Eroica Britannia - Jun 2015

Eroica Britannia June 2015

http://eroicabritannia.co.uk/

Eroica. The Italian for heroic. The name given to a cycling event that started over 20 years ago as a few mates cycling around the old roads in the heart of Tuscany on vintage steel bikes, and now attracts over 5,000 riders from across the globe to do the same. It is not a race, more a celebration of cycling, and Tuscany culture. For that reason energy gels and power bars are not present at food stops along the route. Wine, hams, fruit, cakes, breads and olive oil are.

A few years ago four friends from the UK were taking part and on the last night, in a bar, looked at each other and said “This is good”. Another responded, no doubt fuelled by the Chianti, “we should have one in the UK. We’re from the Peak district, we have great roads, the UK is turning to cycling”. And so yet another gem of an idea was born.

Luckily these guys were all businessmen, and so what could have been a typical mates late night boozy chat ended up being executed, and in 2014 the first Eroica UK was run. On exactly the same lines as the Tuscany one. So naturally I had to compare. Stephen and I signed up, and we were good to go. We were a little slow off the mark in entering, and couldn’t find a decent B&B anywhere near Bakewell, the heart of the event. So I proposed we camp.

Stephen was very dubious. He’s not a camper. Even my pointing out the tent was a luxury 4 man one, with blow up mattresses and, more crucially, a few yards from the festival beer tent was not pacifying him. Still, after a few beers I was sure he’d be OK.

Following the Italian Eroica where I’d ridden my dad’s old Raleigh I’d decided to properly refurbish it for this event. While there weren’t going to be inspectors every few bikes, the care and love that riders had put into having their steeds look magnificent had put my ‘wipe it down, put some oil on the chain’ effort to shame.

So after some new bits and elbow grease (mainly from Vincini Cycles, Upminster it has to be said) the old Raleigh looked almost showroom new and I was heartened to hear Stephen had sorted his old Ribble out too after his Italian escapade. This had all the makings of another glorious weekend, involving a beer, wine, bikes and food.

Then a couple of days before going Stephen crashed his bike, breaking his foot. Walking, let alone cycling, was out. Now, while I don’t mind solitude, driving up to the Peak district, riding around alone, then returning without a partner in crime didn’t really appeal.

Luckily, though, I also own a Guv’nor bike, and I knew there were going to be a lot of riders there with the same bike, riding together. So a quick email off to the owners club confirmed that they are not an exclusive group, told me a meeting time and place (by the beer tent no less!) and I was happy.

My next issue to solve quickly was that one cannot ride a 1930’s style path racer wearing lycra, even of the 1970’s vintage. So a quick purchase of some plus4s, appropriate shoes and I was finally ready.

Saturday was a blur. Drove up, sorted the tent, registered, got changed, explored the festival grounds and met the guys at the appointed place. If you like village festivals with stalls selling ‘the best of British’, along with various cycling related bits and pieces, and hearty food, and the most bizarre Hendricks Gin bar, and fun fairs, and dressing up competitions, old fashioned games, and beer tents, and humour, and music then Eroica in Bakewell is for you. If you don’t, well, I guess you won’t be reading this.

Sunday morning came too quickly. I roused, got on my bike, and pedalled off to the start, and met up with the guys ready to cycle 55 miles around the Peak District. Getting back to clothes – most of them were wearing the Guvnors Assembly woollen cycling top, which I must admit looked good. I, however, in my plus 4s and tweed waistcoat, looked different. So I was called Captain Poldark for the duration of the ride. Now whilst I’d like to take that as a compliment it was more likely due to the alcohol intake caused the guys to forget my name. No matter, it could have been worse.

The ride was superb. Mixture of paths and roads, flat and steep. Part of the route followed the Monsal trail, an old railway line that had been converted to a footpath. The food stops were predictably excellent. OK, no Chianti, but there was beer, specially brewed for the event. Of course Bakewell tarts were in abundance.

The ride was also leisurely. The Guv’nor itself does not lend itself to blasting around the countryside, and the group ‘never leaves anyone behind’ whether due to punctures (only a couple suffered) or tiredness (more than a couple suffered).

Chatting to one of the Guv’nors it turned out he’d come from Zurich to take part. Not for him the comfort of a flight, or train. No, he’d jumped on his bike a week earlier, pointed it North by North West and pedalled. A lot. He only had one problem during the ride up. Not owning a mobile he was reliant on payphones to report back home, and they are few and far between these days. And yes, he was pedalling back to Switzerland.

The final feast stop was in the grounds of Chatsworth House. Oh my! The good people of Rapha were on hand to supply us with a glass of champagne, which we downed with some local ice cream and, of course, more Bakewell tarts. As I said, not an energy gel in sight.

And thence back to the festival grounds, to have the obligatory photo, the post ride refreshment (tea and cakes) and relaxation. All too soon the tent was packed up, the bike loaded on the car, and I was back on the motorway.

So how did it compare to Eroica Tuscany? In terms of atmosphere, the ride, the friendliness, the organisation, it was right up there, no question. Except for me, Tuscany is marginally more beautiful than the Peak District and I prefer Chianti to beer so for those reasons Eroica Tuscany wins. Just.

You remember the 4 guys I mentioned at the top of this blog? Well, there was also a small group of Spaniards taking part, who also got talking in a bar. And they too have set up the same event, this time in the heart of Rioja.

And that gives me a thought……..

Berlin Half Marathon - Mar 2015

Berlin 2015

Ah Berlin. Another city I’d never visited that conjures up all sort of images just by saying the word, Berlin. Think Robert Ludlum novels. Or Bond films. Think the ultimate cold war East v West meeting point. The Stasi. And Berlin was the next stop on Warren and I’s European tour to run half marathons.

I was feeling particularly nervous. I hadn’t trained for two months. This isn’t the usual ‘oh, should have done more’ story, no. Two months earlier my body was doing something wrong. A few weeks of mis-diagnosis was followed by surgery. After that I was not allowed to do any form of exercise until I was fully healed. So the net result was when we landed I had done no running, played no football, ridden no bike, swum no lengths and played no tennis for fully 2 months. My clearance to run from the doc was given the day before we took off.

Still, how hard can it be to knock out a half?

Stasi HQ

Unusually for us we’d taken the services of a firm called Running Crazy to organise hotels, entry etc, and they were excellent. We were met at the airport, handed travel cards for the metro, directions to the hotel and told to rendezvous for a meal on Saturday night. There were around 20 runners running with Running Crazy, but one sub- group stood out. A year or so earlier this group of 8 or 9 runners had never run, and had met at a local Park Run. The old boy leading the group had encouraged the motley crew to push during the year so they could all do a half, and he’d guide them in Berlin as he’s been stationed there in the 60’s.

Off we went to the Expo to collect the entry to find it was held in the old West Berlin airport. Immediately recognisable from umpteen movies, it still evoked the feel of old Berlin despite it having shut down many years earlier.

Russian War Memorial

We then headed off to meet an old friend of Warren’s who just happened to be living in Berlin with his wife. And that’s where the trouble started as one of his friends was opening a bar that evening and we were invited to go. Let’s just say the plan of an early night after a couple of beers was swiftly consigned to the bin.

Saturday came and we went to explore Berlin on a couple of rented bikes. This won’t turn into a travelogue so I’ll just say we saw bits of the old Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the old Stasi headquarters, the Russian built War Memorial and Steel Vintage Bikes, a café that sells, well, steel vintage bikes. Nothing like a clear name to tell you what the shop does, eh?

Is this called Brutalist Architecture?

The Stasi HQ was eye opening. It also looked like the staff had moved out a week earlier. A fascinating fact – at the height of the cold war the Stasi encouraged people to be informers on fellow citizens who were having, let’s say, western thoughts. On the fall of the Berlin wall, records reveal that in one town that had a population of just over 32,000 over a quarter were registered informers.

We also found an interesting road, a wide boulevard that was symmetrical for about a mile. Whatever building was on the left was duplicated on the right. I’ve never seen such a road anywhere else. I assumed they saved on architect fees.

That evening we met up with the Running Crazy crowd for a bowl of pasta and some mineral water before going to bed early. No, not really – it was a couple of bottles wine but it was reasonably early night by our standards.

Yes, that's a naked man with a horse's head.
You are not stoned

Sunday, and race time. I knew it was going to hurt. So when the gun went I just said to Warren that he should head off at his pace while I would settle into a jog. And hope. My basic plan was to jog as far as I could, then walk, then jog etc. One thing I will say for the Berlin race was the crowds. At around the 15 or 16k mark my legs were gone, but I couldn’t face walking with all those people cheering us on. So I’d mutter ‘shut up legs, you can walk once we get to the next km marker’ and carry on. And then repeat the admonishment at the next marker. Amazingly I got to the end without walking – all due to the embarrassment factor of not wanting to walk in front of the general public.

Time was not important for this jaunt, though for the record Warren beat me by over 20 minutes. However, I was simply pleased to have got through the run unscathed.

I seem to recall the rain came then, so Warren & I found a bar/restaurant not far from the finish to settle down.

And I don’t recall much after that.

Istanbul Run - Nov 2014

Istanbul 2014

Istanbul. Istanbul. I have to write it at least twice, for there are few better words that conjure up in readers’ minds thoughts and feelings than Istanbul. Just the way the word rolls off the tongue is enough to bring up images of East meets West, of romance, of passion, of bygone days. It belongs with Marrakech, Berlin, Buenos Aries and Venice in triggering primeval reactions in the mind of anybody with a soul.

On a personal level I recall my parents coming back from there 30 odd years ago and my dad declaring it the best city break he’d ever been on. Bearing in mind he was extremely well travelled and loved Europe (and in particular Italy) that was praise indeed. Coupled with the knowledge that the Bosphorus Bridge connects Asia and Europe and races are held that start on one side and end on the other that meant Istanbul had to be ‘done’.

Looking up race details that presented a problem, as for some reason the race distances were a marathon, 15k, 10k and a fun run. No Half marathon. Still, the problem was easily solved. A marathon is simply too far, 10k is not worth jetting to Asia for, so 15k it was.

Once again Ryanair was booked and we flew out there on a Friday afternoon. A hotel was booked just off Taksim Square, as that was where a cavalcade of buses were to take us to Asia (!) on Sunday morning to start the race.

On dumping the bags and heading off we knew we’d struck gold in the location. It was in the heart of restaurant land. And what a heart. Forget the various somewhat dodgy kebab shops you see in Wood Green North London – these ones just demand a visit. More than one.

We wandered off to the largest souk in Europe. Again, words fail me when trying to describe the sights and sounds of the bazaar. It was comparable to Marrakech’s, but there was a European feel in that the sellers were more humorous in trying to get us to buy. “Please don’t break my plastic heart!” was one particular phrase that stuck with me.

We wandered off to see the Blue Mosque. Stunning.

Then we wandered off for dinner, in a small street by Taksim Square, which has to rank as one of the best meals of my life. What is impossible to convey in a blog post is the atmosphere of a place. For example, three couples came in to have dinner together, but the three women sat at one table, the guys at another. The sense was NOT men and women shouldn’t eat together, more of the women saying ‘let the men eat over there so they can talk football while we’ll sit here and chat about important things’.

A diner wanted fish, so the waiter went across the road to a fishmonger and returned with a selection of fish the diner could choose from.

The waiter wanted more business so persuaded a very attractive customer who was part of a small group to stand on the street with him to entice more people in.

A passing 3 person band stopped by and sang songs which the various tables joined in with, and then left without asking for money, implying they were a bunch of mates who wanted to amuse themselves by playing music and not for getting cash.

The food itself was my idea of perfection. Grilled meats and fish, salads, and rice.

And possibly wine. I seem to remember wine.

Sunday morning arrived all too soon and 15,000 people descended on Taksim Square to be ferried to the start in Asia (!). All well organised. As I stood there on the start line I pondered on the smallness of the world when budget airlines had taken me to three continents to run races during 2014 – Africa, Asia and Europe. That was still tickling me as the gun went and we were off.

I say off – any reader who runs these races knows that for the first 100/200 metres over the start line it is basically a walk/jog because of other runners. Here it lasted well over a km, as we were herded from the full width of the dual carriageway to just two lanes over the bridge, plus the sheer number of runners that stopped to take selfies on the bridge was astonishing (and effectively caused roadblocks).

The course was not a great one, it has to be said. After we’d left Asia (!) and crossed into Europe (dear reader, you have no idea how much I love writing that) and ran a few more km the finish line was in sight. Unfortunately we then had to turn away from it, run close to 5k and then turn round.

A lot of runners

Still, that created a first. A guy ahead of me ducked under the rope, and headed back early. Runners on that side started fighting with him, telling him to get back and to run the proper distance!

The only other thing to mention on the run was that my third 5k was the quickest of the three. That was not down to a superb training regime but the difficulties of starting the running. The whole thing was done in 1h24, which is not a great time but acceptable under the conditions.

Now that the excuse for visiting Istanbul was out of the way it was time for another lunch and another wander. I judge cities on their wanderability. Taking Venice out of the equation as it is unbeatable Istanbul is right up there. The sights, sounds, monuments. Some had cautioned us about going to a Muslim country but to be frank you can’t tell. In no way would I call Istanbul a Muslim city if the number of headscarves worn is an indicator. Probably half a dozen? No issues in drinking in restaurants, so I’d say there are Muslims in Istanbul but not in the way Morocco is.  Zero habibs/haqiqs.

I should mention the rain. It kind of rained most of the weekend, but it was a strange sort of rain. It was as though the clouds were saying “I want to rain down, but, I’m not sure. Here’s a drop. Or two. No, can’t be bothered. Oh, OK, you’ve got an umbrella up, I’ll send another drop. But not too many, or too often, otherwise more umbrellas will go up and I’ll have to properly rain. Which I can’t be arsed to do.” It was weird, as it went on like that for most of the weekend.

No write-up of Istanbul would be complete without mentioning Turkish Delights. Forget the ones one gets at Christmas in the UK, just enter any one of the dedicated sweet shops that sell so many variations on theme. All supremely delicious.

One of the sights I was desperate to see were the ancient basilica cisterns that were built in the 6^th century BC and have appeared in classic movies ever since film was invented. Sadly the timing of the wandering was such that when we arrived they were closed, and early flights the next day precluded another visit.

Still, never mind. Just means I have to go back.

50km Thames Path Challenge - Sep 2014

For years I’ve thought that one of the best ways to discover the true character of anyone is to get drunk with them. Well, slightly less drunk so you can observe properly. 10p Mark is proof positive – that’s a story to be shared over a pint and not a blog. Another school of thought is to get exhausted through a physical challenge, and maybe that thought lay at the heart of the 2014 ICICI Bank Senior Manager Challenge.

This was to walk 50km from Runnymede to Henley along the river Thames. 50km! The furthest I’ve ever run is 22km. On the other hand, I’ve knocked out 100km plus sportives on a bike so how hard could it be to walk, I stress walk, 50km?

So one Sunday in June five senior managers from ICICI Bank congregated on the start line to commence the walk. I can’t really add much to the photos – we simply walked and walked along the river and it was beautiful. There were a handful of food stops, and they had great treats for us.

At least, I can’t until we got to approximately 38km in and it changed from being 'a walk in the park' to ‘becoming an effort’. At this point muscles were groaning, blisters were forming, and boredom was setting in. Just how many cute fields and gorgeous houses are there alongside the Thames?

It was odd; my legs were seriously complaining and all I’d done was walk, albeit a fair distance. Anyway, at this point I noticed that about 100 yards ahead of me was another guy from the bank who’d put a bit of a push on. I decided to catch him up by jogging (for the first time that day). And as I did so I had a kind of epiphany. All the pain went from my legs, and I caught him in seconds. As I caught him I decided to keep going as there was a food stop a few km up the path. How could it be easier to run than to walk after 38km? This was strange.

At the pit-stop I grabbed some food, and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. When they did, I quietly mentioned to the experienced walker in our group, Layth, the lack of pain that my last 2km jog/run had caused. When we came to leave for the last leg I felt a dilemma. Walking with the others was causing significant pain, but to start running now after 40km would basically be showing off, as most of the others in the group didn’t have decent fitness levels and wouldn’t be able to join me.

Luckily Layth came to the rescue by announcing that he and I would from now on be running as we wanted to beat 8 hours for the challenge. Praise be – we ran off. Incredible but true – after 40km it was easier to run (slowly) than it was to walk.

When we got to Henley I had a fit of the giggles. As the walk was alongside the river, the course was basically flat. However at Henley the organisers clearly hadn’t obtained the rights to go through the centre so we had to bypass the town. That involved a very steep hill. 


I haven’t mentioned it, but on the same day there was a 100km Thames Path Challenge involving runners. What sort of sadist organises a running race of 100km where the first 98km are flat, and the last two involve a ridiculous hill?

We saw some poor suffering souls on that hill – I didn’t have the heart to get out my camera. My sadistic side rose to the fore as I wanted to wait and watch a few more runners appear, and to laugh at their expressions when they saw the hill.

My better nature prevailed, and Layth and I simply finished the walk and drank some beers. And enjoyed the extra 30 minutes drinking time we had over the others as they continued to walk.

And wondered what the 2015 Senior Manager Challenge would be.

"Never Go Back" Marrakech - Jan 2014

“Never go back”

A year earlier I’d gone to Marrakech with Warren, an old friend, to take part in their half marathon, set around the historic Medina, the orange groves and gardens. It proved to be such a superb weekend that we’d vowed to return. The return would also allow Warren a chance to gain revenge in terms of the race.

So once again on a miserable January Friday afternoon we took off from Gatwick for Morocco and the winter sun. We’d made some changes for this trip. Instead of a fairly standard international hotel we’d booked the Riad Charai, a traditional Moroccan guest house (www.riadcharai.com).

Words, especially my words, cannot do justice to the gem we found ourselves staying in. You knock on a nondescript wooden door in the wall in a random alley, and enter an oasis of calm, beauty and serenity. The transformation between the hustle of a Moroccan street market area and the Riad is remarkable. The short walk to the pool from reception is lined with orange trees. I will say no more. Interested readers can follow the link above.

What we didn’t change, however, was the first night’s restaurant. A beautiful location above a carpet ‘shop’, tented and heated overlooking the Medina. And the food is pretty good too.

The climate in Marrakech was as last year’s – daytime temperatures peak in the low to mid 20’s, but falls quickly at dusk to mid single digits. As such small heaters are needed to be comfortable eating outdoors. And eating outdoors is one of the experiences that make Marrakech such a great place to visit.

As last year, Saturday morning was spent wandering around the old souk. We also were given a tour of the tannery, complete with Moroccan gas marks - bunches of mint held to our noses. I felt like a character out of an E M Forster novel, but to be truthful, I didn't care - the smell was unbelievable.

The afternoon, however, was an improvement in that we spent it lounging on the Riad’s sun terraces ‘getting some rays’. In the distance we could see the snow capped Atlas mountain range. We were told that a ski resort is only an hour’s drive away.

Sunday morning – race day. Being honest, my training had not gone to plan. I hadn’t stuck to the schedule during November and December. In early January a family holiday and a business trip to India further interrupted training. Still, I wasn’t unfit, and I’d done it before. How much harder could it be?

From the Riad we took a short taxi ride to the starting area and at 9.15 we were off. Warren set the pace, and it was a comfortable one. As before there were thousands of runners, and it was a good kilometre before we had enough space around us to simply get in the groove. The route was basically a loop around the medina, passing through orange groves, various gardens, main roads, paths etc.

After a while I looked at my watch and saw that we’d been running for and hour and 10 minutes. I felt fine, frankly, and checked with Warren that my watch was, indeed, correct. It was, and he said that we’d covered over 13 km.

“Great”, I replied, “we’re well on the home straight”. I started to think about the finish, and should I say to Warren at the 1 km to go marker: “we’re racing each other from here, aren’t we?”

Hubris*

That’s the only, the perfect, word for it. For a couple of km later my stomach sent me a small signal to say that it was there. And my legs started to let me know that maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t enough gas in the tank.

The run then took on a yoyo type quality, with Warren starting to edge a few yards ahead, and I would do a short sprint to catch up. At the 17.5 km marker my stomach sent a much stronger signal that it was there, and my legs refused to close the gap to Warren.

When his lead stretched to 100 yards and my legs going I had to focus less on racing him, and much more on an impending Paula Radcliffe moment. I walked a bit. I jogged a bit. The cramps were really focussing my attention, and I stopped looking at runners, the crowds etc. I was only looking for one thing. I turned a corner, and bliss – a hotel!

A few minutes later I was back on course. The legs were still grumbling, and a walk/jog to the finish was all they would let me do. Last year’s time of 1h 54 was safe. This year I took just over 2 hours. Warren finished in 1h 53. As an aside, one of the fringe benefits of doing this race is the incredible post race nectarines and dates that are given to finishers. The nectarines are simply the juiciest, tastiest ones I’ve ever had.

Post race we walked slowly to the same restaurant as last year – a Lebanese place serving mixed meze and beer in a sun trap. We followed lunch with a few drinks on the sun terrace back at the Riad before heading out for the evening.

More Moroccan wine was drunk, and during the evening we realised that if we’d listened to the naysayers who trumpet “never go back” then this weekend, that had been even more spectacular than last year’s, would never have happened.

And we also realised that the race scores for the Marrakech event now stood at one apiece.

Isn’t there a man rule that says “Decider, 2015”?

*Hubris (/ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις), means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities

L'Eroica, Tuscany - Oct 2013

In 1997 an idea was born, and 82 friends and acquaintances came together to realise it. Namely, to celebrate the history and culture of bikes in Italy by spending the day riding vintage bikes (pre 1987) around the Strade Bianchi (“white roads”) of Tuscany, starting in Gaiole, Chianti. The Strade Bianchi are the white gravelled roads that link the minor B roads of that region, typically through the area’s many vineyards.

Clearly the event was a success for the original 82, as they, and more, returned the next year. And the next. This growth continued until a cap of 5000 (of which 2000 places are reserved for non-Italians) had to be placed on the number of riders that could turn up, as the village of Gaiole was getting swamped. Being Italy, this cap is flexible. If you are a woman, you have a place. If you are over 65, you have a place. Still, what’s a few over the limit between friends?

Unsurprisingly the quota isn’t sufficient for the demand, so a ballot system was introduced. A friend of mine, Stephen (a bluff, Old School, Ulsterman given to heavy swearing and boozing between bouts of surprisingly informed academic conversation © Stephen) and I (silver tongued, multilingual, suave, aesthete and bon viveur © Stephen) were successful in applying earlier this year. So flights were booked, bike travel bags purchased, car hire arranged and visas obtained from our better halves.

We both had pre 1987 bikes. Mine belonged to my dad, who bought it around 1980, and I’ve been using it regularly for the last few years. My mum even dug out my dad’s old cycling top so I would also have something vintage to wear. Stephen’s bike was bought off eBay. His top half kit was a very beautiful replica Eroica shirt. I won’t make any comments on his choice of apparel for his lower half.

There are 4 routes that cyclists can take – 35km, 75km, 135km or 205km, and we only had to choose the route on the day of registration. While preparing to go to Italy we could not decide on whether we should simply potter around the 75km one, or make a bit 

of an effort and do the 135km. Obviously we ignored the shortest (hardly worth getting out of bed for) and the longest (we were there to enjoy ourselves after all!). In the end we decided that the weather, and how we felt, would determine which one we did. 

Saturday 5^th October saw us drive into Gaiole to find downpours of a biblical nature. Rivers of water were running down roads. Anyone without a brolly looked like a drowned rat. The stalls were deserted as the people hanging around the village were taking refuge in the wine tasting tent. Before we could join them, however, I insisted that we register. And that meant deciding which distance to ride.

We looked at the rain, heard that the next day showers were forecast, and looked at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to suggest that we do the shorter distance, so at the front of the queue we thought about “Rules 5 & 9” (© Velominati.com) and said loudly and clearly: “135km please”. Our route maps were handed out, along with the checkpoint marker document.

And then we made a bee-line for the wine tasting tent. We discovered that the entrance was 5 Euros – but for that we were given a beautiful wineglass, along with a handy neck pouch that could hold the glass in place should both hands be needed for something else, such as eating the wonderful cheeses and hams on offer. 

Many, many wines were sampled. Young Chiantis, more matured ones. Even a white Chianti. But there was no pressure to buy, which made the hour or so wandering around very enjoyable indeed. Whilst Stephen and I would have happily stayed there longer, it was now 6pm and I insisted that we return to our apartment to put the bikes together, for they were still in their travel bags.

I took the bike frame out, attached the wheels and put the pedals on. 10 minutes, job done. Turning around, I saw Stephen clutching the handle bars of his bike. “Er, Stephen, why are they not attached to the bike? And does that mean the brakes have been disconnected?”. “Yes, took them off to make it easier to pack. Oh, have you got a pedal spanner as I seem to have forgotten mine. And an Allen key, too……I need to decide which saddle to use.”

The apartment was in a vineyard, and they’d helpfully laid out different bottles of wine that they produced. I took one look at Stephen’s increasing pile of bike bits and tools, and cracked open a bottle. 

A couple of hours later we were ready to go for dinner. A small local restaurant was found, and a great meal was had, washed down with a carafe of the local house wine. We were back at the apartment at midnight, and we agreed to set alarms for 6.30am.              

We woke not to more rain but to a blue sky, with the odd scattered clouds. The Gods were smiling on us, and so we drove to Gaiole in a very good mood. We parked about 1km from the start, and pedalled into town. To discover that arriving at 8am meant we had several thousand cyclists in front of us, waiting to leave. Which meant that by the time we got to the exit gate it was 9am and the marshal informed us that we were too late to do the 135km route, and we’d have to do the 75km one. I think we were both secretly relieved, but of course we feigned disappointment.

However, we both quickly realised that actually it was the right distance. This was not a Sunday morning ride in Essex with friends. Almost every corner was yet another photo opportunity – either a vineyard, or a hill top village or a general landscape. This area is picture postcard Tuscany.

So all this meant that by midday we’d only covered 35km. It was then that our serene progress was halted by Stephen falling off his bike. Not going downhill at speed, but on a particularly steep uphill bit on a gravel road. To add to the indignity, the cyclist following him had his head down so failed to see a prostrate Stephen until it was too late, and ran into him.

Getting gingerly to his feet, blood pouring from both hands Stephen quickly self diagnosed a broken middle finger, possible broken wrist, and pain.

Luckily the first food stop was only a further 5km up the road, so we cycled there slowly. Stephen couldn’t easily go uphill, as he couldn’t grip the bars to get leverage on the steep bits. He couldn’t go downhill, either, because it was too painful to brake. Anyway, eventually we arrived and went to visit the paramedics. They confirm

ed Stephens’s diagnosis and stated that I should leave Stephen in a bar, go and get the car to pick Stephen up, and go immediately to the nearest A&E in nearby Sienna to get the hand x-rayed, as there was a possible wrist fracture too.

Stephen, as I knew he would, pooh-poohed the idea. The event was called l’Eroica which translates as The Heroic. Why should mere flesh wounds prevent him from finishing? So finish it we did, albeit slowly, getting to the finish line at 4.30pm. Probably the longest time we’ve ever taken ever to cover 75km.

In mitigation we did lose time to the injury. And the food stops. Because unlike most cycling events where the food on offer is water, bananas and energy gels, here in Tuscany it was wine, hams, salamis, cheeses, bread dipped in olive oils, cakes, fruits…….. It would have been rude just to grab a bite and leave so each stop was, well, let’s say prolonged.

              

Post ride Stephen was still reluctant to go to the hospital. Well, it was less reluctance to go, more he wanted to sit in a bar and drink well deserved ‘post ride malted recovery beverages’ (© Velominati.com).

So we did, until it got dark. Then we had to ride back to the car. The road was unlit, and the bikes had no lights. However, it was less than 1km to the car and there was a fair amount of traffic on the road so we felt it wasn’t that dangerous. We set off, me in the lead. After a few minutes of cycling I turned off the road towards the car park and arriving at the car turned to see no Stephen. I put the bike in the car, and drove out of the car park. 

At the junction I had to decide – turn right and go back to town as Stephen must have had a problem cycling and figured I’d go back for him? Or turn left as Stephen must have missed the turning to the brightly lit up car park?

I turned left. A couple of kilometres down the now pitch black road I see an unlit cyclist wobbling. Sure enough, he’d missed the turning. And tells me that since it was pitch black he’d cycled off the road a few times, and also got cramp for 10 minutes so had been sitting in the verge.

Still, he was rescued, and we returned to the apartment. We dumped the bikes, freshened up, and then returned to Gaiole for the final dinner of the event. And once again the food and wine did us proud. The weekend had been a physical and gastronomic treat for us.

On returning to the apartment we noticed that we’d only sampled one of the bottles left out for us. This seemed a shame, so another was opened. And when that was finished a third one was opened. The last one was the cheapest of the three, but frankly we couldn’t tell. They were all good.

Monday morning was a slow one. Bikes were packed away, the car loaded and goodbyes were said to our hosts. They told us that they also owned a tiny village at the top of the hill, which had a lookout tower with a 360 degree view of the area. So naturally we had to visit, and yet again the beauty of the Tuscan landscape blew us away.

We then headed off to Pisa to catch the flight home. Stephen’s hand still looked a disaster, and it had started to swell half way up his arm. Still, nothing that a few coffees couldn’t fix. On arrival at Pisa we had time to make a quick visit to the Leaning Tower, and came across it lit amazingly by the setting sun.

And thence to the airport, where once again Stephen’s propensity for error came through. He’d packed the special olive oils he’s bought as gifts in his hand luggage, and not the bike bags in hold. So yes, £50 worth of olive oils were confiscated as security risks.

On landing at Stanstead, at midnight, I urged Stephen not to go home but to go to his local A&E. It would be quiet at 1 am, so they’d be able to take a look.

Tuesday morning I received a text from him. They’d kept him in for keyhole surgery that morning, and hooked him up to an intravenous drip for some strong antibiotics. He was let out Wednesday evening.

So overall, the trip was superb. I was worried that there would be the Italian equivalents of adenoidal Englishmen say things like ‘that Raleigh model came out in August 1972 and the Shimano gear it has on was first made in September 1978 so your bike is not correct sir“ etc, etc. If there were any, we didn’t notice them.

I also learned that it is the sort of event that one would enjoy more the second time around, as the first trip is about learning the nuances, the timings etc. And that Tuscany really is as beautiful as the travel brochures make it out to be.

So all in all, only 1 question remains: will Stephen’s better half grant him another travel visa another year?

The Return to Grafham Water - Sep 2013

The Return to Grafham Water

September 2013

Some of you will remember that back in June I entered the standard distance triathlon at Grafham Water and had, to put it bluntly, a nightmare. The open water swim freaked me out, I drank too much of the lake, and that affected both the ride and, especially, the run. However, I AM A TRIATHLETE! I didn’t want to let that setback affect me as I knew most of my swim problems were mental, not physical. A few club members had sent me messages of support, a kind of ‘been there, done that, got the T shirt’ type of thing, which re-enforced my determination to return and to try again.

So on Sunday I returned to Grafham. Following my ‘oh my god’ note to the club coach Les had sent a mail with some open water advice, and I’d taken it on board. I’d swam at Lakeside a few times, got used to bodies swimming over me and not seeing my hands in the water. Special thanks to Liz R and Ricky who mentored me in my efforts (despite turning up with a white swim cap which denotes an expert!).

To cut a long story short, what happened this time? I swam the 1500m 10 minutes faster than in June. I left the water feeling good, and as a result was able to cycle quicker. And because my stomach was not full of Chateau Grafham Water I could run properly too.

In addition to the professional ones from Les may I offer my own tips for open water swimming, from a novice’s perspective?

1. Get in the water as soon as the referee allows, to get used to the cold. When I first got in I still had the “I can’t breathe!” moment as the water hit me. So I just lay on my back and felt the water flow over me, and relaxed. It didn’t take long to get the breathing under control.
2. Pull open your wetsuit from the neck and let the water get in, so the wetsuit can do its job to warm up the boundary layer. Very quickly the body stops feeling cold, and you can concentrate on your head. So…..
3. Dunk your head ten times to get used to the cold. I wore 2 caps – I cared not a jot that I was in the minority. But after 10 relaxed dunkings I found that physically I was in tune with the water and I could now concentrate on swimming.

I will end by saying that overall I was 30 minutes faster than in June, finishing in 2h 46m, despite not being appreciably fitter. OK, I didn’t trouble the leaderboard but if I can improve my time by such an extent simply by following some very simple advice from the experts we have at the club, then that gives me extra motivation to work hard over winter to carry on my improvement.

When is the next race at Grafham?