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.

Lisbon Half Marathon - Oct 2015

Lisbon 2015

As Warren and I descended into Lisbon on the next leg of our running tour I thought of the places we’d been. Marrakech, Istanbul, Berlin and now Lisbon. All places that when said together conjure up James Bond, Jason Bourne*, or any number of Robert Ludlum novels. Lisbon makes a guy have those sort of thoughts. Helped, no doubt, by the drinks in the private lounge at Stanstead before departure. But instead of us arriving in a private jet whilst being chased by sinister Russians and finding glamorous beauties to save us, we were delivered by Ryanair with no drama. 

Warren’s jet set job meant that he’d collected so many points on some reward scheme he has that we stayed at The Sheraton in a Club room. A word about bedrooms. Warren and I share twin rooms on our travels, and we are always amused to see how the rooms are prepared.

Marrakech round 1 was comical – the twin beds were pushed together and there were rose petals all over them. Ok...... Berlin – again the two single beds were pushed together. I insisted the beds were pushed apart and had a bed side cabinet placed between – I’m not having any unexpected bodily contact in the middle of the night should either of us ‘vigorously turn over’ while sleeping. I may be in touch with my metrosexual self but there are limits.

Lisbon took the prize, though. We entered the room and saw two single beds nicely separated, with no petals. So far, so good. I put my bag on the nearest one, and then noticed it was up against a glass wall. On the other side of the glass wall was the bath and shower. We looked at each other and had the same thought – wtf? I had visions of being woken to the sight of Warren scrubbing his bits and pieces inches from me. Nothing against Warren, but really.

There had to be a blind, and after some searching found it.  Also behind glass on the bath side. All that complication on the odd chance a couple get off on watching the other shower? Getting in at the same time I get – watching behind glass strikes me as pervy. Still, what do I know?

Lisbon is best described as a tired city. There is the old part; narrow cobbled streets full of tiny restaurants and bars that is simply charming and beautiful. The modern bit is, well, tired is the word. Almost everywhere could do with a lick of paint, or more renovation. Lovely atmosphere though.

Friday night was spent looking for a restaurant that had been recommended to us. It was found, and it was good. Since I can’t remember its name, nor exactly where it was, no more needs to be said. We then found a bar that had live music. I’ll be frank – we stayed far too long and drank far too much. Still, nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, right? We weren’t cured when we woke at 8. However, luckily for us, when we drew back the blinds there was a storm outside. Rather than face our hangovers in the cold and wet the blinds were simply lowered and another few hours was spent asleep.

God was smiling on us, as by midday we were cured and the storm had passed through. We just wandered the old town, had a few drinks, ate some good food, admired the magnificent square by the river and generally chilled. Dinner was a small square off one of the many many small lanes.

Another storm was forecast for the race day, but in the event it stayed away as when we woke we had an overcast sky, little wind and a cool temperature. We were bused to the start which was on the Vasco de Gama Bridge.

I have to say the run was miserable. If Marrakech is the prettiest course I’ve ever run, this one was dull beyond belief. After leaving the bridge we turned onto a dual carriageway that wasn’t quite by the coast. We ran down it for 10km, turned around, and ran back. It was awful. The event is part of the Rock’n’Roll marathon global series, and we thought that there were going to be bands every few km. In the event we saw maybe only 5. So I didn’t even have that to keep me going.

I also found out at about 13 km that the extra football I’d been playing recently had had an unexpected price – namely stamina. I couldn’t believe it when at km 13 my legs were having an urgent conversation with the rest of me. A couple of weeks earlier I’d done a cycle sportive of close to 100 miles with plenty in the tank.

Despite prices in sterling this was a bar in Lisbon

Anyway, Warren beat me, and now I’m 3 – 1 down.

We met up post race, and after a bit of milling around to get medals, water etc, we hailed a cab. The 60 something yr old driver took one look at us, and said “you’ve been taking part in the race. For a couple of days now I’ll know who did by the way they walk”. He goes on to say that he used to run marathons, so I asked what sort of times did he do.

“Oh, half marathon pb is 1 hour 6, and for the full 2 hours 10.”

W and I look at each other, and I say to him that that must have made him one of the top runners in Portugal. Not at all he laughs, but goes on to say that he went to the '72 Olympics as part of Portugal’s cross country squad. He digs out a photo on his iPhone showing him in the kit. It was hard to be sure it was him, mind.

Then he goes on to say that still in his 40s he used to pace the African women to record times at the Lisbon Marathon, and again he gets out a picture of him running surrounded by small African women. And this time we can easily tell it really is him.

Yes, he says, that was when life was good. “Now, because I like to drink and f*** I can’t run fast, and I drive this beat up Mercedes as a cab driver. Life is shit, guys”.

Luckily we arrived at the hotel then, so any further diatribe could be avoided.

How would you describe them?

We showered (separately and with the blind down), changed, and then headed off to find some dinosaur feet to eat. To explain - many years earlier I'd briefly been in Portugal. I'd arrived late at night on a yacht, and the only restaurant we found open didn't speak English, nor had an English menu, so what we ate was pot luck. I remember one poor guy ended up with a pile of liver, while some of us had a plate of what we all agreed could only be called dinosaur feet.

I wanted to have them again, to remind myself what they actually were and whether I liked them.  Having no idea what they were called, I described them as best I could to the concierge and I was rewarded with shrugs. When I said we'd nicknamed them 'dinosaur feet' he immediately knew what I wanted and directed us to one of the best seafood restaurants in Portugal, along with their name - cirrepedes. Barnacles, in English.

Painted with wine and coffee

En route to the restaurant we passed an artists studio, and he was in there painting some charming little scenes of Lisbon. Chatting to him he told us that the paint he used was only coffee and wine. I immediately bought a couple. 

We found the restaurant, and as soon as I saw them I knew they were what I had had all those years ago. Warren was most dubious, but joined me in a plate. Let me just say that they were edible. I googled them now to remind myself of their name, and I found a scientific publication headed 

"Delicacy or Desperation? Eating Peduncular Barnacles in Neolithic Portugal."

As is traditional on our travels we then went in search of a bar, to de-brief the weekend. Well something like that, anyway. 

* James Bond, Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer - what is it with the initials JB?

The 4 Peaks Challenge - Aug 2015

The 4 Peaks Challenge

June 2015

Following the success of last year’s senior manager challenge, a 50km walk along the Thames, the Compliance Director decided to up the ante for 2015 and sent out an email suggesting doing The Four Peaks Challenge.

I quickly googled it to discover it comprises climbing the 4 highest peaks in the UK over a weekend. There was a rider that to do the Northern Ireland one would necessitate a private flight from the mainland if we wanted to complete it within 48 hours. Blimey, I thought, that would up the budget. However, in the office, he explained it would be the 4 highest in England, all conveniently situated in the Lake District. These are Scafell, Scafell Pike, Helvellyn and Skiddaw.

Five of us signed up. We chose a suitable weekend, booked a B&B, bought train tickets, sorted out a guide and then some started to train. One of us was an experienced trekker – he’d just come back from three weeks trekking Aconcagua Peak, over 7000m high in the Andes. Another regularly walked decent distances in Surrey. The other two walked to the station and back and that’s it. As for me – I run, cycle and play football every week so I decided my fitness was OK, and my preparation was simply buying a pair of walking boots and trousers.

And then there were 4.

A week before departure disaster struck one guy, when one of his knees gave up. There was no way he could walk, let alone trek, in the Lake District. 

Looking Up

Late one Friday the remaining 4 arrived in Keswick, in the heart of the Lake District. We found the B&B, and headed off to dinner. At which point we discovered that all the popular restaurants were booked solid. The only place that would serve 4 at short notice was a Mexican that promised live music later on. Dinner was had, beers were drunk, and I wanted to hear the band. Layth, the proper trekker, also fancied it but the other two decided to retire.

On came the band, and opened with an amazing version of Son of a Preacher Man. All thoughts of an early night were banished, so plenty more beers were ordered and we stayed to the bitter end – superb.

Saturday morning, and a full English later, we met our guide. Off we went in his van to Scafell, and set off to start the challenge. Pictures tell a 1000 stories, so rather than describe the walk here are some pictures.

Looking down

During the afternoon I started to think about clouds. I’m no student of English poets, but from memory Wordsworth came from the Lake District. One of his most famous lines* is “I wandered lonely as a cloud” and I kept thinking “what? Clouds aren’t lonely. Every time you see one, you see loads of them.” I mean, seriously, the weather in the Lake District is very changeable – blue sky one moment, dotted clouds the next, rain around the corner. But lonely, single clouds? No.

Anyway, the two Scafell peaks were scaled and we got back to the van around 13 hours after we’d set off. There were some complaints of stiff joints, and Ankur, the only girl with us, talked of tiredness, but was otherwise fine. I will confess that at that stage it hadn’t felt much like a challenge – it was a lovely walk in the sunshine punctuated by picnics in some beautiful countryside. The scrambling on the various screes could not be described as too difficult.

Post dinner (pre-booked Italian) I was keen to go to a pub I’d noticed the night before saying ‘live band Saturday night’, and Layth was happy to join me. The other two retired to the B&B. I should stress that what with pre-dinner drinks and the many bottles of wine during the meal that both Layth and I were ‘on the grin’ when we walked into the pub, which explains what happened next. It was like walking into the TV show League of Gentlemen. Everyone stared at us. Everyone looked a little ‘wrong’. The band was a husband and wife in their 60’s – she was typical gypsy mother, dyed blonde, gold chunky jewellery everywhere, hair pulled back, clothes that were inappropriate for her figure and age and could only just hold a note. He was significantly overweight, black t-shirt, and a guitar. I wasn’t sure he was playing it, because she was basically singing to a karaoke track.

First song we heard was, I think, Free’s All Right Now. Because we were under the influence, we thought – let’s go with it. Everyone is singing along with abandon, so why don’t we? There was much music, much dancing, much singing, much drinking. While I was on the dance floor I saw Layth take pictures as proof of this bizarre event. We staggered out of the pub at 1am when they closed. I could have stayed…

And then there were three.

Sunday morning and the organiser’s knee wouldn’t let him get down the stairs at the B&B. He would not be able to attack the next two peaks**. So just the three of us set off, and today we had rain. And cloud. Again, here are pictures and not words. Though I’ll add that in a perverse way I started to enjoy it more as it felt more of a challenge. This felt like a proper effort.

At the top of Helvellyn I got out two miniature whiskies I’d brought along as a celebratory tot. Earlier Layth had stated that he wasn’t a whiskey drinker but, at the peak, he became a wiser man and joined me. We couldn't hang about as it was now early afternoon and we had to get a crack on if we were going to make the last peak and get back before our trains on Sunday evening. 

And then there were two (this is Agatha Christie stuff!)

Ankur had found the morning slow going, and had got very wet so was having a bit of a miserable time. Back at the car she announced that she couldn’t face the fourth peak. So on the way to Skiddaw she was dropped at the B&B while Layth and I continued with the challenge. This one was dull. There is a well maintained path nearly all the way to the top, so it was simply a long walk up, followed by a long walk down. The guide and Layth had been deep in conversation about the meaning of climbing, and the why’s etc, and both agreed that climbing and trekking should be about a purpose, or a view, and not just ‘because it’s a number on a list’. The guide had a particular hatred of Skiddaw as the mountain itself is barren. I just looked at them and asked “so why are we doing this one, as the only reason is it is number 4?”!

At the bottom the guide suddenly turned back to the peak, stuck his middle finger in the air and shouted “F*** you, you piece of s***” at the mountain. Sadly he hadn’t noticed the fell runner that had been catching us, and we were concerned the runner thought the shout was for him. Apologies were made, and we quietly got back into the van to take us back to the warmth of the B&B.

So the annual Senior Manager Challenge was Done.

There remained only one thing left to do. I said to Layth “what goes on tour, stays on tour”. He understood immediately.

Out came his phone and he deleted Saturday night’s pictures.

*Actually, it’s the only line I know. I don’t even know what follows it.

** As he’s a guy that hates unfinished business, he returned a few months later to climb them.

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……..