Skiing - Val Thorens

As Alex, Bas and I took off in a Titan Airways (who they? – ed) flight to Chambery, France, the mood was good. Our first skiing holiday in many years was starting at the ungodly hour of a 6.10 am take-off. Charter flights. During the flight I discovered that having a seat pitch of 31” as opposed to Ryanair’s 30” turned the flight into a surprisingly comfortable one. Amazing what 1” will do.

There was also the “Dad, will we get there early enough to ski this afternoon?” question. I was more concerned with the “what will the snow be like so late in the season, 8 April?” question. At the airport – no snow. Could barely see any in the mountains. Inghams Ski had laid on a coach to take us to Val Thorens, and much to Bas’s pleasure it was a new Mercedes. For the first part of the 2 hour journey there was still little snow. We passed the Meribel resort and still nothing. But magically as we rose a further few metres there it was. Snow, and plenty of it. I had chosen Val Thorens to go to as is the highest resort in France simply to increase the chances of snow. 

We were dropped off at the hotel, told where we could get our ski equipment and were promised delivery of our ski passes that evening as I’d bought 6 days ones, Sunday to Friday.

Everything was super- efficient, and by 1.30 we had everything sorted. So there was only one thing to do – purchase afternoon passes for us and to hit the slopes. Where we discovered that it was reasonably warm at the village level, and slightly mushy snow, but the higher you went (the tallest skiable peak there is 3200m) the better the snow quality was.

I’d booked half board at the Hotel val Chaviere, so we once we’d finished on the slopes we headed back to hotel to freshen up and wander down to the bar area for a pre-dinner drink. The dinner was spectacularly good. Five courses were served. A soup, followed by a starter, followed by a main, then cheese, then dessert. All excellent. Throughout the week we had different soups and meats, all done beautifully, so even though I’d said to the boys that we’d probably go out to a restaurant a couple of times during the week we never did.

Monday was our first full day of skiing, and it felt so good to be back on the slopes.Muscle memory was working, and even though I hadn’t skied for years it seemed to come back to me very quickly. For lunch we skied down into Val Thorens and sat at the first pizza place we saw. The bill for 3 pizzas, 2 beers and coke came to nearly 90 euros. That was the last lunch we had out – from then on each morning we nipped to the supermarket, bought sandwiches crisps and a drink, and returned to the hotel at lunchtime to consume.

That afternoon, feeling good, the three of us made sure we had the SkiTrack app live on our phones and went down a fairly quiet red slope at speed. At the bottom Alex looked at his phone – 65km/h. Then Bas – 74 point something. He was happy until I showed him my phone – 90.6km/h.

What I decided not to tell the boys was that on my run I was getting quite quick when I got a bit nervous, tried to turn to slow down, couldn’t because of another skier, so had to carry on straight down the slope getting even faster. I saw a piste joining ours, so headed up it to slow down. I didn’t share, then, that my record was made at a slightly out of control speed.

Tuesday was more of the same. Bas tried to break my record, but kept getting stuck around 75km/h. At one point he demanded we swap phones as he was sure mine was over reading. But no, his next run was another 75km/h one.

Tuesday night, after another superb dinner, we headed off to find a bar as it was Champions League night, and Leicester were playing. We found a sports bar with a pool table, a chatty retired English guy, and a bunch of Danes who wanted to challenge us to pool. We kept winning, but it didn’t seem to dampen their enthusiasm.

Wednesday afternoon had a slight change of pace – as we skied past a café on the slopes we heard a live band playing classic rock songs. So, naturally, we had to stop and order a couple of beers. I have to say it was great listening to a more than adequate band in the sunshine half way up a mountain. 

Wednesday night and we were back at the same bar again – this time Real Madrid were playing.

Thursday morning and once more we hit the slopes. Mid-morning I was coming down a red slope, and just as I was getting into the tuck position for a speed run down it disaster struck. My back “went”, and I could no longer control my speed or direction. I couldn’t move, or swivel, or anything due to the pain. In the distance I could see a small skier, and I realised we were on a collision course.

I didn’t shout out, as I didn’t want them to stop, or turn – I just focussed on inching away as best I could. I passed behind her skis (for it was a she) by a matter of inches. The slope flattened, and I was able to come to a stop by the side of the piste before it dropped steeply again. I called the boys on my mobile who by now were at the bottom of the run, who answered “ah – that’s why we saw you so close to that little girl. Normally you give lots of room”!

And then the rescue started, as there was no way I could either walk or ski back to Val Thorens. First came the piste monitors on a 4 track. They kept asking where I’d crashed, and if I banged my head. In my rudimentary French I explained, no, there was no crash, I was lying down due to my back being seized up. Then they grabbed my leg, and asked if I could feel their hands. Yes I could, I was not paralysed.

They called for mountain rescue, the guy with the sledge. We went through the same rigmarole; No, no crash. No, hadn’t banged my head. No, wasn’t paralysed. Anyway, gingerly they put me on an inflatable mattress, which then went onto a sled. I was then trussed up like a turkey before being pulled down the resort. The bill for that was 462 euros.

I then went into an ambulance to be taken to the clinic for assessment. Once again I went through the story. X-rays were taken, and the doctor was happy when he confirmed that no discs were broken or fractured, it was just a compression injury, lumbago. I was then injected in my arse with firstly an anti-inflammatory drug, and then a pain killer. That was 160 euros, which I thought was not bad for a private clinic.

The Slide of Shame

Next stop was the pharmacy to buy the medicines required for the next 7 days. Injections for 2 days, morning and night, pills for the following 5 days. They cost 46 euros.

Good stuff for that money, as I was able to walk gingerly that afternoon. Naturally skiing was finished for me, so it was a case of watching a few movies on the iPad before returning for my evening injections.

The nurse doing the said injections charged me another 32 euros. So all in all a round 700 euros was spent. Thankfully I had insurance.

Thursday night’s dinner must have been designed to cheer me up – we had fondue, both the cheese and bread based one and the meat and oil. There didn’t seem to be a clash between the medicines and red wine, so I went to bed a semi-happy chap.

On Friday I had to say goodbye to the boys in the morning while they went off and did their thing. Still, I relaxed by watching yet more movies. I decided that day to treat the boys to a snowmobile in the evening. They had been on top form all week, and never once complained about the basic lunches we were having. My back meant I couldn’t go with them, so I only had to hire one – and at 130euros an hour for a guided trip that was expensive enough.

They had a blast, saying it was the perfect way to end the week. Saturday came and it was time to leave. We returned our equipment, and waited for the coach to take us back to the airport. Barring my back, this had been a superb week away.

Inghams gave us one of those customer satisfaction questionnaires to complete, which we were happy to do. Everything about the holiday was superb, and I am more than happy to recommend them. One question made us smile – we had to judge the “appearance of your rep” on a scale of Excellent to Poor. Yes, Camilla was/is very pretty, but was that what they really wanted to know?!

On the flight home Bas decided to offer me one final indignity and handed me his phone. Friday morning he’d gone for a speed record and managed 91.6 km/h.

I read it and wept, as they say.











Alex's view

What makes a sporting holiday GREAT ?

After our skiing holiday, I believe there are two simple answers : simplicity and adrenaline. Let me develop a little.

The all-in-one Inghams holidays meant all we had to do was reach the airport on time, then onwards, life was easy. Picked up at the airport, accompanied to the hotel reception, given our ski passes, shown where the ski rental shop was. No thinking or decision making necessary. That is the definition of relaxing. Dinner turned out to be even simpler: we were assigned a table in the hotel restaurant for the whole week and they served a fixed menu every evening. Of course there’s the risk of not being particularly a fan of a certain dish but what that meant was, again, no decision making. The only decision to be made was regarding lunch. 

The first day we tried a pizzeria, but that had two issues. The first was the price, it was ridiculously expensive but that’s not my problem. My issue with the pizzeria was that I had to decide what to eat. I was already sold on the fixed menu idea, and I was so exhausted all I wanted was food, I didn’t want to spend extra energy deciding on what food I wanted. From then onwards, always sandwiches for lunch. Again, it made our life easier, pick the same sandwich, crisps and drink every day, and no thinking is required anymore. The toughest decisions we had to make all week was deciding what to choose at the breakfast buffet but that situation occurred in the mornings when you have plenty of energy, so that’s ok.

Keeping it simple also applied on the slopes. We argued from time to time, but always because none of us wanted to decide what to do next, we were all happy to just follow along. The advantage of a small group. How to decide when to stop for lunch? When to call it a day? When the phrase ‘I’ve had enough’ or ‘I’m tired’ was pronounced for the second time, we would look at each other and decide it was time to head back to the hotel. Most of the time. 

The second aspect required is adrenaline; skiing always delivers when it comes to adrenaline. Always. The first couple of hours back on skies, your mind is trying to remember how it’s done, trying to reassure itself ‘yes, this is regular speed on skies, grow a pair, you’ll be fine’. You think you’re doing ok, then a bump throws you off-balance, somehow you gain control. ‘That was close!’. Once the confidence is back, because you’re with your lunatic and fearless brother and your refusing to age dad, you have to go for the speed record. I didn’t manage to reach their 90+km/h and yet it was one of the most frightening experiences. Think about it, you’re sliding on your feet. When Papa treated us to go on the snowmobiles, towards the end of the ride we managed to have the nerve to apply maximum throttle and we only reached 71km/h ! Is there any other situation where legs are faster than a petrol engine ?

The resort had an amateur ski-cross track so we had to try it. Obviously. After a couple of ‘individual’ runs, we had a race. I started off well, took an early lead. Somehow, I quickly fell back. That wasn’t ok. With only a few corners to go, Papa left the door open in the inside. I went for it. He fell. I hit him and went over him. As I was flying head first for the security barriers I found myself thinking ‘Oh this is cool, I’ve never been caught by a barrier before’. I then giggle as I get all tangled in it. Then, big problem, it collapses and I end up legs in the air, airborne, thinking ‘Now this isn’t good’. The head-first landing a few meters lower down was probably impressive. As I manage to stand up, I can’t stop laughing, my right leg can’t stop shivering - the adrenaline was pumping in fast! 

Adrenaline does have a weird effect on your body; the speed record idea sprung into mind because of Bas. We were going down a pretty steep blue slope rendered a bit more complicated by the irregular bumps. I was leading the way, really focused, at what I thought to be ‘high speed’. As I reach the left edge of the slope, I turn my eyes to the right and what do I see ? A lot of white and a black spot wizz through. My brain tries to process the information, it becomes clear, it was Bas. Bas overtook me as a leopard overtakes a tortoise. As I understood what just happened, I started laughing, so hard I had to stop. Once I managed to stop the tears, I met Bas at the bottom and found him still trying to stop laughing too. It was funny, not that funny, it was the adrenaline. So much adrenaline!

To summarise my thoughts, thanks to Inghams, we spent 100% of our available energy in having (extreme) fun and 0% on the usual holiday arguement ‘How to best spend the time we have?’. I believe that to be the recipe to the perfect holiday. 

EDIT: As I read through my report, I realise there’s a big mistake. Sure Inghams did a good job, but my thanks go to Papa!! Thank you Papa for a brilliant holiday! Thank you also for providing us with a great story to tell and great photos to show, a lot of people seem to enjoy the tale of your rescuing. 

Olympia Half Marathon - March 2017

Olympia Half Marathon

For our spring run Warren and I decided to go to Olympia, the birthplace of the Olympics. We had a discussion on whether we should run the full marathon distance this time, in honour of the ancient Games. After all, if we're going to ever run one, what better place?

The discussion was short - no. We'd stick to our tried and tested formula of running a half. That is hard enough, but leaves enough energy for a celebratory evening in various bars.  For a ridiculously small sum we were entered, bought flights, put up in a 4 star hotel, hired a car and given a t shirt.

Training was patchy. It was winter after all. I'd been playing football, was doing my weekly 6k runs so I thought it wouldn't be that hard. A few days before departure I ran 9km one evening and my legs felt good. I was sure that 21.2 km was very doable, though maybe not in a pb.

Landing in Athens Friday afternoon our first challenge was to find the hire car company. We could see Avis, Hertz etc, but not Goldcar, who had our booked Alfa Guiletta waiting for us. We should have known; since it was booked through Ryanair the car hire place was off-site and we had to get a shuttle coach. Ha! And when we arrived we had not an Alfa but a Fiat Tipo. The guy at the counter did say that the small print had said "or similar" when we booked. Still, it was brand new with 12km on a clock.

It was also the best car in the world as we paid a small supplement to upgrade the insurance to all risks/no excess. We'd be glad of that later. The 4 hour drive to Olympia was great, with the first two thirds motorway, and the last third through the mountains on a twisty windy road with fabulous views.

Arriving late at our hotel (which seemed deserted) we quickly dumped our bags, separated the pushed together single beds (it’s our ritual…..), and headed off to find a tavern for dinner. We discovered that Olympia is a 1 street town, and selected a restaurant that looked inviting despite it being empty. However, that couldn’t be a selection criteria since all the other ones we saw were empty too.

This meal was simple, but excellent. We kicked off with some ouzo, followed by a Greek salad, toasted garlic bread, a moussaka and grilled chicken. We asked for some wine, and were told “we have white, no red, but some pink wine”. We decided on some pink, and the waiter went to the fridge, pulled out a plastic water container that held the wine, and decanted some into a carafe. Wasn’t bad, especially the fourth one. Desert was honeyed apples, of which we’d see a lot over the weekend.

When the bill came it was 40 euros. Between us. So we did the decent thing and left a generous tip, before wandering back to the hotel.

Saturday morning and we drove to Pyrgos (a half marathon distance away, natch) to pick up our registration pack. On arrival we saw a military parade, as it was National Greece Day where they celebrate independence from Ottoman rule c400 years ago. Registration seemed very low key, so I asked how many runners had entered the race. “I think around 100, but could be slightly more” came the reply. This took Warren and I aback, as all the events we’d entered to date had had thousands of runners. Had we entered an elite race by mistake? I was concerned about finishing last.

We then decided to do the tourist thing, and visit the ancient ruins around Olympia. However, we were thwarted in our plans as all public sites were closed due to it being National Greece Day. So rather than just hang about in a bar all day we drove off to a local port, Katakolo, for lunch. What a find it was, and yes, the sardines were caught just offshore.

Following lunch we decided more exploration was needed, so we took the coast road south, looking for another tavern for dinner. Leaving town we saw a brown tourist sign saying “Wine Route”, so naturally we had to take it. Oddly we saw no further signs of vineyard activity, nothing to indicate “come here and see how we make wine, and by the way, buy some if you feel like it”. As I said, odd. A further oddity happened when Warren asked me if there was a road leading to a beach. Looking at the map I found one – dead straight and it stopped maybe 10 yards from the sea on a tiny beach. Shame we hadn’t brought our cozzies.

Driving on, we stopped briefly at what looked like a half-finished marina (Greek economic crash?), and received directions to a recommended place even further South. During the drive we saw a road sign with some magical words for guys of our generation – Navarone! Looking around we saw what looked like a fortification at the top of a cliff – we’d found the Guns of Navarone! It was getting too late to climb to and explore, so we continued along the rapidly deteriorating road towards our destination. The road became a track. It then became heavily rutted track, suited to a 4x4 if anything.

Still, nothing that an all risks/no excess hire car couldn’t handle.

We exited the track, re-joined the road, and found a gem of a place for dinner. ‘Nuff said.

Sunday morning came and we boarded the coach that would take us to the start line at Pyrgos. My fears about it being an elite race were quickly dissipated – only a few of our fellow runners looked elite. Warren and I were able to have last minute coffees just yards from the start line. The start was quite easy, but 15 minutes in we turned a corner and saw a climb. Which seemed to go for ever though in reality took 30 minutes.

Halfway up there was a drinks station, with some supporters waiting to cheer on their friends and family. One rather pretty lady shouted “Bravo!” and clapped as I passed, to which I responded with a grimace as the climb had been long. With only a few hundred yards to go to the top I just couldn’t keep with Warren and he opened a gap.

The race then became a long flat run along an A road, with cones placed at intervals to keep the cars away from us. Guys and girls on bikes would pedal past offering water and encouragement. I read later there were more volunteer marshals than runners.

Halfway along this flat run I pass again the pretty lady, and this time I could utter a simple “thanks!” as I ran past. Of course by now I was hurting. My training was clearly insufficient, and I was going to do well to break 2 hours. With a few km to go another hill presented itself. Ye Gods, it was much shorter than the last one, but it was steep. Looking behind me a saw a small group of runners catching. “Right, I’ll wait until they pass me, then I’ll walk a bit”, I decided. As they did, I looked ahead. And yes, there was the pretty lady yet again waiting to cheer on whoever. There was no way I was going to walk past her! Digging deep, I ran on. Once past her I decided that the top wasn’t ‘that’ far away, and ploughed on. And made it to the top without falter. Then it was downhill all the way to the finish, which was along the high street.

All the bars and restaurants were full, and everyone was cheering the runners for the last km to the finish line. I made it in 1hr 55. Warren around 5 minutes quicker.

After the post-race beers and a snack we were wandering back to see the ruins when we passed the finish line to see that the medal ceremony was starting. I heard somebody winning an age group category race with a time of 1hour 45, so started to wonder if Warren had been quick enough in his. Sure enough his name was called for second place, so up he went to the podium. The winner wasn’t there, so I was tempted to pretend……..

And then we could finally go and see some ruins. Which, for those that have been to Rome, are not impressive. Basically lots of collapsed stones, and not easy to visualise what had once stood there. Still, we’d done the culture bit.

We wanted to freshen up before the evening festivities, so went back to the hotel. When they found out that Warren had podiumed they brought us some cake to celebrate! I tried to buy some bubbly to go with it, but sadly they had none.

For our final night we headed to a bar I’d noticed down a side alley, and sure enough when we entered we thought it would be a good base. I ordered two Negronis to the bemusement of the bar lady. We taught her the recipe which is very easy – equal parts Gin, Campari and Red Vermouth. She’d never had one, but approved when she made herself one. At 5 euros a glass we had to have more than one. We only left when she ran out of the vermouth.

For dinner she directed us to “easily the best restaurant in Olympia”, which was off the beaten path. She wasn’t wrong. Grilled sea bream. Stuffed octopus. Yet more carafes of good house wine. I should mention that every restaurant/bar we entered during the weekend, bar the Sunday lunch, were basically empty. Again, a reflection of the Greek economy?

Sunday morning was an uneventful drive back to the airport where we said farewell to the Fiat Tipo (great car), and waited for our flight back to the UK.  Yet another hugely successful weekend trip was nearly over.

Browsing the internet to remind myself of the details of the Guns of Navarone, I made a terrible discovery. There were no such guns in World War II, and in any case were set in a fictitious island in the East of the Aegean Sea, nowhere near Olympia.

A little part of me dies inside.

Velominati Sussex Cogal - Oct 2016

The Sussex Cogal – 130km

http://www.velominati.com/cogal-report/cogal-report-sussex-cogal-2016/

My view

I was looking forward to the Cogal, riding with my son Alex who had come over from Belgium especially for this ride. For his 21^st I’d bought him a decent Giant road bike, and he’d managed to get some riding in around his uni studies and exams. I’d warned him it would probably be a tough one, the longest he’d done, but that it would be in a beautiful area, with a great bunch of guys, and that we’d enjoy it.

Once we’d all met up at the appointed café I knew it was going to be a very hard day. I could only see the grimpeurs* from the earlier Chiltern Cogal in front of me, and Teocalli (Dave W) who I was sure also fell into that category. Where was the “climb well for my weight” group? Today that group would be Alex and I.

Once we left the café we quickly got into a very decent pace (none of this Casually Deliberate 23/24 km/h nonsense) and I settled down for some serious hard work. At the first few hills my fears were realised – the other 4 disappeared up them, I battled up, and my son followed. This pattern was repeated, and the grimpeurs got used to stopping at the peaks, admiring the view, and waiting for us.

Fifty to sixty kilometres in I made a decision – I felt the others were waiting too long, and we were acting as a brake on the group. Whilst the weather was fine, it was due to turn late afternoon, and no-one wants to be riding in foul weather in late October if it can be helped. At the next climb, once I got to the top, I suggested that we would continue to ride together until the lunch stop at around the 85k mark, and from there split the Cogal into two, as the speed differential was just too great. The others demurred, saying it wasn’t a problem etc, but I still felt we should split.

We had managed to stay with them to see the fabled villages of Cocking, Lickfold and Balls Cross, along with the entrance to Goodwood racecourse.

However, during the ride to the appointed lunch stop one of the riders took pity on Alex and summoned the Broom Wagon, aka Heather, his wife. It would have been rude to let Alex go back on his own, and I couldn’t keep up with them anyway, so I too jumped in the car. We were delivered to a superb bowl of warm soup, and a jar of home-made jam.

And before anyone quotes “Rule V” at me, we were both happy to carry on, however we would have tested the patience of even the most saintly riders by the end. We did manage to ride 85k, and do over 2,300m of climbing, so all in all not too shabby an effort.

There is talk of a Welsh Cogal next year – I’ll wait and see who signs up before I inflict myself on the grimpeurs again!

·        Grimpeurs – those who have a natural affinity with climbing hills

View from Alex

I must be a cat.

We returned from the Cogal a few hours ago, and with memories still fresh I thought it would be best to write the report as soon as possible. For the moment though, the only thought crossing my mind is : ‘pain’. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Ok! I’ve had a good night’s sleep, here goes the report: The Cogal really started at the meeting point for an early morning coffee. We hadn’t started cycling and I was already panicking. Clearly, we were in the presence of those that live La Vie Velominatus. Between Chris who travels the world for sportives, Ephraim who cycled 80km to the meeting point, the equipment and the bikes around me, all hope of an enjoyable Saturday discovering Sussex quickly vanished – I died inside for the first time.

As soon as we set off, the pace was blistering! ‘Deliberately Casual’ definitely is a very subjective term. This wasn’t helping the panicking to dissipate. What did though, is remembering a conversation my Dad and I had a few years ago with a 65 year old who was training for an Ironman. As we would with any human engaging in such craziness we asked him how it is physically possible. His answer? ‘As long as you stay beneath 70% of your maximum heart rate, your body can continue all day long’. Without a heart rate monitor, I tried to evaluate my condition. I felt my heart was under control. Hope raised! Maybe I can do this! Maybe I will be able to sustain this pace for hours! As long as I stay well hidden in the slipstream, of course. We then met our first hill of the day. As the percentage increased, I increased pressure on the pedals, nothing happened. Clearly, this was going to be a long day – I died a second time.

A little later, as I’m trying to keep up, failure. A complete body failure. I had never suffered anything like it on a bike. My body shut down. Let me be very clear: I’m not pretending without it the outcome would have been different. No, you guys are monsters on a bike. If my body failed, although I don’t understand what triggered it specifically, riding too quickly for too long still is the obvious explanation. It’s not an excuse, it’s a consequence.

Not only was morale down to zero, pain had gone past 10, and 11. My (baby) guns? They weren’t hurting too much, nothing too bad, they just didn’t function. My stomach was screaming for food, drinking felt like dropping a weight into a bag. I discovered the unpleasant way blowing your nose without a tissue is not that easy. I discovered your knees can hurt. I discovered you can pedal with cramps. As I had stopped ‘riding’ my bike – the bike was pulling me home – she (a bike’s a she) became uncomfortable, badly uncomfortable. My back felt liked it wanted to escape from my body. My bottom was clearly punishing me for something really bad. I discovered Hell; my third death of the day was the most painful one.

At this point, I am begging for our lunch break. Surely it can’t be that far away? We’ve been cycling for over a couple of hours, I’m pretty sure we’ve crossed half distance point. As I’m trying to figure it out, I see the rest of the group on the left hand side of the road waiting for me. I don’t stop, they’ll catch me, for sure. Head down, trying to imagine Rule #5 written on my legs, I feel something. ‘Pain! My legs are hurting more, and wait, it’s getting much harder to keep them turning! That must mean….The road is going up! Please let it be a small one.’ As I look up, as I discover what I was in for, a few thoughts crossed my mind. It would probably be more accurate to say ‘a bunch of words’ crossed my mind, none of which I feel comfortable writing. Having given up before even starting, it did not go well. I reached a new low. A low no rider weighing as little as I do should ever have to resort to. When I almost lost balance, I decided I had no other choice but to put my foot down and walk the remaining distance. That’s probably in violation of so many rules, and definitely of Rule #5, my favourite. I got back on my bike just before the summit. Promised myself I would never tell a living soul what happened – I later found out I had to write a report, I couldn’t not mention the worst part of the ride, I’ll have to assume the shame. That was my fourth death of the day. The most painful psychologically.

There was no coming back from that. Nothing could get my self esteem back to an acceptable level. I decided to let my mind wander, I provoked a row with myself, thinking about an argument I’m in with a friend. Half of me was playing myself, the other half, her. I’m not sure what it did to my pace, but it did make me forget about the pain. At that point, it’s all I wanted,no more pain.

Eventually, we arrived at the lunch break. Finally, I could do the shameful thing. Finally I could retire, abandon, give up, chicken out, be rescued, ignore Rule #5. For my defense, I had no other choice, I was running out of lives.

Special thanks to Heather for the rescue service and soup! Truly enlivened my day! Thanks to all four believers for giving me a glimpse at La Vie Velominatus and for putting up with me. I have found one way to get my self-esteem back up, round 2! This won’t be my last Cogal.

Copenhagen Half Marathon - Sep 2016

Ah Copenhagen. The city of The Little Mermaid. The Tivoli Gardens. The Nyhavn waterfront and, er, possibly some cultural stuff I don’t know much about. More importantly it is also the home of the flattest, and hence fastest, half marathon course in Europe. Warren and I signed up, flights were obtained (£24 return, Ryanair) and a hotel booked (Radisson Blu, free, Warren’s points again). This was shaping up to be a good and cheap weekend.

I was disabused of this latter notion in the bar we found ourselves in late on the Friday night we arrived. Scandinavia penalises drinkers, and whilst we could have said to each other that as finely tuned athletes we should abstain until after the race that was never going to happen. That evening we’d wandered around the Tivoli Gardens, admired the feel of the place, listened to a rock band performing there and had a few drinks. Our usual sort of evening on these tours then.

Saturday morning and it was time to get our race numbers and explore Copenhagen. The hotel had run out of hire bikes, but being a massively bike friendly city a shop around the corner was able to sort us out some steeds for the weekend, for around £10 per day. My bike was bright green and red, called Circus Circus. Warren’s an elegant black, called Royale. Go figure.

A short ride later and we entered the athletes’ village to register. Despite there being around 22,000 runners the process took only a few minutes, and we were free to look at the expo. Which also took a few minutes as we were not about to buy any shoes, socks, tops, energy drinks, run watches or register for another race.

properly attired...

We then spent a pleasant day cycling, seeing the famous sights, having lunch on the Nyhavn waterfront and generally taking it easy. We saw the guards at the royal residence, which reminded me of the UK.

We had dinner in a huge warehouse that had been filled with street food stalls from around the world. Apparently it was supposed to have been a pop up type place for a few months, but 3 years later it is still there. And heaving, so I guess it will be there for many more years to come.

At around 9 pm, after our customary gins, and wine, we agreed that we should now taper for the next day’s race and order some water. And that made us feel very professional. And that feeling lasted until we got on our bikes to find that the lights on them were between poor and non-existent. We’d been warned that the authorities are strict on that sort of thing, but with no other choice we pedalled back. And were not stopped.

Sunday morning and with it came blue skies, a little breeze, and mid-teens temperature. It could not be any better for us. The race start was relatively late, at 11.15am, so a light breakfast was had, ablutions made, and once again the trusty bikes were used to get to the start.

I have to hand it to the Danes. As mentioned, this was a race for around 22,000 athletes and the organisation was spot on. We dropped our bags at the tents, and made our way to the start. Where we found a couple tying the knot, both with running kit on under the more formal wear. That is a love of running…….

The race went well. There were 13 bands dotted around the course, ranging from heavy rock, to schools choir singing Abba, to brass bands. My favourite, which I couldn’t stop to admire, was a Brazilian samba band that had a couple of dancers…….There were Power Zones, which meant very loud speakers, flame throwers (pointing upwards, not at the runners) and general mayhem to keep the enthusiasm up.

Running OK with Warren

I had trained decently for this race, and when it got to 15 km I knew that I could stay with Warren until the end which was just another 6km away. There wasn’t going to be a repeat of Marrakech, nor of Lisbon. Yes, it was getting harder, but not ridiculously so, and the last 2 km was a wall of noise from the spectators. This helped us run them in the quickest split times of the whole race, as we were aiming by now to break 1hour 50 minutes. We didn’t quite manage that, both of us finishing in 1.50’48”. Though I think I crossed the line first ;-)

Is this hurting?

After the obligatory recovery intake of a protein shake, an apple, an energy bar and water we wanted a proper celebratory drink. We gingerly walked back to the bikes for the 15 minute ride back to the hotel, and once again they came into their own as it was so easy. Different muscle groups.

A shower and a rest later and we were ready to enjoy Sunday night. The previous night we’d seen a gorgeous square packed with restaurants and people, so we headed there. To find half of them closed and hardly anybody at the open ones anyway. Still we were tired, the Spanish tapas one looked good and we were hurting too much to look further afield. The (rather attractive) waitress came to take our order, and Warren attempted to use the phrase ‘elite athletes’ in relation to us. Her face suggested that she wasn’t fooled.

Food and drink ordered, we settled down to digest the weekend, and to consider our next race. While deciding that after 6 trips we were more than happy to carry on, Warren passed me the “squeaky cheese” to eat. I said to myself ‘either Warren is losing it or I’m getting deaf, as I’m sure he said “squeaky cheese”’. Still, I took it and bit. And yes, it was squeaky. Each bite was accompanied by a little squeak that a mouse would make. I found that far funnier than I should have. I was tired.

One event stood out as a possibility, the Marathon du Medoc. This is a fancy dress themed marathon, with multiple wine and food stops, around the vineyards of Medoc. It appeals to us on many levels. However we knew that Nicola, Warren’s partner, would want to attend even though she’s not a runner. So I suggested that if she came she could hire a car to drive between the umpteen wine stops to join us, give us moral support etc. Warren’s look of derision said “what, drive and not drink while we run and do?”

Clearly I was very tired.

London Run the River 10k - September 2016

Tuesday 6th September at 7pm was the big show-down - me versus a work colleague for the unofficial ICICI Bank running crown. We run around 6k together most Monday lunchtimes, and we seem fairly evenly matched. Sometimes I have bad days (“my legs feel heavy”), sometimes he does (“I went to the rugby yesterday”) and on those days we have what we euphemistically call ‘recovery runs’.

We’ve raced each other twice. For the last two years he’s beaten me at the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge*. Though this year I was the Bank’s fastest runner, he didn't take part through illness. So on to the Teach First Run the River 10k that we had both entered. Could I get revenge over a longer distance? The start is by Tower Bridge, then the 3,000 or so runners go to Blackfriars Bridge, cross it, run back to Southwark Bridge, cross that, go back to Tower Bridge, cross that again and end by City Hall.

We’d agreed that we’d start at the same time, and run together for the most part, but towards the end all bets were off and we would race for the line. Where ‘towards the end’ was was up to each of us to decide.

On the day of the race:

Him: "I haven't run a long distance in ages, been away in India all last week, you'll win, no problem."

Me: "On Sunday I ran 15k in the Swiss hills, not good preparation for a fast 10k tonight. I'll probably be struggling for stamina later on."

The pair of us – mind games or getting in our excuses early?

Anyway, as the race kicked off we ran together comfortably, and I was giving our times at each km marker (we were consistently just under 5 minutes per km, which boded well for a sub 50 minute 10k.).

Then at around the 8km mark I start to think race strategy, as I sense he's breathing heavily. Can I do a long drag at a higher pace to drop him? Shortly after that thought a faster runner passes us, so I latch on to his shoulder and accelerate. My colleague follows easily. I ease off, deciding that that strategy won't work. I'll have to rely on a sprint finish, I think. I play five a side football a few times a week, and that should give me the ability to do a short dash away from him close to the line.

However, at around the 9km marker he decides to up the pace. I react, and follow. We turn into Shad Thames for the final straight, running quite fast but I'm happy at that speed. I know I have a short burst of acceleration left in me.

Then disaster. As we run from under Tower Bridge there is a small turn to the right and I get baulked by two slow runners I hadn't spotted. He gets a 7 or 8 metre lead, and is off. I dig deep. "He hasn't dropped me for speed" I tell myself. "It was an unintentional block. I can still keep up”. I get back to him, but I can feel I'm in the red. For a few moments I try to relax (!) and get ready for the last push.

With less than 50 metres to go there’s a sharp left and then up a small ramp to the finish. I go for it. He's surprised, as he thought he'd dropped me, and he can't react quickly enough. I cross the line in 48'46", and he finishes a few moments later. I was almost caught, as yards from the line I eased up thinking I'd done it.

Almost caught, but not quite.

*This is a 5.6 km race around Battersea park for firms in the financial services industry in London, and for the last 2 years our bank has had over 60 entrants. It is run over 2 evenings, with around 15,000 runners each day.

Eroica Hispania - June 2016

I’ve been to both the original Italian Eroica vintage cycling event, at Gaiole in the heart of Chianti land, and the British version in Bakewell, the Peak district, so when I heard of a Spanish one based around the vineyards of Rioja I had to attend. It was bound to be great, wasn’t it? 

Once again I roped in a friend to join me, we sorted out our vintage bikes (mine was my father’s Raleigh from the late 70s partly restored to its former glory, the other – less so).

So early June on a Friday afternoon we flew into Bilbao, picked up the hire car, and set off for LaGuardia about 100km away, close to Cinicero where the start was. The route was simply beautiful. The weather was glorious. The hotel was reached, bikes put together, and as it was late had dinner at the hotel. The food and wine was delicious. I had a good feeling about the event.

Which lasted until we got to Cinicero the next morning to register. Whereas Gaiole and Bakewell are extremely pretty villages, Cinicero was simply a fairly standard suburban town with little or no charm. Nor was there a centre, really, where all the riders could congregate. So whilst at the other places I mentioned above it was obvious there was a major cycling event going on, here there was little or no evidence. 

The locals had wine tasting on offer. But unlike Italy where an enormous tent had been erected, and the vineyards had come to town, we had to choose a vineyard to visit. So we didn’t. I guess that lead to a poor decision, namely having a lunch that started at 2pm and finished around midnight. Neither of us recall what and where we ate at the end of the lunch.

 Morning came, and with fuzzy heads set off for the start line a few km away. At 9am we were the only two starters. I couldn’t tell if we were amongst the first, or the last, to set off. Still, off we were, with a mere 90k to cover on a mixture of tarmac and gravelly type roads. It was hot. And sunny. 

After around 10km it became apparent we’d lost the route. Unbelievable. My friend’s bike had a mechanical. When we turned a corner and came across LaGuardia, which should not have been on our route so early, my friend called it a day. A dodgy bike, coupled with dodgy route markings and a dodgy head meant another 80km could not be faced. So he simply stopped at our hotel to relax in the sun with a hair of the dog.

YI carried on to find the event’s food stop in LaGuardia to try and figure out where I was on the route and what had gone wrong. Another disappointment. One  tiny table, gels, bananas and water. I thought back to the other Eroica events, and metaphorically shed a little tear.

However, I did find out that somehow I was on the second half of the long route, with around 80km still to go. So rather than backtrack and start again (after all, I was there to cycle these roads, didn’t really matter which ones) I would carry on. The signposting left a lot to be desired. In one example the riders were directed to a village, but not out of it. Since there were three roads leading out it was trial and error to find the right one. It was there, too, that I met Jan, who turned out to be the organiser of the UK Eroica, and his friends who had also got lost in the same way we had. That actually relieved me, as I was wondering if the after effects of yesterday’s lunch had caused the error.

In another, much larger town, once again I couldn’t find the route, which was supposedly spray painted onto the road. By then I was with some other riders and we split up, with the first to find the route to shout out (as it wasn’t built up we could still see each other). I found it, shouted back and they promptly called out to yet another group who were heading off in the wrong direction.

The final leg of the ride was hard. The combination of hills, lack of gears (6 speed bike) and yesterday’s lunch all combined to make me suffer. I stopped only because I saw a photo opportunity for the bike (see below!). That taken care of, I got back on the bike and rode to the finish. 

There I perked up a bit. I was presented with a bottle of Rioja, but then collapsed at a bar. I sat there for too long, drinking iced tea, as I started to seize up. Still, nothing that another superb meal couldn’t fix. So it was back on the bike to get back to the hotel, and it was then that I saw how we’d got lost initially. On leaving Cinicero we should have turned left just outside the town. However, the sign highlighting the turning was small, and on the left side of a 4 lane carriageway. No wonder, riding on the right, it had been missed.

So overall I’d score the event only a 5/10. Yes it is beautiful, yes some of their Strade Bianchi were great to ride on. But if the sense of occasion is missing, then there’s little reason to go back.

Still, it was only their second year, I believe. It can only get better…

The Velominati Cogal - April 2016

The Velominati, the Keepers of the Cog. They are the curators of The Rules, an evolving text concerning Cyclists sent down by the cycling Gods for us mere mortals to read, digest, follow and laugh at. A secretive organisation found on the interweb by visiting www.velominati.com. 

At the heart of the tome is the need to Look Fantastic when on a bike. Because to Look Fantastic is to Go Fast. The reverse does not apply. Occasionally a follower will make a suggestion that a Cogal be performed, a day long ride whereby the Velominati who only know each other as internet handles can actually meet up and, er, ride. A date and route is selected by a random follower (normally a minimum of 130km), and then the wondering starts – who will turn up?

An announcement was made – April 9^th, a tour around the Chiltern Hills and a designated coffee house at Gerrards Cross for the obligatory pre-ride espresso. Finally I could attend a Cogal. The previous UK based ones (Scotland, Shropshire and Surrey) couldn’t be but for this one I was good to go. A promise of a Casually Deliberate ride (23/24 kmn/h on the flats), some small hills in the Chilterns, and a route of ‘only’ 107km – what could go wrong?

Eight riders met at the appointed café, and immediately I relaxed – I wasn’t the only one who doesn’t shave my legs which is in direct contravention of Rule 33. I was also in the minority in having the decreed coffee. Though thankfully I didn’t hear the dreaded words ‘skinny latte’. We are not barbarians, after all.

Put a bunch of Velominati together coming out of winter and 23/24km/h is simply, how can I put it, too slow. My bike computer only worked intermittentl, but when it did it kept showing 28, 30 and more (on the flats!). Surely some mistake? Small hills? To be fair ChrisO, Greg and Ephraim went up them as though they were mere speed bumps to be negotiated. For me, however, it was a case of head down, work hard, and see what happens.

What happened is that midway through the ride and halfway up the longest uphill of the day I missed a turning, and promptly lost the group. I was far enough behind the “grimpeurs” that I didn’t see them make the turn, and far enough in front of the “I climb well for my weight” group that they didn’t see me go straight on. They had GPS to guide them. 

When I realised at the next major junction that I was alone I headed back down the hill. A third of the way down I reached a cross road with yet another steep climb off it that I felt sure had to be the route – after all, that had been the theme of the day. “At all junctions pick the one with the steepest incline” could have been the route instructions. Mobile phones were invented for cyclists, to allow them to regroup. So a quick call later I met up with ChrisO, and promptly wheel-sucked him back to the rest as a) I was shagged after the extra up and down hilling and b) he’s a monster on a bike.

Another highlight of the day was getting a speed wobble on probably the steepest descent. It was interesting. The gravelly lane was a car width wide, pot-holed, wet and greasy. The vibrations from the handlebars meant I could barely see anything, which didn’t help me in trying to figure out how to scrub speed without hitting anything or locking. I’m so glad the car that came up the hill did so after I’d managed to halt still upright.

Bikes were a great mix of ultra-light all carbon affairs to a beautiful steel Peugeot. Rule violations? Sure, some, but you know what? The spirit of the rules was there in abundance. Would I do another Cogal?

Hell yeah!! Apart from anything else, it was easily the quickest group ride I'd ever done.