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^^ Nice Look, Sandbag.
When are you back in Kenya? Do the Savannah Classic with me on September 1st if you're here.
Don't think I will be back in Kenya until next year unfortunately but that ride looks great (if a bit daunting in the heat but the swimming pool at the end sounds like a life-saver.), bet there's a chance to see some wildlife on the way too.
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Ok that's a shame, but I'll be back in the UK in September anyway. Let's both do a forum ride?
I've done Nairobi - Namanga - Nairobi before (2 days), albeit sans swimming pool, and there were tonnes of cattle, donkeys and zebras. The heat isn't bad in September, it should be a perfect 18 degrees. The field will be strong and I think there'll be a decent number of riders maintaining 35-40kph on the flat. I want to keep up so I'm training hard. 60km rides most mornings!
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I can see why Froome got the cycling bug here, lots of long beautiful rides keep you motivated!
No idea where he got the talent for hills though, as there are barely any above about 7% near Nairobi. However, every ride out of town starts with a 15km ramp at ~2% which is great for TT work. Perhaps he used a MTB to find proper hills.
My friend this morning straddling Kinja's old Pinarello as I led him through the tea farms:
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Yesterday, my girlfriend got the day off, and she suggested going to Brighton on her new road bike, last year she use her 7 speed dutch bike all the way (even up Ditchling Beacon), so it's no surprised she's a little excited about doing it again on a "proper" bike.
http://www.bikely.com/maps/bike-path/london-lewes-brighton
This time we turn off to Lewes to visit her friend whom own a cafe and her aunt whom was visiting from Barcelona (Le Magasin) and then to Brighton via the awful A-road.
Also she'll be navigating instead as I always feel like a cunt doing the work giving the impression that a girl simply cannot navigated and need me to do it, so I gave her my Garmin, and simply follow her instead.
Woke up at 7:30, have a bit of breakfast (californian sourdough bread with jam and peanut butter), then head out at 8:45.
Just one slight issue - she can't find her asthma inhaler, which was a major problem combined with hayfever allergy, so we have to be more cautious and prepared for certain hill that'll be a problem.
We were aiming for the cafe at 1:30. and already I was worried that we might be a bit late due to the lack of inhaler, however despite having to stop several time to allow her to recover, we managed very good time and got to Turner Hill around 11:15.
Later on it got pretty hot, we saw a field of horses lying down completely, I've never seen horses lying down like that before so it was a bit of a shock thinking they're dead, until one of them snorted rather loudly, sadly no photos as we were too busy laughing at the horse.
Only having an apple, we set off again toward Lewes, we followed the same route as the London Ditchling Devils as it's my favourite route to Brighton with lots of great quiet road, short climb and long descent, something that she prefer.
It gotten a little harder as we aimed to get to Lewes for lunch, so we end up going a bit slower than we normally do, instead of turning right to Ditchling, we turn left to Lewes, 30 minutes later, we arrived in good time despite the lack of inhaler, only 15 minutes late through the lovely settlement of Lewes.
Have an awesome lunch, I have smoked salmon fish cake with poached egg and she have pasta, they're expensive but defintely worth it, in the end we were giving an assortment of pudding that her friend chosen, we scoffed them all and barely able to move.
Despite having additional weight on our bicycles, we head off to Brighton via the A-road and visit her aunt (different one) who live there, an hour later and many honking from impatient fuckwit, a nice glass of lemonade and cup of teas at their house before taking the train home.
Lovely day out, despite I looking exactly how rare she want her steak to be, it took her half the time to get to Brighton than the last time, sans inhaler!
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This time we turn off to Lewes to visit her friend whom own a cafe and her aunt whom was visiting from Barcelona (Le Magasin) and then to Brighton via the awful A-road.
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I happened to stop there when I did a little local touring in May. It was pissing it down (and had been for about 3 hours) so I stopped for a rather tasty second breakfast. I dripped all over their floor.
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Very nice; will ride there sooner then later.
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120km, 4 bidons, 2 cans of coke, 1 carton of ribena, 1 coffee, 2 bananas, 2 Calipos, 1 scone.
Jour sans: As shagged out as a bonobo who has eaten a box of viagra.
Being a man's man I decided to set out on my delightful adventure when the sun was at its zenith. Slathered in my cheap factor 50 it was no time at all until I donned my mystical fly-coat and could use their thousands of tiny beating wings to gain an extra 3W over the distance of the 1600m of climbing that I would do.
Fly jersey sorted my travails began in earnest, as not 10 mins from my current abode there is a 400m high climb over 4.5km to the summit, with an average gradient of 6% that ramps up in places and I go over it at least once every ride. Despite a day off the bike yesterday, this truly was a jour sans as I whipped my spam-filled crank monkeys up to a reluctant tempo.
A hipster looking man in rapha with tattoo on calf dropped me like a jobby scented stone as I neared the summit, clearly perplexed by my fly-themed acoutrements and thankfully giving me some kind of target to chase the rest of the way to the top. Alas, for chase as I might, the result was shite and the hipster escaped, probably fevered and en route to the nearest shop to try and buy my diptera accented gear.
Today's route was ambitious, ambitious enough for me to even plan it and wait the 20 minutes it takes my arthritic Garmin to boot it up, and despite a strong and bravely immediate instinct to turn tails onto a shorter and more familiar route I rustled my jimmies and pointed the Grubaix Special into the blinding inferno of the sun.
Melting tarmac is a rare thing around these parts and not even the frozen Ribena cartons I'd cunningly secreted in my doping-hall-of-fame Kelme jersey could apease the god of sweaty testicles, so it wasn't long before my posh tingly assos chamois cream was making it's way northwards and goading my sweaty chocolate starfish to add yet another dimension to the monochrome suffering I'd been expecting.
On to territory unfamiliar and very little rise was an everest, every hill as drawn out and unpleasant as watching the Vagina Monologues for a third time. The sheep were sprawled on the grass regretting their fur and looking at me with an incredulity that suggested they thought i was a royal cunt for moving even at the modest pace I'd summoned from my fly-matted limbs.
Rounding one corner I was surprised to see the kingly form of a bull, massive erect pizzle primed and hovering next to the object of his affections who seemed stoicly resigned to the rutting that was to come. Little did I know that my own rutting had not yet commenced, and nature had more surprises in store for me so I blundered on, collecting more flies as I went and quaffing fluids like your mad alchy uncle at a free bar.
50km in and troubled, I opted to parade my aphid resplendent finery in a cafe and chomp a scone. The waitress was obviously unfamiliar with such customs and treated me with stunned deference as she enquired after my jam preferences. At this point an American lady the size of a house sat near me and started giving my baked goods covetous glances so I was forced to cram it into my hungry maw as fast as I could lest she try and steal it from me. Somewhat sickened by her oozing folds I taunted myself onwards instead of bailing and scuttling home.
On surprisingly quiet roads, another 25km of leg-sapping undulations and I was at the loch I'd planned to circle before turning southwards again. At this point I set upon a deliciously cold coke at some calipos from a cafe and sat dazed staring at the haze rising from the water and wondering what the fuck I thought I was up to. Metaphorical but still rather sinister vultures were circling my underprepared corpse and the sunny heat that everyone else seemed to be revelling in was to me become like unexpected letter from the HMRC.
So like a French kamikaze pilot, I abandoned my grand plans and turned for home and natural law punished me for it. Eking my leggies southwards by the same route it was clear there was plenty more dripping bull pizzle coming my way, and sure enough, despite panting my way doggedly over a route called 'the top o'the world' I was first set-upon by a sexually deviant horse fly that wanted an invite to the tingling gooch party and bit me on the arse through my shorts, giving me a much needed injection of speed as I fled my assailant.
Then, not half an hour later, I was accosted by an antisocial bumble bee that saw the fly party I was hosting and thought my jersey was the portal to some kind of nectar orgy whereupon it whipped down the neck of my top and saw me slapping myself frantically whilst veering all over the road. Two stings above the right nipple for my troubles and the little fucker was ushered out the bottom of my jersey surprisingly unscathed. Somewhere in the distance, the lowing of a bull was surely wafting over...
The hill I had struggled to get up even in the first hour of my ride was now, some 4 hours later, still planted there like a bastard charity mugger when I returned, except from the north side, it's a fucking bitchload worse. Without any option of an easier route I dragged my aching nipples, swollen arsecheck and spicy anus up it, molested, overheating and unhappy, with the kind of blank stare that a Vietnam vet would be envious of whilst sadly listening to the gentle creak of my shoe as the 8km of stifling climb stretched out before me.
Cracked, popped, blown, bested, shamed and labouring to maintain 10kmph. At this point all I needed was some 19 stone Trek riding, Sky adorned mamil to winch himself by me and I would have steered myself into the ditch and lain there weeping until the crows picked me apart.
Thankfully, none was present and I crested the summit with a final vinegar stroke and as my front wheel pushed forward and let gravity take hold it felt sweeter than any kinky penetration you care to imagine, and I swept down, cadence flatlining, insect wings aflutter, towards salvation and an ice-bath where I could wash away my many companions and set about forgetting this ill-fortuned day.
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I crested the summit with a final vinegar stroke
This phrase... :(
Jeff Goldblooms Vinegar Strokes - YouTube
(NSFW)
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120km, 4 bidons, 2 cans of coke, 1 carton of ribena, 1 coffee, 2 bananas, 2 Calipos, 1 scone.
Jour sans: As shagged out as a bonobo who has eaten a box of viagra.
Being a man's man I decided to set out on my delightful adventure when the sun was at its zenith. Slathered in my cheap factor 50 it was no time at all until I donned my mystical fly-coat and could use their thousands of tiny beating wings to gain an extra 3W over the distance of the 1600m of climbing that I would do.
Fly jersey sorted my travails began in earnest, as not 10 mins from my current abode there is a 400m high climb over 4.5km to the summit, with an average gradient of 6% that ramps up in places and I go over it at least once every ride. Despite a day off the bike yesterday, this truly was a jour sans as I whipped my spam-filled crank monkeys up to a reluctant tempo.
A hipster looking man in rapha with tattoo on calf dropped me like a jobby scented stone as I neared the summit, clearly perplexed by my fly-themed acoutrements and thankfully giving me some kind of target to chase the rest of the way to the top. Alas, for chase as I might, the result was shite and the hipster escaped, probably fevered and en route to the nearest shop to try and buy my diptera accented gear.
Today's route was ambitious, ambitious enough for me to even plan it and wait the 20 minutes it takes my arthritic Garmin to boot it up, and despite a strong and bravely immediate instinct to turn tails onto a shorter and more familiar route I rustled my jimmies and pointed the Grubaix Special into the blinding inferno of the sun.
Melting tarmac is a rare thing around these parts and not even the frozen Ribena cartons I'd cunningly secreted in my doping-hall-of-fame Kelme jersey could apease the god of sweaty testicles, so it wasn't long before my posh tingly assos chamois cream was making it's way northwards and goading my sweaty chocolate starfish to add yet another dimension to the monochrome suffering I'd been expecting.
On to territory unfamiliar and very little rise was an everest, every hill as drawn out and unpleasant as watching the Vagina Monologues for a third time. The sheep were sprawled on the grass regretting their fur and looking at me with an incredulity that suggested they thought i was a royal cunt for moving even at the modest pace I'd summoned from my fly-matted limbs.
Rounding one corner I was surprised to see the kingly form of a bull, massive erect pizzle primed and hovering next to the object of his affections who seemed stoicly resigned to the rutting that was to come. Little did I know that my own rutting had not yet commenced, and nature had more surprises in store for me so I blundered on, collecting more flies as I went and quaffing fluids like your mad alchy uncle at a free bar.
50km in and troubled, I opted to parade my aphid resplendent finery in a cafe and chomp a scone. The waitress was obviously unfamiliar with such customs and treated me with stunned deference as she enquired after my jam preferences. At this point an American lady the size of a house sat near me and started giving my baked goods covetous glances so I was forced to cram it into my hungry maw as fast as I could lest she try and steal it from me. Somewhat sickened by her oozing folds I taunted myself onwards instead of bailing and scuttling home.
On surprisingly quiet roads, another 25km of leg-sapping undulations and I was at the loch I'd planned to circle before turning southwards again. At this point I set upon a deliciously cold coke at some calipos from a cafe and sat dazed staring at the haze rising from the water and wondering what the fuck I thought I was up to. Metaphorical but still rather sinister vultures were circling my underprepared corpse and the sunny heat that everyone else seemed to be revelling in was to me become like unexpected letter from the HMRC.
So like a French kamikaze pilot, I abandoned my grand plans and turned for home and natural law punished me for it. Eking my leggies southwards by the same route it was clear there was plenty more dripping bull pizzle coming my way, and sure enough, despite panting my way doggedly over a route called 'the top o'the world' I was first set-upon by a sexually deviant horse fly that wanted an invite to the tingling gooch party and bit me on the arse through my shorts, giving me a much needed injection of speed as I fled my assailant.
Then, not half an hour later, I was accosted by an antisocial bumble bee that saw the fly party I was hosting and thought my jersey was the portal to some kind of nectar orgy whereupon it whipped down the neck of my top and saw me slapping myself frantically whilst veering all over the road. Two stings above the right nipple for my troubles and the little fucker was ushered out the bottom of my jersey surprisingly unscathed. Somewhere in the distance, the lowing of a bull was surely wafting over...
The hill I had struggled to get up even in the first hour of my ride was now, some 4 hours later, still planted there like a bastard charity mugger when I returned, except from the north side, it's a fucking bitchload worse. Without any option of an easier route I dragged my aching nipples, swollen arsecheck and spicy anus up it, molested, overheating and unhappy, with the kind of blank stare that a Vietnam vet would be envious of whilst sadly listening to the gentle creak of my shoe as the 8km of stifling climb stretched out before me.
Cracked, popped, blown, bested, shamed and labouring to maintain 10kmph. At this point all I needed was some 19 stone Trek riding, Sky adorned mamil to winch himself by me and I would have steered myself into the ditch and lain there weeping until the crows picked me apart.
Thankfully, none was present and I crested the summit with a final vinegar stroke and as my front wheel pushed forward and let gravity take hold it felt sweeter than any kinky penetration you care to imagine, and I swept down, cadence flatlining, insect wings aflutter, towards salvation and an ice-bath where I could wash away my many companions and set about forgetting this ill-fortuned day.
'Fly jacket'. Ha, ha cracked me up well done :)
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Rode to Seaford from Crystal Palace and back to Knockholt. Glorious. Kent is very leafy and lots of shade, but hillier then I thought.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/341920444
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http://app.strava.com/activities/66907678
2200m done over 95km in 30-35 Celcius and 80% humidity. Rapha Rising, bring it on!
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I had a go at the route for the Midland Super Grimpeur 300
, originally mentioned by Greenbank.
I liked the spread of difficulty through the day (easy start, tricky middle, easy end), with the toughest chunk being the 30 miles after Holmfirth. 4800m total ascent, suggests Garmin.
I'd recommend the route, it was great fun to ride.
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Shorter version of last weekend ride, back grom Goyt via Macclesfield, Prestbury & Wilmslow jousting with the Chelsea Tractors as the morning ticked on. Quick stop at coffee fix then home. Just shy of 50 some hilly miles at just over 16mph ave.
Todays pic, the descent towards the Goyt Valley:
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Quick spin through the beautiful Meon Valley with Me Julie.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/342213009
Stunning out there today, although I began to get "greeting fatigue" as it became apparent that we were doing a local sportive course in reverse.
Sunny!
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Tan line central today.
got lost a couple of times as I still have no garmin and was riding solo but a beautiful day if not rather warm.
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Finally did something I'd been meaning to do for months - move the brake levers on my road bike as they were too far down the bars, annoyingly I couldn't find the new bartape I'd put to one side for the job. After doing that I thought it would be nice to go out for a ride on it. I planned out a ride that I could cut short (via a mountain) if I felt so inclined. As I despise the heat I waited until 9:30pm to go out which was only partially a good thing. It was much cooler but even at the coldest times nowhere near cool enough to put a thin longsleeve on. The flies and moths were terrible, I had to ride with my mouth shut for about an hour and had to shake flies out of my helmet every 5min. Another downside of riding at that time of day is the type of person you generally find outside in Valley towns, the majority of what I got was puzzled looks so it wasn't too bad.
When I got to the point of decision I doubted that I'd last the full 90miles initially planned as the furthest I've ridden in one go for the past 9/10months has been my 18mi commute. So I turned and went up over the Rhigos mountain dropping down into Treherbert. It was extremely warm going up the mountain, most of the heat seemed to be radiating from the road. Occasionally I'd get a blast of cool air coming across from the fields. Halfway up the drag of the hill I got a phone call, did't feel like stopping so carried on going while trying to my friend what and why I was doing. Got to the top without going near the bottom gear which I was pleased about.
Stopped at the top to take this awful picture - http://distilleryimage5.ak.instagram.com/0375aa6aec7e11e2901022000a9e13ab_7.jpgCarried on down the mountain trying to remember the road ahead and hoping that all the sheep stay in the fields and don't run out (as they did many years ago). Only one sketchy moment was the bottom corner as there's no warning signs on it. Managed it safely so all was good.
Got down to Pontypridd and was called out by a group of drunks for blowing through a red light. Coming out of Ponty I could feel my legs tightening , without a computer on the bike I struggled to judge my speed vs. effort. Going up the hill in Nantgarw felt ok though, so tempting to stop at one of the 24hr garages and buy something but I know all I'd get would be chocolate which wouldn't do me any good. Dropping down through Caerphilli and I decided to go over a steep hill which would drop me down only a couple of miles from home instead of heading up the valley and retracing my steps as it was about pub kickout time by then. The road over the hill is a singletrack unlit job but to my surprise I met a couple on their way home as I crested the railway bridge. Got a few cheers and then as I was riding off heard "you best not get off and walk or you're in trouble" which was nice incentive to push all the way up. Having not ridden the road in over a year I was unsure of the condition but I was expecting a few potholes near the top. It was worse than expected and the last 50m of the climb was a battle to keep the weight in the right place to keep from wheelspinning on fine gravel but still climb out of the saddle - I was in the bottom gear by this point and it was really hurting. Going down was a little worrying, Id forgotten how much brake cables stretch when you're really grabbing them.
The last few miles were fairly flat and so acted as a fairly nice warm down.
Sandbag
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^^ Nice Look, Sandbag.
When are you back in Kenya? Do the Savannah Classic with me on September 1st if you're here.