NCJT Course

 As part of my journalism course, I've have been required to produce a couple of podcasts. Here's the first!

https://feed.podbean.com/rudge56/feed.xml

Promised links.

https://wnbrlondon.uk/

https://www.bn.org.uk/

https://sunfolk.bn.org.uk/

Brave New World

My retirement from teaching was meant to herald a new dawn of cycling and mountaineering; with a little bit of journalism and photography thrown. Instead, we’ve been served up a diet of ill parents and medical appointments. I sincerely believe in the NHS, but we now have a deliberately failed system in which the prevailing professional ethic is one which Col. Potter of MASH fame; would have described as meatball surgery. Patch up and pack off, only do what is necessary. Given the DNR notice that was served on my mother-in-law, it appears that even keeping a patient alive is no longer a priority. This goes against all principles of medicine – preserve life, promote recovery and prevent the situation from worsening. Working in the hope that the patient might die in order to free up a bed is not good practice or are we just making way for an insurance led system where patient need is secondary to the cost to the insurer. One doctor even advised private medicine if we were unhappy with the service. 

On the cycling front, the mileage has dropped while the world has revolved around medics who fail to understand that a world exists outside the confines of their concreate box. Consequently, the blood glucose levels have increased. So far this year I have completed 600km in Audax events and 550.74km in training – a total of 1241.49km (771 miles). 

In addition to cycling, I have begun my second career as a journalist. I am close to completing a NCTJ qualification and have conducted my first assignment. I’m now just attempting to get it published. I’m reading The Devil Wears Prada and have now started to understand Andrea. Unlike Andy, my editor doesn’t call every five minutes, she’s currently incommunicado on a yacht somewhere. Oh, the glamour of it all. So different from education, if I wanted to talk to my boss and he was unavailable, it was usually because he was in a meeting to discuss an adolescent mental health issue, drug dealing or teenage prostitution. Covering the RHS Tatton Flower Show and having your editor on a yacht seems so much more glamourous. 

RHS Tatton was a world that I could never have imagined. People actually wanted to talk to me! I met some amazing designers and growers, many of whom I spoke to in their own show gardens, I was no longer just public looking in. Some of them have even kept in touch in the vague hope of gaining some publicity. 

Next week I also start running adult cycling sessions in our local park for the Friends of Dawley Park. This has been funded by a DoT grant and Cycling UK. How the world seems so different once you are on the outside of large institutions. Depending how this month turns out, the cycling and journalism blog might separate or just get a new name. Watch this space. 

Clasica de Almeria

 

I have recently read Mary Webb’s The House in Dormer Forest. Many people dislike this book, I was fascinated by it. I am sure that last summer I cycled through the locations that inspired it, I know the deeply wooded valleys where families could be lost for generations - living by the own obscure rules and the country churches that have changed little since Norman times. This is what inspires my cycling, I couldn’t just pass time by watching the computer count the miles. That is what I love about watching cycling in Europe, even the most basic of club competitions take place on the open road and visit places along the route. I did attempt racing in the UK, both as a BC rider and in the Veterans league. Most UK racing takes place on uninspiring circuits – one hour plus 10 laps. Not for me, I like to go somewhere.  Hence why I tour and ride Audax. It’s the thrill of reaching a far-flung place and riding home again that I find exciting.

Bunch sprint in Roquetas De Mar

Reach for the finish. Italian Matteo Moschetti takes first place.

The English Disease

Time Trials are referred to as the English Disease in Europe, but really it is the circuit race. Events have been forced down this route due to lack of cooperation from the authorities and several loud internet-based critics. The Clasica de Almeria may have only been one of hundreds of races held across Europe each weekend, but local town halls see such races as a way of promoting their town with free TV coverage and therefore ensure that every facility is made available to organisers. Cafes, bars, and restaurants saw a welcome boost to Sunday trading. Local people enjoy a brief touch of glamour as team convoys and staff descend on small sleeping towns. In the UK, councils see street closures as a hindrance rather that a potential for trade, and as for the police – don’t even go there. The UK really has become a petty-minded country of shop keepers.

Ok to Dive.

 

Well I passed the medical without issue. There was even a few well placed, ‘Bein!’ from Dr Jose.

‘Bien, bien.’ Came his response to an ECG check and as he asked if I did sport, and what type. I could see a clear and regular trace go across the screen. He was impressed and didn’t question my answer - I cycled and climb mountains. Blood pressure was also bien and I was pronounced fit and healthy to dive. This was much more thorough than anything I had experienced in the UK. There were no condescending assumptions – like an electric bike would be good for getting me around the park, or The Wrekin hardly qualifies as a mountain. This guy had the evidence to show that I did something extremely beneficial to my heart and circulation; neither was he trying to lure me into some programme or medication that would bring government funding into the practice.  Now I’m just sat waiting for the weather, rough weather has hampered my return to diving in a post covid world.

Return to the sea delayed.

Sunday came with promised sun and winds that continued to whip the med into something resembling the peaks on a meringue. Hence, we headed down to Roquetas De Mar to watch the finish of the Clasica De Almeria. The previous day had seen the women’ race finish in Vera, that was a two hour drive from here and would have required an early start to see either the start in Vicar or an early for a long drive. Neither were favoured after a late night in Oscar’s Bar.

The men’s race was one day cycle race of 190Km finishing 14Km away in Roquetas. It had attracted some big teams and names – Movistar, Euskatel, Isreal P.T., Bora – Hansgrohe and Ineos Grenadiers. The biggest name being last year’s winner Alexander Kristoff.

What always amazes me is the speed these guys travel at, I know a peloton generates momentum, but managing 47Km/H in a strong wind and over 50Km/H heading for the line, really makes my average speed look pedestrian. I do wonder if professional riders actually enjoy the ride? There are many club and amateur riders who know nothing of the places they ride through, it is only the Strava times that matter and it that which gives them their buzz. I just see cycling as a faster means of travel than walking. I can pass through the boring bits a little faster and saviour the places I like. During my preparation for the LEL, I visited some unknown corners of Shropshire that really are undiscovered.

Not remission - but winning the battle!

 

The battle with Nursey may be finally over! In September I had yet another blood test to try and prove that I was no longer a diabetic. As is regular practice, I was required to have a follow up interrogation. I requested a GP in the hope of getting some common sense from Dr R. Instead, I got an ageing Asian lady who appeared to be returning to medicine in an effort to stave off early dementia or supplement a pension that would not fund her grandchildren through a gap year.

Her response to everything was, ‘I don’t know, you will have to ask the nurse.’

Seven years of medical training in order to refer all questions to the nurse. She knew nothing of glucose levels, types of monitors or accepted norms. She did insist on weighing me on a set of scales that looked like they belonged in a medical museum or on the set of a 1960s drama. As she was unable to bend down to read the dial, my weight somehow managed to increase from 93.2Kg to 94KG – as this was the next large number she could see. Or I had gained 800g over breakfast. Before anyone jumps to conclusions, yes there had been significant movement that morning in a downwards direction.

Then came the blood pressure check. I did mention that I had struggled through the school traffic, battled the Coop car park, and walked briskly up hill to get to the surgery for an 8.45am appointment - an appointment that she was late starting. Her qualified medical opinion was that such events would not affect it and my blood pressure was high. She suggested that I should do something about it.

‘Must be stress at work, can I have a month off?’

‘It’s not that high!’ She snapped.

‘What do you suggest?

‘More exercise and less food.’

I took to the opportunity to inform her that I am able to ride in excess of 200 miles in 24 hours. She was not best pleased and almost pushed me out of the room. I made an appointment to see Nursey.

 

The appointment with Nursey went better than expected. She was pleased with the blood test. The NHS limit for blood glucose is 48 - using whatever ridiculous unit they choose to follow; I was at 52. She could not say I was in remission but could record that I am a diabetic with the condition under control. When I enquired about the next test in three months, she told me she didn’t need to see me for another year. RESULT!

Now I just needed to get clearance for scuba diving. In the UK this is more problematic than elsewhere in the world. The NHS doctors I have seen, all refuse to sign anything to do with diving and the private hyperbaric specialists require verified results from the HbA1c test. Even to share the results the practice wanted £50 to write the letter, then with the private medicals costing over £100 I was beginning to feel exploited by the very people who had told me to do more exercise.

So that is why I found myself sat in the waiting room of Spanish medical centre on a wet Monday evening in February. I was about to pay 40 Euros to see a very qualified hyperbaric specialist who I hoped would declare me fit to dive.

London-Edinburgh-London 2022

 

It was finished. I was finished, I didn’t know if it was relief or disappointment. I had come to the end of my road. I was in Brampton and couldn’t go on. Pam and I had the conversation about the possibilities and logistics. The trains could take me but not the bike – some use having a privatised rail service. Pam would make the three drive to collect me in the morning. We were both relived from another sleepless night of Garmin watching.  I attempted to clean and dress my knee and finally went to get some sleep. The volunteers who nursed us growing band DNF riders through the final hours were amazing, they knew we were done and helped collect the fallout for no reward.

In the morning I put together a message for my followers on social media.

"This is the one announcement I never wanted to make. I am withdrawing from the London Edingburgh London. I arrived at Brampton 8 hours behind the control time, after another hard day in the hills. I could have rode through the night to try and make the time up, but know I am physically spent. I have reached a point where discomfort is turning into physical damage, and to avoid this from becoming long term I need to stop.

I am sorry for letting down everyone who has helped and supported Pam and I in making this attempt possible. Your support has been tremendous and the thought of you all out there awaiting news pushed me through some very dark nights in the saddle. Thank you all."

The support and emotional responses were overwhelming, and from very some very unexpected sources.  There was a buzz as riders heading south had begun to arrive, and the very surreal conversations that take place as an international community of riders attempts to communicate with each other. Such as the two heavy accented voices who discussed their breakfast at volume.

“Shall we have our food now?”

“No, first I have to have my shit.”

“While you have your shit I shall drink coffee.”

“Then when I have had my shit we will eat.”

Shit was becoming a theme. One rider I met, gave me graphic detail how the sudden influx of food at a control left him behind a hedge five miles down the road. Later while I was getting changed, the entire changing room was treated to a very flat reedition of a trumpet voluntary. The rider performing was in an adjoining toilet block and separated by brick walls and doors. He either needed to consult a doctor or audition for an orchestra. The same went for the night farter. He couldn’t blame the airbeds, the muffled laughter from those close to his bed gave the game away.

 However, it didn’t change the fact I had scratched. I sat with Dave whose wife was traveling from Ireland to collect him when Pam arrived. It was final, no getting back on the road. I changed and said goodbye to those I spent the previous day with, riders and volunteers. Annat thanked me for helping him through and we departed south.

The weekend in Debden had been so different. The LEL riders were mainly on Field 4 of the council run campsite. Parties in other fields rolled on into the night as drunken parents were relieved that their children could run feral in the woods of Epping Forest. One parent even announced at the top of his voice that a rabbit had been sighted. News – there is wildlife in Epping!

Revenge would arrive soon as the early riders were up and about from about from about 3.30am in preparation for the 5am start. Freewheels could be heard spinning across the campsite. I stayed in bed as my start time was 11.15am. Simple – get up, shit, shower and first breakfast (yogurt and granola), then roll down to Debden for a second breakfast, coffee and the start. Simple? No, first there had to be the pre-ride disasters. Yesterday I had lost the van keys, after going through my bags at the ride HQ start several times, I returned to the campsite to find them under the van. How this had happened I don’t know. Must have fallen from my bag. Disaster number two was toilet based. Due to there being more men than women in the event, the school caretaker was directing traffic in the school sports centre – men could use unoccupied female toilets and he would clear the room should any female riders show up. I was directed to the disabled toilet. When I flushed, the handle broke and rotated in a storm of zip ties around the cistern. It had been bodged back together and the caretaker gave a knowing look as I told him there was an issue.

The start happened fairly smoothly, with the expected briefing about last minute road works and a poke at local club riders. Disaster number three came less than a kilometre from the start. The roads in Debden are shocking. I thought Shropshire was bad, but these are in a different league. When the old concrete road through the housing estate at the start had begun to fall apart, the local authority had merely placed tarmac over it. Now the two layers were breaking down at different rates and speedhumps and been added to the already crumbling structure. Riding as group and unable to alter your line, does not give the smoothest of rides. The rough passage dislodged my rear light which landed and smashed in the road. Luckily a passing London bus avoided it and it would continue to work minus its outer lens.

We rolled out of Debden and headed north to St Ives amongst some of the most belligerent motorists I’ve encountered in a long time. They just didn’t care, and it wasn’t just a group of massed cyclists that they took issue with. One lady motorist approaching a single lane bridge was forced to endure extended horn blasting for being cautious, this came from a clapped out Impreza that was driving way above a safe speed. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but the opportunity of a junction where I could pull alongside never materialised.

The road to St Ives just felt long and not particularly interesting. For a number of miles I teamed up with a rider who had DNF in the previous edition – ruptured Achilles tendon had finished his ride. I also teamed up with Mike, a larger than life American who wore the loudest kit possible. Mike wanted ice, he couldn’t believe there were no village convenience stores or gas stations – a theme that would develop with other international riders through the week. Mike had the plan of riding 180-200 miles per day. He didn’t have the speed for this, and we separated on a downhill section.

St Ives was a surprise. I was amazed at the old town, and it somehow reminded me of my earlier adventure to Chester. I overtook a middle-aged slob on a BMX bike as I approached the town. I passed quietly with the quiet acknowledgement cyclists give each other. I didn’t know, but he had taken exception to this. I slowed for the narrow bridge into town that is followed by a 90 degree bend. To my surprise people had heard we were coming and stopped to clap as I rode carefully through the busy pedestrianised street, the slob saw this as his opportunity and accelerated off the bridge and down an alley in a moment of triumph. The shoppers he nearly took out were shocked by his poor manners.

I can’t remember much about the control at St Ives, I must have been there as I have the control stamp. I also ate there as I remembered the food at Louth being very similar. Then it was onto Boston and into The Fens. I had never been in The Fens. Poor road surfaces, mad drivers – “I have a pick up and know how to abuse it!” Typify the back roads of The Fens.  Also, the ever present wind. As the day had been warm, this was an intense energy sapping warm wind. As one rider put it:

“Like someone is walking in front with a hairdryer turned on.”

I recorded a new record low altitude of -3 Metres as we descended off a dyke wall. The whole place had a menace about it. The whole region is only one leak away from disaster, and if any TV producer wants to film another dark Sunday night detective drama, then The Fens would be an ideal backdrop. We did meet some nice people, one lady had her children stationed on a strategic corner of a village with supplies of water. They were disappointed that I had plenty and could not take more onboard. My fellow rider at this point obliged.

Boston, I expected to be modern, having read about its reputation for murders and flyovers. It was a real traditional port with an overwhelming smell of fish as the harbour section is dominated by processing plants. The control was in an old school, with the bike park in an enclosed courtyard at the rear. This played havoc with my GPS unit and I needed to stop once back out on the road and in the open. I also met up with Mike for the last time, he arrived as I was leaving control. We exchanged greetings and I don’t what became of him after that.

Cyclists are often accused of running red lights. Sometimes this is for good reason – the lights don’t detect approaching bikes. I had waited several minutes at a light controlled junction before being joined by another rider. Before long there were around five of us and no movement from the lights. Eventually we all agreed to move together and crossed an empty junction. How long would we have waited for a change? I suspect some Daily Mail reading expert would have the answer.

I reached Louth at 0145am. This had been a long night and I was happy to meet the volunteers directing us off the road and into the bike park. I ate more hot food and sat with a rider who was a teacher in FE. He had DNF in his previous attempt and was considering pulling at Louth. I tried to encourage him on with two plans - he could leave with me and would probably feel better for having company on the road or could get a couple of hours sleep and see how he felt afterwards. His mind was set, he would sleep and then probably scratch before heading too far north. It would be easier to get back to London from Louth than north of the Humber.

I wasn’t tired and headed out into the night. Riders came and went, one I rode with for quite a while. He accused me of mechanical doping as he needed to peddle to keep up with my freewheeling on gentle down hills. The technology of some quality wheels thanks to the mechanics at Plush Hill Cycles. Dawn broke as I approached the Humber. The bridge was spectacular and the sunrise to behold. I stopped with a group of Indian riders with whom I would see more of later in the ride. A number of riders didn’t stop to look and just powered over the bridge. What does it take for them to look up from their computer units?

The control at Hessle was crowded and rumours abounded about the absence of the chef. Breakfast couldn’t have been worse. Weetabix, toast and macaroni cheese. That wasn’t for me with my food allergies. Torq bar and coffee.

Hessle saw a personal revelation. A volunteer came looking for diabetics, turned out that the test strips for the medic’s glucose machine were the wrong type and was after someone who might have some that fit. He gave me some great advice about forcing my doctor into signing me up for a constant readout machine, similar to the one he used. He said:

“Tell them you are an endurance athlete.”

“That’s pushing it.” I replied. “I’m hardly that.”

“You’ve made it here, that means you are an endurance athlete. Even if you were to end it now you have completed 300km in under 24 hours. That means you are an endurance athlete!”

This hit me after the ride. WOW! If only I could slap my old PE teacher in the face with that one. The arse who once called me a complete spastic. I can’t even excuse him by saying it was the 70s, it was the 1980s by then and he should have known better. So, screw you Cov. I am an endurance athlete! I will quote that one to nursery when we next meet in anger (usually on her part).

The ride to Malton saw the first hills. Not excessive, but definitely not the Fens. A flood cascading down a village road also dirtied my immaculate bike. Not happy with that one. I also joined up with a group of Spanish riders. They ride just like the Spanish pros I have seen riding in Spain. They attack everything. Hills – pull harder. Down hills – don’t touch the brakes and standing traffic – why wait? I can descend a bit, but this was in a different league. I did call, “Vamos!” As one rider passed me on a downhill bend. The shock of hearing Spanish in Yorkshire caused him to wobble. We sped into Malton. Traffic was queuing and blocking junctions surrounding a cheap petrol station that had recently made the news for selling petrol at un-inflated prices. The town was at a standstill, not the Spanish road train. It thundered through using whatever free space appeared, including the pavement and gaps in roadworks. Even the Spanish women showed no mercy and a determination to push through – especially when cars became obstinate and insisted on blocking orange checked junctions. We arrived at Malton, my official check in time was 1122am. I had covered 366.7km (227.85miles) in 24 hours! After food and a sleep in the sun, it was time for the long stretch to Barnards Castle – 113.4km and 1215m of climbing. This stage did me some serious damage and I would see my six hours in hand disappear.

I joined up with a group of Indian riders. This happened as we all stopped for a break in one of the villages. It was hot and a quick swig off the bottle wouldn’t be sufficient, we all needed a long drink. Prem could not believe that the village shops he thought would be in every village had disappeared.

“What do people do when they need to buy food?” He asked.

Prem found it difficult to believe that people were prepared to drive miles to a supermarket. He had expected Britain to have a shop, pub and post office in every village. He was shocked by the lack of amenities and wondered how cyclists managed to survive. I explained that churchyards are useful, if there are flowers on the graves, that means there is a water tap. Also, that most church porches have benches and these can provide shelter from the rain and somewhere dry to eat your sandwiches.

Prem was incredulous and wanted ice-cream. As an Indian he was accustomed to heat but said this was different. It wasn’t just hot.

“It draws the breath from you!”

The next small town saw a growing band of riders gathering at a service station that had a minimart attached. We joined them and Prem got his ice cream. The minimart quickly began to sell out of water as we restocked to the glare of locals who expected it to be quiet at this time in the afternoon. From then it was out into the hills. This set were different and steep. I’m used to the 15% + hills we have in Shropshire, but the Yorkshire Moors had me pushing with the rest. Prem couldn’t believe how rough the tarmac was compared to India. He was also sick of seeing landscape – where was the promised culture? A local rider complained that it was too much. The hills we were climbing he had done as the highlight of a Sunday club run and it was too much to include them in a 1500km endurance event.

Izzy who had joined Pam in dot watching at home is from Yorkshire and watched with increasing horror as we constantly appeared to head into hills she would have avoided in a car, let alone on a bike. The picture below shows one of the villages. The phone camera foreshortens and flattens the picture, to get and idea of the slope, just look at the position of the feet of the people coming down the hill compared to the cyclist pushing up.

These were hardened club riders being reduced to pushing. I did meet some riders who had ridden up but regretted what it had taken out of them.  It was just the pushing that lost me time. Eventually I was to get my first of three punctures. I had two spare tubes, but the third? I had wasted hours on this. I tried to patch the third, the self-adhesive patches didn’t work in the heat. I walked for a while in order to get a phone signal and managed to reach the emergency number in London. I didn’t expect help, just thought someone should know I was out on the moors as darkness started to fall. The volunteers make the LEL, but this one hadn’t a clue. I understood that there was no help, I just wanted to make sure someone knew I was up there.

“Find a wifi signal, then download What-Three-Words and call a taxi.” Was the suggestion. Really? This youth had never been outside London, it had taken me a mile to get phone signal. Then like a vision in Lycra Guy arrived. The most welcome sight in the world. Guy was enthusiastic about bikes and had a set of old-fashioned patches, this worked and we managed to get the bike back up and running. I can never thank Guy enough for his help. I met him at the bag drop back in London. He had scratched later in the ride dur to heat exhaustion. Something not usually an issue on Audax rides.

Guy and I separated as he could descend faster than me – I really had to take care as the tyre though serviceable, perhaps wasn’t quite as hard as needed and I couldn’t risk rolling the tube off the wheel. Later I was flagged down by a car. It was a volunteer from Barnards Castle – Peter Bond. London had phoned the control to say I was up on the moors. Peter didn’t want someone left out there alone and had kindly driven up to check out if I was ok. He had offered to follow me down to Barnards Castle, but this wasn’t necessary, and I knew I could make it. It was good to know someone was there. My thank you to Peter on the Facebook group couldn’t express the gratitude I felt at the time.

The next stop would be the secret control, set at a random location to prevent cheating. I think this was universally hated, mainly for being on a dark lane and at the bottom of a hill. I had teamed up with a rider who had light issues, when the volunteers appeared in the road with torches, we nearly told them were to go and peddled on thinking it was just some angry locals. Perhaps it was too secret. The night was long, and riders came and went. At home Pam was beside herself as the lack of phone signal had meant no track was being sent by my Garmin, also I hadn’t checked into to a control for hours. I was not alone in the Garmin issue, there appeared to be a local outage as the next group I joined had similar issues. All three of struggled to get a location and directions. One of the riders was also struggling, I gave him a Torq bar as he was out of food – after twenty minutes I couldn’t keep up him or the girl who joined us (she was an accomplished climber). I know the product was good, but this was like he had received something far greater.

After hours around grovelling around country lanes in the dark I joined up with two new riders and we made it into Barnards Castle. Along the way we passed some creepy village churches, in one a badger or fox was rooting around. I did think if it was anything sinister, it wouldn’t be interested in me with the amount of lactate in blood I would have tasted very sour. I made it into Barnards Castle at 0147am. Gone were my plans of sleep and food, my ride was now looking in doubt. I met Guy again, he also had navigation issues and had arrived about five minutes before me.

The mechanic was fantastic and checked my bike over while I ate. I’ve never known such service, and from volunteers who are working for no reward. I was also able to purchase a new spare inner tube. The atmosphere in the old grammar school was wonderful, halls lined with wood panelling, sports team memorials and the portraits of significant old boys. I managed to shower and unpeel my blood soaked shorts. It was worse than expected, not just saddle-sores, but open wounds. I messaged Pam, she was still awake and now relieved that I had reappeared. Someone posted on Facebook that worse than doing the ride was being at home waiting for news. Modern technology is good, but at times it just adds to the worry when it doesn’t provide the answers needed and often when it’s most crucial.

I slept, ate, and departed at around 0630am. The town centre was busier than expected and it was cold. On the climb out of town I stopped to warmup in the morning sun, as I pulled away my front wheel slid down a deep pothole. I had no choice but to fall into the road – luckily no traffic. I was blooded, but the bike was I ok, and I only had skin damage. Close call. As the morning and the climb progressed it warmed up. I met up with two young riders (a Scot and a German), they too had stopped to remove layers. The Scot apologised to his friend for taking too long in performing a routine task. The forlorn German told him to take his time as he had long forgotten about his time and the Scot commented how the saddle sore stopped him worrying about his legs. The hill was getting worse and would exceed our worst visions of hell. More climbing and long descents, on one downhill I stopped as I could smell burning, it was my brake blocks. I was also joined by a Japanese rider, we both walked the steepest sections that were reaching 17%, so much for the early descriptions that offered hills of 12%. This was all down to a moorland diversion as the result of repairs to a cattle grid.

After a drink in a popup café we headed back into the hill. The discussion became when to scratch rather than if. I was ahead of Barry heading out of St. John’s Chapel, I got off as the hill became serious. I expected Barry to ride past me, he didn’t and got off before my high point. Barry’s, bike computer colour coded the hills, until now he thought red was the highest, he had just discovered purple. So we continued, ride the easier slopes and push the harder.

Eventually, we made Alston. Barry and I separated on the downhills due to his disc brakes dealing with the 20% descent better than my rims. In Alston I joined up with Annat, an Indian who was having nav issues due to the lack of phone signal. We found Barry at the Coop come service station on the road out and joined him for a cold drink. It was +30C, very different to when Pam I had been there during a stormy October and ran from the car into the store to escape the storm. Annat followed me out of town, but was struggling due to saddle sores. He could not climb due to the downward pressure being too painful. Dave and I pulled into the Nook Café, Dave to get water and I waited for Annat. We couldn’t cycle that slowly and I wasn’t going to leave him. Annat arrived and went to get water while found him some painkillers from my bag. After taking them, we went through directions that would get him to Brampton and set off, but he still couldn’t climb and was quickly dropped. I did wait for him while changing drink bottles and talking to a friendly local who couldn’t believe the ride had taken us over Nant Head.

We made it to Brampton and at tea it was mainly the discussion around getting home. Dave’s wife was coming from Ireland in the camper van, Barry had booked the nightsleeper from Edinburgh in two days’ time, and I didn’t see Annat until the following morning.

The volunteers were amazing, they knew what the DNF crew felt like and didn’t leave us unattended. That was it, my ride was over. Would I do it again? Not sure. Pam has threatened to chop my feet off if I dare to come up with another stupid idea, looks like it could be the Para games!

The physical aspect I had trained for, I felt no ache in the legs and this has been called a brutal edition of the LEL. It was the physical damage I wasn’t prepared for. Twelve days after pulling out and the feeling still hasn’t returned to the outer fingers on both hands or the middle toes on my feet. The knee is healing and the saddle sores have finally scabbed over after a week of dressing and treating with antibiotic cream. This is the sort of damage that if it continued, would have left a permanent mark. How does a rider prepare for it? Or more importantly avoid? I don’t know, I don’t have the answers. The one thing that I do know is that I am an endurance athlete and may one day find the answers.

 

One week to go!

Went out today to complete the Tour de France challenge I've been chasing for the last year. The challenge was to compete the original TdF milage. Now that's over, it's a week until the London Edinburgh Lobdon ride. So a week of reducing the milage and eating enough food to make nursey blow a gasket.

 

Gravel and Mr Michael

 Yesterday saw a bit of an epic. After a wet weekend, I decided that it was time to get Lance (Specialized) the gravel bike out. Partly because he has mudguards, also it meant I could cross the Severn Valley and not have to come back via Ironbridge (Jiggers) and the increasing number of traffic lights and roadworks. Or risk the by-pass which I didn't fancy after an earlier encounter with a fire engine. 

Going south of Bridgnorth means hills and they're particularly horrid. Navigation is also an issues, with intermittent phone signals and hidden or missing road signs. At one point I nearly missed a turning as the sign was buried in a hedge. Not wanting to descend and then re-climb a hill I got off and found the sign in a hedge - only readable from the uphill direction.

Perhaps that's the attraction of south Shropshire. It is like being in the middle of no-where. Once back on the road I headed for Bridgnorth. The road down Oldbury has been a favourite since my school days. It now has one of those smiley face signs to regulate traffic speed. I felt a sense of achievement when it turned red. Not bad for an aging diabetic on a gravel bike.

I then followed the Severn Way and Silkin Way home. Might not have been step, but the unsurfaced path was a pain in the butt - literally.

Today saw me back out of Herman-the-German-flying-machine with Michael. An old friend and yoga teacher. Michael has just started to emerge from lockdown. This is in part due to his wife needing serious surgery and follow-up treatment. In normal circumstances she would have needed to isolate to avoid colds and flu, but the Covid situation has made matters worse.

Michael can still hold his own on a bike, despite his advancing years. However, not having ridden any hills for over two years we managed to find a gentle route (if such a thing exists) around the Wrekin. Only issue with living on top of a hill, it is always hard work getting home.

The new wheels for Herman still haven't arrived and I hope to get something sorted soon. Bad news from the London-Edinburgh-London organisers is that Yad Moss is off due to road works. So they have found a steeper and longer detour. Great!

Fund raising and Willey

 The fund raising side took pride of place last weekend (2/7/22) when we held our afternoon tea. A fantastic effort from Pam and Auntie Pattie saw funds pass the £700 mark. So many people contributed to the day, not just in cash, but also in the kind gifts for bring and buy etc.

We still have Miriam's handcrafted lucky dip envelopes  if anyone fancies a punt at £1 each. Not only do you get the chance to win a random prize (badges and various bits that include the odd £5 note), but every envelope comes with it's own handcrafted cycle paperclip. A unique prize for any cyclist.

The last week saw my mileage plummet when I was forced to take time off work and the bike to deal with a sickness bug. Only advantage is it stripped me of 1.5Kg of weight and any sense of dignity, as my stomach deposited its content and lining down the pan at regular intervals. This has now cleared and yesterday I was back out on the road.

I went out to the village of Willey.

Last time I was here I was on an Audax and didn't have time to take the obligatory schoolboy photographs. It caused some amusement on Facebook. In addition to the village hall there are a few spinoffs, such as the Willey Wanderers Football Club.

 I'm not obsessing with the place, but Pam's family (through mother) are related to the local estate owner, through the marriage of Lord Forester of Willey's sister to a Mr Keay around 200 years ago.

After Willey it was onto Bridgnorth. The ride was not without incident. The drug dealing motorised teenagers of Telford now see trying to knock cyclists off as a new sport. I'm so glad I did some race training a few years back with Newport CC. I'm well equipped to delivering a Mark Renshaw type response should they get too close. Why our wonderful intelligence lead police forced haven't made the link between expensive e scooters and drugs beggars belief.

My wheels are also becoming an issue. After having a new set fitted following the destruction of my freewheel, the new set had loose spokes and lost true after only 200 miles. The bike shop sorted this, but now the bearings are rattling. The response to this one will be interesting. I may have to bite the bullet and just get a decent set that will last the 1500 Km. 

If you haven't donated, but like to. Then please follow the link below. You will change a life.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/andrew-rudge4

Got a bit wet today!

https://www.instagram.com/p/CfcFgbpM7cE/?utm_source=ig_web_button_native_share 

The chase continues!

 Well Nursey isn't happy with me! I didn't get much of a well done for reducing my glucose levels from 23mmol/L to 9, she just wants to medicate me. My argument is that chasing remission is going to take time. It's taken 6 months to half the level to what would be regarded as pre-diabetes for a new patient, another six months and I could be there. I have already hit 6.5 on a number of occasions, but she thinks these are isolated incidents - so was 21mmol/L! I believe it shows potential, just a case of finding a way to stay at that level.

She did offer "social prescribing for diet and exercise." I asked for the qualification of the advisor and asked did it involve some prescription to a gym? She went quiet and I pointed out the mileage I pedalled at the weekend - 127miles.  She then checked my BMI ( around 28), which is acceptable. Nursey not very happy, in fact very unhappy. She couldn't send me to fat clinic and and I seem to know more than her public health advisor about exercise.

I was offered a range of medications. It now appears that I can have metformin as my liver enzymes have returned to an acceptable level. She assumed I had cut my drinking. Well I had changed my drinking patterns - red wine changed to white, lager or light ale changed to stout. Yes Guinness is marvellous and rumoured to have many health benefits. I didn't tell Nursey that one. As for metformin, even the NHS admits to it having side affects and I would much rather have a sore arse from cycling than spending time running to the toilet.

As to the ride. I rode a  AUDAX UK permanent course called The Wandering Wolves. This a 200km loop starting at Codsall and going out to Chester. See the FATMAP if you want details. This is fairly flat and I joined the course at Donnington. That way I didn't have to travel too far from home. I could have extended the route to start from home, but that would have left a long climb to complete at the end of the day.

The early part of the day was spent battling out to Codsall, for some reason this took ages and I arrived 45 minutes behind the control closing time. I did manage to make up the time on the next stretch to Market Drayton. The ride to Chester was ok, but the headwinds started and the ride to to Holt and Wem was a real battle with the speed falling away as I watched the Garmin. Then the rain started and I arrived in Wem in my rain jacket. I was so glad Pam had driven out to meet me at the last control with coffee and empanadas. This set me up for the wet ride back to Donnington.

I know the hills of South Shropshire can be tough, but at least they're scenic. The Cheshire Gap became so dull after the first 20miles. I never want to see another black and white cow or leafy lane. It all looks the same! But at least it is reasonably flat.

Monday was back on the mountain bike for an after work ride. I had planned to ride into work this week, but late meetings and rain put pay to this. Perhaps a ride around the Severn valley tomorrow. This weekend will also see our fundraiser for Shelter at home. I know many in the AUDAX community don't like sponsorship for events, and organised charity events have got out of hand. I don't need to ride for charity, but I wasn't going to miss the chance to raise some money.

Shelter is close to my heart for a number of reasons. I only avoid being made homeless by the skin of my teeth when my parents lost their house in the recession of the 1980s/90s. There was social housing then and families were kept together, we were okay. For anyone in their early 20s now I fear for how they could ever afford rent or a mortgage. I also can't believe how people are expected to live. The tented city under the flyover in Manchester or the guy with his furniture on Tower Hill in London. I will often give a quid to those sleeping out as a cup of tea or a shot could be a lifesaver. Even if it's put towards drugs I don't mind, a substance misuse worker told me opiates can stop the cold from feeling painful.

I can't help everyone out there, at least supporting Shelter goes some way to helping more people get somewhere safe to sleep. Or may even help prevent them from being put out on the streets.

200KM in a day

 On Saturday I completed a 200km Audax. More information to follow, but I expect most of you have already read about it on other platforms. Enjoy watching the route on the FATMAP provided.

A big thank you to Pam for being in Wem with coffee and food. Also a big shout out to Biketek for setting up Herman-the-German-flying-machine (Focus bike) and enabling me to get this one ticked in a day.

 https://www.bike-tek.co.uk/

To view my rides or donate to Shelter please visit:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/andrew-rudge4

A pound!

Well the bad news is that I've put on a kilo this month, or a pound in old money. A quote from Peter Kay comes to mind:

"A pound! I could ......., a pound!"

I'm sure you all know the routine.

I've also had my NHS blood check. I cycled to RSH to get the glucose down. No cycle parking, but they do have a smoking shelter outside the blood test unit. Well done NHS for creating such a health centred environment.

Training continues and I'm off to Chester at the weekend to get a long ride in. Don't forget our up coming fundraiser. You haven't received an invite, but would to join us, then just email for details.