I have read widely on fitness issues relating to cycling and in particular preparing for the sporadic intense efforts that are an integral part of competition.
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog I have, with my son, entered a very hilly 65 mile Sportive, the Big G which is now only 5 days away.
There are some 650 riders signed up and although it is not really a race there will be those hell-bent on bettering their times recorded in previous events and others trying hard to achieve performance targets of 3, 4 or more hours.
The field will be a very broad cross section of cycling enthusiasts from seasoned club riders to those captivated by the euphoria of the Tour de France broadcasts on TV, weekend trippers, pro-team lookalike poseurs, family groups, willing volunteers and unwilling participants, athletic club members and a number of hardcore riders who, in the spring and summer months criss-cross the country just to take part in a Sportive.
These have increased in popularity so much so that one can be found just about every weekend -somewhere.
My own physical and mental preparation has not however been anything special.
I do get in a good saturday ride of around 40 to 60 miles peaking at 100 miles but work and family commitments otherwise restrict me during the week to, at best a short mountain bike off -road expedition to and from my office, about 14 miles in total.
I try to get to the gym for two sessions a week of forty minutes of weights just to strengthen my upper body if only to make sure that I can hold onto the handlebars.
The prospect of the long, difficult and mainly uphill ride in the Big 'G' Sportive has been daunting and so it was decided with my son that we should, a week before the event, set off and reconnoitre the course.
Two days ago we awoke to warm, bright weather, ideal for riding out apart from a gusty nuisance wind from the west. Getting to the event headquarters involved a 9 mile two wheeled negotiation of the city suburbs and green belt and into a head wind this was exhausting in itself.
We enacted a rolling start from the back gates of the HQ without any fuss or ceremony passing through the first village and a small but sharp climb over a railway bridge. The first left turn brought us smack bang into the strong wind and I did have some serious reservations about my ability to last out another 63 miles plus the return leg back home.
My son was riding well and I tucked into the shelter of his slipstream which would save me a few percentage points of energy. I spent much of the next few hours in the same position.
We are very familiar with the roads through South Dalton, Holme, Lund and North Dalton from our regular saturday outings but were now riding these in the opposite direction to normal. A favourite 3 mile descent was now a drag of an ascent but compensated for by a 4 to 5 mile fast downhill stretch to Wetwang with the rare assistance of a briefly helpful tail wind.
Leaving Wetwang involved tackling Life Hill a long straight climb with a sweeping turn before another struggle for me up to the busy Sledmere junction. Traffic was heavy with day trippers from West Yorkshire making their way to the seaside interspersed with men, my age, behaving badly on high powered motorbikes.
Fimber roundabout stands at the base of a wickedly steep hill. My son waltzed up easily whereas I did a sort of moonwalk with lots of pedalling but very little forward motion. I was saved by a sharp left turn towards Burdale and the plummet down a gravel strewn high banked lane into the valley which snaked to Thixendale.
I punctured at the base of a chalky and flinty cliff and messed around for the next thirty minutes with a repair kit before giving up with rubber solution glue and cure-c-cure patches and deciding to just put in a new inner tube.
It was I suppose a bit of a rest but the still air was stifling and overheated. With some relief we started riding again. My damp, sweaty clothes which could have been uncomfortable were now quite cooling.
We strayed from the official route just beyond Thixendale missing out a looping section by accident. Unfortunately our improvised left turn took us up a 16% gradient or in old money, 1 in 7 which served us right for our error. It was another five miles to get back to the circuit and another sharp uphill out of Huggate. A few walkers and locals were sat in the sun at the Wolds Inn enjoying comparative shelter from the wind nursing a hand pulled pint. I envied them as I took another swig of lukewarm water from the bottle slung on the downtube of my trusty bike.
We were now on the homeward leg and running south meant that the wind was a lesser irritation from the right.
The road was well surfaced and fast into the picturesque Warter with its row of thatched cottages on the village green but we were soon climbing again and my limbs were now aching in a major way. My doubts about completing the practice ride returned in direct proportion to the spasms and cramps in my legs and a new twinge in one knee.
This was before encountering Nunburnholme Hill. By far the longest and steepest it represented a real kick in the teeth and I am sorry to say that I had no option but to get off, or rather, nearly fall off and walk. My son was already over the summit and out of sight. A young woman on a mountain bike rode up to me and joined me in the walk of shame for a few minutes before restarting and disappearing over the rise in the road.
I did catch her up on the magnificent three mile descent although you could say that as she had stopped for a chocolate bar break that did not count.
My energy was badly depleted from the effort so far and I had to again go off route but this time intentionally to get to the Co-Op in Market Weighton. I scoffed, on the pavement side, a whole malt loaf washed down with lucozade hoping that any nutritional benefit would work their way through before I got home. It did not and the final 10 miles through a dry valley, past Grannies Attic and again over that railway bridge was yet more painful and a real test of my resolve and stamina.
I told my son to make his own way from this point as I was holding him back and he agreed although respectfully resistant at first.
The imaginary finish line was crossed with a sense of relief rather than achievement sobered by the further 9 miles to home.
My legs locked completely with 5 miles to go and the only relief was to stand up on the pedals and stretch followed by low gear fast pedalling. I was out of water and food by now but dare not stop at a shop in case I could not get back in the saddle let alone get my leg over the cross-bar to dismount.
The sight of my street was most welcome. It had been an interesting experiment. I am not sure if it helped in either physical or mental preparation for the actual event. That is yet to be seen.
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