Lon Las Cymru – final thoughts

Lon Las Cymru - Route profile

Trying to summarise the experience of Lon Las Cymru is not so easy. Far too much stuff going on, some of which needs a bit more time to think about. But here’s what I’ve got so far.

Is it a good route?
It absolutely is. Sustrans and all the associated groups should be congratulated on both creating the route and keeping it maintained. The signage is great across most of the route. The route itself keeps you off the main roads and sends you through all sorts of interesting places. Sure you do more climbing than the main drags, but that’s kind of what you sign up for.

I’d still not do it without a GPS though. Sometimes the signage is missing/hidden under vegetation/hard to see, and having turn by turn navigation makes life so much easier.

Staying off the main roads made it for me. The whole club chaingang on some busy A road is something I’ll never want to do.

South to North or..
No South to North, The way the climbs are set up, this way is far better and you get that monster descent into Mach. It’d possibly be quicker North to South but that’s hardly the point.

Road bike or Gravel bike?
Assuming we can get beyond definitions, I’d say Gravel bike. Not that I’ve ridden it on a road bike, but I have ridden road bikes and the route definitely is not all road. Some of the non road routes are well surfaced tracks, but there’s a lot of gravel, lumpy tarmac, bits of mud and even some decent sized rocks. 23c tyres at 100PSI would be faster no doubt, but the bikes we rode – I think – were more fun.

Adding 15lb of gear makes the original weight fairly irrelevant. I liked the stability of my bike, it’s ability to handle the extra weight without me really noticing, the width and tread on the tyres, the relaxed geometry and the more upright riding position. Sure it’s not aero but it’s bloody comfortable. And Hydro’s. Wasn’t sure they were needed on road based bikes. No longer think that, Absolutely brilliant.

Better than Mountain Biking?
Oh. Contentious. I’d say No but not by as much as I thought. It is very different. Really a venn diagram with only a two wheeled form of transport at the intersection. I’ve ridden a lot of MTB in South and North Wales. But I saw so much more on this trip. Not just because of the route but also because I wasn’t trying to get to the next descent as quickly as possible. It’s less scary so the dopamine hits are less obvious, but the sense of satisfaction finishing a big day shouldn’t be underestimated.

I do love the purity of the endeavour. Just get on and pedal. No forks to fettle, no shocks to set up. Although I missed the dropper post. There’s something here that makes these bikes way more fun that – to me – a standard road bike. I don’t know what it is but I like it. A lot.

B and B or Camping?
Oh really. We saw a few ‘fully camped up’ riders and that’s fine if it’s your thing. I’m not going to judge, But arriving somewhere knowing the hardest thing we had to do was to find the accomodation and a decent pub was not something I’d be prepared to give up. That’s before we consider how much more gear you’d have to transport.

There are so many good B and Bs on the route, unless you love camping or object to the £30-£35 a night for four stops, then I’m really struggling with why you’d camp.

Best number of days?
4.5 felt fine, 4 is doable but it’d have me chasing the clock and I didn’t want to do that. Sure you could travel lighter and ride harder but the approach we took worked well for our ‘leisurely breakfast, ride, proper lunch, ride, arrive mid to late afternoon, pub’ vibe.

I wouldn’t want to take any longer if only to save my liver. But a week of touring felt about right.

Did I take the right amount of gear?
Mostly. I could have taken less ‘casual’ clothes but I was never prepared to wash ride shorts mid trip. Plus we had a mid tour re-supply so I’m not really in a position to comment. I’d like a lightweight waterproof that was, well, waterproof but otherwise not sure I’d change much. Ad’s ‘Chammy Cream in a clear plastic bag’ is NOT a recommendation I can even begin to endorse tho!

Lycra or baggies?
Lycra. There, now I’ve said it. Bottom half certainly. I stuck with baggy MTB tops and stayed away from places of high population 😉

Was the bike packing kit worth it?
For me it was. The Alpkit stuff is quality kit and made by a great UK company. My seat pack was super stable as compared to Ad’s ‘Wobbly Dalek’. But his was a lot cheaper and fully waterproof. The three bags on my bike worked well and I wouldn’t change anything for future trips.

Garmin or Phone?
Ad’s Garmin had great turn by turn routing and excellent battery life. My free GPX app was easy to read and saved me carrying another device. I needed to run an external battery pack to make it last the day though, and it was useless once the rain came.

We didn’t bother with paper maps and didn’t miss them.

Would I do it again?
Probably not. Mainly because I don’t think I’d enjoy it so much the second time. It’s not like riding a favourite trail, it’s more of an experience ticked off. Not bothered about doing it North to South either.

Did I learn anything?
A bit. I can ride a drop bar bike for five days. I can ride 100km lumpy routes on multiple days. I am a bit stronger on the climbs than I expected. Mostly though I found the whole concept of touring by bicycle is something I want to do lots more of. And not just when I’ve got too old to ride MTBs. Apart from 45 mins on the last day, I loved every minute of. It.

Ads was a good riding companion. Especially to put up with my crap jokes and weapons grade snoring. I wouldn’t want to do this kind of thing on my own. But as an experience with a mate, it’s one of the best weeks I’ve had on a bike, And I’ve had A LOT of amazing weeks riding over the last 20 years.

Final thoughts?
Just one. If you’re wondering if you can or should do this route, then stop wondering and get it booked. You don’t need to be super fit or have an amazing bike or even understand how to read a map. You just need a sense of adventure, a good mate or two and the desire to go an experience something different.

Really just do it.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

And if you’re short of someone to ride with, give me a call I might change my mind about doing it again 🙂

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

Lon Las Cymru. Thank you, it’s been epic.

Lon Las Cymru – Day 5

Watching the sun set over the marina the previous night, it was hard to believe a storm was coming. The sea was flat calm and the air warm and dry as we ambled- in my case ambling in a state or random perambulation after discovering Rhubarb gin – back through the twilight.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

7am the following morning confirmed what every weather app had been grimly forecasting for the last 24 hours. Heavy rain driven eastward by string winds mapped closely to our route for the final day. There looked to be a few dry-ish windows mid morning, so we packed bags for the last time, readied waterproofs and watched the rain radar.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

At 10am, we abandoned meteorological analysis and fetched bikes into a panorama of steel grey. The low cloud occluded the water in the bay, but delivered almost as much from  the sky. Remember my crowing over gear selection earlier in the trip? Now it was my turn to covet both Adam’s expensive and – more importantly – waterproof jacket and neoprene seat pack. My own inventory was at best showerproof – untaped seams on the packs and a five year old cheap jacket retrieved from a dusty corner of a Camelbak.

As whinging over this mismatch failed to improve the inclement conditions, we decided to make a run for it. Adam’s tyres continued to disappoint- the first slick pavement crossing had the rear step out in an alarming/amusing manner. Select option depending if you were riding or following 🙂

Some relief came from yet another disused railway – Lon Las Menai – running to the old slate harbour of Port Dinowig. This one was shaded by mature broadleaf trees granting us respite from the continuing hammering of the rain. Nature’s umbrella lasted four miles before we broke out into the open. Routing through an industrial estate, we were soon crossing and re-crossing the main Bangor road. The old slate harbour is now a rather posh marina which would have been a nice place for a sit had the rain continued to pulse from underneath leaden skies.

The route in and out of Penrhosgarnedd was all a bit frustrating stop/start. It did eventually lead us to the first proper climb of the day on a pavement mirroring the A55. This was neither steep nor long but both of us found it surprisingly tiring. I countered this by the now standard ‘stat check’ this time explaining we’d not be climbing any higher today. Yeah that thing about lies and statistics….

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

I was looking forward to capturing the Menai Suspension bridge from both sides. Once on this side and one from the Island taking advantage of a railway station with the made up long station name. This proved entirely pointless with the clag and the rain auto-titling both images ‘Unrecognisable grey thing backlit by grey in a grey landscape’

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

We settled for a couple of quick shots on the bridge before the reality of wet fingers and touch screens had me shouting angrily at the phone. This failed to fix it, so I stowed it for about 20 miles before trying again. That’s not the reason we failed to stop at Llanfair Pwllgwyngll (of -gogogoch fame)- no a) we never actually saw it even through we passed right by it and b) stopping would have given the rain a target to zero in on.

My rain jacket was now just that. It had given up on its primary purpose and pivoted to welcoming moisture straight through and then holding it sweatily against bare skin. Through gritted teeth I checked with Adam on the efficacy of his garment. As expected, I received a cheery reply from the dry and warm person that used to be my friend.

The guidebook encourages a stop here to enjoy ‘expansive views of Snowdonia‘. We pushed onto hoping for an expansive view of cake and coffee, but even in this limited ambition we were to be disappointed. Anglesey – admittedly in our brief experience – seemed to have most of the closed and dilapidated parts of Wales we’d seen, and not much of the open hospitality we’d enjoyed.

Plan for refuelling switched to a quick energy bar by the reed beds of Malltrath Marsh, before heading up the valley to, er, RAF Valley. Nothing quite as uplifting as sodden barracks built in the aesthetic 60s cheap concrete style to raise the spirits.

Nothing like a 30 MPH headwind to knock them right back again. It’s only a straight mile before turning away from the base, but God it was bleak. Took an age as well before finally crossing the bridge, failing to take a picture of the Hawk Trainer (phone dampness ongoing) and passing the runways where nothing was flying.

Finally it stopped raining and we could see both bits of Snowdonia we’re crossed and the Holyhead Mountain we had no intention of climbing. The shared path by the A5 was a welcome relief- shielded from the wind and with an easy gradient to click off the distance. Regardless of improving conditions, we both wanted this done now. Half of me was sad for the trip to be close to finishing, half wanted my own bed and a couple of days of not riding bikes.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

First though we had to finish. The Phenros Coastal Park was a fine way to enter the last town on the route. An off road path past the impressive looking Holyhead cricket club had the distance down to less then 3km. Two of those were through uninteresting urban landscape before being pitched out by the railway station. Where the rain started again.

Having followed the GPS for 424km, we decided now would absolutely be the right time to strike out on our own. The result was a heave through the station concourse, a ride over the fantastic if somewhat out of place modern bridge (a cross between a game of Mousetrap and a Waterpark slide), a blast through the centre of Holyhead and a damp descent to the sea.

The GPS pinged we were done. Finished. At rides end. It was – frankly – a bit shit. The town centre was pretty horrible, the weather had turned grim again and we were tired from having ridden 65km/3.5 hours without much of a stop. Or any cake. We were also 4 hours early for our booked train. The original plan had been to ride gently to the lighthouse and take valedictory pictures, basking in the warm sunshine, with all of Wales laid out behind us.

The reality was significantly more underwhelming,  A bus shelter held together with peeling paint and a view of a sea being thrown about by a summer storm. After a huddled navigational conference, we struck out for the lighthouse anyway. I was hungry and a bit grumpy and my legs were done with riding. Which made the next 5km to the South Stack the worse part of the whole trip.

Especially as we ended up climbing another 150 metres because the lighthouse was – of course – over the top of Holyhead mountain. The clag increased to the point where I couldn’t see Ad’s rear wheel and barely make out my front one. The prospect of paying £6 each to carry the bikes down a rocky path back to sea level so we could take photos in front of something that might be a lighthouse didn’t appeal. At all.

Lon Las Cymru

Lon Las Cymru

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Hence these images of damp riders and no views. Still, it felt good to have come as far as we could without falling into the sea. Going further could only be countenanced as dogmatic pursuit of purgatory.

So we flipped the bike around and made great time back to town, now with a welcome tailwind. Adam found a great café away from the horror of the high street. It served wholesome food and cold beer. It also hosted a large ground floor toilet serving as a changing room to swap damp riding gear for my last set of dry clothes.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Lon Las Cymru - Day 5

Beers drunk but still feeling slightly deflated we made our weary way to the station. Where we hopped onto the tiny two carriage train, stored our bikes and planned to sleep the 3 hours home. Friday night though this is party train and the minutes passed slowly as shouty happy people got increasingly pissed.

This wasn’t the reason Ads and I didn’t talk much. We’d got good at comfortable silences and – for me anyway – I was thinking of what we’d done and what we might do next. We both knew we’d ridden the route ‘well‘ in terms of navigation, speed and companionship.  Clearly this was helped by decent weather for four of the days and great accommodation each night to rest and recuperate.

This left me with both a sense of achievement and a lament for re-engaging with the real world. Most riding holidays don’t finish like this. I’m usually just happy to be alive and not missing any vital organs. This felt very different.

The following day I cleaned the bike before taking it for a very quick test ride. The unloaded bike felt light and I felt fit. It seemed like we both wanted to go somewhere else, discover new places, ride new tracks.

The Lon Las Cymru is an amazing experience but, for me, it’s way more than that. it’s opened up a whole side of cycling I’d previously considered as boring and pointless.

Not a bit of it. Find some stunning scenery and ride into it. Do it for a number of days until you run out of land. In between enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing a beautiful country on the best form of transport ever devised.

Five days that changed my view of cycling. That’ll do as a legacy. Until next time.

Lon Las Cymru – Day 4

Pub talk is cheap. Here’s how it goes: ‘Day 2, total bastard, day 3, yeah we probably underestimated that, but tomorrow has less climbing that yesterday and less distance than Tuesday. We’ll smash it‘. While my brain was subdued by alcohol, my legs were clambering for attention. In the anatomy edition of Monopoly, they had definitely not passed go nor collected £200 of freshly rested muscle.

What nearly broke me on Day 4 wasn’t the maximum elevation, which we’d already pegged as being only a little more than half of what we’d done so far, it was the sustained climbing of multiple lower summits. Before all that though we were going to the seaside.

Barmouth is pretty much the Wikipedia citation for ‘God’s waiting room‘. But I can’t love it any less for that. It was one of the original tourist towns. With ‘holiday specials‘ transporting factory staff from grimy industrial works to clear skies and clean air. Bodies pressed to tiny steam train windows catching first sight of something never seen before. The Irish Sea must have looked like Mars. And while we’re back into faded glory, what a thing that is.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

We’re 10km away from sticking our toes in the sand.  I’m weary and so is Ads. He’s ten years younger than me so clearly I’m suffering more. Therefore it seems fair he takes point on the fantastic path out of Caernarfon hugging the river before arcing towards the sea.

The track is wide but the wind is brutal. It’s blowing spitefully in our face so we’re nose to tail pushing hard and missing out on a vista that’s more New Zealand than North Wales. It feels properly wild even in sight of towns on the headland. We’re in and out of coves, sylph like bridges appearing close are snatched away as we hove to port or starboard.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

We’re giving it plenty even on day four legs and I misjudge my turn on the front and wrap my seat bag strap on Adam’s brake lever. That was two seconds of excitement I’ll remember for a while.  Calming down a bit we merged onto the old railway running parallel with todays single line bridged over the water. It’s fun to ride until the raised sleepers get a bit tiring but the views across the bay are worth the discomfort.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

The town itself is a bit of a disappointment. The weather isn’t helping. The beach is storm tossed and the ice cream booths hard shuttered against the wind. We peer into a hotel, last updated in the 70s, and see an elderly couple sipping tea because there is nothing else to do. Because I’m old I start humming Phil Collins’s ‘Home by the Sea‘. I feel this cultural reference is lost on Adam.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

We climb out on a steep pitch reminding us our legs are not really up for what’s coming. Not just legs, but – for me at least – other vital skeletal accessories primarily shoulders. Not ridden a dropped bar bike much, and certainly not for four consecutive days so there’s some unpleasant crunching replacing smooth rotation. Other body parts are also clambering for attention but I’m ignoring those on the grounds there’s nothing I can do to improve their lot.

Can’t do much about the road out of Barmouth either. It’s as close to a main drag we have to do all week and it goes on far too long. We eventually hook right where – after careful consideration of the guide book – we manage to  miss the easier route to instead climb for about ever to the summit of Moel Goedog. This does give us some fantastic views of the Llyn Peninsula and across to Cardigan Bay.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

It also gives us the opportunity to descend briefly on some slick moss covered roads with all the grip of polished glass. The climb is almost a relief until it isn’t with its false summits, 360 degree headwind and hard earned metres. Every little climb feels way more difficult that it was even a day ago. The metres click agonisingly slowly off the total and suddenly this feels as hard as everyone told me it would be.

Even at the summit I’m feeling a little disgruntled. A bit ‘seen it all before‘, a bit more ‘how much more of this is there?‘ and then we REALLY crest the summit opening up the view of Porthmadog and the Snowdonia crescent. It is beyond awesome. I’ve ridden up Cadair Idris and Snowdon. I’ve climbed big hills in this part of Wales and looked down into the valleys but I’ve never seen it like this. If it was CGI, you’d dismiss it as too damn perfect.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

The pictures are fine but they don’t capture what you feel. That is better saved on the organic image store in your mind. We mucked about a bit trying to turns shapes into sense, but 2D is not the right medium. If you ever think abut riding this route, then this is the one reason you must. There aren’t many bikes up here and it feels like a privilege.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

Photos done, we head down to Porthmadog, get a shot of the steam train before diving into a café on the main street serving ice creams to damp tourists at 16 degrees centigrade. Only in Wales 😉  We don’t tarry as it’s really not warm and we’ve a long way to go. Even after dealing with the biggest climb of the day we’ve still a few lumpy hills to clear, and the weather is not doing us any favours.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

This confluence of these mildly unpleasant conditions hosted a debate on whether we should ride the optional loop out to Criccieth. Eight miles of down then up which felt like making up the numbers. We both knew though, if swerved, this would be something living long in regret. It wasn’t really a decision as individually we’d decided it was going to get done. Definitely the right choice, even after the long climb out, as we were rewarded with blue skies breaking out over the sea.

That’s where we’re going I thought. And we did on another disused railway. An easy gradient first climbing and then descending with barely any appreciable variation in speed. With a tailwind at last, sustained 30+ kph felt ridiculously easy. It was good to see the odometer roll over 90km with the shining sea calling us. It’d called us around the impressive exterior of Caernarfon castle and into the Anglesey Arms where we drank overpriced beer looking out to our final destination.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

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Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 4

I toasted Adam ‘only 65km to go and bog all climbing, a day on easy street‘  How bloody hard can that be?

I think you probably know the answer.

Lon Las Cymru – Day 3

A day of two summits and some miscalculation. This was always going to be a wild day through the Cambrian mountains. Adam and I know that terrain well from a biblical Trans-Cambrian back in 2017:  The twin summits of Foel Fadian and Myndd Y Waun blocked our way to the safety of Machynlleth. It was a hell of an effort to get there fighting the rain and sleet driven on by gale force winds.

So a happy memory then. Today we had some of that headwind and a lot less of the rain. The bits wondering whether a helicopter might be the Gentleman’s transport of choice bridged the two rides. We started on a climb apparently designed to remind your legs this was day 3, and no it wasn’t going to get any easier.

In fact it got a little harder as we headed into Hafren Forest. Familiar to mountain bikers – we spotted singletrack heading deep into the woods and considered an early coffee in the visitor centre. While the need for the bean was strong, it wasn’t worth trading hard gained height for.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

We’d lost the sun but not the humidity. So I was happy for a sit on a mossy bank off the road while Ads attempted to fix his squeaky cleats. This chain lube based procedure gave me sufficient time to munch on an energy bar, and consider if this was the right time to explain the noise was coming from his pack. Since he was clearly having so much fun trying to diagnose the problem, I thought probably not.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

We remounted – squeak still in attendance – to grind up the summit sporting a viewing point. This is where the Ospreys were re-introduced a few years ago. We took some pictures of wild scenery entirely absent of said Ospreys

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

After some dithering it was apparent the climb to Foel Fadian wasn’t going to happen unless we actually got back on the bikes. The guidebook characterises it as a ‘gentle climb‘. I’m not a confrontational man, but I am taking issue with that.

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

It might have been the headwind swirling in our faces. It might have been the fact I’ve driven that route many times (waved at The Star on the way past. Wondered about a pint. 10:14am. Thought best not), it might be the weather fronts rolling in promising rain now and maybe hail later. Whatever it was, it wasn’t bloody gentle. Especially the top section where I felt the urge to go ‘Full Strava’ leaving me dragging in litres of clean Welsh air while hanging over the bars.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Finally it was done and we could see it was all downhill from here. From the highest point on our route (if you were tending to masochism you could really hurt yourself by adding many more summits. The route tends to skirt the western sides of mountains where it can. Thankfully) we had an 8 mile descent into Machynlleth. The top section of which is simply epic.  A wild juxtaposition of panoramic landscape and steep, dangerous corners. Hard to keep your eyes on both.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

I’ve never been much of a road descender. Always looked down and wondered where the rest of the tyre might be. Followed by a concern that rim brakes and slick rubber can’t offer much in the retardation stakes. Now though up front I’ve most of a 2inch knobbly tyre arrested by a proper hydro brake. Same out the back although I’m not leaning on that much.

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Taking a bead on Ads,  I give myself a stern talking to re: worrying about skewer tightness and chance of tyre explosion and instead swing the bike through a patchwork of glorious scenery grabbing my eyeballs when I should be grabbing the brakes. The bike is amazing – even heavily loaded – super stable and giggly fun pitching into the corners. We hit over 70kph which might not be much for a proper roadie, but for me it’s pretty much light speed. As the gradient backs off both Adam and I are gabbing away filled with adrenaline and a bit of relief.

We see pack-laden riders toiling up this climb and we wave and we smile. And inwardly we think ‘you idiots, why ride it this way?‘ In about two hours, we get a reasonable idea. 20 minutes later though we’re in Mach. Mach being Mach has a market cheerfully selling everything from old furniture to New Age tat and shit.  I love the place, it’s a refreshing change from so many Welsh town trading on fading industries.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

We have cake and coffee. And because we’ve loads of time, wander about a bit until the big tower clock strikes midday which is the trigger to eat  more food. We leave reluctantly – in my case very reluctantly as during our meandering I’ve lost my riding glasses –  and head over the Millennium bridge, built to save the squashy from the tin cans racing along the A487.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Which brings us to  the base of the afternoons climb. A quick scoot on the B4404 then over the bridge to start 9 miles of ascent.  There is no way to say that which doesn’t immediately chuck synonyms at your brain with ‘hard, tiring and what the fuck?‘ being the three I remember most.

The first part  though is mostly easy, as it’s adjacent to the old Corris slate railway, which brings us into that town where – unsurprisingly based on our trip so far – everything is closed. We press on to Aberllefenni built entirely of slate. Walls, roofs, garages, patios – a legacy of the mining here which defined much of the history of this Welsh landscape.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

The old slate works are another sad cipher for heavy industry long gone. Quite sombre heading up the climb, where the gradient increases to the point where I’m wondering if my dismissive view of the front detailer as yesterdays technology is a metaphor for what we’ve just ridden through.

Whatever, it’s a tough climb going on a little too long. I’m trying to estimate the summit by charting the marching telegraph poles holding close to the road.

So tight is my focus I almost miss the five riders heading down- all big grins and hearty hellos. They are clearly the camping types with luggage clinging to every tube. A couple I notice have those old school rim brakes. I cannot help but think dark thoughts regarding their ability to stop at the bottom. Still on the upside they’ve 8 miles to climb up over Foel Fadian. That cheers me up a bit.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

Topping out, I grab the phone and catch Adam with far less gears fighting his way over the top. We have a moment to catch our breath. Then ‘Well that was a total bastard. Beer do you think?‘ I do indeed and after a quick nod to Cadair Idris to our left, we make haste into the strengthening rain. It’s mostly downhill and we’re definitely relieved as today has been harder than expected. It’s not the miles it’s the elevation. I don’t feel the weight of the packs, but it definitely has an effect.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 3

That effect me being desperate for sustenance as we roll into Dolgellau. A tip from my mate Dave (who runs Bike Corris MTB guiding company) has us diving into the legendary TH Roberts. An old Ironmonger turned awesome cake cafe, it has all the fittings of a Victorian shop and a selection of so many fantastic looking confectionary, it’s all I can do not to demand ‘one of each right now‘ and ‘another of the same to take away‘.

Today has been tough. Legs starting to really feel it. Sun has mostly been replaced by headwinds. The climbs are longer and harder. The landscape continues to be breath-taking, and the simple pleasure of getting up to turn pedals is a gift not to be underestimated.

Tomorrow we conclude will be easier. To that end I go full nosebag in a fantastic local restaurant adding Gin and Wine to my recovery drinks. It’s not like 100km and 1200m of climbing is going to be hard is it?

Will we never learn?

Lon Las Cymru – Day 2

Before diving into day 2, permit me a sidebar to discuss mechanicals. Specifically Adams’ as I didn’t have any. Other than a strap on my ancient MTB shoes making a break for freedom before we’d officially started. Which doesn’t count. Ads had stuck rigidly to a servicing regime that could charitably termed ‘looks good from a distance, pass me a beer’. While his cassette didn’t actually quite fall apart or his rear brake completely fail, they were definitely both in the red zone.

His tyres however were something else. Barely vulcanised for a start. Do people really race these things? There’s more tread on my ancient Five-Ten’s which were mostly slick to start with. Even with about a pound of sealant slopping at each end, any air at the start of the day was long departed by the rides end. After three days of desperate pumping, they finally gave in and mostly sealed. Unless you touched them. Adam blamed my rubbish pump for his woes. I was keen to point out that I wouldn’t know not having had to use it.

Anyway as you were, Day 2.

Pre-trip this was the day worried me most. A bucket load of climbing spread unevenly over a bit north of 100km. The guidebook suggested this would take eleven hours. No way was my arse co-exisitng in the same space as a saddle for that length of time. Our plan – a somewhat ambitious term for gin based hand waving the night before – was to get it done in 6. Including a stop for lunch. Which on reflection was another planning oversight. We’ll be back to that.

First though we had to get to lunch. Climbing out of Brecon was all the fun a steep pitch the far side of a big breakfast can be. It’s odd as my bike only really felt heavy when I had to fetch it over a gate or suchlike. So riding it uphill wasn’t that much of a trial once accompanied by a smidgen of mental fortitude. Ads bike was lighter and, he had less kit which should have made it easier. However, in a moment of team spirit he’d handed over his spare 11-46 cassette to the old man whose need was clearly greater*.

Half way up that first hill I could feel the want.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

After getting that done, we switched back to grass-middled roads distanced from morning traffic. The NCN8 is an amazing route. Sure it meanders up and down valleys flatly breached by the main roads. This is the price of riding through stunning scenery with almost zero risk. Short of being mowed down by a tractor or terrorised by a bike hating dog, it’s a million miles from my normal horror of road riding.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Sometime though there is no option but the main drag. After testing all my gears again on a couple of nasty pulls, we turned onto the main road heading to Builth Wells. A slight tailwind, a freshness in the legs and the aforementioned ‘destination anxiety‘ (heightened as the second half of the ride with the bulk of climbing), there was what passed as a 2 man chain-gang for men that cherish their ignorance of all things road riding

Well this one does, but I also love the speed even of these loaded bikes compared to the glacial thrumming of a 2.6 MTB tyre. We hit some short hills and they hit us right back, but we still made good time to Bulith.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Bit early for lunch. Stop for a coffee? Not this pair, we were on a mission. Not sure where to due to continued navigational uncertainty, but the sun was out and the internal GPS was hard coded for an ‘early finish and cold beer‘. Switching direction to due north as we crossed the bridge, there was a lovely river ride out of the town.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

So much of this route is on old railway tracks (which is pretty sad when you think what they used to be here for) and river paths. We crossed the Wye and numerous other rivers so many times I eventually stopped taking pictures.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

I’d also stopped eating. Not sure why, but it was timely when our vaguely planned stop at Newbridge-on-Wye hove into view as the munchies had taken hold.

You kind of expect any town ‘on-Wye’ to be a picturesque place full of tourist cafes, fresh coffee and a excellent selection of cakes. It’s not like that at all. It was more disappointment made real by brick. Three pubs, two closed, one mostly falling down but being painfully slowly restored by tired looking owners and surly teenagers.

Still the kitchen was open and after all the time it takes to hunt down a difficult to find tub of chicken, we were mostly sated, and keen to be on our way again.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

50km in which was good but still with 840m of climbing to do. Which wasn’t. Having all of the stats projected onto phones and GPS’s is great. Until it isn’t. Sometimes I’d rather not know, but we’d looked at the profile often enough to accept the next few hours were going to be a bit chewy.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

The road climbed steadily on much patched tarmac before merging into a gravel trail that – again – wouldn’t be much fun on a racer road bike. It was ace on ours including a short rocky downhill section I’d fancy a crack at with a MTB.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

This is the old coach road and it wouldn’t be something I’d want to tackle in a coach. Or after rain. But today it was a welcome distraction to the almost endless climbing. It was certainly better than what followed – the might-be-a-road which skirted the slopes of Carn Gafallt. 20km of sheep shit basically. Not much of a view either. Unless your idea of a great vista is sheep shit and endless conifers.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

We got that done where the route sadly bypassed Rhayader. I have many happy memories of that town. Some of them rather drunken. Today tho we needed to crack on via the Aberystwyth mountain road. Well named and annoying in that down a bit, up a bit,  down a bit more, up IS THAT A CLIFF? Sort of way.  Cresting that pass at 350m, it was mostly downhill to Llanidloes.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Mostly not being entirely. Ads was asking for the ascent numbers. 150m, 100m, 75m, 60m, nasty little climb, legs tired, little tweaks of hamstrings, 30m, 15m, 12m.  I went ‘metre by metre’12, 12, 12, 11, no sorry 12‘. If nothing else it made us laugh.

We finally rolled into Llanidloes at 1530. By 1531 we were in the nearest pub chatting to two old fellas heavily laden with sufficient camping kit to suggest they were on a ‘Shackleton Tribute Tour’.  They’d come the other way and spoke wearily of the climbs we’d be descending tomorrow. Again I was smug in our choice of route direction. It didn’t last.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 2

Carol (my long suffering wife) and daughter turned up from a day walking the Elan Valley dams. They brought with them a resupply bag into which Adam cheerfully abandoned about half his kit. For reasons still somewhat opaque, I added a few bulky items to mine.

Very happy to have smashed the ‘big day’,  we intended to celebrate with a slap up feed and possible an assault on a Welsh cheese board. Less happy to find the only food being served were pub crisps and not very good fish and chips. Still on the upside, tomorrow was an easier day.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

*I loved that 11-46. The 46 especially. And as the week went on, I loved it even more. The fact it was Adam’s and he could have fitted to his bike made it just that little bit sweeter 🙂

Lon Las Cymru – Day 1

This series of six entries was originally posted in a single thread on STW

The problem with that web site is its’ lack of editing functionality. And a MaryWhitehousen tolerance for profanity. The former showcases my lazy proofreading and questionable grammar, the latter cramps a writing style essentially scaled out from the word ‘Fuck’.

So here we are. At sea level with 425km to go. Before embarking on our epic-lite journey, let’s take a moment to remember how we got here. Read that? Right, we’re almost ready.

From the header image, the navigationally proficient will have correctly identified our direction of travel as South to North. This is unquestionably the right way, even though it is uphill*.

As neither Adam or I have those navigational skills, we made extensive use of GPX files and an old school guidebook. Adam further invested in one of the Sustrans maps which provided valuable only in lining his seat pack for five days.

Bikes:

Alex – PlanetX Tempest, 700cc wheels, Schwalbe tubeless G1 tyres. 40/46 gears.  Weight: 18.5 kilos or about double the weight of the unloaded bike.

Adam – Ibis Hakka with 650B wheels, Schwalbe Thunderburt tyres allegedly running tubeless. 42/40 gears. Weight significantly less. He had added lightness, I had added gears.

Gear:

Adam – a mahoosive Lomo 13L waterproof seat pack and a small bag hanging off the bars. Alex: Alpkit seat pack with Exo-Rail, Alpkit frame bag, Alpkit top tube bag. No camping gear as we’re not mental.

Here we go, some actual travelogue content…

The day finally dawned. After much worrying over a deteriorating forecast and my lack of any useful preparation, the waiting was over. Dropped off by the Wales Millennium Centre, we dodged the University graduation ceremonies to snap the obligatory ‘start here‘ photo.

First objective achieved and by pure luck we stumbled onto the route after excitedly pointing out the NCN8 sign. All went well for about 3 minutes until predictably we got completely  lost. This despite a verified GPS route loaded into Ad’s Garmin 800 and the sam present on my phone via the ‘BikeGPX’ app.

Over the week we became pretty skilled at hunting out blue and white signs or interpreting what the map was trying to tell us. Today however was a voyage of discovery. Sometimes discovering the same bit of car park from a number of different directions.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Having run out of alternatives, we transited under the A4232 to enter Hamadyad Park. Well this was unexpectedly lovely. Away from the traffic, we relaxed a bit enjoying the sunshine reflecting off the river. With no idea how fast we had to ride, there was limited time for hamming it up over the first bridge before passing behind the stadium and Cardiff Castle.

The Taff trail is fantastic way to exit the city. We shared it with (mostly) cyclists beyond pensionable age enjoying the sunshine and avoiding cars, other than a few well signed road crossings. Passing under the M4,  we joined the old railway track and had our first experience of ‘how fast dare I ride through these shoulder high barriers‘. Not as fast as I thought apparently as I bounced off the second one.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Time for a break then after riding for about 2 hours. Forecast suggests today is to be the sunniest of the week, so we’re determined to enjoy it. While still having a bit of ‘destination’ anxiety’ meaning stops soon become starts.

Now though we had a different problem – where to find a much needed coffee hit. Pontyprid was not that place. Blimey it’s a bit depressing especially when you consider its hayday in the age of coal. We quickly scooted back onto the disused railway line until the equally dispiriting Merthyr Tydfil appeared on our right flank.

Rather than descend into that madness, we popped out onto a minor road looking for a local café. Found one only opened six weeks previously, which might explain why the till was something of a mystery to the proprietor.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Sustained through the magic of a chicken baguette and impressed by the 80+ year old fella we met who was still cyclng every day, we started the first proper climb near the Cyfarthfa ironworks. Another relic of a different age where heavy industry dominated these valleys.

The scale of it was such it proved almost impossible to get your head around how vast the site must have been. Although that distraction didn’t last long as we headed into the Brecon Beacons – a landscape I know reasonably well from many years campaigning  mountain bikes up and down these hills.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

We came at it a different way but the two reservoirs (Pentwyn and Talybont) were familiar. The riding wasn’t familiar at all –  being  a combination of long gravel tracks and shorter punchy road climbs. Here I suffered the first loss of the trip – the light off the pack on the 5 mile shallow descent (on the old Brecon Railway) line past Talybont dam.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

The bikes for this kind of terrain are  brilliant, really glad I wasn’t on super narrow road tyres pumped up to 100PSI. We were comfortable descending at reasonable speeds with marble-y gravel pinging off the frames.  Looking across the dam, I  recognised the trail we climb on the classic gap loop over the other side of the valley. Strangely I wasn’t that bothered to be missing out on a mountain bike ride.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

 

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

After those amazing views, it was a bit of easy road work to reach our first nights stop via the Brecon to Monmouth canal.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

At the end of which my thoughts could be summarised as ‘bloody good fun, glad first day is over and I’m still able to pedal, but my arse hurts tho and I really need a beer’.

Lon Las Cymru - Day 1

We sorted the beer at least, toasting our first destination under a still hot sun. This was just the warm up though. Tomorrow was going to be far tougher. So let’s not go mad on the beer.

We didn’t. Because we were staying in a hotel knocking out double gin and tonics for not much cash. So we drank quite a few of those instead.

*I was asked which way climbed more. Even after gently explaining the start and end points were both at sea level, my questioner still refused to accept I’d provided sufficient detail in my answer 😉

Have bike, might as well travel

Welsh C2C - Test pack

I consider myself moderately numerate. Much of my day is surfing the line between causation and correlation. I kind of know how numbers work – although someone will be quick to point out this mathematical rigour applies not at all to my notorious bike buying policy.  True enough, that’s why the maxim ‘lies, damn lies and statistics’ is rooted in truth.

Next week the numbers ride off the page and onto the tarmac. 237 miles, somewhere north of 20,000 feet of ascent, two mountain ranges, climbs too numerous to count but a single 8 mile instance is sticking in my mind. 35 pounds of loaded bike, 11 gears*, 5 days, 2 wheels, 1 mate and no bloody idea at all how it’s going to go.

How’s what going to go? Ah that’s where the numbers don’t tell the story, they merely act as chapter headings. The Lon Las Cymru is the ‘official’ route for those wishing to transit the country of Wales from coast to coast. Start in Cardiff, finish in Holyhead taking in the Brecon Beacons and the national park of Snowdonia.

This idea was dreamed up by my mate Adam with whom I suffered partial drowning back in 2017 on the Trans-Cambrian adventure.  Deciding it couldn’t possibly be any harder – or wetter – than that mental and physical challenge, he then essentially handed the whole thing off to me to organise.

Logistics planning has gone well. Instantly sacking off any idea of tentage, my  accommodation criteria was a Google-Venn of twin rooms, large breakfasts and a pub no further than a drunken stagger away.  If possible located within the same building.

I have prepared myself equally well. Adding a bike to the ShedOfDreams(tm) and half a stone to my age-ravaged body. The first was merely the intersection of a shiny new thing on sale and a credit card, the second a combination of hotels, boredom and a wearingly consistent lack of willpower.

This laser focus on athletic perfection has led me to believe that I must – contrary to the screams of the aesthetically demure – go full MAMIL, so exchanging my grungy MTB wardrobe of baggy shorts and shapeless tops for figure hugging lycra. I demonstrated my commitment to ‘pudgy aero’ to Adam a couple of weeks ago. It’s fair to say his reaction was not quite what I was hoping for.

This after I’d bought two new pairs of shorts in a ambitious medium size. I intend to grow into them. Or stitch them together to make one al-sized pair. Anyhow that’s as far down that particular rabbit hole I think we need to go, so let’s talk bikes instead.

When I bought the Tempest, I disparagingly compared it to a crap 90s mountain bike. Having now ridden it properly off road, I’ve half changed my mind. It’s actually a bloody brilliant 90s mountain bike. It’s not some hard-charging six inch slack full suspension monster swapping out technique for bravery.  No you actually have to ride the sodding thing properly.

The 2in tyres have hilariously little grip, descending on dropped bars narrows your view to a fuzzy middle and flashing periphery. The brakes are fantastic but the tyres are not, so unexpected sideways movements get normalised pretty quickly. You can have as much fun at 10mph on some non technical singletrack, as you would on a death-tech rocky steep on my other bikes.

I like that. And I like the bike. I’ve enjoyed riding it these last few weeks. Returning home from a holiday in a hot country serving much cold beer, I really had to get some miles in. Every one of them have been fun, either exploring interesting looking trails, slithering on off road tracks or testing out the luggage pretending I’ve ridden 200 miles not 20.

Whether I’ll like it a week Friday is another matter entirely. Each day ups the climbing until the crux of that bastard climb above Machynlleth**. At that point I expect my forensically packed kit to be strewn carelessly behind me in a fit of rage at finding the shifter has no more clicks.

Packing has been an amusing confluence of want and need. Ads and I have traded shared items. His latest ‘first aid kit done, one plaster, one small bandage so don’t fall off second’ was possibly a response to my suggestion that a single tub of chamois cream between us would be absolutely fine. Frankly I think he’s still holding the lycra incident against me.

An experienced bike-packer*** may frown over my selection of random items. Picking through mandatory foodstuffs – such as a full cheeseboard and a choice of desert wines – they will wonder aloud if the concept of ‘you can stop packing before the bag is full’ has passed me by.

It has. I have tools for removing stones from horses hooves. Other essential items include fresh shorts for every day because washing sweaty ones cramps my beer drinking riff. I have also packed sufficient outer clothing to ensure my lycra clad torso doesn’t trigger riots in some of the smaller Welsh towns.

So not very fit. Bit fat. Too much kit. Not enough gears. Navigationally useless. Never ridden a road bike for that long on one day, never mind five. Yeah but weather looks pretty good – sure we’ll get wet it’s Wales after all, but flooding is now only a remote possibility – great accommodation booked, a mate who didn’t try and kill me last time things got difficult, and a whole load of stunning countryside to ride through.

Oh and a re-supply mission from Carol half way through. Come on that’s reasonable. No way that cheese is going to last five days.

Ready? Laughably no. Excited? Oh fuck yes.

* I’d like a few more. Specifically extra big ones at the back and a smaller one at the front. There may be some engagement of the pushing gear.

**I have my own versions of the ‘Hors Cat’ categorisation. ‘Shit, Bollocks, Bastard, Total Bastard and Fuck me,  you have to be joking

***Apparently according to the experts, we’re not bike-packers. Bike-packers are not credit card lazy arses staying in comfortable B&Bs. Being a serious student of taxonomy and the importance of categorisation, I’ve given this some thought. That thought being ‘Go fuck yourself cockwombles’.

Going nowhere slowly

Going nowhere slowly

Way back in 2004 I contracted a fatal lung disease*. Other than some rather scary chest x-rays and a valiant attempt to break the world record for phlegm output, the major side effect was six weeks of shed based misery.

Outside messed up my insides. The intersection of cold air and asthma scarred lungs triggered chest heaving coughs, chronic shortness of breath and the aforementioned phlegm deposits. I retired hurt to the garden where my unused cross bike** was shackled to the modern day torture marketed as a mechanical turbo trainer.

Which swapped noise for forward motion while you sweated the majority of your body weight attempting to match the efforts of a grainy ‘sufferfest‘ video. Not some kind of porn movie, except unless your tastes tended to specialist publications offering lycra, pain and men trying very hard not to be messily sick.

Those videos – and yes they were bought for real money on those new fangled compact discs – had production values slightly below the shittiest ever aerobics video. After a month you knew every exercise so, if breath allowed, responding  to the trainer enquiring if you were feeling the burn with a cheery ‘go fuck yourself‘.

I felt the burn alright. Felt the urge to set the whole bloody shed on fire. At least it’d all be over without the impossibly enthusiastic host patronising me one last time with ‘step it up, rememberno pain means no gain’.

Roll forward nearly fifteen years and here we are again. The FrankenAnkle is at least six weeks away from interacting with a proper bicycle. With my lackadaisical attitude to healthy eating, the emergency services will be winching my 300lb corpulent carcass out of the house, unless some form of exercise can be crowbarred into a 45 day cheese’n’port marathon.

The world has moved on. Virtual cycling worlds are peopled by second-lifedropouts sporting the latest in smart trainers. Bluetooth, wireless and – I’m guessing – dark sorcery connect the three together through the simple expedient of splashing cash on self assembly*** plastics containing electro magnets and a subscription to what I’ve come to think of as ‘Ego by Roadie’

After an initial – and frankly confusing – toe dip into the world of watts, cadence and internet testosterone, I joined a group ride through the medium of social media and abandonment of common dignity. The start line was awash with pixelated road riders differentiated by frames, wheels, haircuts, socks and glasses. It was a bit creepy to be honest especially once the 1984-esque instructions were splashed across my screen.

None of which I understood mainly because they talked about pace, beacons, packs and drafting – all concepts in which I cherish my ignorance. And a little bit due to the distraction of coercing the varied communication signals into a tiny receiver. So the start caught me by surprise, as two hundred electronic souls barged me from the rear responding to the bark of ‘2.4 W/KG for the warm up

Right whatever. Sounds painful. It was as well attempting to breach that gap to the back of the pack. My pleasure at not being quite last was cut short by a total confusion of what to do next. My drafting skills were precisely zero. Since that day I’ve upgraded them to bloody useless.

Key issue is the communication lag between what you see on the screen and what’s happening in the real world. The feedback is clever; hills make you work harder, drafting easier, pedal harder to move through the pack, coast and go backwards. Works brilliantly if you can synchronise the five second gap between the two.

Took me a while – oh let’s be generous and call it an hour – to fully comprehend that. In those sixty minutes, my desperation not to be dropped would see me burst out in front of the group, only to be spat right out the back as I panicked and forgot to pedal. Once when I saw the road ahead populated by only a single rider, my attempts to chase him down were dashed.

The harder I tried, the faster he went. Eventually it dawned on me that some desperate prodding of the keyboard had changed the camera angle and I was, in fact, chasing myself. Things didn’t really improve from there.

I really, REALLY, want to be properly snooty about those who take actual pleasure from this shed based purgatory. It’s mental – attempting to beat people you’ve never met. Like Strava with moving pictures. It’s a long run from fun and a decent bike ride from compelling.

Except in the five days since cautiously poking my nose into this virtual world, I’ve ‘ridden‘ 125km, gone stats-geek native and -it pains me greatly to say this-actually passed an hour in a group ride without feeling the urge to smash the whole thing up with a hammer.

Once the ankle is cleared for proper riding though, the setup will atrophy as befits a pale imitation of the real thing. In the meantime tho, come tomorrow, Bob5499 is toast.

If you’ve go this far, you might enjoy a more coherent article on injury, indoor trainers and the injustices of both in the nextCranked Magazinedue out early Feb.

*on reflection, it wasn’t quite as serious as my initial diagnosis. Goes to prove the medical professionals, friends and family were rather more accurate with their identification of ‘hypochondria

**Bought two more since. Same result. Which makes me either stubborn or stupid. It’s stupid isn’t it?

***self assembly yes. Intuitive no. Without Carol I’m pretty sure the only exercise I’d have managed would have been gleefully taking a fire axe to the thing.

 

You might want to stand by that bin..

Leading 'em out.. so said my medal winning mate Jez,, as I hung desperately onto the barrier waiting for my lungs to serve up a little air. I’d raced* 500 metres flat out therebyrendering myself pretty much flat out and needing someone to help me off the bike. So I could be sick in said bin.

Wasting wordsexplaining thatMountain biking isn’t like track racing would suggest you’ve never ridden a bike. But it’s absolutely spectrum-opposed to the sophisticated suspension platforms dripping with stunning technology that I ride most days. It’s a stripped down aesthetic where it really isn’t about the bike at all.

There’s absolutely nowhere to hide on the track. It’s you, a simple bike with a single gear andexactly one less brake barrelling round a wooden edifice clearly designed by an individual who enjoys watching others suffer.

Two straights and two hills’was how the coach described it to me, whilst the previously-velodrome’d whizzed round above my head. As the only beginner I was an earth bound misfit pedalling gently on the flat concrete but still being bucked by the the fixed gear. Unlearning freewheels is pretty much a lost art for a man slacking off the pedals for approximately ever.

‘Relax‘ – was his further advice as wobbling and grunting wasn’t getting me round very fast – ‘andloosen your grip on the bars‘ . Are you mad, there’s barelyany bar to hangonto in the first place, soI’ll not be giving it the slightest opportunity to be wrested from my death grip.

Instead shining a mountain biking light on the prism of the unfamiliar revealed it was in fact two massive berms linked by some line painted singletrack. Now I get it – take a longer view, let the bike rail into the berms and push for speed on the straights, forget the freewheel and focus on being inch perfect on the black line.

Sufficient competence demonstrated, the coach sent me above the blue line and high onto the banking with a warning that speed was not so much your friends as the very thing that prevented gravity pitching you head first onto that concrete some twenty feet below.

Quite a rush. Quite hard. Mildly scary. 20 laps of this and I was bolloxed although my preparation of getting properly trolleyed the night before and following that up with a breakfast showcasing most parts of a pig, deeply fried, may have mildly affected my performance.

Not entirely dangerous‘ was the ringing endorsement by Steve the coachwhenI trembled to a stop. As I panted desperately on the rail, Jez was catapulted on a 10 lap time trial. Even in my oxygen starved state it was clear that men and boys were sharing this track as the human missile whistled past at speeds upwards of50km/hr.

So the nervous looking group now had a tail-end charlie giving them a friendly wave under a worriedexpression. Planting myself at the back was seeded by an evaluation of possible collateral damage. Worse case I’m taking a single rider out rather than busting the collarbones of the entire group after some inappropriate manoeuvre**

Great plan. Went badly wrong almost immediately as the next exercise was for the last rider to weave through the group, passing inside and outside of speeding riders. Honestly what could possibly go wrong for a man who has exactly 9 minutes of track experience?

Will carved through like an Orca about to take a Humpback calf while I hung onto the back of the group wondering if everyone had sufficient medical insurance. An internal dialogue cut short as Steve whistled me through and i stomped hard on unyielding pedals breathlessly shouting‘inside, outside, am I clear’whipping through the group on my heart rate limit and then some.

Riding high onthe banking is so much harder and I was mostly a broken man with the final‘outside‘ pass. Still no one t-boned whichis the sort of challenge to my mate Martin loves who – over the last six years – has picked the most inappropriate places to overtake on trails which suggest that someone’s going to end up in the shrubbery. Or the hospital.

Normally I’m happy to fend him off with a 780mm mountain bike bar but today he dropped in unannounced from five feet above and nearly collected my front wheel. ‘You have to communicate‘ shouted the coach to which I responded‘Arrrgggghhhh he’s trying to kill me‘ which I trust made the point with appropriate clarity.

But God I was loving it. You turn up all aloof and pretending that competitiveness happens to other people, but five minutes in the testosterone seam could be mined with a spoon. It’s so visceral, there’s a lot of skill riding two inches from the next wheel but most of this is how much pain you’re happy to deal with our deal out.

As we found after my bin proximity experience, where my barely sub 40s 500m time had me in the ‘B’ race final chasing four others at a starting distance of 50 metres. I caught three but the last man was being reeled in at a rate suggesting we’d be finished by about next Wednesday.

Steve called us in to save the embarrassment of two middle aged men being rubbish and started the ‘A’ final. Which – to my great amusement – saw Martin being caught on the first lap. ‘I’d rather be joint first in the losers race than last place in yours’said this very non competitive person.

There was more which came as a difficult announcement for my now wobbly legs. A five minute free for all in what I can only describe as a cross between school Murderball and DeathRace 2000. Obviously I chased Martin down, overtook him with a number of choice swear words before getting the hammer down. At which point the slipstreaming bastard sailed past.

Oh fuck. Really. I should just let him go. That’s what my legs wanted. My lungs were keen to add their support but Mr. Brain wasn’t having any of that so we winched our way back before striking on the high banking and burying myself in a dark place for 40 seconds. Steve felt that was about enough. Which was good as by this time I was pretty much incapable of independent movement.

Track racing is an outlier of proper cycling. You will be found out in 30 seconds. The clock doesn’t lie butyou will want to lie down after every hardlap. My advice would be to give it a try – preferably without a hangover sharp enough to shave with – and don’t even pretend you’re not going to be arse-hanging-out competitive.

Will I be going again? Absol-bloody-lutely. Martin was a whole second quicker than me on the 500m sprint. That cannot stand 😉

* as much as I race anything. Competitive in mind only. Still bloody hurt tho.

** the one man behind me was Will who somewhat tactlessly reminded me of an incident a couple of years ago when my lack of road riding etiquette nearly killed all four of us on the A40. I could have done without that to be frank.

 

Not completely terrible.

Hitting the organic ejection seat at 05:40am on a sleepy Sunday is never go to put you in the best of moods. Especially if a good part of the rest of that day shall be spent riding past fantastic looking dirt trails – partially hidden by humourless men squeezed into inappropriate lycra.

Not all of them, of course. There were some women as well. Not many sadly with the stereotyped demographic of expensive bikes piloted by sort-of mobile sponsor billboards representing far too much of an otherwise rather fab event.

Ian and I were keen to seek out unlikely looking physical specimens scheduled to ride a 100 kilometres in the lumpy environs of the English/Welsh border. Mainly to make us feel a little better about ourselves and, specifically, our woeful lack of preparation. And team harmony was already being tested after the rushed admission that one member had indeed been secretly training. Sure it was one ride, and quite a short one at that but I still felt this wasn’t in the spirit of our cook-snookery worldview of riding around in circles.

Hot on his training admission, Ian also felt the urge to share his ratio faux-par of a triple front ring*, swiftly followed up by making a sexually ambivalent fashion statement though the medium of white shoes. Right then I’ll be spending the next four or five hours with a one man Liberace tribute act would I? Splendid.

After some customary faffing which somehow left us with multiple tubes but only a one-shot inflation solution, we gunshot-clipped into roadie-pedals and made rather rapid headway onto the course. Ian was looking a bit racey having arrived at this event without being clinically half-dead, although he was keen to point out that very small children gain-stayed any periods of useful sleep in the last few weeks. I rebuffed this with the fact he was still a young man full of vitality whereas I was an decrepit old fucker. In that happy vein, we made steady progress to the site of the first accident.

Not ours thankfully, but some poor sod had clearly been introduced to unseen traffic and was lying in a bloodied face-up position looking quite bashed around. Nothing we could do other than curse Sunday drivers and hope we weren’t next. Mass cycling events on public roads are going to create some kind of friction and conflict however well organised. And this one was extremely well organised, but there’s always some arsehole behaviour on the part of the motorist and/or cyclist ending in gunning engines, dangerous manoeuvres and the waving of a couple of fingers.

Generally tho, a lovely day out. Lots less banter than a mountain biking event but moving speeds and restrictive roads explain some of that away. Ian and I were having a good time especially at my expense once I’d proudly explained part of my ‘fuelling solution‘ were energy bars endorsed by no other than ‘Sir Bradley Wiggins‘ himself. Inevitably this led to much innocent questioning ‘what’s it like having Brad in your mouth?‘ and ‘Brad seems to have gone a bit soft and squishy since the last time’.

I responded by lampooning his choice of ridiculous gear ratios likening them to a BBC3 denier. Dirty secret that sometimes will be used but never, ever admitted to. We even had a go at some proper road riding, drafting a few riders who began to look a bit angry when their significant looks suggesting we should take the wind were met with a facial expression somehow suggesting that ‘we’re mountain bikers mate, absolutely no idea what you’re talking about’.

I don’t suppose it helped much when – at the foot of the first proper climb – Lance Beddis stomped on the pedals and attacked the group. I watched in middle aged detached amusement in my happy spinning place catching Ian sometime later, where he admitted to a possible tactical mistake. We traded strategies where my plan to ‘unleash the power of my mighty thighs at 80k‘ was met by some bemusement and surreptitious pointing at the tiny ring on his chainset. “You’re not thinking of using that are you? You’re dead to me now

Warming temperatures, blue skies, light winds and a few more hills landed us in the first feed stop at 45k. Both felt in decent shape although the extra 10 minutes rest on deploying our one and only puncture solution might have helped. Me jumping off curbs a few minutes before probably didn’t. You can take the boy out of baggies and all that…

Refuelled and relieving ourselves of expensive energy drinks, we crossed the border with half the distance gone but still with a couple of monster climbs to come. Which I was a little quicker up, but Ian caught me easily on the descents. Every time I tip the road bike into a corner, the almost imperceptible tyre width gives me the bloody jitters. With some strong MTFU mental flogging, I improved immeasurably from crap to ‘quite crap‘ while Ian cheerfully railed corners and cut through slower rides.

One more big climb at 75k was met with an impromptu halt while I sorted a bit of cramp amusingly brought on by reaching for the hard to grab water bottle. The one being drunk to ward off any signs of cramp. Popping ‘my last Brad‘, legs and lungs felt good enough for a bit of an attack on the strung out pelaton ahead. Although it wasn’t an attack rampant in savagery or shown by awesome speed. No it was more passing tired riders – with that head down/raspy breathing of the properly knackered – with a cheery ‘hello‘ and polite enquiry if all was well. A patronis-attack if you will.

We even saw a few walking which was sad and painful for those clearly who didn’t ride that much but were giving it a great shot, and shallowly amusing when it was the fat blokes tramping leaden footed with a carbon trinket for company. I know this is a crap attitude, and I know that more people cycling is all good and – yes – I also know that it’s lazy analysis at best. But I can’t help myself. I guess if a decent MTB’er sees me having a mince somewhere on my over-biked much upgraded steed, he or she is welcome to feel the same way.

Last 10k was a fun tussle with a couple of young fellas who had all of the fitness, but lacked my guile and engorged competitive gland. With the GPS running out of pointy bits, the hammer went down until my arrival back at the start stopped the clock in just over 4 hours. Ian was a couple of minutes behind having rightly refused to get involved with such silliness.

We toasted ourselves with yet more energy drink and concluded these road bikes are actually quite good fun. What we needed was another challenge. Something ambitious we could be rubbish at. Both of us arrived at the same idea – a proper imperial century. We even talked about doing it this year. I wonder if I can move to somewhere flat first.

Whatever, it won’t be 18 months before the road bike and me go tarmc’ing again. It won’t be next week though because that’s mountain bike time. Today was a lovely day to ride my road bike with my good mate Ian. Still not a patch on hitting the dirt tho.

* 3 rings? THREE. Honestly just post a video of you and a goat deeply in love on YouTube. It’d be far less humiliating.