Woe is me

On reflection, maybe my choice of bike is not helping.

‘The harder I practice – the luckier I get’

Gary Player

Ever wondered how you get a golf grip on a golf club? I suspect not. You use double sided super-sticky tape and wrap it round the shaft. But then getting the grip over the tape poses some challenges*. When I was a kid my dad cut me down a set of old golf clubs for me to use. When I say old I mean old. Not the cutting edge of golfing technology for me. My golf bag contained a Baffing Spoon, a Mashie,  a Niblick, a Mashie Niblick, an Auchterlonies 5 Iron (my pride and joy - since it was not pre loved), an 8 iron and a putter. It was only much later on that I discovered that a Mashie was in fact a 5 iron. I haven’t a clue where my dad got the clubs from, with names like those they must have originally been my Grandfathers. Not only were they old but they were not top of the line in their day either. The shafts were made of steel, but had a plastic coating on them to make them look like they were made of hickory! Cutting them down wasn’t an issue for my Dad, but putting grips on them presented some challenges. He couldn’t figure out the conundrum of getting the grip over the sticky tape. However, never one to let a problem go unsolved he came up with the only solution he could think of. He put a slit along the length of the grip and then bound the grip with electrical insulating tape. Somewhat defeating the purpose of a ‘grip’ in the process. It did a job, just not a very good one.

It was an imperfect solution, admittedly, but allowed me and my brother to get out on the course and have a thrash around. More importantly, however, I suspect it allowed my Dad to combine child care with a game of golf.

I love golf. However, I am last in a long line of Kemps whose enthusiasm  for the game is matched only by their lack of ability. I am truly awful. A distinct handicap when you are born and brought up in St Andrews.

Not only was I rubbish at golf, but being a younger brother I grew up being by far the most rubbish in the whole family, a status that did not change until I was into my 20s. I am, however, intensely competitive which is not a good combination. Admittedly, I was not helped by my tools. Electrical insulating tape does not offer the best of grip, and, on a wet day it was not uncommon for my club to end up further down the fairway than my ball. Having to shout ‘Fore’ for a flying golf club rather than ball caused a no shortage of consternation amongst the St Andrews golfing cognoscenti.

It wasn’t much better in the dry. The electrical tape was want to peel off leaving a sticky residue and the slit in the rubber grip left the original ultra sticky double sided grip tape exposed. Golf is a frustrating game, particularly for a young tyro. Even the most mild mannered, god fearing of men has been known to throw down his clubs in frustration. However, the combination of insulating tape and exposed grip tape can make putting down a golf club more challenging that it should be. After carving another ball into the jungle and in tearful rage it was not unknown for me to deliberately try and loose my Niblick in the nearest gorse bush. However the adhesive qualities of the grip meant that the clubs would remain stubbornly attached to my person. To not even be capable of throwing your clubs away was the final ignominy.

I often came back from a round of golf having been soundly beaten by dad and my brother in what can charitably be described as an ‘ill humour’. I would sit down at the dinner table in a stew and announce the assembled company that I was retiring from golf forthwith and there was no use trying to persuade me otherwise as my mind had been made up. I expected that my own kin would at least show some compassion for a young sportsman in obvious turmoil and perhaps even acknowledge that it would be a sad loss for the sport in general, but no platitudes were ever forthcoming. They just nodded and seemed to accept this earth shattering news with surprising equanimity.

I was lying on my back in the middle of the road in the pissing rain this morning, looking up at my bike, wondering how I had got into that unfortunate position, when only seconds earlier I had been hurtling along the road at breakneck speed, with my bike firmly below me. It didn’t take me long to realise that I had somehow contrived to crash (again). 12 minutes earlier I had been on the start line of the Straiton Struggle road race, with expectations of a good showing and high hopes of a top 10 finish, given the course was one that suited me. 10 minutes into the race I had hit a pothole (again) and punctured (again). 2 minutes later I was lying in the gutter having pushed a little too hard to try and get back to the bunch. My day effectively over, barely 12 minutes after it had begun. After I had untangled myself from my bike and started back into the race, I was reminded of my numerous retirements from golf. I was sorely tempted follow Chris Hoys example and rule myself out of selection from the Commonwealth games. Indeed had there been a press car following I might well have made the announcement there and then.  However, a solo 50 mile cycle in the pouring rain gives a man much time to cool down and think. By the time I had limped home I had reconsidered my position.

Lady luck has not been with me so far this season. And I’m sorry Gary, with over 200 hours and 5,500km logged this year its not as if there has been a lack of practice.

This year I have competed in the following races.

• SWSCP Season Opener – Incorrect placing (6^th Place finish)
• Lake APR – Crash (22^nd place)
• Amstel Road race – Puncture (2^nd last finish)
• Gifford road race – no incident (8^th Place)
• Jim Daly APR – Buckled wheel (9^th place)
• Ingleston Criterium – Tangled with a back marker (20^th ish finish)
• Straiton Struggle – Puncture and a crash (finish tbc, but I wont be bothering the podium)

There have certainly been no lack of incidents, however I am getting sick of ruing my luck, but there is not much that you can do about getting punctures. I had hoped to get promotion to Cat 3 before I head away to France, however that is looking frustratingly unlikely now, given my calendar between now and then.

I have a Criterium on Tuesday and am heading up to Forfar on Sunday for an Audax ‘race’. No points on offer there, but the chance to catch up with my folks and maybe squeeze in a round of golf. Keep an eye on the press- I may well be announcing another retirement on Monday.

From Glasgow

N

*oh, just incase you ever have to apply an emergency golf grip… Once you have applied the double sided sticky tape, you smear petrol on the exposed side. This is a solvent for the glue, and the grip will slide on easily. You leave in a well-ventilated place for a couple of hours, the petrol will evaporate, allowing the glue to adhere to the grip.

My Dad figured that out 6 months before I had enough money to saved to buy a proper set of golf clubs.  Co-incidence?

Alas it wasn’t the clubs that made me crap.

Shadow Boxing with Major Tom

The slag heap summit of Ventoux, a couple of days after the etape. You can just see the road winding up the side of the hill.

‘You don’t have to be mad to go up The Ventoux. But you have to be mad to go back’

Provencal Proverb

There is a patronising game, of which I am sure you are aware, which is the preserve of particular type of insular Europhobe. “Name the famous Belgian”

If anyone asks you to partake in such a game, you should fix them with an incredulous stare and just say ‘Eddie’, if they don’t know who you are talking about then they should.

Eddie Mercx, was the greatest man ever to sit astride two wheels. His record is not only head and shoulders above anyone else, he stands alone, no one can even come close.  5 Tours de France, 5 Giro d’Italia, 1 Veulta Espana, 19 one day classics (winning each at least twice), world champion 4 times, hour world record holder and career wins that are too numerous to count.

His figures are nothing short of stunning. At his peak in 1971 he won almost every other race he entered. Merckx won the equivalent of a race a week for six years.

But it was not only that he was so utterly dominant, it was the manner of his dominance. He would destroy the opposition, winning was not enough, he would do so with panache and elan. Heroic one man breakaway’s being his speciality. He earned the nickname of the ‘Cannibal’, for the way that he used to destroy the opposition. The man wasn’t human.

If the Martians were to challenge Earth to a cycle race, then Merckx would be our man. That he would win, there is no doubt, but he would do so with style.

Not only was Merckx the finest cyclist who has ever lived. He transcended cycling. In that other favourite pub debate over the finest sportsman who has ever lived, then Merckx would definitely be a contender.

Following in the footsteps of guys like Merckx is part of the attraction of cycling the tour next summer. There are 21 stages and each of them will present their own challenge. I have a map on my sitting room wall each of the stages marked out. Stage 15 is perhaps the one that I am looking forward to / dreading the most. Givors – The Mont Ventoux.

During the course of this summer we will climb many a mountains on our bikes. Alpe d’Huez, Perysourde, d’Aspet, Glandon,  Madeleine, Croix Fry. Except we won’t, not really. In actual fact we will go over the lowest point possible on these hills to allow us into the next valley. Which makes perfect sense. Why would you build a road over the top of a mountain? If a mountain is inconsiderate enough to be standing between you and your destination, then you would go round it. Or if that wasn’t possible you would find the lowest point in the mountain go through that. If you think about it there is no logical reason ever to go to the top of a mountain. Other than perhaps to admire the view. Not so with The Ventoux. We will go right to the very top.

I have been up the Ventoux before. Back in 2009 I rode the Etape du Tour, a sportive which follows the route of the hardest stage of that years tour. Here is the blog I wrote after that trip.

Tennis has Wimbledon; Golf; the Old Course and Cricket; Lords. Almost mythical  locations where any good player must perform in order to be considered as great. Cycling has The Ventoux. It really is that big a deal. The hardest and toughest climb on the tour roster. This is a hill that terrifies proper cyclists. Its infamy was sealed 42 years ago when ‘Major’ Tom Simpson, the finest British cyclist of his generation (some say the best ever) died from exhaustion a mile from the summit.

Ventoux didn’t terrify me, however - principally because I am not a proper cyclist, but also because, I had no earthly idea what I was letting myself in for. 

I know now and it is brutal.

There is absolutely no reason for a road to go up to the top of Ventoux. The only reason why you would drive up over the top of Ventoux is to go to the top of Ventoux. There is a cafe and a view, but not much else. The only reason the road was built was as some form of proof of Gallic masculinity. ‘We are going to build a road to the top of the highest mountain we can find, to prove that we can’. It was constructed in the 1930s and it really is a road to nowhere. Just up to the top and back down. I suppose it connects the small towns of Malaucene and Bedoin, but then the pass over the Col de Madalene connects them too and that route is quicker and won’t have your car requiring a new clutch at journeys end. A road there makes as much sense as diverting the A82 to go over the top of Ben Nevis, just for a giggle. 

The Ventoux itself does not have much going for it. It is not a bonnie mountain. Its summit is a slag heap of limestone scree. There are no plants or vegetation, it’s like a desert. an eerie, desolate moonscape of a place. And windy. The mistral whips across the slopes mercilessly. It is one of the windiest places on earth. The weather station at the top has recorded wind speeds of upwards of 200 kph. For 240 day a year the wind speed exceeds 50mph. Its a mile high, and when it is not windy it is hot. The Provencal sun beats off the moonscape limestone so you get fried from above and below. Nobody loves Ventoux like they do other mountains, it is steep, long, hot and windy. It might engender respect, grudging admiration and perhaps fear but not affection.

The Etape itself was scheduled to start at 7am and it was an early, 4am, start from Gringnan. Once we had collected our bikes we were arranged in pens by starting number, ready for the off. The Etape du Tour is a huge event there were upwards of 9,000 people involved, logistically that must be some operation. As with all these things, one tries to eat and drink as much before the race to ensure that their bodies are fully fuelled. Unfortunately this means that, to a man, everyone on the start line is busting for a piss. It wasn’t long before bikes were abandoned and competitors jumped over the barriers to find a convenient bush to irrigate. Rivers of urine flowed from behind every tree.

When I was younger I used to get nervous the night before a race or match or exam or indeed any event of perceived importance. So much so that I was often physically sick. Thankfully I have grown out of that and don’t get nervous at all anymore, however I still hate the starts of races. Mainly because I hate how other people around me are getting nervous. People compare bikes, ask what food you’ve brought, what kind of cleats you use etc. Others check and re-check their kit, check their watch every minute, in a fashion almost bordering obsessive compulsive. You’d have to be going some to forget to bring your bike, and pretty much that is all you need. If I’ve forgotten to pack a spare wheel nut, or dustcap, if I have only 3 energy gels and not four, then unless I can manufacture it out of the river of pish that is fast becoming ankle deep then there is not much I can do about it now. I think I’d prefer not to know and not to worry about it. However, whilst standing there waiting,  I did realise that I had forgotten to make a plan.

I had read that when embarking on such a race, the professional will always have a plan. It had always struck that cycling a bike was a fairly simple task and once one had mastered staying upright, the propulsion and direction came naturally, and as everyone knows, once you have learned you never forget. However apparently your plan has to be a little more complicated than that. I gave it due consideration and decided on a simple enough course of action. I’d try not to go out too fast and find a suitable arse in the peleton and shelter behind that. I would take it easy on the pre Ventoux climbs and try and ensure that I didn’t get out of breath on any of them, I would try and drink as much liquid as I could and try and remember to eat as much as I could. My time was not important, I thought, so I would try and ensure that at Bedoin I would have plenty of gas left in the tank to tackle Ventoux. My objective was to finish, and not get caught by the broom wagon (or child catcher, as I liked to think of it). So I did a rough calculation of what time I would like to be at each feedstation, in order to give me enough time to tackle the Ventoux, as my average speed would surely drop considerably on that climb, and I would try not to fall off. Simple. Bon. Allez.

The start itself went like clockwork, about five minutes after the VIPs and the first couple of thousand riders passed across the start line, I followed. The first few miles in such a race are always a hell for leather, ‘hammer down’, frantic, so that people can get into a position they feel comfortable with. I realised fairly early on that I was averaging about 25mph over the first couple of miles. A pace that I would certainly not be able to keep up for 100 miles. So I found a large backside amongst the peleton and settled in behind that, my plan being to ‘wheel suck’ for as long as I could get away with.

The course itself was beautiful, we were taken on a tour of the finest that Provence could offer. Past vast purple fields of lavender, golden corn waving in the early morning sun and happy fields of sunflowers, their faces cocked towards the rising sun. The smells from the fields of lavender in particular were wonderful. The course took us through beautiful, medieval towns with narrow streets and windows shuttered against the sun. In every town the locals had come on to cheer us on with refrains of ‘Bravo’, ‘Allez, Allez’ and ‘Bon Courage!’. Some towns had set up unofficial feeding stations where there were filling bidons on request. It was a real carnival atmosphere. In the peleton too, riders chatted and joked as they whisked along at a rare old pace. The first couple of climbs over the Col de Cite and the Col D’ey were fine. I picked a big ring and just spun the wheels allowing people to pass safe in the knowledge that I was keeping plenty in the tank for the main event. The descent down the Col d’Ey was great fun. Apparently it is ‘technical’ descent (which I think means tricky). My descending is not my strong suit, so I didn’t pass many others, however working with gravity always beats working against it. At the base of the Col D’Ey, was the first of the feed stations. It was pandemonium with seemingly hundreds of cyclists trying to grab water and food. There was such a crush that the people manning the stations were just lobbing bananas and bottles of water into the crowds below. It looked something like the archive footage of aid vehicles delivering essential supplies after a natural disaster.

The climb up the Col de Fontaube was un remarkable also, although when we got to the top I was treated to my first view of the Ventoux. I had been told that we would be able to see the mountain from pretty much all of the course and I had been trying to ensure that I didn’t look at it too much and just tried to concentrate on the wheel in front of me. However on summiting the Fontaube it was difficult not to see it. Coming over the top of the hill we were presented with a monolith of a sight, almost close enough to touch. It came as quite a surprise to see it so close. It seemed that you had to crane your neck higher and higher and higher, until you were almost looking vertically up, in order to see the distinctive red radio mast on the top.

The Ventoux is not part of a mountain range, an old extinct volcano it stands alone and dominates the rest of the country side. The limestone on the top of the mountain can be mistaken for snow and it just adds to the impression of its might. After the Fontaube we swept away from the Ventoux, and everytime we saw it it just seemed to be getting further and further away. It was a cruel trick to play on us. Showing us it at close quarters to impress us with its scale and then showing us it from a seemingly huge distance just taunting us as to how far we had to go.

The Ventoux dominates Provence. You can see it from 60miles away and it seemingly never gets closer. A cruel trick to play.

The downhill from Notre Dame to Bedoin was seemingly endless and sensational. The joy of these long, long, straight and steep downhills was only tempered by the knowledge that all the altitude that we were loosing on the downhill would have to be re-captured when we got to Ventoux.

I arrived at the feeding station in Bedoin in about 6 hours and was feeling good. I had made tentative arrangements with Mum and Dad that I would look out for them there and as I was pulling out of the stop we bumped into each other. I didn’t want to stop for too long and they asked me what time I thought I’d get to the top. ‘2 hours max’ I replied, secretly thinking that I’d be done and dusted in 90 minutes. After all I only had 15 miles to go.

When you are on your bike you never get that hot as there is always a breeze to cool you down, however whilst I was topping up my bottles I noticed that it was roasting. In the couple of minutes speaking to my folks, I noticed that I had broken into quite a sweat. Undaunted, however, I said my farewells and jumped back on the bike to bag the Ventoux.

The road rises quite sharply as you climb out of Bedoin and I noticed that my legs were heavier than they had been previously. However I was glad when the road levelled off slightly as we turned the corner out of the town. The first mile or so of the climb was fairly benign. It was unquestionably ‘up’ but I had a couple of gears in my pocket for when the climb got bad. We took a sharp left hand bend in the road and as we did so the road climbed steeply. I had to borrow another couple of gears from the bank. We then entered the forest, and there was a sharp hairpin in the road. And the road just seemed to rise up vertically. It was like hitting a wall. My pace slowed dramatically and I was out the saddle almost immediately to try and keep some momentum and so that I could avoid going to my lowest gear. Once this steep bit leveled out a bit I would get back in the saddle. But the steep bit didnt level off, it just kept getting steeper. I asked my bike to give me another gear, but there were none left. I was out my saddle and really grinding the pedals. I could feel my heart pounding and could feel my pulse in my temples. No matter how wide I opened my mouth I just couldn’t get enough air. I was only two miles into the climb, and I was struggling. My legs had been gently marinated in lactic acid for 90 miles, just softened up and tenderised. Now Ventoux was roasting them… And I had 13 miles of this to go.

We had now entered into the forest that cloaks the bottom of the hill. Usually the shade would have been a welcome relief from the broiling sun, however the air was still and fetid, it was so difficult to get air. It felt humid and oppressive. Sweat bubbled out from parts of me that I never knew could sweat, from behind my kneecaps, dripping off my ears, my hands were soaked through and finger tips crinkled, when I exhaled a spray of sweat was propelled forward. The atmosphere in the forest was such that there was no where for the sweat to go. It coursed off my brow and almost sizzled on the handle bars. Other riders had long since got off their bikes and started to push them to the top. Those who had stayed on their bikes were going only very slightly faster than those walking. There were some who were lying prostrate on the road trying to get their breath. Frequently we would pass others retching in the gutters at the side of the road, occasionally those on the side of the road were shivering - sure sign they had had too much of the sun. It was like something out of a war movie.

I was absolutely shattered. I kept asking my legs to push a little harder, try and get some speed up. My legs kept telling me to bugger off. 10 miles from Bedoin there was a feed station at Chalet Reynard, my plan had been to stop there for a rest before tackling the last 6 miles. However a couple of miles into the climb I had to get off my bike and try and catch my breath. I sat down for 5 minutes telling myself that if I took a rest that I would have try and make that time up. Sitting down watching the peleton pass was eerie. Where there had been friendly banter and joking before now there was just dead silence. 100’s of riders must have passed all with heads down, to a man faces racked with pain. There was no joking or bonhomie now. The silence was only broken by the occasional sound of someone wretching or the uttering a quiet oath as their gears slipped or cleat released or the occasional and slightly comedic prrrrrrrump of flatulence as the carbo rich food we had all been forcing down made its way through our systems. It was like a march of the (incontinent) damned.

I decided that I was moving so slowly that there was little point in wearing my helmet. I strapped it to the front of my bike and just wore my cotton cap. When I got up I resolved that I would, in cycling parlance, ‘put the hammer down’. I remounted my steed and the hammer immediately rebounded and hit me full square in the teeth...

The road was so steep and unrelenting that I really struggled to get back on my bike and get going. Even in my lowest gear I could get the first pedal stroke in but couldn’t get my other foot clipped into my cleats. My pedals would present themselves the wrong way up, and the design of the pedal was such that you couldn’t push down on the wrong side without your foot sliding off. The force that I was pushing down was such that my foot would come off at quite a rate, the backs of my calves would get ripped on the chain ring and I would find myself landing full flush on the cross bar. Nigh on a hundred miles in, a saddle tenderises your balls considerably, at least wearing them as earrings removes that dull ache, replacing it with a mind numbing pain.

I tried again. This time I was careful to look down and try and make sure that I flipped the pedal over with my shoe so the cleat was correctly oriented. Alas, the gradient of the hill was such that I couldn’t generate enough momentum to give me enough time (and I’m only talking fractions of a second) to clip in. As I fumbled about, my speed decreasing rapidly I veered to wards the edge of the road and started to over balance. Success! I was into the cleats, however my over balance had gone too far and I couldn’t right myself. In my panic I couldn’t get out the f*cking cleats. I slowly toppled over on the side of the road. I was left looking skywards, my feet still attached to the pedals, blood dripping from my knee, calf and elbow. I am afraid I didn’t see the funny side. I was raging at the sheer indignity of it all. Absolutely raging. If I had had the strength I would have done a Bjarne Riis and flung my bike away. But I was goosed. I just lay there for a few minutes trying to summon the strength to get up and carry on.

After another couple of attempts I finally managed to get back on my bike and slowly started to climb again. The forest was thick and obscured any view. It was impossible to tell how far you had gone or how far you had to go. It just seemed interminable and endless. There are kilometre markers up the side of the road, however that just made things worse, it was dispiriting that they took so long to appear. You kept thinking that you had missed one. Then when they only incremented by one it really got you down. In the end I just put the head down and ‘shat the pineapple’.

I had to stop another couple of times, I forget how many. I kept asking my legs for a little more effort but there was simply nothing left in them. I felt tired and lethargic. There was no denying that the hill was steep, but it surely wasn’t that steep. I started to feel cold despite my sweating, I was bonking. No doubt about it. I swore at myself for not eating enough earlier on. As I climbed through the forest my heart was busting, I could hear the pulse in my temples and it felt like my heart was going to break out of my chest. The hill was just relentless.

A number of riders had given up the fight and decided to walk up the mountain, such was the gradient they didn’t loose much in time. Indeed had they taken off their cycling shoes I dare say some would have passed those on the bikes.

Finally the forest started to thin out and rounding a bend I could see Chalet Reynard, the final feed stop before the finish line. It was like a bomb site, plastic bottles and gel sachets littered the ground. A huge scrum had formed around the feed station as cyclists tried to get what little water they had left. I managed to get a bottle, before it became apparent that the water station had run out of water.

I found myself a quiet spot away from the crowds and sat down behind a wall. I was spent. I emptied my jersey pockets of food and slowly force fed myself all that I had left, dry retching as I did so. Forcing thick sickly sweet energy gels into a mouth which was so dry my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I took me about 45 minutes to get through the couple of gels and energy bars that I had left. By the time I got back on the bike I felt a little better. The road levels out slightly immediately after the chalet (when I say level out, I am talking in relative terms, it goes from precipitously steep to just very steep). I was able to shift down a couple of gears and get into a rhythm. Out of the forest and into the sun, the air became clearer and it was possible to breathe again. Almost a mile up the views afforded of the Provencal countryside were amazing. They would have been breath taking had I had any breath left. More importantly the lack of trees meant that we could now see the orange radio mast in the distance. The road zig zagged across the barren moonscape of the hill. It looked incredibly steep but at least we could see the finish and the prize. It was amazing what a fillip that was. I had new strength in my legs.

Sensational views from the top of Ventoux

A couple of miles from the top we passed the memorial to where ‘Major’ Tom Simpson expired in 1969, a victim to the unrelenting demands of, the heat, the Ventoux and The Tour. The steps up the memorial are festooned with empty bottles and riding caps that have been left in tribute. I, like many others, doffed my cap in respect.

A long road to the top.

Just past the memorial a cyclist was sitting in the ditch at the side of the road, his head between his legs retching. He was in sight of the finish but he was spent. I took out my water bottle and threw it to him.

And then there it was. A small crowd had gathered at the top of the hill, sitting on the walls that line the inside of the last bend cheering on every rider. I got out my saddle and rounded the last bend as near as I could to a sprint finish. I crossed the line. Just like Anquitel and Mercx and LeMond and Indurain and Armstrong had done before me and like Tom Simpson never would.

I was shadow boxing with the greats.

I leaned back in my saddle and punched the air, just like I had seen my hero’s do in the past. It had been really tough and I wont lie to you I was emotional. Elation and exhaustion make a heady cocktail.

Then I saw him and my bubble was savagely burst. There, standing against a wall leaning against his bike was a fella with one leg, drawing on a fag with a casual insouciance that only the French can pull off. I had been beaten by a one legged man. Who smoked.

I’ll be back.

When the route of the Tour was announced I was thrilled that we would be visiting the Giant of Provence. The Tour has only visited there 8 times and the stage winners read like an all time who’s who. Gaul, Poulidor, Merckx, Thevenet, Pantani and Verneque.

And how did Eddie fair up the Ventoux? Well it has humbled even the greatest. It was a summit finish in 1970, when he was in his pomp. Merckx won the stage (of course he did), but the mountain took such a toll on him that he collapsed at the top with exhaustion and required oxygen.  

Perhaps he was human after all.

I can’t wait to renew an old acquaintance.

From Glasgow,

N

A Farewell to Corinth

My certificate of professionalism

‘I spent a lot ofmoney on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered’

George Best.

I have never been much of a gambler. It’s all a bit complicated for me. I went to Ascott once and finally managed to pick a winner in the last race of the day, but for some reason my winnings didn’t cover my stake and I ended up having to pay the bookie. I still cant quite work out howthat happened. I guess it might have something to do with a hot sunny afternoon, a liquid lunch and free champagne since breakfast. But then, I had never put abet on before so I guess I can put it down to experience.

When John Daly picked up a $750,000 runners up check at agolf tournament in San Francisco, he drove to Las Vegas and blew it all, in one sitting, on the slot machines. But 750k didn’t really touch the sides, so he frittered another 750k before he figured that lady luck was not smiling on him that day. Shortly after he cut his losses and called it quits. In total he lost $1.65million dollars.

$1.65m. In one sitting. On the puggies. I don’t even know how to play the puggies, too many flashing lights, buttons and twinkly noises. It’sall a bit too much for me. But how do you manage to drop $1.65m on the puggies? In one night? That’s a lot of pound coins.

Its not like John Daly was a beginner, either. In his career he reckons he has lost $60m through gambling. You’d think by now he would figure out how to play the slot machines and realise that he’s really not very good at it. He’d have been better off following Georgie’s lead and spending his prize money on booze and birds. At least with a hangover and a dose of the clap, he’d have something to show for his endeavours.

My sporting career has not been particularly successful. The closest I have ever come to winning a prize was as a 6 year old in the St Andrews Botanical Garden, 1982 Junior Hortus Daffodil growing competition. I got a ‘highly commended’ certificate which, if memory serves came with the princely sum of two bob. I have recently discovered that Junior Hortus was actually run by a kindly reactionary socialist, who was fighting a solo war against Thatcherism. Her bid to engender an agrarian revolution amongst the youth of St Andrews involved ensuring that everyone got a ‘Highly Commended’ certificate for their Genus Narcissus. This has somewhat devalued my achievement. Added to the fact, that I have recently discovered that I unwittingly cheated. In a horticultural equivalent to performance enhancing drugs, my mother was up all night with a hair drier encouraging the daffodil to flower. So I am not sure I can even include my champion daffodil growing exploits on my CV. I should really return my highly commended certificate and 10 pence prize money to the Daffodil Society without delay.

This Saturday was a red letter day in my sporting life, however. Marking as it did, the end of my amateur career. A gentleman no longer, I have thrown my lot in with the players. An eighth place finish in the Gifford Road Race brought with it the princely sum of £15.

“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube.”

Hunter S Thompson. Kingdom of Fear.

It was not a pretty race. A big peleton on narrow roads and a field who, to a man, showed not the slightest interest in being shot out of a cannon. We rode round for nigh on 50 miles at a pedestrian pace, meaning that the entire field was there at the end for a mass kamikaze cavalry charge in the last 2 km. It was pandemonium. The group became a heaving mass. Riders barged and elbowed their way to the front. Not through malice, just through lack of space. Both sides of the road were taken up by riders jostling for position. Thank goodness no cars were coming the other way. Wheels touched, riders would have fallen, had there been room to fall into. Slower riders were at their limit and could accelerate no more, faster riders had more to give, but had nowhere to go. The effect was as if the peleton was a tube of grease being slowly squeezed. Who came out first was more a reflection of chance than ability.

I was delighted to come away with an 8^th place finish but more relived to come away without a crash.

All that remains is to figure out what I am going to spendmy winnings on. I would gamble it, but I don’t know how. I could spend it onbooze, except I’m off that until the end of the tour. And £15 is hardly likely to attract Miss World.

I do have a notion to plant a few daffodils, mind you.

From Gifford,

n

The Tour of Narnia

Spring racing in scotland. Gales, snow and ice. I want to emigrate.

‘Its always winter in Narnia – always winter but never Christmas’

The Lion the Witch and Wardrobe – CS Lewis

‘This is the way the world ends, Not with a bang, but with a whimper’

The Hollowmen, TS Eliot

During a long day on the bike, and there have been few, your mind tends to wander a bit. ‘What do you think about when you are cycling for so long?’ Is not an uncommon question. If I am honest I find it very difficult to have any productive thoughts when I am cycling. I come back no wiser after a bike ride than before. There are seldom any insights to be had. When I get fatigued I find even the simplest of arithmetic difficult – like how long it will take me to cycle the last few miles home. Any thoughts deeper than what I’m going to have for dinner are pretty useless.  Today I found myself trying to figure out what chocolate eggs have to do with Easter. The only thing I could come up with was eggs were a symbol of the stone that Jesus rolled back from his cave – hence why you roll eggs down a hill.  Which is, of course, total nonsense. Then I realised I was so cold that I had better pedal harder to warm up.

I get suckered every year. Every. Single. Year. We have a beautiful couple of days in late February or early March and I proclaim to all who are willing to listen that winter is over. In a flurry of excitement I wake the hibernating summer bike from its slumber and get it dusted down, apply new handlebar tape, give it a polish and a smear of oil and make sure the tyres are pumped up, tight as a drum.  I rummage in the depths of my cupboard and pull out the short sleeved cycling tops that have not seen daylight since September. No sooner have I prepped the steed, and organised my summer wardrobe than winter swoops back in and bullies the infant Spring into submission. Every year it happens, and every year I fall for it. When will I learn?

This March has been particularly cruel. When will winter piss off? I have had more than enough already. Whatever point winter is making, it has made it loud and clear, beat it and let the spring have a say. It seems like we have had snow every day this month. Every race I have entered in March has either fallen to the weather, has been re-routed or has been subject to a late ‘pitch inspection’. Conditions have been tough, to say the least.

Cycling in the snow is not easy. Aside from the fact that it is cold and all exposed skin gets a stinging sandblast. Vision is difficult too, if you wear glasses then the snow sticks to them and you can’t see properly. If you remove your ‘bins’ you get snow in your eyes, which is uncomfortable, and you cant see properly. You can always keep your head down to shelter from the snow, but then you can’t see properly. The only (imperfect) solution I have found is to close your left eye, move your head 45 degrees to your right in the hope that your nose and your eyebrows afford your right eye some shelter from the snow.  There are numerous problems with this approach, the main one being that you have limited depth perception, a serious handicap when on fast moving bike. Secondly, one closed eye and a contorted face can give on coming traffic the impression of a lascivious wink. A fully grown man in lycra winking at passers by in the snow is probably grounds enough to get you on the ‘register’.

I don’t have a big nose, so there is limited shelter to be had when hiding behind it. In short, no matter what you do, when it snows, you can’t really see properly.

It’s all relative though, I guess. The beast that is this March has been magnified by the beauty of 12 months ago. This time last year we were in the middle of a heat wave. I remember marshalling the annual Nightingale APR in shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. Although a beautiful March was followed by a wash out until August. I am not sure what is worse.

The Lake APR was held last weekend. This is one of the two races that my club (The Glasgow Nightingale) put on annually. It takes a big effort to put a race on and it involves large numbers of the club members turning out to help. Most of these guys don’t race, so they really are doing something for little return. I managed to get a start in the race. Given that I should have been helping put the race on, I am very grateful for.

An APR (Australian Pursuit Race – no idea where the name comes from) is a handicap race. Other races that I have been involved in are ranked so that you are always in with a category of other riders who are of roughly the same standard. In an APR anyone can enter, however each rider is handicapped, roughly according to ability. The weaker riders in the race get a head start and the strongest riders set off last. As ever with cycling, but perhaps more so in an APR, you are both competing against, and dependent upon those in your group, which gives it an interesting dynamic. If you work together you stand a chance of holding off the better riders and catching those who set off first. If the handicaps are calculated well, then the whole race should come together towards the closing stages.

The conditions for the race were tough. There was a very strong, cold wind blowing. There was snow piled high on the sides of the road. It was barely above freezing but when you added in the wind chill factor it felt nearer -4. The route was 2 laps of a circuit so there were headwinds, tailwinds and cross winds to deal with and as a result the race blew apart very quickly with riders scattered across the course.

I was riding well and feeling strong, we were working fairly well as a bunch, with each rider taking a turn on the front. The pace was high and as a result a number of our group had been shelled out the back. Whilst at the back of the bunch I snatched a look round to see the scratch group (aka ‘the big boys’) off in the distance, approaching fast like the cavalry in a western pursuing the hero outlaws. The tactics of the race change somewhat when it becomes inevitable that you will be caught. Rather than battling to stay away from the bunch you start thinking about conserving some energy, then jumping on the back of the bunch as it comes past.

When our group turned a corner I glanced back again to see the scratch group almost upon us. I turned round to find that the bike in front of me was not where I expected it to be. We touched wheels and the next thing I knew I was lying in a ditch on the side of the road staring at a leaden sky.

Whilst I was contemplating life and the universe the scratch group roared silently past. I didn’t even notice that they had over taken me until I had untangled myself from my bike and looked up the road to see my group scattered across the road in the wake of the cavalry charge.

I quickly checked all appendages to make sure nothing was missing from either the tumble, or the cold. Then jumped back on my bike. Its much harder cycling on your own than in a bunch, so your only hope is a short hard effort to try and get back. If you don’t make it back within a few minutes then it is likely that you’re not going to and your afternoon will probably be over. I managed to hold the group to the same distance away for a time, before they started to pull away.

I gave them up for lost and settled into my own rhythm, hoping that I could perhaps pick up a few stragglers and form a group to help with the long ride home.

Then a group of about 10 riders came up fast behind me. I jumped on their tails and settled in for the ride. Within about 3 miles 10 had become 5 and the pace had started to quicken. It was eye balls out and chew the bars type stuff. These guys had originally been in the scratch group but had been caught cold by an early attack and were themselves trying to get back to the head of the race. They were a class or two (or four) above me and I wasn’t able to contribute much to the chase. My main focus had become holding onto the contents of my stomach. In my mind not throwing up on my new riding pals was contribution enough, although I didn’t feel that this sacrifice was fully appreciated! It was a case of grim survival for me. If my heart hadn’t been concentrating on not exploding through my chest, then she would have been lifted by the sight of my original group just up ahead. Alas I was cooked by then, and was yo-yoing off the back of the chase group. With each ‘yo’ it became more and more difficult to get back to the shelter of a back wheel. When we were within about 20 yards of the bunch ahead the elastic finally snapped. As my new amigos breezed through the larger group, I was left in no mans land, desperately trying to close the gap on my own. Despite turning myself inside out the gap stayed at a stubborn 20 yards. Then I blew completely.  I was about 3 miles from home, but I had nothing left, I limped home on my own. This is the way the race would end, not with a bang but a whimper.

There are positives though. I later found out that the group I was in contained ex pros and Scottish champions. Exulted company. There is no shame being busted by riders that much better than me.

I mainly cycle with a blank mind, simply concentrating on the immediate task at hand. Occasionally thoughts do come other than easter eggs and the scripture. Today I wondered if Bradley Wiggins was the complete cyclist. It wasn’t his multiple track gold medals, or his TdF victory, or his Knighthood that confirmed my decision that he was. No, as I ploughed through Newport on Tay in what felt like a blizzard, I realised that he had the gift of an unnaturally large nose, probably the biggest in the professional peleton. That surely gives him a competitive advantage. Especially if he were to race in the Tour of Narnia.

The clocks go back this weekend, everything is now set for summer to start. Light nights mean less time on the turbo and more in the open air. Cycling can start to be fun again. But then according to TS Eliot, it is April, not March that is the cruellest month. So maybe it will get worse before it gets better.

I’m off to console myself with an Easter egg and await some divine inspiration.

From St Andrews

N

PS A huge thanks to Scott Smith for organising the APR and the purvey afterwards. Great effort Scott. Looking forward to seeing you back on the bike.

If you would like to sponsor me then you can do so here:

http://www.bmycharity.com/nkemp

That Sinking Feeling

The worlds first bicycle

Hands up if you know who Kirkpatrick McMillian is? Come on, don’t be shy. Anyone?

How about John Boyd Dunlop? Or John McAdam?

I am guessing that a fair number of people who read this blog will have at least a passing interest in cycling and a few others will be Scottish. If you fall into either of these camps and you don’t know who these gentlemen are – then you really should.

There are a few places that can claim to be the spiritual home of cycling. The Italians, Belgians and the French will doubtless have vociferous claims. But perhaps the South West corner of Scotland has the strongest claim of them all and that we don’t shout it from the rooftops is strange indeed.

You see, Kirkpatrick McMillian, of Keir, in Galloway, invented the bicycle in 1839. I wont lie to you. It wasn’t the fleetest of machines. Made of wood, with iron wheels and solid rubber tires, it must have weighed a tonne. No carbon or space age materials on this baby. Still, Kirkpatrick was able to get from Kier to Dumfries (14 miles) in an hour and even up to Glasgow (78 miles) in two days.

Dunlop of Dreghorn in Ayrshire invented the pneumatic tyre in1887, bringing a little more comfort and speed to our velocipedes.

And the last of this trinity (or chronologically the first), John McAdam of Ayr, invented tarmac. Bringing us smooth roads to race our bikes on. All of them born within a cycle ride of each other in Ayrshire and Galloway.  It’s remarkable that they were born so close to each other, but perhaps even more remarkable is that you probably didn’t know.

I found myself down in Dumfries again this weekend only about 30 miles from where the bike was invented.

There are so many unknowns in bike racing. Over the course of any race there are so many things that can happen, it makes trying to predict a winner very difficult. That unpredictability is what makes it so exciting. All you can do is make sure that you are as well prepared as possible. Physically, tactically and mechanically. All you can do is make sure that you give yourself as good a chance as possible to ride as well as you are able.

After last weeks race, I had high hopes of a good performance and good result. Having been caught out by the finish of the last race, I decided to get down there the night before and make sure I knew the course as best I could. I had planned where on the course I was going to attack and what my race tactics were to be. I was confident that I was as well prepared as I could be.

Unfortunately we have had some pretty horrible weather over the last few days. Lots of snow and as a result the race organisers changed the route of the race at the last minute. They decided, correctly, that taking us up over high ground wasn’t sensible given the snow. So all my plans went out the window. I quickly thought up some new plans, which amounted to try and stay at the tete de la corse, as the say in French and as far as possible stay out the gutter, as that where the potholes are.

Then 10 miles into the race I hit a pothole hard. Which wasn’t part of my plan. But when it’s wet, potholes have the ability to effectively disguise themselves as puddles. When you are in a bunch riding at race pace its hard even see the puddles far less try avoid them.

When you hit a pothole, there is always a jolt through your arms. You groan internally and hope that you are going to get lucky and not puncture. Without fail, just as you think you have got away without puncturing, you get the rattle through the handlebars the slight loss of control and that sinking feeling when you  know you have a flat, and that in all probability your race is over.

In pro races top riders always have a willing domestique to donate a bike to his team leader and another couple who will wait and pace the rider back to the bunch. Alas, at this level of racing all you can expect from a team mate is a ‘hard luck’ shouted over a fast disappearing shoulder.

It took me a while to change my wheel and I knew it was going to be a tough job to get back to the bunch. However, not knowing the course, I then missed a turn. I think the marshalls were sheltering from the atrocious weather and who can blame them? I battled on but ended up coming in second from last. Dumfries is a long way to go to spend a morning forlornly chasing down a peleton.

As another luminary of the South West of Scotland might say:

‘The best laid plans of mice and men,

Gang aft agley’

Kirkpatrick was ahead of his time, a visionary. Of that there is no doubt. I wonder if he knew how ubiquitous the bike would become? His bike provided little comfort for the rider and came fitted with solid rim tires. That was maybe because Dunlop wouldn’t invent the pneumatic tyre for another 40 odd years, I prefer to think it was because he knew how pot-holed the roads of Dumfries are. With no air in his tyres, there’s no chance he would have suffered from punctures.

Visionary indeed.

From Dumfries,

n

If you would like to sponsor me then you can do so here http://www.bmycharity.com/nkemp

100 Days

Oh dear, oh dear. Sprinting on the hoods and in the saddle (far left in blue). Bad form. Maybe that's why I get pipped for 5th place.

Your heart races, you cant sleep, your palms are sweaty, you have butterflies in your stomach, your breathing intensifies and your eyes widen…

Are you nervous or excited? Are they the same emotion, just viewed through different prisms? Yet everyone loves to be excited, but perhaps not so much to be nervous, even if they cause the same physical reactions. Perhaps the difference between nerves and excitement is confidence. The more confident you are of success, perhaps the more excited you can become.

What were you doing on the second of December? It’s probably long enough ago that you don’t remember exactly, but close enough to have a vague recollection. For the record it was a Sunday, the first Sunday of the month, just after payday. Maybe you were nursing a hangover. Maybe you were out Christmas shopping. I had the Glasgow Nightingale CC Dinner. It was a freezing night, and a brutally cold and icy day. So, I sat inside and did a double session on the turbo trainer. Three hours on the hamster wheel. There was nothing memorable about the session, but I know I would have hated it.

The relevance? Well, the 2^nd of December was 100 days ago, and its 100 days until I start the Tour. The second of December doesn’t seem that long ago and that is looking back through the coldest, wettest weather and the darkest days of the year. Winter cycling is no fun. By the end of this month it will be light enough to get out during the evenings. The Wednesday night habble round the glen will start. Soon we’ll be cycling in shorts, t-shirts and sunglasses. Pedalling with the sun on our backs (in Glagsow?!). Cycling will become fun again and the time will race by. 100 sleeps. It’s not long. Things are starting to get very real, and very exciting.

After the fun of the two up Time Trial last month the racing season also started in earnest this week, with a Fourth Cat race down in Dumfries. It’s a long way to go for a race, however the rest of the country was treated to heavy snow showers, which had the races closer to home cancelled, so the journey was worthwhile. Especially since I managed to get a 6^th place finish and win my first points of the season. However, in perhaps the most controversial refereeing decision since Les Mottram inexplicably chopped off Paddy Connolly’s rasping volley against the Harry Rags back in early nineties (yup, the defender handed the ball to the keeper), I was awarded 7^th place. I await the outcome of the stewards enquiry with interest…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKuLtLXl7FI

Last week also saw me get back on the track at the Wednesday night track league. I managed 1 third place and 3 second places in the four races.  I am definitely making progress.

I am back down in Dumfries this weekend for another race. If I can manage another top 10 finish then I’ll win some more points and take further steps towards getting my category 3 race license, which was one of my big goals for the year. I need to get 10 points. A top three finish will see me get my promotion. However, as sporting pundits are apt to say; that will be a ‘big ask’.

I am pleased where I am with my fitness and form and there is still time to get stronger before I head to France. As my fitness grows, so does my confidence, and thus the nervousness fades and gives way to excitement. Things are becoming more real, I can almost see the start line now. I am still nervous about the road ahead, after all it is still a massive challenge, but I am also beginning to get excited.
100 sleeps.
From Dumfries,
N

If you would like to sponsor me then you can do so here http://www.bmycharity.com/nkemp

My Fifteen Minutes

Andy Worhol reckoned that in the future everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. This has always concerned me slightly. I have no wish to be famous, even for 15 minutes. It seems like an awful lot of bother. Especially as I sit here in my paint splattered and ripped jogging bottoms with a sink full of dirty dishes. If I was famous and the paparazzi were camped outside my flat the pictures wouldn’t be particularly flattering. I don’t have any curtains, you see. If I became famous I’d need to go out and buy curtains. Nothing fills me with greater dread than the prospect of having to go and buy curtains. So if you don’t mind I’ll leave the fame game to those who are well disposed in the curtain department. Or at least postpone it until I get some curtains.

No, it’s not me that I am concerned about when I think about Worhols 15 minutes. It was those who actually wanted to become famous. Before I had developed my aversion to curtain purchasing I had thought fame might be a bit of a wheeze.

Although I grew up in a small town, it was large enough to have a newspaper, but not large enough for anything interesting or newsworthy ever to happen. Thus, the paper was filled with mundane stories about lost cats and charity tombolas. If anything happened in St Andrews, and I mean anything, it would appear in the St Andrews Citizen. When I was a kid, like every other kid in the town, I often graced its pages – for nothing more noteworthy than playing for the St Andrews Colts U11’s, playing for the School Rugby and Hockey teams and once gaining a ‘highly commended’ rating in the annual Junior Hortus Daffodil growing competition (I have only recently discovered that everyone who entered gained a ‘highly commended’ rating, which has somewhat devalued that particular achievement).  However, perhaps the zenith of my press appearances was when I won a competition to design a poster for a new flavour of ice cream. The prize was a knickerbocker glory served at the Old Course Hotel and I got my picture in the paper. Alas, I was both a gauche child and a younger sibling which meant that the picture in the paper was less than flattering. Me, in hand me down flared trousers and a jumper that could have doubled as a sail. I still remember searing playground critique of my sartorial choices the next day.

‘Ho! Kemp! I saw you in the paper. Where’d you get those trousers? Fine Flares?’

Nah – fame wasn’t for me. At least not whilst my brothers taste in clothing was still so rotten. But if Warhol was right you might not have a choice. So I was quite happy getting my name in the paper every so often in the hope that it would use up my 15 minutes. However it seems like I didn’t quite use up all of my allotted time. The media heavyweights of both the St Andrews Citizen and the Kirkintilloch Herald have picked up my story and have run a piece on my challenge.

I’m off to Remnant Kings – I hear they have a sale on.

From Glasgow,

N

If you would like to sponsor me, then you can do so here http://www.bmycharity.com/nkemp