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.

The London 10k Winter Run - Jan 2016

The Cancer Research 10k Winter Run

I had had a good winter by my standards, training wise. I’d kept on the football, ran a bit, not over indulged at Christmas and when I saw that there was to be a 10k on closed roads in central London at the end of January I entered immediately.

It looked like a very good route. Starting in Westminster we would head out on a loop past some of London’s most famous landmarks including The London Eye, St Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben, Tower of London and Trafalgar Square. It was a reasonably flat course, so I was determined to go under 50 minutes. My personal best was 49’54” set back in 2012. How hard could it be to knock a few seconds off that?

As it was a winter run, it was important not to get cold before the start. However, being a dry winter day there was no way I could run with multiple layers on. The solution, provided by the organisers, was to have collection bins for unwanted clothes. So just before the start we could remove an old t-shirt or two, drop them in the bins, and they’d be collected for charity.

Then I had a stroke of luck. I was chatting to a girl on the start line, and we got to mentioning times. She was aiming for 47 or 48 minutes. She also looked very much like an athlete, and sounded confident, and so I figured she was probably going to achieve that. I mumbled something about her pacing me to a personal best, and she agreed on the proviso I ran at a regular pace and didn’t talk during the run. Both were fine by me.

I set my watch to show my time per km, did some last minute stretches, and then we were off. Then decided to ignore my watch and just to stick with my pacer. Aging eyesight meant it was hard to see its face anyway, with the numbers too small to read while running.  Being the Winter Run the organisers had helpfully scattered some snow machines along the route, which was fun in a way. I settled into the groove, and decided my body was feeling good and that if she was on the correct pace it could get interesting. After 4k she muttered “just under 20minutes”. Keeping that going would mean a sub 50, but by how much?

A little while later we started on a long downhill section, so I thought I’d speed up a little. Get some free yards in. This did not make my pacer happy, as she demanded I slowed. “Don’t blow up” she advised.

I did as I was told, and carried on. The 7 and 8 km markers came and went, and still my legs felt good even if a bit tired. On to the Strand, for the last bit. At the 9km marker I still had form, and started to accelerate a bit. Then she told me just to run as hard as I could without going into the red, until the last 100 meters or so, and then “you should break 50 minutes”.

That was what I wanted to hear, so I pushed on. Coming into Trafalgar Square I saw the finish line and really pushed hard. I crossed the line, almost collapsed, and tried to stop my watch. And failed*. So I had no clue as to my time, which was frustrating to say the least. However, my pacer finished shortly after me and said that according to her watch she’d broken 50 minutes, meaning I had to. I was happy.

I then went to retrieve my sports bag from the bag drop area, to get into some fresh post-run clothes. As I got out my phone, I received a text from the race organisers with the official time 47’30”.

I was now very happy.

*I used the watch only once more in a race, the British 10k later that summer. It was a Suunto T5, and frankly the illogical button usage, the small font, and the weird way it displays information (or rather, the difficulty of switching between elapsed time and pace which are the two key bits of data I like) drove me nuts. So after I completed the summer 10k, again in the dark re time and pace, I saw a TomTom stand doing a deal on their GPS enabled Runner 2 watch, with cardio and music built in. 

It is superb.

Large font, easy to scroll between different info, space for 300 songs or so, measures my heart-rate, all for £149.