Back in July
I attempted to channel the spirit of Bradley Wiggins and cycle from London to
Brighton. Our buddy Tim Spain is doing a load of charitable shit for
the RNIB over the year and offered to guide a select few of us down to the coast in exchange
for a tenner for charidee. It was hard to ignore such an act of do-gooding generosity
so I signed up and spent the week getting my shit together – borrowing a bike
with working gears, washing the cycling pants to protect the precious ring
piece and not getting totally shit faced the night before (five pints natch)
all fed into the extensive prep.
When I made it
to Clapham just in time for the 8am kick off brandishing a Mcdonald’s I was confronted
by loads of pros in lycra. Despite Tim’s assertions that anyone could do this
and it wasn’t a race, it was clear that some folk were taking this seriously. Within five minutes one dude had already tutted at my set of (admittedly
overly small) wheels and offered to put my seat up when I came to him with me ‘knees
screaming’ (his words). Back off bro!
We set off
with his scornful words ringing in the ears before we conversed again – ‘Do you do these
sort of long rides often?’ was the question. ‘I don’t want to brag, but for me,
this isn’t really a long ride,’ he bragged. Wow.
The ride
itself was a hot and sweaty affair with plenty of hills to drag ourselves up.
The Mcdonalds definitely helped and at one point we went perilously close to
Gatwick Airport before a brief stop for a shandy. The real killer was the
Beacon, a fucking humongous mountain near the end of the 60 mile ride. It’s
well fucking steep and many a cyclist apparently prides themselves on getting all
the way up it without dismounting the steed. I couldn’t care less and jumped
off after ten metres of incline. Whatevs Beacon! It’s only a bike ride!
