The Rider by Tim Krabbé - a Nano Review

The Rider is the English translation of Tim Krabbé's 1978 Dutch book, DeRenner. It's long been a cult classic, but I was late to the party, despite having known of the tome for ages.

The 148 pages tell the story of the author's experience in racing the Tour de Mont Aigoual. His commentary of the 150km event is littered with various cycling-related anecdotes and others detailing his own journey to becoming an amateur racing cyclist.

It's full of great writing and descriptions of the sport that any cyclist, racer or not, will relate to. Such as this:


"On a bike your consciousness is small. The harder you work, the smaller it gets. Every thought that arises is immediately and utterly true, every unexpected event is something you'd known all along but had only forgotten for a moment. A pounding riff from a song, a bit of long division that starts over and over, a magnified anger at someone, is enough to fill your thoughts."

Or this on the pain of riding uphill:

"Climbing is a rhythm, a trance; you have to rock your organs' protest back to sleep."

No more spoilers. If you haven't read it, do so.

From Mont Ventoux to the Mont Aigoual

It was a recent reading of Ventoux by Bert Wagendorp that pushed me to finally getting hold of a copy of The Rider. In Ventoux, one of the main characters, Joost, readily quotes extracts from The Rider in an attempt to portray himself as a bone fide cyclist. (Joost's and my actions are in no way related, honest.)

The Day The Grown Man Cried

I've long been particularly susceptible to cold hands. Even a short ride to work on a not particularly cold day can leave me in a decent amount of discomfort. Last weekend's ride was a new (temperature) low for my poor icy paws, and it sent me in search of a solution.

The last couple of winters I've been riding with Sealskin's Extra Cold Winter Gloves (see my review here). With these and a liner glove I've been just about okay on most days.

Andy Hampsten recreating my ride

Dysfunctional Digits

Last Sunday wasn't okay. The temperature with windchill was about 2 below 0 Celsius. Five miles in and my hands were beginning to hurt. For the next 55 miles it was either sleeting or snowing. About halfway done and my hands were extremely sore. By 10 miles from home they barely functioned. I couldn't shift up onto the big ring and struggled to brake and grip the bars.

By home my fingers were so useless/painful I couldn't get my key from my pocket, let alone use it to open the door. Thankfully, my wife heard my knock and came to the rescue.

I'm man enough to admit that as my hands slowly warmed the pain was so intense I broke down in tears.

Emigration or Amputation

A pitiful situation you'll agree, and one that requires a solution beyond amputation/emigration to warmer climes.

Googling a solution to cold hands caused by poor circulation let to an article suggesting that hand exercises might be the key: an increase in muscle will lead to an increase in blood supply.

A glove within a glove within a glove

I'll give that a shot. In the meantime I need a shorter-term fix. Step forward disposable latex gloves. I'm going to try these as a sub-liner beneath my liner, inside my Sealskin gloves and hope they do two things: one, keep the rain/snow completely out, and two, make my hands sweat (should there be sufficient internal heat to do so).

Will either fix work? Hopefully, or it's amputation/emigration for me.

UPDATE: I've since had a few short (just) sub-zero rides to/from work and it appears that emigration is still on the cards. My thumbs in particular get really painful within a few miles. I guess that hoping the latex gloves will cause my hands to sweat will only work if my hands are sufficiently active to perspire.

Long-term I'll work on the exercises and aim for emigration. Short term I've been trying to heat my hands up whilst riding by moving and flexing my fingers and thumbs. So, if you see a cyclist riding around Edinburgh who looks like a trainee mime artist then give me a wave.

UK MTB - The Golden Age

Stumbled upon this Facebook group yesterday, UK MTB Golden Era 1989-99 appreciation group, and have wasted a great deal of time down memory lane.

It's dedicated to the golden age of UK mountain biking and is full of pics and reminiscences about really 'cool' things like this:

There's even a pic of the results sheet from the 1989 Grundig World Cup race at Aviemore, my first competition, a cold, wet, muddy-as-fuck battle the skinny wee runt I was somehow survived (the proof's below - a glorious 33rd).

And these lights. My mates Jamie, Glennie, Gav and I used to blast down the local fire-road and single-track descents at 20mph-plus peering into the piss-yellow letterbox shape of light the Never Readies delivered, relying more on memory and luck to see the way.

Things aren't as good as they used to be - actually, they're way better, but boy, did we have a lot of fun.

I See Bicycles

I see bicycles everywhere I go, even Venice, where there aren't any. I'm just back from a short break to that most amazing city, during which my better-cultured half dragged me to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Peggy Guggenheim was an American heiress who liked nothing more than to lounge around with her Lhasa Apsos, surrounded by exclusive/expensive modern art. Peg popped her clogs in 1979 and the Guggenheim Foundation opened her palazzo to the public. 

I'm not averse to modern art, just don't know much about it. My eye gets drawn to the things I like, visually - I'm simple like that (and in many other ways). As a result of this simplicity my favourites of Peggy's pieces were the Jackson Pollocks (which, to me, are mentally soundtracked by The Stone Roses - cheers John Squire), and these two below.

My main interest was the subject matter but I did appreciate the art, honest. Anyway, I'm not about to offer a critique, just thought I'd put them out there so you could join in the appreciation.

Thanks, Peggy.

Il Ciclista by Mario Strovai

Au Velodrome by Jean Metzinger

Ventoux by Bert Wagendorp - A Nano Book Review

Ventoux is a coming of (middle) age tale by Bert Wagendorp, the Dutch journalist and author.

The story is Narrated by Bart Hoffman, one of a group of 40-something men who take a nostalgic trip to Provence, 20 years after their first visit. Their purpose there is to confront the ghosts of their past and, most importantly, to see if they still have what it takes to ride up the Mountain of Death.

It's a great read, philosophical in places, funny at times, dark at other, and jam-packed full of cycling.

What's not to like?

Here's a quote to whet your appetite:

And another:

And here's the trailer for the movie adaptation:

Morning Blog - The Importance of a Good Strava Title

It may just be the writer in me (or that I am full of awesome ideas) but I really think more emphasis should be placed on the titling of Strava rides.

When you save an activity, Strava allows you to change the post's title. Morning Ride, Afternoon Ride, Evening Ride (and, I'm assuming, Middle of the Night Ride, for the shift-workers) are perfectly perfunctory but they don't tell the poster or their Strava followers anything of use.

A Strava title should be a nano-synopsis of your ride, a distillation of its essence. It should sum up the experience or at at least give a little insight into what took place over those, however many, miles.

And it's not just about entertaining your followers; think of it as a form of mindful cycling. Every bike ride has, or should have, it's own story. No two rides are ever the same, from the weather to the way your legs feel. Your Morning Ride might only have been 10 miles long but there must have been something about it you could share, from bravely battling the cold northerly wind, to overtaking the number 27 bus and getting a smile from a girl on board (I can dream, right?).

The more you consider your rides, the more you will get out of them. If you constantly use default titles then you'll constantly have default rides.

Here are a few examples to inspire (or otherwise):

The Long Dark Bike Ride of the Soul
Gloves in a Cold Climate
Gone With the Cross Wind
One Hundred Kilometres of Solitude
________________________________________________________________________________

Enjoyed that nonsense? Try this:

Mindful Cycling & The Power of Now

Tour o' the Borders 2015

On Sunday, 9th August the Tour o’ the Borders sportive will be back, for it’s 4th edition. For 2015 this firm favourite Borders biking event has (in Tesco Bank) a new headline sponsor and a new route.

The old course was something of a challenge. I’d heard rumour that the new update was better (i.e. tougher) and wanted to find out what the event’s 2,000 participants were in for.

As usual, the route starts and finishes in Peebles, the small market town that’s become synonymous with two-wheeled pursuits. I headed south, over the Tweed, following a small back road that climbed the Manor valley, a gentle introduction to a route packed with ascents.

The scenery was already distracting, all around me that Borders tartan of purple heather, blue sky and water, silver-grey scree and vibrant-green grass.

A brief stretch on the main road and I swooped down passed Stobo before a right turn up the Dreva. My climbing was rewarded with a fast descent and jaw-dropping views along the upper Tweed valley. Like any Borders ride I could have spent my entire time gawping at the horizon, shouting (to the sheep; there was no on else): “look at the view!”

The single-track road soon delivered me onto a junction with the A701, where a sign tempted with a right turn to the Laurel Bank Tea Room. I resisted and turned left, along the valley to Moffat.

Riding solo into the wind, I tried to maintain a decent pace but was anxious of the toil to come. During the Tour, that would be a good point to join a group and share the wind-breaking effort.

I settled in to a rhythm, soaked up the sun and soon enough the rolling road delivered me to the turn to Talla. The reservoir’s vast body of dark, sparkling, water provided a heavy, calming presence off my right shoulder. And I needed a little sedation.

The Talla Wall is new to the Tour route. I could see it from miles distant, a thin scar at the head of the valley, angled unrealistically upward.  Just near its foot a motorbike roared passed, then came the sound of its engine struggling. I was out the saddle the whole way (through necessity more than choice), wrestling bike and gradient. Talla is amongst Scotland’s best climbs, better suited to the Italian Alps and a sadistic corsa rosa, one Tour veterans won’t forget in a hurry.

The Wall’s top brought oxygen debt, lactate overload, cool air, views to rival the last lot and one heck of a descent. Gilet zipped up, bidon half-emptied and I was off. Once again the Tour will be ridden on roads closed to other traffic, leaving riders free to take racing lines, providing speeds to compensate for the Wall crawl.

I turned onto the main road at St Mary’s Loch, the tailwind welcome, down time in which to eat, drink and spin out the legs. Just as well: the next climb was approaching fast.

A left over the Yarrow Water at the Gordon Arms (there’ll be a feed station there during the Tour) and onto the Berry Bush.  It’s one of those ascents where you think: the top must be round the next corner. Except it’s not; same goes for the next corner, and the one after. See that road, far in the distance, right up by the top treeline?

I got there, eventually, glad of the next descent, the turn at Crosslee and another tailwind. I raced along the Ettrick Valley and then onto the Witchyknowe, another Borders legend climb, and one that’s featured in previous Tour routes. I’d ridden it a few times before, usually fresher. With all the day’s hills and miles in my legs it matched its reputation.

Over the top and Newton’s Law of Cycling was back in play: what goes up must go down -- a descent that makes like a blast down the Seven Stanes’ Spooky Wood (minus the berms).

Back over the Yarrow, along the undulating valley road and another right at the Gordon Arms -- this time up the Paddock Slacks. I knew it would be my day’s last serious ascent and my stiffening legs were glad. Make it over and I’d be (almost) home and dry.

Make it I did, rushing down passed Traquair and onto the Cardrona road, Peebles in my sights. A touch of cramp on that little rise passed Kailzie and it was over.

74 miles covered, sufficient climbing (approaching 5000 feet) and descending for a decent Tour de France stage, plus scenery to rival any on the planet; the new Tour o’ the Borders route is even better than the last, and that’s saying something.

A link to my ride on Strava here.

Tesco Bank Tour 0’ the Borders
tourotheborders.com
Sunday 9th August 2015
Entry cost: £58