EPO and Cycling

Scoffing a packet of four flaky buttery cases crammed with currants made me feel guilty but it was an absolute necessity to top up my depleted energy levels to get through another 3 to 4 hours of cycling.

My son was ripping open a collection of iced buns which had travelled a few miles stuffed up my lycra top but were still appetising for all that.

Sitting on a slatted bench with a hedge impeded view of the River Foss the squashed fly cake did taste wonderful. I could sense the dissipation of the sugars and vitamins directly into my muscles and tendons. I was conscious, of course, of the controversy and scandal in the ranks of professional cyclists where the same effect was artificially induced by blood doping and other cheating practices.

My own method to enhance my performance, albeit from a very low level could be termed EPO, or rather Eccles-cake Pastry Overdose. The situation was a bit dire, or as much as it could be with two cyclists in York at 1pm on a saturday hoping to get back to Hull before complete exhaustion and cramps set in.

A few family groups rode past on a selection of bikes, usually dad well ahead on a flash mountain bike, two to three children on machines of descending size cavorting all over the place and mother bringing up the rear like an anxious shepherd with a wayward flock.

We packed up our empty wrappers and took a final gulp from water bottles before heaving stiff limbs over crossbars, clipping shoes on pedals and heading south along the riverside path.

Revitalised, within a couple of miles, we soon caught all of those who had witnessed our picnic feast, breezing past with style and a good amount of pace which must have impressed.

The route from York to Selby is one that we have ridden half a dozen times in the last couple of years. It is the old railway course, tarmac surfaced and thanks to good civil engineering almost flat and straight for its 12 miles.

There are some encroachments by modern housing with one diversion through a cul de sac of identical executive dwellings but otherwise the route is entirely traffic free. We cross the Foss again over a gaunt gun-metal coloured bridge just by a large Marina of pleasure cruisers. An old railway station is now a cafe with tables out in the sun where we pass the last of the family groups who are studying the hand written menu.

The corridor formed by the screen of trees gives a pleasant cooling shade which makes a welcome change on an otherwise baking hot day.

At Selby we expect to pick up a tailwind as we turn for the eastward stretch of the ride but the direction has shifted to hit us on our right shoulder being no help at all.

The old A63 trunk road to Howden is disgracefully potholed and just downright featureless and boring with the exception of another bridge crossing of the Derwent River.

The eight miles seems like twenty and we are relieved to see the tower of Howden Minster just on the skyline.

The Co-Operative gives an opportunity to buy sausage rolls, more coca cola and I splash out on a single banana.

I had discussed earlier on the ride, with my son that if he felt strong with 25 miles to go he should ride on ahead of me. I kept him in sight for about 5 miles before that invisible elastic cord snapped and he was off.

On my own I was able to dictate a more comfortable cadence but my own energy levels had returned and I was able to make reasonable speed albeit with poor style. The terrain out of the Vale of York was flat but I was not looking forward to one last big climb to get over the Wolds on the western side of Hull. It did hurt and I will leave it at that.

I reached home fourteen minutes after my son. It doesn't sound much but is the equivalent of about 5 miles in distance. I was happy to complete the ride but if I had been participating in a race I would certainly have been eliminated on a time penalty basis. That EPO is not all it is made out to be. I will ride clean from now on.