november Blog - tantric cycling
Tantric Cycling - Jules Story
Not practiced by choice I can assure you, it just seemed to turn out that way this year. The dating, the seduction, the foreplay would always go so well until, until, I would have to pull out of whatever I had entered. Great for motivation but always disappointing. It became almost inevitable - and now many of you expect - either me or my other half Uncle Phil to withdraw from our chosen event.

But wait, just when you thought it was all over Phil has managed a 10km race (in the Chilterns I should add) and I have ridden two cyclocross races (that’s as many as I have ridden in the last 15 years!).

The Morning After -
Two Monday mornings ago after Phil’s run and my first cyclocross race we hobbled around Cyclefit suffering from our efforts, we’re nearly 50 years old we should know better, we'll never learn.
Phil used to be a bit of a party animal in his younger days, the original Mr Rock’n’Rolla and he thought he could burn the candle at both ends when he started racing. We were riding a 2’s and 3’s in deepest Hertfordshire when he came up beside me in the bunch. I (Mr Boring) had had an early night, waxed my bikini line etc he (Ronnie Wood) had had about two hours sleep after a night of excess and getting lucky. “Jules” he croaked “can I have the car key? I’m drained of all bodily fluids”. I finished second he caught up on some sleep in the car, chapeau.
Grey Power - Move over Sonny Jim...
On Saturday morning as I rode down the hill through Greenwich Park I saw running towards me several lean, grey haired men doing hill reps and really going for it, I was scared one of them might keel over. You’ve got to fight it this age thing, keep pushing. Never give in.
When I’m racing I have a little look around at the start to see how many Vets there are but I’m not only racing against the crusties, I’m taking on the seniors and juniors as well; for me it is the overall position that is important it doesn’t matter that I am twenty odd years older than the youngster in front of me.
"Move over sonny here comes Pops".
Mick Bell is a year older than me and regularly finishes in the top ten in the London Cyclocross League – he’s my hero despite the moustache.

The 'J-Plan'
The training after a race has changed a bit though these days; here is an outline of the last two weeks, remember training is highly individualized and this might not work for everyone. What I have quickly worked out though is that I need two weeks to get back up to speed before I can race again, you have to be patient when you are older.

Week one
Sunday: Race
Monday: Rest/Grumpy day
Tuesday: Rest day/ Not so grumpy
Wednesday: 1 hour commute each way, cadence 35 rpm
Thursday: Rest day
Friday: It was raining and I had a lot of work on
Saturday: 1 hour commute each way but feeling a lot quicker. Saddle position dialed!

Week Two
Sunday: DIY – I can’t put her off any longer
Monday: 1 hour commute each way, hard ride with intervals in the evening at race pace.
Tuesday: I have caught the kid’s cold!!
Wednesday: Arseholes, better keep the calories down and eat well
Thursday: Who gives a shit I’m eating all those biscuits
Friday: Another glass? Why not, one more can’t hurt
Saturday: "Salt and vinegar on the chips mate?". "Yes please, and a battered sausage to get me home".
Sunday: General moping about and more DIY.
I check the results on Londoncyclesport.com in the evening to try and work out where I would have been in the race.
Bollocks.

The beautiful game?
My six year old son plays football twice a week, he’s quite handy and loves rolling about in the mud (like his dad). The other Sunday I watched some of the Track World Cup from Manchester with the kids, they cheered on the Brits and asked lots of questions. I couldn’t answer many as it was track racing and if there are more than two riders on at one time I get confused.
Zak’s uncle who is a Nottingham Forest fan rang to say Notts were playing live on TV and Zakky should watch to learn some skills. Well we watched for about five minutes and what a despicable spectacle we saw: Foul after foul, scrapping and swearing (even my kids could work out they weren’t complimenting the referee). There was no skill, no grace, no sportsmanship, no beauty.
I hit the red button and returned to my beautiful sport.



My Paula Moment - Phil's Story
October 18th 2009 was a Sunday like any other. If you don't count me getting up super-early and jogging off to the local village to take part in a local 10k hilly running race - Frieth HILLY 10k

A Symphony of Ron Hills
Everyone mooched about the start in Ron Hills in a very relaxed mood. I stuck to the shadows like I was undercover - which in a sense I was. Like an uninvited cuckoo-singleton at a private wife-swapping party - I had nothing to offer but bluster and bull-shit.
Dead Last and Loss
We all lined-up with me dead last. What the silly-arse am I doing here? about to humiliate myself in front of the whole village, wife, dog and friends. The gun went and I jogged off - already missing my little terrier running partner who thus far had given the whole flawed project a little meaning and good humour.

I Should Have Worn a Gorilla Suit So we headed up the first (steep) hill to the top of Frieth with my heavy, inappropriate green-check shorts already falling down around my knees. Switch right and we are off road onto the tracks above Fingest. I am aready blowing out my arse and legs feel like useless dead-weights. In truth I had not felt 'quite right' for the last five days since my last training run - I said to myself already dreaming up excuses. I started to envy the runners who for one reason or another had the forsight to organise a Mr Blobby or gorilla suit.
I yanked my shorts up high again to spare the very few runners behind me the sight of my bare arse. A dignity I was to lose later on a little further along the course. I had long sensed in my dog's askance glances that my running gait was suspect - affirmation came in everyone's effortless progress past me. Even old-timers shuffled past like they were on concealed casters. Any attempt to lift my own'pace' yielded only extra mechanical noise and clutch-slip and no extra speed. I knew within 1/2 a mile that today, and probably any other day, my aim would be to finish without walking. The truth was that these people were actually 'running' and me and my little dog were actually very slow and occasional joggers. I had bought a potato-peeler to a gunfight. Back on The Blag
So I fell back on what I know, what I am, what I am good at. I dug in like a man who has made an art of being unprepared. I closed my mind and tried to follow feet as they came past. Blue, pink, green trainers were all held for a few brief steps before they inevitably continued on their well-prepared, on-schedule journey. A Helping Hand
In the steep wooded section from Skirmitt up to Parmoor I stumbled over a tree-root like an capsized drunk; to find I was instantly being helped to my feet by an elderly women. She made sure I was okay and then continued racing at a pace that I can only maintain in those special weightless R.E.M. dreams.
I knew from the refreshing draft that my shorts had slipped again but lacked the coordination and will to do much about it. It was in this state that I ran past my own house, wife, life and dog to be photographed for historical record. Joy.

Piss Poor Preparation
Soon after passing my own drive my PPP credo had its finest expression. I vaguely thought that we turned left after my drive back to the village? I had only ever mentally budgeted for turning left. And now we went straight on over Farmer Emmetts fields and miles away. How could I make such an error? Possibly because I never sodding checked, that's sodding how.
I Am A Problem
The emotional fall-out was instant and profound - the constant stream of passing runners became a deluge. I was a road-block, a car-crash, an obstacle. Everything in everyone's body-language said that I was a problem that I was forcing them to deal with. Everyone had their shit tightly packed but me. There is always one that is a burden. A needy one who tries to spread their shit around.
I desparately scan up the track to see where we are going. I am in no-mans land now, no idea where we re-join the part of the course that I do know. The diversion is about 2k and flips us back onto the course at the junction where they filmed Chitty Chitty Bang Bang running Truly Scrumptious off the road - I noted - trying to root my conscious mind in the trivial and fanciful.
I got a brief lift knowing where I was and another lift once we were back on the course I knew. The last run up Frieth Hill to the school I actually seemed to suffer less than some of the souls around me, but then I have always had a healthy dose of campsite-legs syndrome. At the finish I felt awful. Dreadful and mildly ill. After walking home I spent the rest of the day in an armchair watching crap TV. I had completely over extended myself.

http://www.friethhilly10k.co.uk/results09.html
Back Out On The Trail
Somewhat surprisingly, after a week or so, me and the dog started to jog again. We take it slow, stop to look at soaring red kites and disengorge his fat head from rabbit-holes and barbed-wire fences, as the fancy takes us. And I have to say we both love it. My movements are too mono-paced to be called running but I am certainly not walking either. I won't race again because running makes no sense at all without the pesky terrier at my feet. But I am going to try and stay jogging two or three times per week. Who would have thought it?

Cycling? And A Man's Drop?
None to speak of. Lost the urge a little with the recent rain and storms. The announcement of the Etape route was a body-blow. The 2008 course hurt me profoundly by finding every corner of complacency and poor preparation. So part of me wants a re-match. But the other part says I hate the climb and I hate the Pyrenees because it always seems to be cold and wet and snow on top. The Tourmalet is trying to taunt me off my comfy bar-stool for a tear-up outside, and I am not sure I can even be bothered to defend my fragile pride. I may well prefer to hold Jules coat and let that other little terrier in my life tear it up for both us. We will see.
Oh and 'Man's Drop'? I was on a course in the USA recently and I measured the drop from the saddle to the bars of a very well known cyclist - 6.5cm! Ammunition that real men dont have to have a 13cm drop to get-wood out on the open road.