

She explained it was when someone persistently puts out a false narrative in order to manipulate another.

Crazy Legs turned to me. “You bastard. That’s what you’ve been doing to me all these years!”

Luckily the conversation turned back to Goose’s upgrades to the iron horse, which he now revealed included Schwalbe Marathon touring tyres and slime-filled inner tubes, a combination he felt made him invincibly puncture-proof. Crazy Legs, Not Anthony and Carlton tried to persuade him he would be better off going tubeless if he wanted to avoid punctures.

Ever willing to learn (remember, discovering you could ride on the hoods and brake at the same time had been a life-changing revelation) Goose wanted to know the advantages of tubelss. Crazy Legs’ most forceful argument seemed to be that it gave you an excuse to carry a supercool tubeless repair kit, pulling out a CNC aluminium case and unscrewing the caps to reveal a reamer and fork as well as lots of bacon strips (apparently also known as worms) to plug holes that the tyre sealant couldn’t. This super-cool tool he explained was even available in a host of different colours and he tried to persuade everyone they should buy one. Just not in red, as Crazy Legs had already ‘bagsied’ this colour.

It was left to Carlton to try and explain the real benefits of going tubeless, with his suggestion that ‘it feels like you’re floating on a magic carpet’ proving a slightly more poetic and convincing argument. I have a feeling though that Goose remained unconvinced.

It was chilly when we left the cafe, but the day was brightening rapidly and we soon warmed up as we slid past West Belsay and through another road-spanning puddle on the way down to the Snake Bends. Heading down the heavily potholed Bomb Alley, Goose pulled off to the side of the road and we slowed to wait.

“Be bloody ironic if he had a puncture,” Crazy Legs suggested.

“Nah, he’s just checking his chain for rust.”

The latter seems more likely than the former, as he’s soon remounted and rejoined, but we never did find out why he’d stopped in the first place.

As we expected the lane through to Ogle provided another opportunity for some puddle surfing and once through I took the opportunity to have a chat with Goose.

“How’s the chain holding up?” I wondered.

“Still pristine.”

“Good. Just a shame you can’t get a rustless crown race and stem bolts too,” I observed.

“Shhhhh!”

And then we were brought to a halt in Kirkley Mill, where the River Pont had burst its banks, the bridge was awash with water and a bloke was working furiously to try and start his waterlogged car, rescued after he’d failed to make it through the flood.

“How deep do you reckon the water is?” Crazy Legs asked.

“It was up to about here,” the bloke replied, drawing a line across the top of his thigh, “But that was a couple of hours ago, and I think it’s gone down now.”

He felt he might have made it through, until he hit a pothole, “somewhere over there” he said, waving vaguely at where a steel fence post had been levelled and its tip barely protruded above the water.

We discussed what to do, although Crazy Legs was adamant he was going to ride through the flood no matter what and only Carlton seemed hesitant. In the end, we all went for it, water sloshing up over hubs and bottom brackets as we cautiously followed Crazy Legs, hoping he wasn’t going to suddenly disappear into some deep trench hidden in the murky water. He pointed out a barely visible breeze block and then submerged brick we needed to avoid as we followed in his wake and finally made it through at the cost of very soggy feet.

Now heading down the usually busy Berwick Hill, it took me a while to work out why it was so peaceful and pleasant until I noticed a complete absence of cars.

“We’ve either missed the zombie apocalypse or the road’s closed,” I told Carlton cheerfully as we rolled freely downhill. Perhaps I should be grateful it was the latter and we found the road had indeed been closed just after the turn for Dinnington.

We were joined there by another cyclist who said he’d tried going up past the Cheese Farm, only to turn back when he found the road over the humpbacked bridge flooded and an abandoned car on its side in an adjacent field.

With the road ahead closed, more cars were funnelling through Dinnington and we soon had a dozen or so tailing behind us. We pulled over into a layby to let them all pass and to give us the opportunity to appreciate the mouldering pile of garbage that some arse hat had fly-tipped there.

The sun was warming things up nicely and after leaving the group and striking out for home I stopped to finally take the rain jacket off. Then, for the second consecutive week, I was stopped a handful of miles from home when a local thorn (the ones with the depleted uranium tips) pricked my complacency and inner tube (just for the record: different bike and different wheel), sliding effortlessly through the thickest part of the tyre while the puncture protection strip raised a white flag of surrender. I changed the tube without too much time and effort, but the bike, the wheel, tyre and then my hands were black and filthy with road grime.

Through near superhuman efforts, I forced a masterful 20-30 psi into the tyre. It was enough to get me home, but maybe I need Marathon tyres and slime inner tubes, or … or… I could go tubeless and float on a magic carpet.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 21st October 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 35 minutes
Riding Distance:98km with 909m of elevation gain
Average Speed:21.4km/h
Group Size:8 riders, 0 FNG
Temperature:5℃
Weather in a word or two:Stormy Weather
My year to date:7,235km with 60,982m of elevation gain

Subliminal Sub-Bimble

Subliminal Sub-Bimble

Another infrequent, intermittent, and wholly erratic despatch from the club run front lines – I think we now have enough evidence to conclude that any hopes that the new unpredictability of blerg publications will add a frisson of excitement to my random ramblings are wholly misplaced.

Nothing of any great import has occurred since my previous posting. I was working a University Open Day on one of the weekends and nothing much happened on the other beyond a wholly unavoidable encounter with the deck. This occurred when a corner suddenly leapt out of nowhere and caught me by surprise (i.e. I was travelling too fast and the corner was much tighter than expected) – my wheels slid out and I came down like a bag of hammers. The road had a really good attempt to smooth off some of my rough edges and filed away anything that protruded down my left-hand side – ankle, knee, hip, elbow, and pinkie finger were all scuffed and abraded, and I developed a lump roughly the same size and shape as a small egg (UK standard/free-range, grade 5 to 7) on my temple.

Luckily the damage was purely superficial and I was able to remount and continue home, the bike unscathed apart from two rough gouges that cut through the bar tape and down to the metal. The same couldn’t be said about my jersey, which was shredded at the elbow, or my helmet which took a ding and will need replacing sooner, rather than later. Three weeks on and I’m largely recovered, the only visible marks being the bruising on my hip which has faded to a jaundiced, sickly yellow, and the black crater on my elbow the size and depth of something you wouldn’t be surprised to observe on the dark side of the moon.

This Saturday I set out under sullen clouds that looked leaden and laden, poised to unburden themselves of their heavy rain at any moment. It had tipped it down relentlessly all night and just across the Scottish border weather alerts were in place as they were subject to over 20 cm of rain in a few hours and some very severe flooding. I was convinced we were in for an enforced soaking too, but miraculously, not a single drop fell on our heads during the ride, although we still got a soaking regardless.

Approaching the bridge, the cones were out to control parking outside the rowing club and it was obvious that some event was planned, but there were few crews, team buses, or cars about. I later learned that a Long Distance Sculling event had been planned, but was cancelled due to a high and fast river flow and resulting debris.

Despite the ever-present threat of rain, the weather was muggily warm and I’d shed the first layer, my gilet, long before I reached the meeting place. It still wasn’t quite as temperate as Brassneck would have me believe, and I never did regret wearing tights, despite his ridicule.

I watched Crazy Legs emerge from the overcast gloom, his fluffy white hair shining like a beacon. Surely it wasn’t so warm that he’d decided he had to ride without a helmet?

“Have you forgotten something?”

“What’s that then?”

I indicated his bare bonce.

“Oh, shit,” he declared and scuttled back home to get his helmet. At least, unlike the Prof, he didn’t have to raise his hands and feel all around his naked head to realise he had indeed forgotten his helmet.

Meanwhile, the Enigma cruised past, going faster than I’ve seen, but looking just as calm and unruffled as ever.

The ride briefing concluded with the suggestion that we travel in one group and a note to look after the new riders, an excuse for OGL to vent his well-worn complaint that the rides were getting faster and faster (they aren’t), and his idea we should only ever travel at the pace the slowest rider could maintain. He concluded that he’d been discussing it with his ex-racing buddies and declared that our rides had become thoroughly anti-social affairs. Brassneck countered that he found the rides supremely friendly and very sociable, where everybody looked after everyone else, but apparently, his views didn’t count because he’d never put a number on his back and raced and he hadn’t logged ‘over 600,000 miles’ on a bike.

Having delivered his rant about our anti-social behaviour, OGL rode through a red light, up onto the pavement, and down the cycle lane in splendid isolation, leaving us all trailing in his wake to catch up if and when we could.

A few mile further on and approaching Dinnington, Brassneck accelerated up to the front to tell us that a small group were off the back and we needed to slow down. We duly slowed, and the group caught up, including OGL who immediately started screaming that, contrary to all the evidence, no one ever looked back, or waited for others to catch up …

A naturally incensed Brassneck confronted an almost always irate OGL and both forcibly suggested the other should travel until they were somewhere else and far removed from their present location … and on we went, but now in two distinct warring camps.

The rest of the ride was then a pleasant, but stop-start affair as we waited at the top of the hills for the new girl and were frequently slowed to negotiate numerous, massive, road-spanning puddles. It really had rained quite heavily the night before.

At one such stop, Mini Miss explained that the service of her winter bike had set her back over £700 as she’d had the chainrings, chain, cassette, and various other things she didn’t know the name of replaced.

“The thingamajig?” someone suggested.

“The dinger?” I added, remembering the time that the Garrulous Kid had been inordinately attached to a still somewhat mysterious dinger on his bike.

“Hmm, I’m getting a whole new winter bike for not much more £700,” Brassneck mused.

“This bike was just £160,” I countered, indicating the shiny bike, but ultimately losing the race to the bottom to Aether, who’d bought a frame for just £25 and built it up from bits and pieces he’d found just lying around – and apparently not, as Brassneck slyly suggested, “just lying around in a bike shop.”

As we closed in on the cafe, Brassneck noted that we’d averaged less than 15mph across the ride, which he declared was sub-Bimble pace. So, no rain, but my lower half was pretty much soaked through, and a very slow pace, but I was still tired and heavy-legged.

At the cafe, Not Anthony pounced on what he thought was a mega slice of ginger cake, only to find it was actually two slices. To avoid disappointment, he bought them both.

Meanwhile, Liam the Chinese rockstar enjoyed his cake choice so much that he went back for seconds and then insisted on sharing it with anyone nearby. I tell you, this sharing of cake is not the norm for anti-social club rides. Crazy Legs noted this perverse and unorthodox behaviour and suggested the club committee would be informed immediately.

As we left, I retrieved Crazy Legs’ gilet from where he’d forgotten it, hung forlornly on the back of his chair. I reunited it with its absent-minded owner.

“Thanks. I forgot my specs, as well,” he confessed.

“Oh, where are they?” I wondered, preparing to go back inside to retrieve them.

“In the shed back home …”

Riiiiight …

We split into two groups for the ride back, which was better as we could push the pace up and get the blood flowing again. We were even able to increase our average speed until it was firmly back into full-Bimble orbit, which I think secretly pleased Brassneck.

There were still two or three more inland seas to negotiate though and they must have fully washed my bike clean of any remaining lubricant, as climbing the Hienous Hill toward home, my drivetrain was starting to chirrupp like a sack of disturbed canaries telling me it was time to stop.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 7th October 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 51 minutes
Riding Distance:110km with 1,049m of elevation gain
Average Speed:22.7km/h
Group Size:16 riders, 1 FNG
Temperature:16℃
Weather in a word or two:Unpleasantly mild
My year to date:7,235km with 60,982m of elevation gain
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Bodgered Badgers and British Buses

Bodgered Badgers and British Buses

August 26th. It’s a British summer, so I expect the weather to be chilly and a Bank Holiday weekend to boot, so rain isn’t a surprise either. Don’t you just love it when the weather lives down to your expectations?


I eschewed joining the group forging a longer ride into the hills and wildlands south of the river to spend my 61st birthday on a more traditional club run. What could be finer?


Arriving at the meeting point I found G-Dawg in civvies and sans bike. His atrial fibrillation has been running erratically wild in recent days, and averaged about 240 bpm for the entirety of last week’s ride. Now, with Son of G-Dawg’s (a.k.a. The Colossus’) wedding looming ever closer, G-Dawg has been told in no uncertain terms that he’s not to die before this event, and has consequently been banned from all riding activities under Marital Law, at least until the nuptials are complete.


With one group off doing a longer ride and many on holiday, we only had enough bodies to form two groups this week and I found my rightful place embedded in the second of these, dropping in alongside Brassneck as Aether and Ahlambra led us out. They did a massively elongated pull on the front, until someone called a pee stop and they realised OGL had already dropped off the ride to follow an alternate route and so there was no longer any reason they couldn’t relinquish the lead and drop back …


On the front now, Brassneck was intent on adding to his panoply of shouted warnings and alongside the usual and prosaic “pots!” “gravel!” and “car!” had already given voice to the slightly more exotic “chicken!” “squirrel!” and “pheasant!” in between growling at his bottom bracket, which was growling right back at him. Sadly he reported no vibrations in his old crank …


Stamfordham was promoting its annual motor show, which Brassneck surmised was the day when someone drove a car onto the village green and all the locals gathered around to stare at it in silent wonder. I tried to determine where the village green was (in my defence, there were at least three possible candidates) and in doing so spotted the Bay Horse pub tucked away at the back of one potential site.


I’d almost forgotten about it and recalled my one and only time inside was when the 2011 British National Championships finished in Stamfordham and was won by a certain Bradley Marc Wiggins. Watching the race with Toshi San, we’d retired to the pub between laps for some food and it was here that we overheard one of the Sky domestiques chatting with a waitress about how he’d dropped out of the race early after he’d sacrificed himself for his team leader, doing a massive pull on the front to set up the winning break.


So, he had patiently explained, “I did my bit and then fell on my own sword.”


“Ooh,” she exclaimed in wide-eyed wonder, “Didn’t that hurt?”…

Brassneck also revealed he’d also been in the Bay Horse just once before as well, possibly for a wedding but he couldn’t remember the exact reason, or when, “but, it was when we paid for everything in real money.”

We then reminisced about the days when we used to carry money on club runs to pay for the absolute essentials (i.e., coffee and cake) whereas now all you need is a mobile phone and you’re good to go. The only time I need to resort to the inconvenience of cash these days is when I visit the barbers to have my ears flamed (!?) and I look forward to the day they too join us in the 21st century.


Brassneck though still carries an emergency fiver with him on all rides. I supposed this was useful and would get you a can of Coke and a Mars bar if you bonked somewhere out in the wilds with no Apple Pay (although you probably wouldn’t get much change back.)

Brassneck though contended it was enough of a cash reserve for him to hop on a bus and make it home.

“Would they let you take your bike on a bus though,” I wondered.

“I’d take the wheels off and it wouldn’t be a bike,” he assured me confidently.

“They’d probably still insist they can’t carry a bike, or make you pay for it,” I countered.

“I’d play the disabled card then. Think of all the bad publicity, they wouldn’t dare refuse me.”

He seemed to have it all figured out.

“But, have you ever seen a bus around here, I suspect they only run once every 3 hours on a Wednesday and when the moon is in the ascendant.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, “But there must be some bus routes around here. I mean, I know the British Transport System isn’t fit for purpose, but …”

In over a decade travelling on these roads, I could only recall encountering a bus on one single, solitary club run.

“Have you ever even seen a bus stop?”

Nope, neither of us could even recall riding past a bus stop.

Our exploration of the limitations of the local bus service were interrupted by a new opportunity for a different kind of warning call.

“Badger!” Brassneck complained.

Sadly dead. Hit by a car and flung abandoned to the side of the road.

A bit further on and we could see a large russet-coloured hump in the middle of the road.

“Hello, hello. What’s this then?” I wondered, somewhat confused by the red-brown fur.

“No idea,” Brassneck answered.

“No, I don’t think so, it’s more likely to be another badger.” (Old jokes recycled and repurposed free of charge).

It was, indeed another badger, this one showing us the violence of its death, trailing a long arc of bright blood from the impact point to its final resting place. All rather sad, as Arnold later commented, after he too rode past the pair of dead badgers (or at least I hope they were the same ones and not another two that had died under the wheels of local traffic.)

Leaving the bodgered badgers well behind, we climbed up the Quarry, then on to Capheaton for our coffee stop. Here we met the Red Max who, true to his word last time out, is looking to ride more regularly again and suggested that even the Monkey Butler Boy was looking to saddle up after a long absence.

Knowing the Red Max’s presumption that anything bike-related left in his shed rightfully belongs to him, especially if it’s of better quality than any existing components on his bike – I wondered what the MBB would have left to ride on his return, imagining (if he was lucky) a frame stripped to the bone. The Red Max confessed he’d bought the Monkey Butler Boys flash carbon wheels off him for a knockdown price when he decided to give up riding, but reported he’d happily agreed to lease them back to their previous owner and at what he determined was a “very generous” rate too.

Brassneck idly flicking through a copy of the local parish newsletter was delighted to find it included a copy of the local bus timetable and felt his emergency evacuation plan was now fully vindicated.

“There’s a bus stop at Bolam Lake,” he declared, obviously working out the finer details of any future abandonment, “I wonder where? Have you ever seen it?”

I had to confess I hadn’t and didn’t know where it could possibly be. A mystery for another day perhaps.

As we left the cafe the long-threatened rain finally hit us and anyone carrying a jacket stopped to pull it on. Unfortunately, one of our new guys was riding in just trainers and a white T-shirt and not carrying a jacket. Not great for a bike ride in Northumberland, but I guess it would have served him well if we’d decided to hold an impromptu wet T-shirt competition.

This particular rain shower was cold, intense, and a bit brutal, but at least it was short-lived and we were able to warm up with a fast run down through the Snake Bends. We crossed the main road and threaded our way down bomb-alley, slaloming around the numerous potholes that give it the appearance of having been subjected to a Paveway runway denial attack.

“Car!” someone called out as we reached the junction at the end of the lane and we stopped in a cacophonous, banshee squeal of wet disk brakes. The car we were waiting to pass actually turned out to be a local bus, obviously having just stopped somewhere around Bolam Lake for passengers. I’m pretty certain one could understand why its appearance had Brassneck and me quite so animated – I mean, it was just a bus wasn’t it?

The rest of the ride back was enlivened by a few sharp accelerations through Dinnington and around the airport, which was fun and set me up for a fast start to my solo run for home and the pile of presents and cards and, just maybe, even more cake that awaited.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 19th August 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 36 minutes
Riding Distance:111km with 1,002m of elevation gain
Average Speed:24.1km/h
Group Size:20 riders, 2 FNG’s
Temperature:11℃
Weather in a word or two:Whoosh!
My year to date:6,509km with 55,412m of elevation gain
One dead badger on A361 just north of Knowle by Roger A Smith is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

A Small Vibration in the Old Crank

A Small Vibration in the Old Crank

Saturday was the third Gavin Husband Memorial Ride held in remembrance of our clubmate and friend who sadly died four years ago following a cardiac incident on the return leg of a club run he’d planned and led. For the first two iterations of this ride had been set against a suitably sombre backdrop of continuous heavy rain, this time around the heavens wept all night, but quit their lamentations with the rising of the sun and we were treated to a gloriously bright new dawn.

So a potentially dry run and the opportunity to ride the chalk-white 13, relieved of time-trial duties for the time being, was something to look forward to.

The roads were still soaking from the early rain, but the sun was out in full force and turned the spray from my wheels into diamond splinters as I sped down the Heinous Hill and out along the valley. Over the river and upstream the first boat from the rowing club had just launched, a bright white against the dark waters, while downstream the river shone like polished steel.

A stilt-legged heron stood motionless in the muddy shoals along the river bank, completely oblivious to my passage above and looking like it had been planted there forever, to be revealed only when the tide receded.

By the time I made the meeting point the sky had clouded over and was looking dark and quite ominous, generating debate about the likelihood of rain and whether the weather was warm (G-Dawg, predictably) or chill (Mini Miss).

I tracked the Enigma as he cruised silently past, still sticking with his routine, still doing his own thing, and still doing it with formidable cool.

Not Anthony put in a (re)appearance after a long absence and was taken to task by Crazy Legs for not submitting the necessary paperwork and permissions, and earning himself the new name of AWOL Eric for his troubles.

We had amassed close to 35 riders as Biden Fecht briefed in one of Gavin’s old routes and welcomed any of his friends who had joined us for the ride, before reminding us of the Just Giving page he’d set up so we could support the good work of the North East Air Ambulance. We split into three groups and off we went.

I dropped into the second group alongside the Garrulous Kid, fresh from somehow having stumbled his way into gainful employment, and we followed Brassneck and Ahlambra out onto the roads.

They did a good, long turn, taking us out past Shilverton before ceding the front, just as we turned, and suddenly found the wind picking up and blowing directly in our faces. On the front, half-wheeling me wasn’t quite enough for the Garrulous Kid, nor even full-wheeling me. Nope, he had to go one better and was enthusiastically intent on full-biking me (©Deuce, the previous week). Sigh.

It was during this period that Yet Another Paul announced he was feeling a small vibration in his old crank and set Brassneck off in a paroxysm of giggles. Silly goose.

The Garrulous Kids’s bike had obviously done something to offend its rider as he started to give it a right thrashing on the approach to Middleton Bank opening up a big gap, before he ran out of steam halfway up and we caught and passed him before the top.

He was at it again on the final approach to the cafe, bustling past Brassneck in a move that surprised no one. “I heard the flailing behind and knew exactly who was about to shoot past,” Brassneck acknowledged laconicly.

Our numbers had grown even more by the time all the groups reached the cafe, where we were met by Gavin’s widow. Richard of Flanders, who’d ridden with Gavin on that horrible day, spoke a little about his memories, recalling that it was during the COVID pandemic and we were restricting ourselves to groups of six and how Gavin had been easy company and kept him entertained with tales of his early years in cycling.

G-Dawg then announced the club had commissioned a memorial trophy which would be awarded each year to the rider who best embodied the club’s most positive values, before leading us in a minute’s applause. It seemed a fitting tribute to an absent friend.

The Red Max was at the cafe and seemingly enjoying a Roi Ubu phase, but promising a return to riding with us more regularly. That might liven things up a little and add a little entertainment. (No pressure, mate.)

The right home started off as a slow bimble that slowly increased in pace until we were scattered all up and down the route. I left the group and struck out for home alone, conscious that the wind seemed to be picking up and would be full-on in my face for most of the rest of the ride.

Crossing the river back to the civilised side and what I thought of as safety, I came off the bridge at the same instant as someone seemed to detonate a small thermobaric bomb overhead. The bike swayed alarmingly as it was caught in a sudden, powerful blast of swirling side wind and I was pelted by leaves, grit, and detached bits of tree. That was a bit weird.

Having survived, I then only had to tackle the ascent back up the Heinous Hill in a howling headwind. Done for another week.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 19th August 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 41 minutes
Riding Distance:129km with 1,165m of elevation gain
Average Speed:27.5km/h
Group Size:35
Temperature:19℃
Weather in a word or two:Just about perfect
My year to date:6,355km with 54,120m of elevation gain

Possibilities

Possibilities

Well, it’s been a fun ride.

Waaay back in 2015 I started this humble blerg as a self-described “50-something, remarkably undistinguished club cyclist, all-round curmudgeon, and sometime smart-arse.” Now, eight years later I’m well into my sixth decade, though still stubbornly unexceptional, irascible, and cantankerous.

And still a dedicated club cyclist, too.

So some things remain, other things have evolved, moved on, changed completely. I mean, it really wasn’t that long ago that the Prof was the unchallenged owner of the smallest, leakiest bladder in the bunch. He’s now off, irrigating pastures new, while his vacant crown has been assuredly commandeered by Buster, who is scaling new heights, (or maybe plumbing new depths) in terms of how soon into a ride we need to stop in order to take a nature break. But I digress …

At the outset my mission – if that isn’t too grand a construct to attach to serial inane ramblings, was to deliver a eulogy to “the traditional club run in all of its eccentric, idiosyncratic, bizarre, compelling, colourful, and hugely entertaining glory.” This was back when the club was being suffocated and hobbled by an autocratic leadership structure which a weekly blerg (amongst other things) provided a release from and an opportunity for me to poke a little fun at.

Since then, and with a very firm, very welcome, final push from British Cycling, the club members have slowly found a way to outflank, circumvent, and eventually overturn said authority. Today the club has proper structures, a constitution, elected officers, alternative rides, social events, even a plan of succession … and appears to be thriving.

This months club newsletter (imagine, regular, open communication with members!) reported that we had recently broken through the barrier of achieving 100 fully paid-up club members, a 114% increase in numbers over the last 18 months and things are shockingly normal. So normal in fact that I recently completed a club run and had nothing much to write about, and this is now becoming the reality.

It put me in mind of my old English teacher’s assertion that above all else, successful drama needs an element of conflict. Now club runs are largely uneventful, peaceful, relaxing, and uncontentious. I feel less need to vent, or perhaps I’m no longer quite as irascible and cantankerous as I think and I have far less material than I would like. Did Achilles have the same doubts, regrets, and lack of direction once he’d slain Hector, I wonder?

Anyhow it’s extremely likely that blerg posts about club rides will become less frequent as they become less eventful. Perhaps there’s an opportunity to write about other things, but let’s see how I feel, I’ve no great plans but maybe one or two half-baked thoughts. After all, half-baked thoughts seem to be my métier.

Take my plans for a little more time-trialling this year, which haven’t really advanced all that much and came to a season’s close after 4 or 5 events, with our club-organised , open TT on Sunday 30th July. This takes place on the testing M12S course, a boxy-looking 12-mile route heading north out of Stamfordham, to Black Headon, west to the Quarry, and then south down to Matfen, before squaring things off with the final leg east and back to the start.

I knew from last year’s event that the first half was a draggy, seriously leg-draining, almost constantly upward grind, enlivened by numerous painful humps, lumps, and bumps along the way. Because of this, I’d left the aero bars off the bike as they make me far too lazy and discourage me from moving my hands to change gear. I knew without a doubt I’d be needing the full run of the cassette today.

Assigned a 10:34 start-time, at least I managed a bit of a lie-in before getting everything together to leave the house just after 9.00 for the drive across. Pro Tip: Chicken Dhansak and a bottle of Rioja the night before are probably not the ideal preparation for a time trial.

I arrived at the race HQ, went to sign on and Immediately put in a complaint with the organisers as the weather wasn’t what I’d ordered, and the wind, in particular, was thrashing wildly at the hedgerows and would be in our faces for the first and most gruelling part of the route.

I had a good hour for a warm-up and recon ride around the course, identifying all the potholes and hazards so I could unerringly plant my wheels in them on my actual run. It also gave me an idea of how troublesome the wind was, especially on some of the more exposed and attritional uphill stretches, and thankful that I’d never had the money, nor inclination to invest in solid disc wheels.

Warm-up and recon complete, I dropped my jacket off back at the car and called in at the race HQ for a quick pee. Outside I bumped into Crazy Legs, due to start 10 or so minutes after me and who craftily suggested a good aim might be to try and get around the course in a time that was within our start numbers. He would at least manage this very comfortably …

Then it was up to the start line where I said hello to ex-club member who would be setting off a minute behind me and who I expected to see again very, very shortly. I passed inspection with both front and rear lights working assuredly and shuffled forward as my number was called.

Richard Rex was getting in a good upper-body workout as the starter and dragged me back from where I’d rolled my front wheel over the start line, completely oblivious to my need for sneaky marginal gains, even if it was just a few centimetres. We inconclusively tried to calculate the likelihood of rain in the next half an hour or so (none, thankfully) and then I was away.

Well into the ride, the lane was scabby down the left, so I was barrelling down the white line in the middle of the road, aware only of the wind rushing past, the gurgling, gargling wheezing of my seriously dysfunctional lungs and the distinctly audible little whimpers that my legs had started to emit. It took an almost apologetic little toot from behind to tell me I was completely blocking the road and a car wanted to pass.

I swung over for some teeth-clattering action until the patient driver could pass, then it was back into the middle of the road until I took the first left onto the scabrous lane at Black Heddon and out onto the worst part of the course. I seriously struggled against wind, gradient and ultra-grippy road surface along here and it was where, as expected, my minute man caught and passed me.

It was the rider starting two minutes behind’s turn to catch me just before the final drag up to the Quarry turn, where I stood out of the saddle and stomped on the pedals to engage in some style-less, wild bike thrashing that would have made even Annemiek van Vleuten blush. It was all a vain attempt to keep the momentum going but sadly, gravity won this very unequal contest. I plonked back down again, ground around the corner and, finally, blessedly the road tipped down at last.

I’ve ridden the Quarry maybe a hundred times in the opposite direction and never noticed there’s a slight downhill halfway along. Now, travelling the other way, it became a hugely noticeable uphill that rapidly bled away any momentum I’d managed to gain. Then, around the next corner, the road dipped once more, but it was also horribly exposed and the wind punched me straight in the face and this downhill bit briefly became as hard as any of the uphill bits.

At the bottom of the Quarry, I finally turned to put the wind behind me and started to pick up the pace. Somewhere between Matfen and Fenwick my computer told me I was touching 37-38mph and I remember thinking I was going fast … but obviously not as fast as the rider who had started three minutes behind me and blasted past in a cacophony of swashing carbon.

Finally, I could see the church tower poking through the tree canopy and knew I was closing on the finish at Stamfordham and the final rush for the line. (For the record, I managed a time of 35:13, a credible and very pleasing 1:46 seconds faster than last year. The winner was 8 minutes faster, so if I continue to improve at the same rate, I could potentially challenge him by the time I turn 70.)

Oh well, maybe next year.

We have normality. I repeat, we have normality.

We have normality. I repeat, we have normality.

Ok, I’ll not keep you long, as last weeks club run was completely unremarkable, without incident or accident, stress, contention, chaos, or calamity. It was delightful and glorious, supremely enjoyable, relaxed and downright fabulous. The weather was good, the route as familiar and comfortable as an old pair of slippers and the company magnificent. If there were any punctures or other mechanical issues, they completely passed me by.

Thirty-six riders all seemed to enjoy themselves immensely, even Szell, finally awake and joining us from a long and deep winter slumber. Somehow, we even managed to ‘organise’ a second group that was smaller than either of the two that served as its bookends.

With no immediate timetrials planned, I released the chalk-white 13 from its tri-bar purgatory for some refined cruising, which meant there wasn’t even an opportunity for anyone to tell me I had a very shiny bike.

So, there you go, it doesn’t make for a particularly engaging blerg post, but I can live with that. Long may the normality continue.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 10th June 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 19 minutes
Riding Distance:110km/68 miles with 902m of climbing
Average Speed:25.4km/h
Group Size:36 with 1 FNG
Temperature:13℃
Weather in a word or two:Just about perfect
Year to date:3,933km/2,443 miles with 36,145m of climbing

What Happened?

What Happened?

With a mandatory SLJ appearance at a wedding decreed last weekend, I could only accept I’d missed the perfect Saturday for a bike ride, or … I will begrudgingly accept, found the perfect one for any outdoor nuptials. So, another potentially fine day this time around was not to be missed, even if a club run isn’t really the ideal preparation for another little TT tilt the following day. (I’m guessing).

My ride across town was enlivened when I was passed by a motorcyclist wearing a Pikachu helmet – to be fair it didn’t make him look like Pikachu, rather he appeared to have a terrified Pokémon clinging for dear life to the back of his head. Made me smile. Then, if that wasn’t enough excitement for the day, I rode through the aftermath of what looked like a major police raid on a house in Denton. Exciting times.

I was on the final run to the meeting point when James III hustled past while totally blanking me. I couldn’t work out how I’d offended him, but maybe he’d picked up on the evil thoughts I’d harboured about the long, grey aero socks he was wearing a fortnight ago and my subsequent silent, sartorial disquiet?

Andy Mapp had devised another long, somewhat convoluted, and quite “climby” route for us this week, which included a rare ascent of Ritton Bank and elicited one or two complaints that some of his rides had people taking on almost 700 metres of climbing. Oh, the horror …

Bloody hell, the Garrulous Kid was back, recently graduated after 4 years of University. I can’t believe it’s been 4 years already, as I told him, it seems like only yesterday that we were all cheering because he was going away …

While the numbers slowly built, until we had over thirty cyclists strewn across the pavement and blocking the path, we kept a careful eye out for the Enigma. We thought we were going to be rewarded when we saw a cyclist glide effortlessly around the corner, before commencing a majestic, stately cruise by, but … this was a woman … on a road bike … wearing a Burberry Mac? Could this possibly be the Enigma reincarnated? Had this transformation been, as Another Engine suggested, prompted by British Cyclings’ declaration of a new “Open” race category? Does the Enigma now embody a riddle wrapped in a mystery? We simply don’t know.

Once again we had the perfect bell curve of rider distribution with low numbers in groups 1 and 3 and an overly swollen second group. I’ve no idea how we resolve this, but dropped into group 3 to try and balance things out.

There, I had a quick catch-up with Sneaky Pete, fresh from acquiring a new knee (or half a new knee as he insisted) and feeling his way back into riding. I was also labelled an instigator/agitator by Taffy Steve, which is perhaps the nicest thing he’s ever said about me.

It was a splendid ride in glorious weather and good company and everything was going swimmingly as I pushed onto the front and we started the descent down Curlicue Bank, a narrow, rutted and gravel strewn drop that runs parallel to the Trench.

There wasn’t a lot of room, but I passed a group of riders working their way upwards, reached the bottom, and had started climbing out the other side when I heard shouts behind and the Hammer called me back as someone had gone down.

It appeared that the Ticker, descending just behind me, had run full tilt into one of the riders coming up the other way and was now curled in a foetal position in the nettles by the side of the road. The rider he’d hit was lying higher up clutching his shoulder and swearing angrily. I knew it was bad when I found the Ticker’s front wheel completely detached from his bike, alone and abandoned in the centre of the road.

Carlton, G-Dawg and the Hammer managed to slowly extricate the Ticker from the bike and started to assess what damage he’d done. Remarkably nothing seemed broken or dislocated, but he’d taken a bang to the head, cracked his helmet and seemed badly concussed.

“What happened?” he asked. Then again, at least half a dozen times in the next few minutes, having no recollection of the accident and unable to retain any details when he was told.

Bar a sore shoulder, the other guy also seemed to have escaped major injury and, as far as we could tell his bike was unscathed too. The same couldn’t be said for the Ticker’s, the front forks had sheared completely away, which explained how his front wheel had become detached.

The other guy was phoning home and arranging for pick-up, while a good Samaritan passerby loaded the Ticker and the remains of his shattered bike into a Range Rover and took him to the nearest village, Netherwitton.

The rest of our group made our way there to join him shortly afterwards. The driver seemed mightily relieved to see us because the Ticker kept asking him what happened and he didn’t know how to answer. Carlton orchestrated an ambulance to get our fallen rider to hospital and checked out, with Taffy Steve providing the key “what3words” to ensure they could find our location.

Sadly, these were perfectly bland and unmemorable, so nothing like Carrizo Springs, Texas with its what3words combination of ‘huge-chunky-head’, Millard County, Utah’s ‘cats-with-thumbs’ or Kingswood, Bristol’s admonition to ‘shave-legs-fully.’ Nevertheless, the system worked fantastically well and a paramedic was with us within 15 minutes, so definitely a must-have app to take along on rides.

The wait only gave the Ticker time enough to ask us 15 times what had happened, with Taffy Steve at one point suggesting we should just make up random, bizarre answers to fill in the time and because our crash victim wouldn’t remember anyway.

Three or four of the group pushed on to complete the ride, while the rest of us waited. The paramedic diagnosed concussion and a call was put in for transfer to the nearest hospital at Cramlington for scans. Taffy Steve exchanged details with a friendly local who offered to keep all the pieces of the Tickers bike safe until it could be picked up and, with its owner now in safe hands, we felt we could continue on our way.

We’d lost about an hour waiting around, so completing the ride wasn’t really an option. We decided to climb the Trench and, after a little debate, settled on Kirkley cafe for our mandatory stop. A mile or two from the cafe, Liam the Chinese rockstar punctured but was determined not to delay us any longer and said he was just going to walk the rest of the way to the cafe.

I was convinced he didn’t realise just how far that actually was and tried to persuade him to stop and take the time to swap out his inner tube, but he was having none of it. We eventually left him to it and pushed on. It’s possible he just didn’t want a critical audience watching his amateur attempts to sort out the puncture (or is that just me?) and eventually sense prevailed, or the cleats on his shoe wore out, as he finally stopped walking to make the repairs and was able to join us at the cafe au velo.

It was here that I was shocked to learn that mild-mannered, gentlemanly Carlton had a secret past as a football ultra, and may, or may not, have been involved in some post-match vehicular destruction in his wilder days …

I routed home through Ponteland to shave a few miles off, arriving home only 20 minutes or so beyond what would typically be my latest arrival time, so not so late that any flares were sent up. An eventful ride with unfortunate consequences then, but certainly enjoyable in parts.

And, three people told me I had a very shiny bike.

It was a chilly and very unappealing early start to Sunday morning which found me traveling to Cramlington for the GTR Return To Life 10-mile timetrial. For charidee, no less, so at least my early start was for a good cause.

The event was being run on a new course to me, the M101, although it included stretches of the M102C I’d ridden last August. Like that event, this was almost exclusively on dual-carriageway so there was at least the opportunity for a good time. My one issue was it was on very unfamiliar roads where every stretch of dual carriageway looks identical to the next and I’d had horrible trouble finding the race start last time. Luckily, I was much better prepared, with my cheap, non-route-finding bike computer swapped for my iPhone with its all-singing, all-dancing navigational capabilities.

Using this, I found the start without any effort and, with plenty of time to spare, wandered off for a brief, very unscientific sort of warm-up. I stopped to quickly gulp down an energy gel, not because I felt I needed it and it would help, but simply because it had been lying around for far too long and was now irrevocably past its use-by date.

I rolled up to the line in good order and only had time to bitch to the starter that he shouldn’t have turned yesterday’s sun off, before he released me and I was underway.

Four and a bit miles in, I was passed by my minute man who blew past and disappeared quickly up the road. Then, as I completed the turn to start the return leg, I was passed by another rider who didn’t pull away quite so quickly and I was able to keep them in sight as a sort of visual spur for most of the rest of the ride.

Things seemed to be going smoothly until the final run for home when, under the shadow of a bridge, I clattered hard through a long, hidden divot in the road surface, hitting it with enough force to jar my tool tub loose. I paused momentarily while it clattered away, waiting for the dreaded rumble of rims that were no longer cushioned by a tyre full of air, but somehow I survived without a pinch flat. This was probably just as well as my spare tubes were in the tool tub which was now bouncing hopelessly down the road and lost to the traffic.

I completed the course at an average speed of 22.64 mph and in a time of 26:30, shaving another 15 seconds of my previous best and making me think a sub-26 minute ride is a stiff, but potentially achievable long-term target. With a long flat course and a good following wind, naturally. And a bit of drafting. Oh, and maybe some performance-enhancing drugs and a hidden motor too?

Family holidays are going to get in the way of the next few scheduled CTT events that aren’t too long or too hilly for me, but I’ll be back!

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 3rd June 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 19 minutes
Riding Distance:105km/65 miles with 998m of climbing
Average Speed:24.8km/h
Group Size:30+ with 0 FNG’s
Temperature:10℃
Weather in a word or two:Let the sunshine
Year to date:3,602km/2,238 miles with 34,642m of climbing
Once again we’re all indebted to Dub Devlin for capturing fantastic photos of these events.

Barnstorming

Barnstorming

It was another chilly start with the promise of bright sunshine later in the day, so once again I set out in a light, windproof jacket, and arm warmers, only this time I’d learned from last week and everything was worn over a layer of protective sun cream.

With some of the club just returned and recovering from overseas adventures, and Crazy Legs leading a small contingent off on a gravel adventure, I wasn’t expecting a large contingent, but the good weather drew quite a crowd and our numbers were bolstered by a couple of FNG’s and Rainman, a temporary refugee from the Judean People’s Front. He recounted how he had recently broken his leg (a story made complete with graphic photos) during an intimate encounter with a concrete bollard while mountain biking in Portugal. I say intimate as there was definitely an exchange of bodily fluids, well, from at least one of the participants anyway.

Brassneck arrived from a new direction and then spent 10 minutes wondering if he was supposed to pick up Mini Miss somewhere along the way, or whether she was away for the weekend. Such are the depredations of old age and befuddled memory.

As we started to spread out across the pavement, I was accosted by a Robert Plant lookalike who’d paused standing looking somewhat wistfully at all the bikes. “I’m just recovering from surgery after being knocked off my bike in Tynemouth,” he told me, “An accident just outside my house after I’d only just returned from cycling all the way through South East Asia without any sort of incident.” There wasn’t a lot I could say to that, I couldn’t even tell him I was remotely surprised by his tale of woe.

Unfortunately, this brief interlude was distraction enough for me to miss the cruise past of the Enigma. Or perhaps, even more enigmatically, he didn’t turn up at all this week?

We had enough for three groups, and I rolled out on the front of the middle group, riding alongside Brassneck as we set out for our planned descent into the Tyne Valley.

Delayed by two sets of lights, the third group was hot on our heels by the time we were turning off Brunton Lane and were held up by unusually heavy traffic. We were in danger of merging into one amorphous blob of riders so, alongside Brassneck, I decided to up the pace and see if we could recreate the buffer between the two groups. We accelerated up the climb towards Dinnington and held the high pace as we scaled Berwick Hill. Ten miles in, we thought our efforts must have restored a decent and sustainable gap, so on Limestone Lane we swung off the front and invited the next pair of riders through.

Fatally though, we hadn’t accounted for the weakest link within our group – our Achille’s heel, or in this instance, our Achille’s bladder, because, despite only being half an hour into our ride, Buster desperately needed a pee.

We stopped. and within a couple of minutes, the third group swooshed cheerfully past to leave us last on the road and, more importantly, usurp our place in any future cafe queue. To compound matters, Famous Sean’s then decided his cleats were loose and had to strip off his overshoes (obviously worn for the 1 in 1,000 chance there’d be a sudden dip in temperature) and then his shoes to get to work with a borrowed multi-tool and tighten everything up. By the time we were set to go again, we were well and truly last on the road.

As ever the descent into the Tyne Valley proved a fast fun fest, and I’ve even mastered completely avoiding the raised brick speed bumps now. From there struck out westwards along the riverside, before turning right and starting the climb out towards the cafe, Rainman pushed onto the front and set an infernal pace that quickly had everyone lined out. I was hanging onto Ovis’s wheel and he was hanging onto Rainman who had his head down now, solely intent on pounding his pedals and every one of us into submission.

Through a hypoxic haze, I spotted the sharp right turn we were supposed to take just as our leader reached it… and sailed past.

“Right, turn right,” I shouted, slowing and losing momentum, but not half as much as Ovis and Rainman who had to stop and double back. I followed Biden Fecht onto the narrow, gravel-strewn path of what Strava determined was Sod Hall Hill, but quickly became Sod All Hill to me. It was a bit of a brute that I don’t remember being quite so hard the only other time I’ve been up it, the uncertain surface discouraging any out-of-the-saddle climbing even as the gradient crept above 16%.

Still, our reward was close at hand, as we soon reached a junction and a short downhill glide to our cafe of choice for the day, Bywell Barn, which surprised us with an added bonus. I had expected to find the place mobbed when we were last to arrive, but somehow, without passing them on the road, we’d reclaimed our second group status. Apparently, the third group had also missed the right-hand turn on the climb and had made it all the way to the top of the hill before they had realised their error. Yep, that’ll do.

I placed my order and wandered out to the patio to find a table.

“Hmm, in the sun, or in the shade?” I pondered.

“In the sun,” Home Boy made the choice for me, “You might as well make the most of our one good day of the year.”

That seemed like good advice, so I took it.

I think our numbers had slightly overwhelmed the cafe, even though G-Dawg had phoned ahead and warned them we’d be swarming the place, and we began to get a bit testy as the orders seemed to roll haphazardly out of the kitchen. We should have just trusted the system, it turned out all right eventually, but, in our defence, a lack of cake and coffee is likely to raise all sorts of irrational reactions in hungry cyclists. The usually mild-mannered Brassneck seemed particularly ‘hangry’ (as the kids say) as he awaited his iced coffee and coke, while I pondered if a double dose of caffeine was exactly what he needed at this moment in time.

My order was the first to arrive at our table, and I had to become quite protective as the rest hungrily eyed up my Dime slice and Brassneck asked for half a dozen forks to go with it. Luckily the other orders followed in quick succession and we didn’t descend into primal bloodlust. It would not have been a pretty sight.

In between the correct etiquette for eating scones (which our Dutch cousins seem to approach in a surprisingly novel way), the (confirmed) lack of asparagus with the bacon sandwiches, and a very attritional Giro d’Italia we kept ourselves amused talking nonsense until it was time to leave.

I had the choice of returning back via the Tyne Valley, or continuing up and across the A69 for a loop around Stamfordham and a longer run home. I went with the latter as it still seemed quite early in the day and it was a chance to make the most of the good weather. The fact it included our own section of gravel riding on the road between the reservoirs and Stamfordham was just an added bonus. (I do hope smothering the road surface in loose chippings is not seen as an actual repair and is just a precursor to something slightly more intricate – but who knows.)

As the group took the turn toward Ponteland, I kept going straight and enjoyed a long, fast descent down to Westerhope, and then swung left to cross the river and home.

Today, two people told me I had a very shiny bike.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 20th May 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 19 minutes
Riding Distance:104km/65 miles with 982m of climbing
Average Speed:23.9km/h
Group Size:30 with 2 FNG’s
Temperature:17℃
Weather in a word or two:Let the sunshine
Year to date:3,295km/2,047 miles with 32,297m of climbing

Tractor and Verse

Tractor and Verse

The weekend before I’d spent in Ambleside, avoiding all the Chuck 3 profligacy and ridiculousness, while taking in a few walks to use sets of muscles I don’t normally stress. I didn’t realise my visit to the Lake District coincided with the Fred Whitton Challenge and the descent of 2,500 cyclists, aka “skinny blokes with big watches” (TM Mrs. G-Dawg) on the town. So, lots of expensive bike porn to admire and also a great opportunity to walk around in civvies, tutting loudly and declaring my discontent with all the bloody cyclists at every available opportunity. I thought it was funny anyway.

This Saturday’s club run was the epitome of the hoary, old footballer cliche, a game of two halves. It was dry, but bitterly cold to start with, while a chill easterly wind stripped another couple of degrees off the temperature, while the astonishingly accurate forecasts foretold we’d have bright sunshine and be hit with temperatures nudging toward 20℃ by midafternoon. Layering then was a challenge that needed even more consideration than usual.

I went with a baselayer, short sleeve jersey, arm warmers, and windproof jacket, both gloves and mitts for changeable conditions, and, for the first time this year, shorts with no knee warmers and no casquette up top. It wasn’t quite right and I was plain cold for the first couple of hours, then not wholly comfortable until we were heading home in bright sunshine and my pockets finally began to bulge with discarded layers. Just to add insult to injury, even in a very brief encounter with the sun, I managed to burn my knees an unsightly shade of pink.

I arrived at the meeting point to find Crazy Legs attempting to coopting a stranger into joining us, while explaining that he’d be guaranteed to be back at the meeting point by 1.00, no matter how long or short the route was. The guy naturally assumed that we tailored the duration of our cafe stop to the length of the ride to achieve this, but we had to admit the length of the coffee stop depended more on how freely the bullshit was flowing and the fact that we were always back around the same time every week was more happenstance than careful planning.

As we started to amass on the pavement we all turned in silent admiration to watch as the Enigma cruised past, majestically sipping from a bottle as he sailed by.

Someone wondered if any of this was an act solely for our benefit and what he might do next week to build on this.

“Next week, he’ll probably be chomping on a kebab,” Crazy Legs declared, pausing briefly before asking if he’d ever told us about the time he awoke from a thoroughly debauched night of drinking to find a kebab lying in the middle of his floor. This was a new revelation to us, as was his verdict that he couldn’t determine if he’d previously ingested the kebab or not, but either way was quite happy with this deliciously unexpected bounty.

“Come on,” Crazy Legs protested at our horror, “We’ve all been there!”

From the look on Brassneck’s face, I was guessing this wasn’t strictly true.

With a sizable contingent of us enjoying some fun and sun on a club trip to Mallorca, we weren’t expecting a particularly large group, but numbers were bolstered by a gaggle of less regular members we hadn’t really seen much of so far this year, including the Ticker, Taffy Steve, Famous Sean’s and Ion.

Richard of Flanders queried whether he had the authority to ban Spoons from the ride on the grounds that his bike was in desperate need of a clean. He didn’t, so he set about briefing in our route for the day which included a drop down the Ryals and loop around Hallington Reservoir to a cafe stop at Capheaton. I joined the third group along with the guy Crazy Legs had persuaded to join us and his newly arrived mate who was apparently on an e-bike.

We made it only as far as Ponteland before we were stopped by some sort of terminal e-bike mechanical that had its rider pushing his machine home. I’m convinced e-bikes are the future, but when they go wrong they’re chunky, heavy things to have to push.

Onto the lane just through Fenwick and we had a bit of pacing from a grey squirrel that decided to belt straight down the road ahead of us, instead of stepping off into the vegetation. I can’t honestly say drafting a small furry mammal doesn’t give you much of an advantage, but we appreciated the effort nonetheless. The squirrel finally saw sense and darted away and we pushed on toward the Quarry turn where the coopted new guy turned off, while we dropped down the Ryals, which is pretty much always fun.

I had a very close encounter with a tractor as we shot toward the choke point of the bridge over the Whittledene watercourse, somehow getting away with a bit of cross-country mud-slinging, in an instance that left me with a new appreciation of the utility of AG2R’s choice of brown shorts.

From there it was all eyes down for the long loop around the Hallington Reservoir, a route I’d actually forgotten was quite a distance and it certainly contributed to my slightly longer than-usual ride. Still, we made Capheaton apparently just before they ran out of cakes! That was a close call as let’s face it, no one likes to see grown cyclists cry.

Carlton explained to Taffy Steve that he was going to be using the bike he’d bought specifically for winter as a summer bike, while he would turn the bike he bought as his dedicated summer bike into a winter bike. Taffy Steve struggled to follow the logic, suggesting it involved more U-turns than the current Cabinet makes in a week.

He then complimented Richard of Flanders on his “boom and bonk” riding style, indulged in a bit of acerbic tilting at windmills, and declared group composition should probably be determined with a weigh-in at the meeting point. Yep, Taffy Steve was back.

We all left the cafe en masse, but a dozen or so of us hung back so we formed two groups for the run for home which was nicely uneventful. By the time I’d left the group, the sun was well and truly out and I stopped to finally shed the arm warmers. That was a pleasant end to the ride and hopefully, we can now look forward to some better weather.

Today, two people told me my bike was very shiny.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 29th April 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 21 minutes
Riding Distance:119km/73 miles with 1,115m of climbing
Average Speed:25.2km/h
Group Size:28
Temperature:3℃ to 17℃
Weather in a word or two:A game of two halves.
Year to date:3,079km/1,913 miles with 30,706m of climbing

Giddy

Giddy

Dry but very chilly weather at least gave us a break from all the horrible and wet Saturdays we seem to be enduring lately and the conditions were good enough to tempt a few more riders to opt for their summer bikes. Luckily, I’m still enjoying riding the Scott, which is just as well as the Holdsworth remains attached to the smart trainer, while the 13 has been pressed into service as an ad hoc TT machine, so it’s very much a Hobson’s Choice.

There was very little traffic on the route across to the meeting point, which may be why seemingly random encounters with a trio of Fiat 500’s seemed to stand out. These, one each in red, white, and green, had me speculating that perhaps I was in the middle of a shoot for a Latin remake of the Italian Job, which would obviously be titled Il Lavoro Inglese.

Dovresti solo far saltare quelle dannate porte! … if you believe Google Translate.

Feeling uncharacteristically enthusiastic, I took the route up Hospital Lane for a change and to test the legs. Everything seemed to be working as it should, which I always find helpful.

The most notable moment at the meeting point was when the Enigma stuck entirely to the main road for his cruise past, by-passing our silent, admiring homage to his grace and style. I worried that this might signal a permanent change in routine, but Jimmy Mac suggested it was simply that he’d hit the traffic lights just right, so hadn’t taken his usual sneaky shortcut through the bus station transport interchange to avoid stopping. Jimmy Mac explained that particular stretch of road is apparently a hotly contested Strave segment, awarded to the person who can best time their run to sync perfectly with the right sequence of green lights.

The BFG put in a rare appearance on his latest steel-framed, vintage velocipede, complete with tubular tyres and the same spare that had so confused the Garrulous Kid. The Kid couldn’t understand the concept of a tube within a tube and was worried that the BFG’s spare had a tread pattern on it while his was perfectly smooth.

Andy Mapp had designed another labyrinthian route for us, including cycle paths, dual carriageway hopping and borrowed bits of other routes cobbled together in odd, unforeseen, and novel combinations and directions. He was late showing up though, so once Carlton appeared and we knew time was nearly up, so G-Dawg stepped up and did his best with the Herculean task of briefing in the route. (I think I was lost by the second major turn). Then we got organised and set out.

I rode out in the middle group of three this week, alongside Mini Miss, who was almost as confused as I was by the intended route. We were already hoping our stint on the front would coincide with a long straight bit of road without any pesky decisions about which way we should be turning.

A rotation brought Brassneck onto the front alongside Captain Black and I was forced to issue a few easy tiger’s as the novelty of a first club ride on his summer bike had him upping the pace a little too enthusiastically. Mini Miss mentioned that he’d confided that his first impression on being reunited with his good bike was that he’d shrunk a little over the winter as it felt unfamiliar and “not quite right.”

I slid up alongside him. “Is that bike the right size?” I innocently enquired, “It looks a little large to me.”

Ooph. I never suspected he knew such salty words. Still, my intervention wasn’t enough to keep the big grin off his face for long.

Once through Belsay, we started to pass competitors warming up for the GS Metro time-trial, a rather hilly affair over 26 miles. Even with their game faces on, most of the competitors waved as we passed them, including one who simply acknowledged us with a cool, minimalist two-fingered salute (no, no, not that kind!)

“Is that what you do?” Crazy Legs enquired, part of his ongoing campaign to insinuate I’m some kind of TT fanatic. This is despite the fact he’s done far, far more events than I have and only one of us has ever bought an actual time-trial bike. (Hint: it’s not me.)

“Nah,” I told him, “I’m not cool enough.”

I then demonstrated my patented new salute, banging my fist over my heart twice in quick succession, then off the front of my helmet, before pointing to the far horizon. Now that was cool and might just catch on…

Alongside Mini Miss, we got our turn on the front on the approach to Whalton, facing into our first headwind of the day, but that was ok because at least we were on a long, straight stretch of road and didn’t have to think about the route and any turns.

We then dropped down toward Mitford, ceding the front to someone who at least had an inkling of the route as we followed the River Wansbeck past the foot of the Mur de Mitford, before turning right to climb up High House Lane.

Halfway up, Cowboy’s slid alongside me to tell me I had a very shiny bike (I’m not sure if it was a compliment or not) and then asked how much further the climb was. I was surprised he didn’t recognise it from the dozens of times we’d ridden it in the opposite direction to get to the Mur, although to be fair it’s a completely different beast and much, much harder and longer going up than you’d expect from the descent. (I’ll concede that’s probably a very obvious, universal truth of cycling).

A brief flirtation with the main A1 and we reached our coffee stop for the day, within the Moorhouse Farm Shop at Stannington Station. Here, already hyper-excited to be out riding his summer bike, Brassneck grew positively giddy with his first introduction to this cafe and its seemingly vast array of sandwiches, cakes, and sweet treats, bouncing from foot to foot, with his eyes wide and constantly flicking between the long, long menu on the wall and the counter wantonly spilling over with the temptation of selected wares. For one moment I thought he was going to be paralysed by too much choice, but finally pulled himself together enough to order without embarrassing us too much.

At the table, I couldn’t find any enthusiasm for the impending coronation of Chuck 3, just mild disquiet that the whole thing was going to limit the availability of coffee stops on the club run next Saturday. Needless to say, there was going to be no swearing of allegiance but maybe quite a bit of swearing at the lack of coffee and cake options. Luckily. I’ll be away next week so hopefully can give the entire thing a miss.

We routed home via Bell’s Hill and Horton Grange, where I pushed onto the front. By the time we were passing the airport, Cowboy’s told me we’d split the group and he sat up to wait. I was feeling cheekily strong though and that doesn’t happen all that often, so I just stomped on the pedals a little harder and started my solo ride home early.

Day & Date:Club Run, Saturday 29th April 2023
Riding Time:4 hours 21 minutes
Riding Distance:104km/65 miles with 914m of climbing
Average Speed:23.9km/h
Group Size:24
Temperature:5℃
Weather in a word or two:Chilly but dry.
Year to date:2,781km/1,728 miles with 28,167m of climbing