This is principally a blog for cyclists, but may equally appeal to anyone interested in the course of human suffering, in this case my own. I'm a cell biologist who briefly turned cell cyclist earlier this week, but I discovered on Monday that I’m a bit naïve when it comes to the requirements for tootling more than just a few miles around London. My good friend and colleague John Greenwood is cycling with two friends, Lloyd Hutchinson and Alex Monroe, from Land’s End to John O’Groats. This is a charity ride to raise money for research into blindness, details of which, including route and how to donate, can be found here. Their 1000 mile slog will take 14 days, and on Monday (July 5th, day 5) along with a few colleagues I joined the Three Amigos (as they’ve become known) for one of those days, the winding northerly route along the English-Welsh border through Herefordshire and Shropshire.
We arrived at our rendezvous a few miles south of Ross-on-Wye on Sunday evening, half an hour or so before John’s group who had that day cycled the 75 miles from somewhere near Glastonbury. The three had been joined on day 4 by BBC middle-east correspondent Jeremy Bowen, who arrived intact but with a ghastly looking knee following a tumble. Clearly, visiting Gaza every few weeks simply isn’t dangerous enough. Despite their exertions, the four were in excellent spirits and a most convivial evening ensued, as we unrestrainedly sampled the local beer and cider, and stoked ourselves with calories for the exertions that lay ahead.
But it was as the evening became dusk, and dusk became crepuscule, and through the jokes and merriment, that a few mild anxieties first began to flutter in my stomach. Looking around the gathered company, not only did the others all appear to be unreasonably fit, but they also had all the gear – the funny little gloves with no fingers, the lycra shorts, the weird handlebar extensions, clips that stick your feet to the pedals etc., all of which I’d idly dismissed as mere frippery, the unnecessary trappings of the ardent amateur. Ruminating on whether my preparation for this bike ride might have been just a little too relaxed, I made my way to bed and a rather restless night.
Up early the next morning to birdsong, sunshine and the roar of a septic tank lorry outside my window. After a light breakfast (scrambled egg on toast, tea) we checked out, threw bags in the 'support car' and prepared for departure. As we assembled for a group photo my anxieties might easily have been piqued by John, who pointed out that I appeared to have come dressed for a barbeque rather than a bike ride. No matter I thought to myself with inexplicable confidence, I’m feeling good, and whilst I may have lacked the glistening and tightly stretched apparel of the others, I felt comfortable and relaxed as we snaked away from the hotel and headed north.
The first few miles were a breeze, nay a delight, as we cycled up the Wye valley through the bucolic charms of sunlit woods and fields, and although I had to get off and push a couple of times (which none of the others did) I was feeling in reasonably good shape. I suppose it was after about 25 miles that I started to be aware of just how unaccommodating my bicycle seat had become. Standing on the pedals from time to time helped, but there was no denying the nagging discomfort that grew with every mile. Add to that, a brisk northerly wind had pepped up, apparently referred to by serious cyclists, and with good reason, as the ‘invisible hill’.
In fact, the combination of real and invisible hills was starting to take its toll, and progress wasn’t helped by a couple of wrong turnings that resulted in us cycling twice through the village of Bartestree. The hills did eventually give way to something flatter, but by the time we reached Leominster (32 miles), and our lunch stop, my wrists were now giving me as much gyp as my derriere. Sad to report, it was but a few miles further that I realized that to continue might very well mean never being able to sit down again, and when I’m not powering home from work up the Holloway Road, I’m a man who’s fond of the comfy chair.
So it came to pass that after some 36 miles the magnificent seven became the stupendous six, as I sat out the remaining miles in the ‘support car’, my view of the countryside enriched by half a dozen bobbing backsides all the way to our destination at Clun. Scientists never tire of learning, and the lesson for me that day was that the right equipment is actually quite important, not least the padded shorts, and that training beforehand is also to be highly recommended. But even with all the correct preparation there can be no doubt that what the Three Amigos are doing is awesomely impressive and they have my unreserved admiration. The beers we downed in Clun were, for me, a well-earned conclusion to an arduous but wonderful day, and for John, Lloyd and Alex, a mere refueling and pit-stop for the 65 miles that lay ahead on Tuesday.