2013 - MITIE London Revolution

My first foray into road cycling was not a nice, easy event to get me started.  No, I signed myself up for 186 miles in two days, starting in London and circling all the way around in a mammoth loop amongst two thousand other riders; the MITIE London Revolution.

I didn’t even have a road bike when I signed up for this, but a quick look around resulted in a wonderful second hand purchase of the Specialized Secteur.  My research into the bike was of course minimal:  

1. Can I afford it?  
2. Is it pretty?  

Tick, tick and done.  I could not leave it at that though.  The tyres were quickly replaced with some bling Lugano and the valve caps became chrome bullets.  After all, I couldn’t have people thinking I was serious about road cycling.

I also purchased lycra and I am still trying to deal with this in my head, so let's move on.   

Upon signed up I was sent a wonderfully informative PDF with a full on training plan.  I ditched this as it involved me churning out many miles on road and that ate into my off-road time.  I therefore convinced myself that off-road training was going to serve me just as well.  

I did do some road miles, with a ride from Farnham to Brighton and back close to the event.  I also took a ride out with Mark two weeks before the event following him out of Stevington on a tour of the Chilterns by road.  We covered 50 miles that morning and at a set of lights I managed to screw up my clipping in, jarring my knee.  All in, I was in about as good a shape as I deserved to be and before I knew it the weekend of the event had arrived.

Pre-race day

I had it in my head that this was going to be a proper adventure.  I booked the Elliott's into a swanky hotel at the ExCel and we planned to spend Friday exploring London with our two year old son, Henry.  That way I would have them there to cheer me over the line the next day.

Things started well.  The hotel was as sweet as I had hoped and we set out through docklands with the boy in tow.  We travelled on the DLR a few stops and then took a trip on the emirates Skyline over to the O2.  Henry looked so "Street", strolling along with his hands in his pockets like a cool dude...  until he tripped, could not get his hands out in time to stop himself and face planted into the pavement.

My stomach flipped.  I had been close enough to reach out and feel him brush my fingertips but too far to stop him going.  Seeing his little face bounce made me feel sick to my stomach.  We spent nearly half an hour mopping blood from his swelling lip and nose, but fortunately he had not cracked his teeth.  It did however change the tone of the day.  He wanted nothing other than to snuggle into me and be carried from attraction to attraction.  Still, we made it over to Greenwich Market, saw the Cutty Sark, the Observatory (learning about Dark Matter, black holes and stuff), travelled on a River boat, ate lunch at the O2 and returned to the hotel to make use of the bar.

I drank too much.  My arms and legs ached from carrying Henry everywhere and I was also a bag of nerves.  Then I had a less than wonderful night sleep, with Henry finding it hard to rest with his swollen face and waking every hour.

Race-day One  

The plan had been for me to get up in good time, cycle the 3 miles to the start and be a part of the big photo session as we crossed the start line at 7:30 am in one big MITIE team, but my plan to have the Elliott family adventure caused a slight blip.  I rushed down the 4 floors of hotel to get the cup of milk warmed up and then back up to deliver it.  Anna showered while I dressed the boy, then I was able to get ready before popping down for breakfast...  you get the picture I assume.  Time simply slipped away.

The plan had to change as it was coming on for 8:00 am.  I carried the bags out to the car with a cigarette hanging from my lips (always the professional) and was in for another shock.  Despite strong assurances from the hotel that the car park was under constant surveillance, some scrotum had tried pretty hard to pinch my bike off the car.  They had only been foiled by the Thule locking clamp around the frame, but I doubt it would have taken much more yanking before it would have giving up the ghost and left me with no wheels for the race!  I was now far from the perfectly calm state of mind required before taking on something that was already freaking me out.

We reached the start line and rolled into the drop-off car park and Jack (my planned riding buddy - ex SAS) - was only just ready, so despite being partially late I needed to wait.  I dropped my bag in, registered and had another smoke while I waited for Jack.  It seemed like forever in the coming, but finally we were ready to go.  We had missed the team photo and they were already on the road, but I found myself rolling over the red carpet under the start line at 8:05.  Henry was in my Wife’s arms, looking like a miniature boxer who had tried hard but lost his prime time fight and my wife’s yawn reminded me of my own mortality.

The first hour took us through London traffic as we made our way east into Essex.  Now, I have flown down black graded single track with a bone shattering drop to one side, a wall of rock and trees to the other promising likewise bodily ruin and a steep trail ahead, shredded, narrow, twisting and full of danger, but never have I felt as close to  sh*ting myself as I did on those roads.  Watching a rider ahead slam into the ground as a truck side-swiped him didn’t help, nor did the constant use of horn and general hatred radiating from all car drivers caught behind the plethora of riders.  To make matters worse, at 17 miles, with all the twisting to click in and out of the pedals at traffic jams and red lights my knee that I had been protecting finally "pinged".  The pain made me feel sick, but there was no way I was going to let this take the MLR away from me.  I swallowed drugs, kept the "ping" to myself and pushed on.

I was playing with different positions to stretch it out in the hope to relieve it and came across a revelation.  Stopping for a second, I lifted the saddle by 2 inches, meaning that every time I pedalled I gave the leg an almost full extension and the pain started to ease.  I was however forced to climb using only one leg for a while and had to gain speed gradually rather than slamming it down when I wanted it.  If nothing else, I became very attuned to my gears.

Surprisingly we pushed on at a good pace and soon had the slower riders from the original start time in our sights.  It was fun to manoeuvre around them and gave me a sense of achievement I probably didn’t deserve.  Then the roads reminded me of their inherent danger and a truck driver, frustrated with the long string of riders, decided to overtake.  He gunned it past, saw the one lane railway tunnel too late, swung back in and took the front wheel out from the lead rider.  He went down hard and the truck pulled over.  As all the traffic stopped and while the poor bloke was being seen to by a mass of people, I barked an order for Jack to tuck in behind me and we left the carnage and group behind.

Soon enough we were in a different world, travelling through splendidly rich Essex back roads.  It felt good to roll into the first pit stop which just happened to be in a pub.  I forced Jack to forgo the queue for flapjacks and fresh water and instead took our place in the bar for a good pint.  

This sweet moment, accompanied by a couple of smokes which earned me more than one sneer from the die-hard health nuts, took more time that I had anticipated, but on leaving the pit stop I felt a new man and finally felt a part of the race.

From Epping forest the roads were great, with very little traffic until we entered Hertfordshire.  We were still catching people and leaving them behind, but Jack was finding the pace a touch strenuous.  He also found the pint I had forced him to drink a touch inconvenient and had to stop for close on a dozen “natural breaks” in the first hour.   

The next pit Stop was supposed to be at Potters Bar, but at that 72 mile mark the signs we had been following suddenly vanished.  It was only after we had travelled 5 miles that I called a halt.  We phoned the Route assist team.  It was concerning me that we had neither overtaken nor been overtaken in a while.  Route assist said to wait where we were while they checked our tracking chips.  The advice after nearly half an hour of waiting was to go back the way we had come until we found a sign.  

This added 10 miles to our 103 mile day and I was a touch peeved - but later discovered that a woman had been involved in a head on crash with a car and needed airlifting.  The route signs had been taken down and placed elsewhere as a diversion around the issue.  It transpires that me and Jack passed through between the period of signs being taken down but before the replacement of them on the diversion.

The lost time turned me into a bastard and the dirt trail monster in me, accustomed to churn and pain, chasing the light, set fire to my pace.  I refused Jack the chance to stop at the second pit stop and instead pushed on into the Chilterns.  Suddenly the rolling back-roads became a series of fast descents into cruel, lengthy, arrow-straight climbs.  Despite the knee I was hitting a lot of these out of the saddle with the gears ticked up a couple rather than being in the granny ring.  This somehow seemed easier than trying to hold the weight over the front to counter the gradient and pedal at the same time.  It felt brilliant to go past so many walkers, but poor Jack, taking my lead as an example, had to have 15 minutes time-out at the top of one particular hill to empty the entire contents of his stomach.

The Chilterns to Windsor were nothing more than a series of roundabouts, busy roads and a few pretty views, but none as delightful as the finish at Ascot Racecourse.

9hrs 20 mins riding over 113 miles (103 of the course).  Avg speed 12.1.  Rolling speed as per the Cat eye was 14.8 mph

Race-day two

I made a mistake in the night and decided to strap my knee.  Some might consider that my immense drinking session might also have been a mistake, but I say live and be damned.  I woke up in my cold tent at 4:30 am with a dry throat and a leg that would not bend.  I quickly unstrapped it, elevated it on my bag and prayed for it to ease up.  By 6:30 am I could bend it again so went for a walk around the grounds, swallowed drugs, drank coffee, ate breakfast and breathed a sigh of relief when it started to feel a little more normal.

I was not sure whether I would have Jack with me because I had "Beasted" him (his words) and had been taken to a hotel nearby to sleep rather than suffer further in a cold tent.  I was actually surprised when he arrived at just gone 7am.

We were on the start line at 8:00 am, but the organizers staged the roll out.  We finally started at 8:45. 

The first 24 miles were on great ground, but Jack was struggling.  He needed a “natural break” every ten minutes.  At the first stop break I told him we would be in and out, but then he realized he had left his keys to his car at Ascot.  We lost nearly an hour while he arranged with the organizers to collect them and to deliver them to the finish line.

We rolled out of the first pit stop - everything arranged and too much time lost - into the Surrey hills.  I told Jack that I wanted Box Hill at my own pace and would meet him at the top - thinking this was going to be the true challenge of the full event.  Having tasted the Chilterns the day before I was setting myself up for facing a true beast.  

What a shock to find the gradient barely challenging and being free enough to click up a few gears and ride the last stretch out of the saddle.  Jack joined me a lot later and after just 5 minute rest I had him rolling again.  This led us into some awesome descending and in my head the rest of the day was going to be a breeze...

We reached the second pit stop and had a pint, but I limited time to 30 minutes.  Back on the road we suddenly hit the North Downs.  Tandridge Hill turned out to the be the hidden beast amongst the route.  The amount of people walking up this was astounding.  I am proud to say I did not but this hill nearly broke me.  It was false summit after false summit that happened so often that I didn't believe the real summit when it arrived and failed to wait for Jack before tearing down the other side,which turned out to be the longest descent so far.

Box hill was put to shame once more as we had to climb Herne Hill.  The road up into Crystal Palace was a real head screw and with traffic coming back into the equation, added to growing fatigue, I was beginning to feel the weight of the challenge MLR represented.  This point in the race also had a flavour of fun as we got to ride 2 laps around the velodrome.  I have to say it was hair raising as the sides are so steep and the wheels on my bike seemed way too skinny to be able to do what they were doing.

The last 10 miles of route put us back into the heavy and terrifying traffic on the streets of London proper.  We finally rolled over the finish at 6:00pm.

VERDICT:   Despite an awful journey back home and not getting in until almost 9pm, I woke the next morning feeling capable of another day or ridding.  The knee, if anything, felt stronger than it did before starting the race so I surmised that the "ping” had needed movement rather than rest.  The race itself was well organised and was more of a challenge than I had given credit for.  It was not however anything like the South Down’s Way which had been used as a training event.  Those two days in April were the hardest and darkest days I have ever spent on a bike, so if you want a challenge, enter the MITIE London Revolution.  If however, you want to enter the deep, dark realms of the truest pain cave you will ever know…  South Down’s Way on a wet weekend is your ticket.

2014 - Prudential Ride London

After months of training at a level I had never committed myself to before, the weekend of the ride seemed to come at me out of nowhere.  The sun was scorching when I left Anna and the boys at the train station as I set out for London Excel to register and collect my number, checking into my hotel on the way.

There was a frantic air about the show.  Getting my number was easy and perfectly organised (although I still question why this could not have been posted to me).  From registration I then passed into the Wiggle store – the only route into the main show – and mass crowds gathered around the section for rain coats, leg warmers and arm warmers.  These were all items that I myself did not have and was still telling myself I wouldn’t need.  I had ridden in the rain before and I wasn’t made out of sugar; I almost walked out of the Wiggle stand without joining the mayhem, but the mood was infectious.

I did not need to push through the crowds by the time I had decided to get a jacket because the male section had been hit by locust.  Not a single medium or large rain garment remained and the XL I tried on hung on my now slimmer than usual frame like a tent with too few poles.  I looked again and again, knowing there had to be one that someone had missed which would fit me, but I was looking mainly at bare orange walls in most places.

A tap on the shoulder brought me out of the fruitless task of staring.  It was a Wiggle sales staff and she took me over to the woman’s section which still had a few coats left.  She handed me a transparent dhb size 16 that was a little snug, but the size 18 was almost tailored to my shape.  I thanked her and also snagged a pair of dhb leg warmers for ten quid before stepping out into the show proper.

I took a good long look at the broom wagon that was on display, but when taking a photo I spotted my battery was nearly dead.  This led me to the realisation that despite having a power pack to charge my phone with, the cord to go between them was still in the kitchen at home.  Wanting to be able to call home at the end as well as track the ride on Strava, I forsook the talk about riding in numbers and the trials stunt show I had hoped to watch and hunted down a Carphone warehouse.

I was therefore in my hotel room at a very reasonable hour, with my numbers stuck to my bike and clothing, bag packed, pockets filled with tracker bars and wine gums and armed with three bottles of London Pride to see me through the night. 

I set my alarm for 5am but woke at 3:30am.  I had polished off breakfast by 5:00am and was on the road by 6:00 to the start line which was 4 miles away from the hotel.  Again I was greeted with the efficiency that had to exist for such a large event.  Signs took the stress of navigation away from me as far as 2 miles out from my starting zone and although in place an hour before rolling over the start that time seemed to pass in a blink of an eye.

Disappointment flooded me when news spread of the confirmed shortening of the route.  I had seen a post that morning but had hoped it was not true.  Box Hill and Leith hill had been diverted around for reasons of safety and as the Hub at the top of Box Hill had now also been removed there was no way it was coming back into the route even if the rain held off.

Ten, nine, eight – one foot clicked in – seven, six, five, four, three – press start on Strava - two, one… 

We push off as one and the silence of those all around is a little bewildering.  Rolling on perfectly smooth tarmac of the QE park I look down to see we are already rolling at 16 mph.  Out onto the roads the rain starts and not even a mile has been completed yet and my speed was suddenly up to 18 mph.  Puncture after puncture, and I mean dozens of bikes upturned with people frantically trying to fix the problem in now pouring rain, littered the side of the road and we were not yet two miles in.  I passed through the Limehouse tunnel, going against the grain of all those around me ridding in silence and instead called out an elongated “TUNNNNEEEEELLLLLLL” which echoed around me and set me chuckling, but this stopped when I climbed out of the tunnel back into sheeting rain to see two bikes grounded and a young woman sobbing on the floor while someone tried to comfort her.

Another crash involving another woman at 10 miles in required an ambulance and I had now seen enough to drop into the zone.  Instead of riding the wheel of whomever I caught up with, I let the 22 mph drop and found a comfortable solo pace around 17 mph.  The danger was all too real.

Passing through Richmond Park I began to climb and wondered briefly if this was the hill Paul had often posted times for.  That wondering stopped when a Paramedic bike sped past me and near the top I saw the blood being washed down by the rain.  At the top of the hill sat a man holding his face.  His bike and two others lay on the grass and I think the ride was over for all of them.

30 miles in, I could not feel my toes.  I was eating constantly and keeping hydrated, but water levels were getting low.  I pulled into a Hub, thinking only of water, but the size of the crowd denied any quick turnaround.  My average speed ticked down from a healthy 17 mph and was at 14 mph by the time I got back on the road.  This annoyed me a little as I felt many people were lingering to get some shelter from the rain rather than passing through the hub as quickly as possible and my mentality to get out of the rain was to finish the race as quickly as I could.

The next hub came at 50 miles at the top of Newlands Corner.  I had been dreading the climb, having done it before on a ride from Reigate to Farnham, but the weather completely distracted me from it.  I was also climbing the side I had previously descended so reaching the top was a complete surprise and the monster I had feared was behind me without much drama.

The Hub here was again congested.  I risked getting mud in my cleats by coming out of the crowd, hopping the barrier and moving to a tap I had spotted behind the feed stations.  This likely saved me up to 20 minutes – although it earned me a few disapproving looks from marshals.

I had been hoping for the descents to help lift my average, but with my brakes constantly feathered, near to being fully on, I was struggling to get below 25 mph.  Traction was near non-existent and there were too many riders that believed their own pace was more important than other peoples safety.  On more than one occasion I found myself berating some fool that had come past too close and without a word of warning.

The rain eased off after Newlands – although it refused to stop completely.  The wind remained  but was fortunately now getting behind me rather than smashing me in the face.  Wimbledon Hill posed no great challenge and I bypassed the final Hub to take advantage of the improving weather.  A quick stop on the side lines ten miles from the end allowed me to finally and safely remove the raincoat I had nearly ridden without and my speed increased further, bolstered by returning on roads I remembered from setting out that morning.

When at last I reached the red tarmac of the Mall the crowd was a welcome din, cheering us all on as we sprinted for a dramatic finish.  All of the rain, the wind, the crashes, the plethora of ill-mannered and obnoxious teams riding like fools and many moments of horror created by flooded roads, wet cambers and fallen tree limbs faded away.  I laughed aloud when a tandem hurtled past me and across the line, only to then skid to a halt to avoid carnage with those who had stopped after crossing rather than carrying on as instructed.  My own crossing of the finish was at an official time of 5 hours 32 mins and I was shoulder to shoulder with the lovely Amy Williams.  Had I known this at the time rather than afterwards when seeing official photos...

Regardless, I had completed the Prudential Ride London.  Strava had tracked 90 miles after the diversion away from Box Hill and Leith hill – 86 miles racing and 4 miles to the start – but the conditions had amply plugged the challenge gap that had been created by the removal of hills.  2,534 feet of climbing equalled that which I had done in my 50 mile training sportive in Farnham, but I have not come away feeling I’d had an easy ride.

Next year will come around and I will let it pass.  I have raised more than £580 for UNICEF to help them equip health care workers with bikes and vaccines for those hard to reach places in the world and I have completed an iconic race regardless of diversions.  However, as elated as I may have felt receiving my medal the experience simply does not match up to riding with the wolf pack on our own unorganised, barely structured and generally brutal adventures. 

So this teaches me a lesson, if not simply confirms what I already knew; the beauty of cycling is not in crossing the line, but more in the pedal strokes to get there.