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rive_gauche
Dear patron saint of cycling, Madonna del Ghisallo, forgive me for I am no longer in love with long distance cycling. For 35 years I have been riding and obsessing about bicycles. I have ridden some decent distances, at times over a century. Perhaps some of my happiest days were last year circumventing the Cairngorms alone for 3 magical days in beautiful sunny weather on my MTB. I'm regularly to be found riding through London connecting the bridges or looking at it's greatest trees. Having never ridden an Audax I decided recently to enter the 200 km Great Escape. After a lapse in cycling I've been training for it - doing intervals, hilly rides and have increased my long rides up to about 50-60 miles. However this morning after 45 miles of Box and Leith Hill and Ranmore Common a thought crossed my mind - why am I doing this? My neck and back was hurting, my knees were burning and there was 20 miles to get home across the knackered tarmac of south London braving the fuck wit drivers wizzing past my elbow. Immediately a voice said 'man up you fucking wimp' to which replied a louder voice saying why not just get on the train at West Humble and be enjoying a beer in the sun very soon - you've enjoyed a beautiful mornings cycle? I listened to temptation and had an epiphany - what's the point of riding a 200 km Audax? I know I can do it so what's the rationale of all those uncomfortable and frankly boring hours of training. I'd rather do rides that interest me: to the coast, across fields and through forests, finding old pubs and the biggest cakes. Maybe I'll never ride 100 miles again, maybe I will. I'll still be fascinated by the 400+ KM stages of the early tour and nut jobs like Steve Abrams but I wont be joining them for hours in the saddle. Can I be forgiven for this sacrilegious talk and feeble physical state? This is my confession.