weather with you

So the one thing that gets constantly asked if me is this: you cycled in that? 

For most non-cycling commuters, the idea that you would willingly submit yourself to the rage of the weather that makes up these isles mystifies them. There they are in their nice warm cars, trains and buses shaking their heads as some lone cyclist passes them...

Spring

Spring is wet. Very wet. It is worse than the wet of autumn and winter as it is wet interspersed with the promise of warmer weather ahead. Every sunny warm day when the lesser spotteds* come out is punctured by those artic winds and rain still shouting that they aren't finished with you yet.

You try and get your clothing right but you are either too warm or too wet, forgetting that important  rule that you are water proof! In those rainy times I have to remind myself that if I was training it in I would be sitting at my desk with wet clothes rather than the nice dry ones I wear when I get showered and changed at work. 

Thanks to cycling clothes, I am drier than most people coming in during the spring rains.

*lesser-spotteds: people who appear once the winds and rain look likely to disappear. Those empty lanes and roads you were used to are suddenly filled with a mixture of lack of fitness and too much fitness (thanks to their indoors trainers). They will scurry back into their burrows very quickly in April and May as the weather reminds them that it hasn't finished with the crap yet. 

Summer

Summer is the pita. You dress appropriately for the weather just for that artic punch to have one dying swipe at you. At least you don't have to worry about being cold. Seriously, wet is nothing, cold is all. 

So on those rare days when the sun is shining and the roads are cracking, you are peddling along only to be interrupted by the lesser spotteds and the rest of the fair weathers. Don't get me wrong, it's great to see so many people on their bike but those with their fear of melting carbon,

give of a whiff of arrogance that makes me want to scream: "You weren't there man. You weren't there when the winds hit, when the rains almost drowned us...you weren't there!" 

Autumn 

Speaking of winds, the first time I seriously encountered these was in autumn. Winds are rightfully called hills without benefits. You get plastered head on, speed dropping as fast as your gears as you try and keep some sort of speed up..and there is no downhill to compensate. 

Even worse, if you cycle in an urban arena, quite often you can be cycling along, quite comfortably, thinking "oh good, not getting any headwind" then a gap in a building sends you flying left or right as the boreas keeps its promise to remind you that all you are is a person on a flimsy machine. To drivers reading, this is why we get particularly angry at windy times, we could just get blown into you thanks to your closeness, and...there..is...nothing...we...could...do to prevent it. 

But, I hear you say, if the wind is at you on the way in, surely you get a tailwind on the way out?

I wish. 

The gods will not like that! No, the gods will shift the wind around so that you get a repeat performance - especially if, like me, you commute on an east-west axis. 

But

But

those days when the gods look favourably and push on your back...

Winter

Winter. When the dark comes to swallow you up. The crispness of the clear night, the silence of the cave.

Apologies to Bill Watterson

Now, it could be that I was a December baby but I love winter. Some fear the ice - for obvious reasons, a fall on that is not pleasant. But I love the fact that you go out in winter leggings, layers and coat, a buff on your head, a buff round your neck ready to warm the face, big gloves on as you head out. Absolutely love that. This winter, there was 24 hours of snow and I headed out in fresh powder, no cars, the darkness and dust baffling any sound as I crunched my way down a main road on my way to work - colleagues thought I was mad but, to me, it was lovely. 

Of course, you get the usual rubbish that wrecks your mechanics , the constant cleaning to keep the bike going. the sheer crap that deposits on the road leaving you in the dark and cold having to repair a puncture, the appalling driving that seems to occur whenever conditions are terrible, the aforementioned ice.

Yet, when that caveman instinct takes over when you are out there in the gloom of the evening, when that instinct tells you to push it, there are predators abound, when that air hits the back of your throat and the traffic clears and you are you, alone...

A Leith Hill Ride

For my second hill training, I bravely said to myself “Now it’s time for Leith Hill.”

Of all the hills on Ride London, this is the one, this is the most notorious, the one that will skin a bear alive…or so I have been told.

A Leith Hill aside: When we were cubs, my dad used to take us to Leith Hill with the dog. We would park up and then there would be a climb, literally a climb up the side of the hill until you got to the top with the Tower making it the highest point in the South.

So I knew it was tall but, unlike Box Hill, I had never, ever, cycled up the top of it so had no idea whether it was as ‘lethal’ as it was made out to be.

To warm up, I cycled to Ockham from Cobham, an incline that in previous times would see me stopping to catch a breath but was now a fairly gentle double mph ride over to the Muddy Duck then downhill past the pro-greenbelt posters to Ockham then West Horsley.

The beauty of where I now lived was that it didn’t take too long to hit country lanes. Of course, they bring a significantly higher risk than the urban environment – with speeding cars, far more blind corners and less exit chances -  but to see the fields, various kites etc flying overhead and the looming presence of them there hills pleased the soul.

So I popped up at the Epsom road and I could either turn right towards Newlands Corner or go straight over the roundabout towards Shere.

Consulting my phone it looked like I could cut across to where I wanted to go – excellent.

Or not.

You see, what I didn’t know is that that route was a masochist’s favourite. One of those routes that those weird people who love cycling up hills, purposely seek out. Seriously, take a look at them. That stare as they contemplate another ascent, where words like Cols are not swear words, where the descent is not as sort after as the reverses.

As the angle of ascent got steeper and steeper, I seriously thought of turning around and heading over Newlands – For those in the know, I had yet to experience the joys of Newlands Corner yet! – but heart pumping, sweat a sweating, time suspended, legs like lead, I kept going,

As I watched flowers grow, bloom then fade and die – such was the speed I was managing on the ramps – I really thought how the hell was I meant to cycle up Leith Hill. I was an idiot to even consider doing this feat - a grade-A pillock.

Then the hill leveled out and then descended. Oh sh….

Ducking down on the drops, I felt air pressure shoving my face backwoods, wind tearing at my tear ducts, as gravity increasingly pulled me to my doom.

I had thought it was fairly fast on the descent to Leatherhead at Box Hill but this seemed a completely different matter. Realties bent and wiggled in and out of few, each small dent in the road yawned like gaping chasms,, the road bending and stretching ahead and around me as the descent continued.

Until, the speed slackened, the wind died down, reality snapping back into shape as the bike hit the level. I had survived.

Following the death descent, I cycled over to Holmesbury St Mary’s, imbued with a renewed sense of vigour and hope. Nothing could be as bad as that climb. After twice checking to see which was my turn-off, I was hit by a massively sharp ramp that quickly dragged me down to the granny gear. But it was short and soon I turned right onto the main ascent.

I was surprised. Very surprised. This seemed even easier than Box Hill. A steady 10mph up to the top and that was that.

Into the warp speed again, internally screaming forgiveness for my pass sins, hoping that my family would be cared for as the background shifted red, I popped out on the Horsham Road…

Again…

I had only gone up the wrong bleeding side of Leith Hill.

So making sure of my route was added to the many things needed for my Ride London armoury, I cajoled my weary legs up over Coldharbour, Dorking, then Box Hill and headed home.

Promising myself that the following weekend I would do that damned hill properly.

Training weekend: 2 rides

3,097 calories

Av speed 15.3 mph

Top Speed: 39.6 mph

Total elevation: 3,763 feet

Total time in saddle: 6 hours 40 Minutes