The first time you do a long distance, there is always the fear that you have taken too much on. Can you do it? Can you pass the 30, 40 or whatever miles you had proudly raised as your standard?
There is an element of boldly going on your first long distance as you pack for the great journey. Have you packed enough food? Got enough drinks? Spare inner tubes, pumps, levers, emergency flares… The fact that you are going where no cyclist has gone before, except for the few thousand before you and the fact that you are going into deepest darkest…Berkshire where the nearest bike shop may be all of five miles away at most, is beside the point. You are heading out to a distance you’ve never gone before.
The first real long distance ride, I ever did was to Henley on Thames and it was telling what I didn’t realise – unless you ask it for directions, Google doesn’t show you elevation. This educational point stuck in my head as I groaned my way up the 8% Remenham Hill, or Remember Me to my family as I started calling it then tearing up as I descended into Henley.
But it was a victory! I had done it. Gone 35 miles to Henley. To a busy Henley where I had absolutely failed to realise the regatta was on.
After picking up fresh supplies – my water intake was a lot higher in those days, more out of fear than planning – I headed out north of the Thames to Marlow, stopping to look at the races happening on the water.
Into Marlow, across the Thames then I chose a quiet little road to give me a bit of peace and quiet from the traffic…a 13% climb of a quiet road. Cursing quietly – because I ran out of breath – I amazed myself by completing the climb then it was all downhill to Windsor. It was here that my legs began to realise we had done more mileage than ever before. But the weather was good and the winds light so I plodded on.
Over to Shepperton and the Windsor-out or Windsor-in crowd were overtaking me but I didn’t care, I was nearly home. Seventy three miles later, I collapsed in the garden feeling inordinately smug with myself…until I saw on Strava the hundred or so who had the same, and quicker, route that distant Saturday.
My second trip to Henley was, perhaps surprisingly not until this year and this training run. I packed lightly - having realised that such things as shops exist so far out (!) - and chose a route that didn’t take me on the suicidal A-road towards Maidenhead. Instead, pleasant smaller roads and a lovely morning came my way with even the ominous-sounding Crazies Hill on the route not phasing me. In fact, Crazies was a synch – testament to the 600 ft climbed every weekday no doubt.
Towards Marlow again, this time I thought I’d actually have a route plan with significant turnings. On the way out, I had put the road numbers on with the road names but for some, unknown, unfathomable reason, I only put the road names on the way back in. Now, this at first sounds like no problem. But if you miss a turning, or a road name sign you very quickly loose where you’re meant to be and I didn’t want to spend time and power checking my phone.
So I vaguely carried on heading east, knowing that eventually I would have to turn south, hopefully before RAF Northolt when I saw a sign to Cliveden. Now I knew that from Cliveden I could head towards Dorney then Eton for the home stretch so off I went…onto a bleeding great hill called Hedsor Hill which over a third of a mile tops out at 19% - although the raw data notes a 22% section. To put this into context, Leith Hill tops out at 12%.
With the heart a pumping and sympathetic nods from downhilling cyclist, I made it to the top, elated. As you know I don’t do hills. Hills are there to get over because they are in the way – I leave that sort of masochism to others.
A nice gentle run down to Eton heading towards Heathrow, I was marvelling at the kindness and awareness of the drivers out in Berkshire when I was cut up by a bloke in a grotty Vauxhall (appropriately, or is that ironically) near the Young Offenders Unit at Feltham. This was the conversation:
Me: What was that?
Him: Get off the road.
Me: Why?
Him: You don’t pay road tax.
Me: Yes I do*.
Him:
Him:
(sorry it took a while for his brain to register that a cyclist can also own a car)
Him: Not for that piece of shit.
Me: This piece of shit probably cost more than your car mate.
At which point he stormed off, leaving me to think, ‘Ah, London’.
Hitting Renfree Way, I surprised myself by overtaking someone - probably had done 100 miles) – and still having legs on me for the run home.
I know I can do the Ride London distance, what I don’t know is what time and what state I’ll be in. Unfortunately, I can’t be like Kirk and demand: Scotty, beam me up.
* Yes I know, I know, But I wasn’t going to stand in a middle of a road explaining to some Neanderthal what Vehicle Emissions Duty was, when Road Tax was abolished nor why even if they taxed cyclists we’d still not be paying anything!
Training ride: 17
73.3 miles
16.5 mph
1,473 ft
Total mileage: 627.7 miles
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