Cornflaking Out

The transformation in my son over the last 10 weeks has been remarkable.

He attributes this to eating Kelloggs Cornflakes, drinking water rather than Diet Coke, having pasta and garlic based meals, improving his sleeping habits and, oh yes, accompanying me on our almost every other day cycling runs which have totted up to about an average weekly tally of over 100 miles.

It all started after our return from London at the end of the first weekend of the Olympics where we saw the Mens and Women's Road Race Events from the roadside verges and on the lower slopes of Box Hill respectively.

Our mountain bikes were hauled down from their precarious balancing position in the garage rafters, dusted down, oiled, greased, tightened and pumped up. We had ventured out a couple of times in the previous 12 months but a combination of cold, wet, windy weather and joint lethargy amounted to perhaps 6 to 10 mile journeys , a simple there and back on the course of an old railway line or along a wide pavement cum cycle path alongside a main trunk road.

I was just about able to lever, wedge and coerce my bulbous middle age body shape into my faithful lycra gear which showed great resilience and tensile strength. Other similar fabrics, fibres and threads will have long since perished or will have been confined to the Charity collection bag or family dressing up box.

With our new enthusiasm to cycle came a few technical, clothing and  logistical problems. My son had grown significantly during our long, voluntary off season. The seat post on his bike had to be edged up gradually to cater for his much extended leg length. The etched guide for maximum emergence from the seat tube had to be ignored in order for his knees not to risk smacking him in the face on a pedal revolution. It was touch and go whether a new larger frame size would be needed.

The hand-me -downs from our tentative Tours de Hull worn by my son were now hopelessly undersized for him. It was the right time to break open my vault of cherished retro-cycling jerseys. These were not antique or collectibles but just replica team kit I had acquired new in the 1970's and early 1980's. and regularly worn.  Nothing special at the time but apparently now very sought after. My son,17 years old, fitted perfectly into the Renault Gitane Jersey with its yellow, white and black colours. The sponsors, a la mode, back in the day may now be regarded as politically and environmentally incorrect representing a car manufacturer and a cigarette brand.

His physique at 17 could therefore be seen to be a genetic inheritance from me at about the same age. Looking at me now may be a salutory lesson to him to live his life better and healthier. I sincerely hope so.

His willing decision to wear gawdy lycra and team issue shorts, a one piece with torso and shoulder straps amazed both me and my wife. This from a lad who would not previously introduce any part of his body unnecessarily to sunlight and even just plain daylight. Clad in a helmet, slightly too small and sports socks in his sole and best pair of trainers we rolled out down the driveway on the first cycle ride of our post-London Olympics era. He was closely followed by me in technicolour attire as the Michelin Man's flamboyant older and chubbier brother.

Because of the vast number of miles now covered I cannot actually recall where we went on that initial Vuelta de Hull. I knew of a few routes which would serve us well as an introduction to two wheels. These were within short riding distance of our house and, importantly, mainly traffic free. From an average of 12 to 15 miles per jaunt we were able to perceive a gradual increase in fitness and this encouraged us to be a bit more ambitious in the duration and distance attempted. We graduated from there and back to full 360 degree round trips.

My sons dramatic accident on the river path ( see Crash, Bang, Wallop) threatened to curtail our sessions out in the summer weather but his drawing of first blood, abrasions and residual gravel fragments only made him more resolute.

The very ambitious and challenging route on the North Yorkshire Coast set a new record for a single ride at over 20 miles but not necessarily in good style or physical condition. This was quickly increased to over 30 miles the following weekend from Selby to York and back and in between during the week a few shorter and faster excursions around a newly discovered circuit over the Humber Bridge. From a wheezy and hesitant start, on my part, we were now flying for longer periods and over lengthier distances.

It was noticeable that less and less fellow cyclists, either elderly couples on tandems, Wiggo replicas and what can only be described as urban bike guerillas were overtaking us and indeed we often caught and passed what were at first seen as shadowy and pint sized wheeled figures some way up ahead.

Mileage increased to 60 plus and with longer rides of up to 5 hours.

My role as team leader, self appointed, was being slowly supplanted as my son got stronger and more confident in his speed and bike handling. From taking the front and pole position I found myself increasingly riding alongside my son, then half a wheel behind, a bike length and soon out of sight as I dropped back, exhausted and aching.

At age, nearly 50, I feel that my body has reached a plateau in terms of muscle and respiratory performance. My hip aches when I dismount and sometimes I cannot even get a leg over the low, sloping crossbar to start off.

In contrast, my son is going from strength to strength and this is great to see. This was more than demonstrated by his relentless pace into a head wind for 20 plus miles on the return leg of long run out to the coast just yesterday. His riding was a tour de force.

It was all I could manage to hang in there in his wake and slipstream and calculate how many bowls of Kelloggs Cornflakes could be had from a 500gram box if I adopted his evidently highly effective dietary system without his knowledge.