That is. Amazing how much bike technology has come on in the six years since this race. Nowhere near as amazing as the genius of routing the course through someone’s kitchen 🙂
Talking of mental, that’s a good description of my current vocational workload, and my cerebral state going into the Dartmoor Sportive. Good job we’re doing the girl’s race with only 110k/7500 feet of climbing due to my outstandingly slack preparation.
Which did include one ride of over 100k, and many, many nights sitting inside wondering which Pringles flavour was the most performance enhancing. The research is well and truly done, but the results are yet to be proven. Ask me Sunday, if I’m still alive.
2500 riders as well. Most of them wrapped tight in lycra, sporting zero body fat, preparing strange liquid concoctions and worrying over heart rate zones. Mr Bro and I won’t be like that. Aside from the obvious physical attributes we entirely fail to share with such riders*, we also share none of their competitive edge or medal chasing aspirations.
Already I feel my flirtations with the dark side of cycling have gone way too far. Not only do I own a roadie pair of bib shorts (that act as a homage to Freddy Mercury’s Spandex phase), but I’m unlikely to accessorise these skintight trousers-and-a-bit with additional willy-coverage baggies. Instead I shall stay-press the wedding vegetables for anyone to see.
So that’ll be use then. Testiclappers to the fore, while riding at the back. And there’s the whole riding in a group thing. Done this once. Nearly totalled everyone behind me. Was not asked to lead again. They’ll be scraping innocent racers off the tarmac with a spatula if I’m allowed anywhere near the peloton.
My strategy therefore is not just to be so slow I’ll not be bothering those who are taking the whole thing a bit seriously, but also to break road riding protocol by stopping in one of the many pubs for refuelling. Assuming they haven’t got pringles, I’ll settle for some dry roasted nuts** assuming they are accompanied by an ice cold beer.
But it would be wrong to say I’m not intending to finish. Oh no. That’d just be too rubbish even for me. So no more than two pub stops. Three, at the most.
* My bro especially although he’s slimmed down quite impressively this year. Bit of a worry.
** Looking at the forecast, I may be able to harvest my own.