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Thursday 20 December 2012

Meet your new best friend… the alarm clock


6 months ago the idea of a 6am club run seemed absurd to me, in fact my roommate from this year’s Belgium stint, Rob, was constantly bantered about his weird world of 5:30am club runs back in his native Manchester.  I think the words I used were ‘disgraceful and downright unnecessary’.  Yet the wheels of fate see me here, well not literally but 4 hours ago I was sat in my car struggling to digest 5 snatched Weetabix and a couple of mugs of under brewed tea.  I was in the car on my way to ride my bike.  This practice used to be reserved strictly for races, but in the last 3 months I’ve broken many of my own cycling rules and this idea of driving to exercise is just another rule thrown to the wind in pursuit of a decent club run.  I park up in the port side suburb of Fremantle just after 6am.  I risk a parking ticket with the idea that if the meter man can get out of bed this early on a Sunday then he probably deserves my $100.  Only 2 sorts of people are out at this time… those that have been turfed out after the night clubs last orders, and of course cyclists.  I assemble the bike, zip up my jersey and proceed to weave my way through Fremantle’s revellers who seem to confuse me with a public urinal before finally reaching the civilized world of Papa’s café.  From there I am back in a more familiar world of posers and occasionally pro’s.  The ride meanders its way through the waterside suburbs, weaving its way past million dollar pads.  Perth’s roads are in pretty good knick, the lack of any frost means pot holes are non-existent and the only risk is whipping around a blind bend on sprinkler day to find the road awash with water and oil. There are a couple of sprints dotted around as the bunch strings its self out as we race through the financial district and finally a gallop at the end of the ride on the sea front,  It’s a good enough run as 75km takes just under 2 hours, certainly it justifies the 45km drive either way.  It is the nearest thing to my hometown favourite ‘café race’ as riders start getting spat out as soon as the bunch crests the first speed bump.  I am slowly getting some fitness back however, since finishing work for Christmas I have been doing between 2-3 hours every early morning, creeping out the door at 6am wearing nothing but shorts and jersey as it’s already 20 degrees.  My riding repertoire has swelled and I now know where the best spots are for kangaroo spotting and climbing practice.  My hunt for a local team has so far been unsuccessful but I guess I will have to let my legs do the talking as the road season down under starts in mid-April.    

On to the slightly less civilized world of employment.  I now have a title at work…’strapper’ (although my spell check seems to think that should be stripper!); and hopefully I will graduate to the dizzying heights of forklift driver soon.  Biceps are more valued than brains at work though (hence why I’m starting at the bottom of the pile), a new guy used the word trigonometry at work the other day and was met with a barrage of confused looks followed swiftly by four letter profanities (think fosters adverts but after the watershed).  Never the less most of the workforce is made up of foreigners, be it kiwis (New Zealand), Poms (English) or south East Asians and we all share the same ideas: make good money and enjoy it later in life.  I’ve even managed with Perth’s occasionally infernal heat, so far 38 has been the warmest but as summer blows in from the outback I’m assured the 40’s are not far away… gulp.  I am becoming quite settled here, I haven’t flirted with the idea of going home any time soon although I think the duck may have to be broken for le tours visit to Yorkshire in July 2014! 

I would like to take this chance to say a quick thank you for following me through one hell of a year.  Three countries, 40 races, 2 jobs and hopefully my last fresh start for the near future.  I wish everybody a good Christmas and good health for 2013.  A final mention of congratulations to Josh Edmondson who has finally achieved the recognition for his great talents and been snapped up by sky for the next 2 years… yet more proof if it were need that the work of the Dave Rayner fund is producing results.  

Happy Christmas, Gelukkige kerstmis  

Saturday 27 October 2012

The pommies first Whinge


Well it’s been six weeks now since I touched down on the red earth that passes for Australian soil.  I’ve been waiting for a moment of pure Australian culture to write and so as I sit here digesting last night’s kangaroo steak under a 35 degree sun I felt the time was right.  The majority of my time in those first few days was spent scouring the job pages in the local paper and negotiating the maze that is Australia’s various government departments.  One of the big sticking points was proving who I was and trying to convince the bored office worker on the other side of the desk that I should be allowed to stay over here.  The taxation department proved to be the most difficult people, which, considering I wanted to give them money is a surprise.  For nearly four weeks letters went back and forth like a ping pong ball… all at my expense of course before they finally granted me permission for me to start paying them.  This brings me conveniently to a bit of a home truth about Australia, you pay for everything! The best example I can think of is the bank… every month I entrust them with my hard earned money and in return they charge me the princely sum of $4 for the privilege.  They give me no interest and charge me the equivalent of pulling my pants down should I slip up and accidentally use an ATM that isn’t owned by them.  But having got that off my chest I feel much better, if not a little lighter in the pockets. 

My bike did eventually turn up around 10 days after I did.  Customs and quarantine went on a money making exercise slicing the tape of the box and popping a sticker on it before stinging me $115 for their efforts.  I took the old girl for its first spin just a day later.  I live at the bottom of a rather lazy range of hills so I found the first road up and snaked my way up its gentle slopes.  20 minutes later and I was puffing like an old race horse and wondering if I’d just moved to the Alps or something, the faint outline of muscles under a new carpet of leg hair the only sign that I used to be good at this stuff!  The roads up in the hills are not there for scenery, they connect remote villages and pompous golf courses to each other so there are a few risks that come with riding in the bush.  Fire is a biggie here.  I’ve done several rides where the smoke is fanned by the strong winds and the risks only increase between now and summer which is just a month away now.  The other one for me is the local wildlife.  Back in England you could set your watch by the Spring lambing season safe in the knowledge that a rude awakening at the Eddie Soens was just days away.  But here… I think the picture will have to speak for itself.  I was off on my weekend pootle around Canning Damn when I stopped dead in my tracks to marvel at this beauty.  It is a monitor Lizard, around 3 feet long and according to Wikipedia, only slightly venomous.  It’s not uncommon for me to come across lizards on my rides; they bask in the sun like Brits on a foreign holiday, so far no snakes but more disappointingly no kangaroos.  I have however been attacked on my bike.  There I was minding my own business when like a pantomime attack the bugger swooped in from behind… a magpie, clawing and pecking at my helmet for a good few hundred metres. 

After the first couple of weeks of settling in I started to clock up a steady stream of interviews from an apprentice chef to Pest control but the common theme of never hearing anything back began to get a bit disheartening.  I was picking up a couple of days of labouring here and there to tide me over financially and spending the rest of my time job hunting.  Labouring is not something I’ve ever done before.  By 11am on day 1 my pipe cleaner arms were beginning to drop off but by this point I’d already traded my sidi cycling shoes for steel capped boots so I knuckled down and kept unloading the boxes of condoms and subway sauce.  In the mean time I had been called in for an interview for a sales job in the heart of Perth… finally a chance to work in the vibrant hub of the inner city.  I waited in the reception surrounded by more beautiful girls than a snoop dogg music video.  Just half an hour later and I’d been given the job; although what the job entailed I still had no idea.  I went in apprehensively on day one.  The 40 minute train ride was more Delhi than Perth as crowds of people crammed in to what would have been a great advert for deodorant.  The job was everything a salesman doesn’t tell you, on the outside glamorous, spending my day ogling the local girls but realistically selling merchandise to people who neither needed it nor could really afford it.  By 1PM on day two I had quit, I morally objected to the job and its ruthless rates of commission ensured I would have only scraped a living.  As it turned out I wouldn’t even have earned a living as the $160 worth of commission owed to me never materialised.  I knew by this point that I had to start living more like the immigrant I was.  In the UK migrants frequent a few places, firstly cheap shops… Lidl/Aldi do a roaring trade selling home favourites to various nationalities so I now spend most of my shopping budget in the local cheap and chinky (that’s not it’s real name, it’s just a food shop run by Chinese people at great prices).  Secondly and contrary to general British opinion: Migrants want to work.  My plan is to make money here so when the opportunity to work long unsociable hours (6am-4pm) for good money came around, I jumped at the chance.  Firstly there was the formality of taking a DNA test… or so I thought.  It turns out it was D&A, meaning drug and alcohol test, pee in a cup to you and I.  You would have thought this would come naturally to a cyclist but I’ve never been drug tested so it was novel.  By tea time (which is pronounced dinner over here) I had passed and was set for my new job as a concrete sheet loader man… it truly is as exciting as it sounds but at over $1000 (£645) per week I think I can live with it for a while.

I have been somewhat cut off from the outside world this last few weeks with precious little internet and just the local paper whose sports pages are packed out with AFL (Australian rules football, basically quidditch without brooms) for company.  Never the less the façade being played out in cycling at the moment has trickled down to me.  I won’t vent my frustrations here but it does seem as though cycling is in need of a root and branch clean up. At the age of 15 I was asked at a cycling camp who my hero was and I replied “Lance Armstrong”.   Lance for me brought cycling from an obscure hobby to a genuine interest and made it a big chunk of my life.  I took it for what it was, entertainment and fun. It’s difficult to know where cycling can go immediately… certainly a new poster boy is needed.  Personally I think the sport needs a new direction, people who want a return to the glory days need to take off their cotton cycling jersey and put down their 1976 cycling weekly.  But you should believe in the new generation, I’ve seen what the Dave Rayner riders dream of and they want to do it right, do it clean… see for yourself at www.daveraynerfund.com or even better grab a ticket to the Dinner and meet the guys!    

Cheers for now x


                                                             Motorised doping anyone???




                                           Hmmm…. Broccoflower, these aussies have been down here too long 

Sunday 16 September 2012

New beginnings & fosters adverts


7 weeks ago I wrote about my endeavours of disastrous stage racing.  As the weeks slipped by without much more than a leisurely pedal being turned I began to think about the off season and what I could make of my life as my cycling began to stall. It gave me a chance to step back and to consider how and even if I could turn a dream into reality.  Sadly the answer to this question which all young aspiring athletes must ask of themselves is a whispered no.  I am proud to say that I took chances and risks when they came my way, I’m humbled by the support of the Dave Rayner fund and most of all blessed to have broadened my horizons and enhanced my life through cycling.  But what of the here and now… where do I write from?

Well I’m never one to hang around but neither am I impulsive.  If I go shopping for clothing I only ever have to pay for an hours parking… I make my mind up and stick with it… sometimes because I’ve lost the receipts though! I knew work had to be my main priority and like a huge chunk of my generation the pond simply can’t provide for all the fish, so I made the biggest decision of my life and decided to fly from the pond of recession to the new land of opportunity… West Australia.  It’s a big step.  My grandmother posed herself the same question in 1976, England was mere existence for her, she wanted a life and to have things to look forward to.  Australia was as desperate for workers as she was for opportunity and so she gambled everything on the leaflet offering a better life. Back then the internet was something inside a pair of swim shorts and Australia had only just stopped being a six weeks boat journey away so information was hard to come by and the bravery required to jump into the unknown with two young children must have been immense.  I decided to make that same life changing step whilst gazing aimlessly out of the window one morning.  I wouldn’t say I’m quite as brave as her, I have never had to go hungry on an evening or knit my own clothes but the principles of wanting a better life remain. 

September 12th was the big day.  I arrived bleary eyed at Manchester airport and showed up to the front desk destined for Singapore.  It wasn’t my knees trembling but my arms weirdly as I struggled to hide the fact my luggage was overweight.  After a shoulder wrenching couple of minutes of dangling my bag gently on the scales I was cleared and left to say my goodbyes to my family.  It was a true evacuees experience as my mum put on a brave face, my dad offered me a firm handshake and my sister politely asked if I had any English change I’d like to get rid of… I felt only excitement at the time but as I read and re-read the words of wisdom in the good luck card from my parents I knew the lump in my throat wasn’t excitement… that lump is normally somewhere else!  Singapore arrived after some amazing thunderstorms around Delhi and with over two hours to kill it was time to do some Yorkshire man’s shopping… that is, showing up with no money and looking only to waste time.  I love airports; they are the only place to truly people watch.  Being in Asia there was the expected abundance of Chinese tourists taking cliché photos at every opportunity.  Singapore is probably the best airport in the world to kill a few hours as I took myself off on the tour of the butterfly gardens and marvelled at the koi carp pond with the building excitement that Oz was just around the corner. 

September 13th finally came after what felt like the longest day of my life… I proudly slipped into the fast track queue for passport control for Australians only.  I stood there at the machine and scanned away, the bloke next to me marvelling at my computer skills before piping up and asking if he was ‘doing it right’? I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so early but I put my new mentality into practice… Lie back and think of the fosters adverts! As I quickly let out a ‘Yeeeaaaahhh’ in my finest OZ twang.  Then it was onto customs and my first opportunity to get in an inadvisable joke.  The giant red circular bag laid on top of my luggage labelled ‘Roval Aerodynamic wheels’.  The bloke in front glanced down at its locked zips, looked up at me and asked ‘what’s in it’? …. Oh dear! Never one to miss a moment of comedy I replied ‘frisbie’… He raised an eyebrow before probably resuming his day dream. 

I’ve been here three full days now.  The logistics are falling into place and with no sign of a bike yet Job hunting is my number one priority.  The local papers are full of opportunities which can give me little doubt as to whether I’ve made the right decision so wish this ‘Pommy’ all the best!

New beginnings & fosters adverts


7 weeks ago I wrote about my endeavours of disastrous stage racing.  As the weeks slipped by without much more than a leisurely pedal being turned I began to think about the off season and what I could make of my life as my cycling began to stall. It gave me a chance to step back and to consider how and even if I could turn a dream into reality.  Sadly the answer to this question which all young aspiring athletes must ask of themselves is a whispered no.  I am proud to say that I took chances and risks when they came my way, I’m humbled by the support of the Dave Rayner fund and most of all blessed to have broadened my horizons and enhanced my life through cycling.  But what of the here and now… where do I write from?

Well I’m never one to hang around but neither am I impulsive.  If I go shopping for clothing I only ever have to pay for an hours parking… I make my mind up and stick with it… sometimes because I’ve lost the receipts though! I knew work had to be my main priority and like a huge chunk of my generation the pond simply can’t provide for all the fish, so I made the biggest decision of my life and decided to fly from the pond of recession to the new land of opportunity… West Australia.  It’s a big step.  My grandmother posed herself the same question in 1976, England was mere existence for her, she wanted a life and to have things to look forward to.  Australia was as desperate for workers as she was for opportunity and so she gambled everything on the leaflet offering a better life. Back then the internet was something inside a pair of swim shorts and Australia had only just stopped being a six weeks boat journey away so information was hard to come by and the bravery required to jump into the unknown with two young children must have been immense.  I decided to make that same life changing step whilst gazing aimlessly out of the window one morning.  I wouldn’t say I’m quite as brave as her, I have never had to go hungry on an evening or knit my own clothes but the principles of wanting a better life remain. 

September 12th was the big day.  I arrived bleary eyed at Manchester airport and showed up to the front desk destined for Singapore.  It wasn’t my knees trembling but my arms weirdly as I struggled to hide the fact my luggage was overweight.  After a shoulder wrenching couple of minutes of dangling my bag gently on the scales I was cleared and left to say my goodbyes to my family.  It was a true evacuees experience as my mum put on a brave face, my dad offered me a firm handshake and my sister politely asked if I had any English change I’d like to get rid of… I felt only excitement at the time but as I read and re-read the words of wisdom in the good luck card from my parents I knew the lump in my throat wasn’t excitement… that lump is normally somewhere else!  Singapore arrived after some amazing thunderstorms around Delhi and with over two hours to kill it was time to do some Yorkshire man’s shopping… that is, showing up with no money and looking only to waste time.  I love airports; they are the only place to truly people watch.  Being in Asia there was the expected abundance of Chinese tourists taking cliché photos at every opportunity.  Singapore is probably the best airport in the world to kill a few hours as I took myself off on the tour of the butterfly gardens and marvelled at the koi carp pond with the building excitement that Oz was just around the corner. 

September 13th finally came after what felt like the longest day of my life… I proudly slipped into the fast track queue for passport control for Australians only.  I stood there at the machine and scanned away, the bloke next to me marvelling at my computer skills before piping up and asking if he was ‘doing it right’? I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so early but I put my new mentality into practice… Lie back and think of the fosters adverts! As I quickly let out a ‘Yeeeaaaahhh’ in my finest OZ twang.  Then it was onto customs and my first opportunity to get in an inadvisable joke.  The giant red circular bag laid on top of my luggage labelled ‘Roval Aerodynamic wheels’.  The bloke in front glanced down at its locked zips, looked up at me and asked ‘what’s in it’? …. Oh dear! Never one to miss a moment of comedy I replied ‘frisbie’… He raised an eyebrow before probably resuming his day dream. 

I’ve been here three full days now.  The logistics are falling into place and with no sign of a bike yet Job hunting is my number one priority.  The local papers are full of opportunities which can give me little doubt as to whether I’ve made the right decision so wish this ‘Pommy’ all the best!

Thursday 2 August 2012

Poetic Injustice


Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream

But mine was to go to Belgium and boy was I keen

My bag was packed and the bike was built

And I jacked in my job, no feelings of guilt

A quick email and the Rayner Fund were on side

But come March and there was nowhere to hide

Queue the wind, wet and cold, or just leave it at grim

March rolled into April and still no signs of a win

May was looking up as I cracked that top 20

I raced every other day so opportunities were plenty

Then the highlight of the year as I rode to watch the tour

A great day out and a look at what I was aiming for

But from highs to lows as I took a tumble and broke my frame

I was battered and bruised, my head out the game

I remember the drive home, I wanted to cry like a baby

Even the radio couldn’t console me with a bit of ‘call me maybe’

But I got back on the spare bike and did what I could

But prize money never went far with Belgium’s Robin Hood

My final chance came in my only stage race of the year

The hiss of a puncture and I was out the rear

But I leave Belgium with no regrets… no wins either

 It’s in words not trophies that I’ll be remembered as a rider

Thursday 26 July 2012

The best laid plans…


Being a foreigner abroad occasionally has its advantages.  We decided to go watch the new Spiderman movie mid-week at the local cinema in Geel.  The lady serving us at the desk was about as proficient in English as I was in Flemish but I finally got my ticket at a whopping 9 euros having probably been charged for everything from 3D glasses to a VIP backstage pass.  My fellow housemate Chris then showed me how it’s done as he put his newly shaven face to the test and unashamedly asked for a ‘kinder’ (child) ticket.  This redressed the balance of international relations as he smugly handed over his 6 euros and in we went.  The second perk of being an English speaker in Belgium then became apparent.  The movie was newly out and would have been packed with everything from popcorn rustlers to mobile phone talkers back home.  It was refreshing to see the place as good as empty as we walked in and sprawled out over about 5 seats.  The movie was entirely in English so I’m guessing that the Belgians opted not to spend the evening glued to the subtitles bar at the bottom of the screen and instead will just wait for the DVD release.   

The following day was spent in the Kitchen.  I’d agreed to knock up a few lasagnes for I think 9 of us so the majority of the afternoon was spent chopping, stirring and baking.  They turned out reasonably enough and as we all sat down 7 hungry cyclists tucked in accompanied by a Mclay signature salad.  The conversation turned inevitably onto the following days racing.  My 10 days training block had slipped by hampered by a bit of a cold and there was no amount of joking in the world that could deny the fact that tomorrow was the start of the tour of Vlaams Brabant.  I went to sleep hoping for good legs in the morning.

I turned up to stage 1 in the nearby town of Rotselaar with the mercury already touching 32 degrees.  I met my team mates and sat down for the team briefing where the main focus was on making the time cut for the days 150km stage.  I was filled with a nervous excitement before the start and as we lined up at 1:30pm I was hopeful for a good day in the saddle.  I sat mid bunch early on as all around me was a blur of colour: blue skies, different team kits and fields zipping past.  The constant chunter within the bunch was broken occasionally by the squeal of brake pads and the odd crunch as riders crashed behind.  I got over the days first few bergs (hills) pretty comfortably before I noticed my front skewer was rapidly unscrewing itself.  Opportunities to fix this problem were slim but I hopped off the bike at the top of a climb and quickly tightened the handle up before tagging onto the back of the bunch.  Having covered the first 50km loop I noticed my rear skewer had come loose as well and that the wheel was just moments from slipping out of its dropout.  I was cursing the bloke who’d so generously put my wheels in my bike at the start and also myself for not checking his handy work.  The wheel had slipped and had rubbed itself bare onto the frame and with a big bang the tyre burst.  I dropped back through the bunch and pulled over to the side of the road looking frantically for my team car.  This was one of those moments in time when the adrenaline is flowing, seconds feel like hours and as every car passed me I knew the task of regaining the bunch was becoming harder.  Finally my team car pulled alongside me and gave me a wheel after around 3 minutes of looking like a deranged hitch hiker waving the wheel in the air.   The chase was on as I struggled to regain the bumper of the car as it rocketed off at 70kmp/h.  Finally after about 5km we gained sight of the broom wagon, the last vehicle in the race convoy.  I was panicking a bit and immediately took off trying to weave my way through the cars.  The small lanes and constant corners made my job even harder, the cars shot off on the straights and crawled around the corners meaning I was largely on my own trying to close the 1 minute gap to the peloton.  I began slipping back through the cars after the days 4th berg… I was in real trouble now as I risked slipping out the race altogether.  Finally the game was over as the broom wagon pulled alongside me to tell me I was on my own.  I continued to push on but in my heart I knew the game was up, I rolled on for another 40km to the finishing circuit before being pulled out by the commisaires.  I sat down at the car feeling despondent.  This had been my chance to prove myself in a genuinely big race.  I was careless firstly in not double checking my equipment but most of all I was disgusted at myself for not making it back into the bunch.  I had based the second half of my season around this race with the aim of impressing a few big teams and taking a step up next year.  The commisaires handed me a discretionary 20 euro fine for grabbing hold of a couple of team cars in my attempts to get back up to the peloton, a small insult if nothing else.  Next up for me is a holiday in deepest Dorset on England’s south coast where I will take time out to think things over and decide where the path will lead me next.  Cheers for reading.         

Tuesday 17 July 2012

It's good for the gardens


As Belgium is gripped with tour fever and I am forever answering questions about Bradley Wiggins it seems almost pitiful to be writing about my adventures in the lower ranks of cycling.  But Belgium is a hotbed of talent, the fans know who has a big career ahead of them but they get behind every rider regardless.  Well I think they do… either that or there is another Joel in my races and he always gets a cheer!

Friday’s race was as close to a criterium as Belgium gets… 30 laps of a 3km circuit featuring two drag strips and a twisty section down the bottom end of the course.  The aim of the night was unashamed prime hunting.  There was money for the first rider across the line on every even lap meaning 15 potential pocket liners.  Early ambitions soon went out the window when my stomach started playing up after just a couple of laps, perhaps I was paying for the last minute frangipane I’d scoffed in the car park or maybe this was the physical manifestation of tour fever...  It was a tough start to the race, I rode the first hour sat bolt upright on the bike to relieve some of the pressure on my stomach, not what you’d call aerodynamic as I sat last man on the back of the bunch clinging on.  Things started to pick up as the lap board ticked down and by the final hour of the race I was starting to move up, not easy when the race was spent entirely in one line.  The primes slipped by uncontested by me as I continued to nurse myself towards the finish line.  A 7pm start and some rather grey clouds ensured that as we took the lap bell the light was fading.  Two riders had been off the front for a handful of laps meaning the chase was on for a last lap catch.  I salvaged a bit of pride in the kick for the line coming home for 24th, Lower than what I’d wanted that morning but considering I was close to climbing off in the first hour I was just happy to get the finish out the way.  I can’t say it was an honourable performance, Last week I was the one towing the peloton round on my wheel only to see it whizz past me at the finish, this week the roles had reversed and it had been my night to ride in the wheels and pop out late… c’est la vie.  On a positive note I did claim 10 euros prize money bringing me up to 99 euros for the year, not quite enough for me to be worried about a weak euro yet!

Sundays race was very nearly the ultimate test of man and machine, I had pencilled in Overijse as the destination.  I had heard the course was the hardest in Belgium with its infamous cobbled descent and I was praying the rain would hold off and keep my spirits up.  But this is Belgium, it had rained heavily over the last week and Sunday was no different.  As I sat at the traffic lights waiting to turn onto the motorway I cracked, I changed the Sat Nav to direction Neerlinter, the first time I’ve ever chickened out of a race because of the weather.  As it happened the weather at Neerlinter was horrendous, unless you’re a duck.  140 riders started and within minutes the heavens had opened.  I was feeling reasonably good early on as I slipped up the road in a group featuring the Ovyta team and Fidea.  We worked hard for around 5km as the high speed ensured the group swung raggedly into the main straight.  Queue the rain as it lashed the riders from all sides.  My comic moment came just as the rain really kicked in, I attacked shortly before a corner and carried way too much speed on the way in, I was forced to jump onto the curb mid corner and come within inches of both a spectator and a hedge before jumping back into the bunch.  As things settled down I began the grim process of watching the laps wash by through mud splattered glasses.  I tried to keep up towards the front and sadly this was to be my undoing.  I risked a gap as it opened up in front, unfortunately so did a rider from Bofrost, my front wheel clarted into his rear wheel and a split second later spokes were flying in every direction across the bunch.  I was lucky to keep it rubber side down as I quickly unclipped a foot to steady my bike as the front wheel wobbled violently between the brake pads.  I turned to the other rider who had also had to pull up, I was angry and ready to break out my newly learned profanities at him… but wow, this guy was huge, comfortably 6ft 5” and looking like an east German shot putter… was it time for ‘the thriller in Neerlinter’?  In a word no, for the second time that day I chickened out.  It had been my 35th kermisse of the year and my 6th mechanical DNF of the year.  But next up is a biggie for me, the ‘Ronde Van Vlaams Brabant’ or in English the tour of Flemish Brabant.

Come on Bradley!  
 
Above: A cheeky attack off the front early on Sunday
Below: massively paying for the above attack later on!



and finally the heavens open...

Monday 9 July 2012

Carpe Diem


Belgium is sometimes a wonderful place to be.  The sun has been beating down, the skirts have been rising up above the knees and the racing is back on the menu for me.  It is easy to let kermises slip by and consider each one as ‘good training’ or fluffing them up and being blasé, knowing that the next race is just a day or two away.  I notice from reading the English press that the abbreviation ‘YOLO’ is becoming popular, meaning you only live once.  This is true, it’s also a more up to date/dumbed down version of ‘carpe diem’, meaning to seize the day.  Perhaps this was where I’d been going wrong in recent weeks, far too often I would use the excuse that I have been building towards bigger things and that each race is no more important than the last.  So after a motivational pep talk from my brother via a staggered internet connection I decided that the next race was all about ‘Carpe Diem’

The race was in the nearby village of Herenthout.  The course was flat, twisty and lined with fans knocking back many a cold beer in the 30 degree heat.  I started near the back of the 150 rider field but quickly found myself cruising up the side of the bunch with my legs feeling stronger than they had for some weeks.  The early skirmishes that normally take place seemed to have been replaced by the Mark McNally show.  He was possibly the favourite so naturally he was shadowed by the bunch which clung to his every attack.  The fast pace down the country lanes finally split the bunch after around 50km.  I was one of the last to jump across to the group, inching my way up to the break away as we pulled onto the boulevard.  There was no time to catch my breath; I was straight into the line and onto the front taking my turn in the wind.  After a lap of grimacing I looked back to see around 35 of us had pulled clear by some 20 seconds.  I was overly keen to drive this group, never missing my turn when 20 or so riders avoided any work.  With just 50km to go I went for what I thought was a prime (money awarded to the first rider across the finish line on a designated lap) and I was pleasantly surprised as I rolled over the line uncontested….hmmm.  I wasn’t sure whether my poor Flemish had finally caught up with me as I sprinted for the wrong lap.  My group was joined by another 25 riders with just 40km to go, meaning the race had split into 2 large groups.  By this point my exertions had really sapped me.  The attacks came once again from the front of my group.  This time I was in real trouble.  I felt like an England football manager approaching a penalty shootout, there was a certain inevitability that defeat was just minutes away.  The final 25km saw me trying hard to bridge the gap in a group of some 30 riders but to no avail.  I spent the final lap trying to carry as much speed through the corners as possible to avoid the sudden accelerations of the bunch as I feared the dreaded cramp.  In the finale I had nothing in the tank and didn’t contest the sprint rolling in 56th.  The result was a tad disappointing as the evening had promised so much more an hour previously.  And just in case you’re wondering… no, I didn’t get the prime!  

The following night it was decided the British boys this side of Belgium were to get together for an impromptu night of go-karting.  It’s a great way to talk to other riders without having to sit in a café clad in lycra dodging the showers.  After 15 minutes of being thrown around and sucking in the fumes I felt like a novice coming out of his first yoga class, muscles were aching that I didn’t even know I had.  All in all a cracking evening though, so much so we pencilled in an optimistic barbeque for the following evening.  After half an hour of dousing the coals in lighter fluid trying to get some heat out of them, chef and former boy scout ‘Macca’ began loading up the barbie whilst trying not to dramatically shorten his life through smoke inhalation.  He did a great job though, it seemed everyone had brought enough for a small army so the sausages, steaks, ribs and drumsticks just kept on being served up until my arteries could take no more.  We had a truly British moment midway through as a downpour swept over the area, leaving us all trying to be manly and standing around the BBQ when really the house was beckoning.

It was back to the day job by Sunday, a 116km kermisse in the flat town of Ramsdonk.  It was to be a race of 3 seasons.  After a minutes silence in memory of local pro Rob Germis we started briskly under summer sunshine.  The constant battering of the wind was to be the main challenger of the day and from the off  I was struggling down the back with poor legs knowing that the race would quickly disintegrate.  My team mate Birgen did a sterling job of taking me up to the front after a couple of laps.  The early break finally got away after around 30km leaving the bunch to try arrange either a concerted chase or a counter attack.  It was to be the latter as two more groups of 10 riders slipped up the road.  I knew that my poor legs would have to be ignored for the time being.  The break had nearly a 2 minute advantage and with 50 kilometres left I had to start chasing now or never.  No sooner had I made my way up the front when an absolute deluge soaked the remaining peloton.  I pressed on aided by my team mate and around 6 others who all wanted to win as much as me.  The gap slowly began coming down and the carrot out in front gave hope to our chase.  We reeled the first two groups in and as we took the bell lap the leaders had just 20 seconds and 6.4km to hold on.  By this point I was feeling stronger than ever and taking long turns on the front.  With around 2km to go I realized the chase was up, the win wasn’t to be ours and we were left to sprint it out for 18th downwards.  Inevitably the guys who had benefited from my hard work had more in the sprint and came round me.  I finished 33rd, Only 12 seconds down on the winner but I’d raced with my heart on my sleeve and earned a respectable result.  It had been one of the fastest races of the year for me as the average speed was a tough 46kmp/h (27mph), certainly the 10 euros prize money pushed me to within seeing distance of three figures.      


1st pic: from left to right, Me, Stephen Roche, Joscelin, taken at the tour
2nd pic: Wednesdays grim day in Ramsdonk and the dogged chase...


go karting...


and BBQ'ing!


Tuesday 3 July 2012

Vive Le Tour


Le tour de France is supposed to be the pinnacle of my sport.  Tell the man on the street you are a road cyclist and he will either say “Lance Armstrong” or “tour de France”.  So it was a small personal embarrassment that by the not so tender age of 21 I hadn’t ever actually been to see Le Tour.  The Race started in Liege with a prologue and although only 150km from my house I elected to race instead.  Stage 1 was a similar idea; I had talked myself into foolishly saving money and elected not broaden my horizons with a visit to the tour.  I thought my opportunity had slipped by when I was pleasantly surprised to open an email inviting me to go down and watch the tour road side with Joscelin, our Dave Rayner liaison here in Belgium.  The plan was to make a day trip of it, to drive to within an hour’s ride and to meander through the villages of Belgium’s Walloon region.  I was playing wieler tourist for the day with my rucksack packed full of the days essentials.  We parked the car in Oplinter and set off leisurely with just a map and a loose idea of the tours course.  After a rather amusing photo opportunity stop at the aptly named dog grooming salon…’Doggy style’, it was time to swap languages completely as we entered Belgium’s French region of Wallonia.  The quietness of the roads was eerie, yet as we crested the rolling hills I began to feel a sense of excitement that somewhere in the distance I was about to watch first-hand my boyhood dream.
  

After a couple of scenic but rewarding detours we finally found a large gathering of people taking up their positions and no doubt claiming their road side seats with deck chairs.  This had to be it.  The crowd were glowing with anticipation, although this was probably the first signs of sunburn as many had no doubt been there for hours.  Joscelin provided the crowd with a fleeting moment of entertainment as she took a rather ungraceful tumble at less than walking pace.  She was immediately up and dusting herself off like a gymnast who’d just fluffed the dismount but she saved face with a smile and a sudden rush to ride off at a brisk pace.  We had planned to meet up with Tim Harris in order to get a quick taste of life in the VIP entourage of the tour.  We turned up at the rendezvous, an innocuous field by the road side and waited as the cavalcade of support vehicles made its way along the course.  As the convoy of official skodas parked up, out steps a grey haired man sporting a decent tan and the sort of middle aged spread only a retired athlete could pull off without looking chubby.  I recognised this man from my teenage years of being glued to the television watching the tour de France.  The man was Stephen Roche.  Irelands only Tour de France winner and an in demand celebrity around the tour as it’s the 25th anniversary since his achievements.  I was casually introduced by Tim, the handshake followed and before I know it he was asking me if I race in Belgium.  I was still rather in awe at this point and managed a pathetic “yes” before Stephen took over and realised what I really wanted was a photo with him.  He was a true gent though, bantering Tim with how he looked fresh but how his cool sunglasses hid the previous evening’s 3am finish.  I tried my best to make the most of my time, chatting with many of the drivers.  I asked about how much a day in a car in such esteemed company would set me back… “2,000 euros, but you get a glass of bubbly with that” was the answer from the South African driver.  Jos had told me beforehand that a couple of helicopters were expected with the other half of the VIP’s.  Sure enough over the horizon came not 1 but 5 helicopters in formation, coming in to land just a dozen or so metres away.  At this point the drivers were back in work mode and we made our way back to the grass verges with the main act just minutes away.  A couple of spectators tried to speak to me at one point, I stood there looking puzzled, they tried another language before giving up and signing off with a ‘vive le tour’.  There it was, many different nationalities were road side but the tour was the one thing we had in common.

The helicopter camera was the first sign of the tour.  The distant whirr is then followed minutes later by the local gendarmerie on motorbikes that drive through ahead of the race to make sure there is no anti-EU protest blocking the road ahead.  Then the leaders come over the horizon, 3 riders including the king of the mountains are up ahead of the bunch and chewing through the kilometres.  I offered some polite support as I faffed around wondering why my camera had given up life at such a crucial moment.  They passed in just seconds as half the road craned their necks to see where the bunch was.  A good 5 minutes later and the bunch appeared, there was no urgency about them as they’re only 45km into a 200km stage.  By that point my camera was back up and running so I frantically clicked away like a distracted kid with a ballpoint in an exam hall.  The race passed just a metre from me and just as quickly as it came it had disappeared over the next hill and onto Tournai where ‘Cav’ was to take his 21st stage victory.  It had been a brief but thoroughly enjoyable moment.  The riders could have been in any other bike race but the entourage and the spectacle really made the occasion live up to my expectations.  We set off back to the car at Oplinter, Jos had 80km on the clock for the days trip and as I rode all the way home I reckon I comfortably had a 100 mile day in my legs.  But I can now say I have seen the pinnacle of my sport on the road side.  I would recommend it to anyone who has even a fleeting interest in cycling as the road side atmosphere is a truly memorable feeling.  As for the VIP treatment, I think my address book will have to become significantly weightier before I get invited into that circle.  Vive Le Tour! 
     

Friday 29 June 2012

What a difference a week makes


Two weeks ago I was sat on the side of the road, a broken bike in one hand and what seemed like dashed dreams in the other.  It would have been all too easy to go home: credit cards and the joys of the Eurotunnel have probably claimed many a vulnerable man in his hour of need.  It seemed I had little to look forward to, so when the opportunity to attend a Flemish wedding came up I was glad of the hours of diverted attention that it would offer for me.  The wedding was between Nick, our landlady’s son, and his bride Ellen.  I had volunteered my services the week before, as after the crash I was in need of a good week off the bike.  My assistance turned out to be every adolescent boys dream (no, not that one).  I was given the task of driving the various wedding cars to their destinations the night before.  I was incredibly nervous as I stepped into the brand spanking new Mercedes.  After the first few minutes of getting used to a left hand drive car, I gave it the beans… and I can confirm that nothing handles like a hire car!  This would normally set a guy back over 100 euros for the day but I was getting it all for free! The local girls must have thought I looked a true poser as I donned the sunglasses, wound down the windows and cruised past the bus stop but how often would I get the chance to do this again in my life… apparently twice.  I capped the night off with a drive home in a Porsche Boxster.  The groom sat chuckling away in the passenger seat as we both knew the Porsche was wasted on me, I was so scared of sticking the thing in a hedge I barely had time to enjoy the drive. 

I attended the wedding after party the following evening.  I decided the occasion was a true one off, so I splashed out on a shirt, dusted off the aftershave and took my place as the only English man in a beautiful hall of some 200 suited and gowned flandrians.  The free bar was a nice touch so I toasted the happy couple.  I picked up a few new words on the night just to give the evening an educational justification.  Before long the DJ was churning out the party tunes one after the other.  Interestingly enough it seems that Flanders has its own mass participation dances that would make even Michael Jackson look foolish.  I seem to remember the chicken dance… along with the usual Macarena and Conga.   By 2am the grandparents had largely cleared off leaving the DJ to strut his finest dance music.  It had been a brilliant evening, a different experience and as I drove home at some 5am I knew that I had made the right call staying in Belgium. 

By day 8 the craving for exercise was becoming unbearable.  I ventured out on the Tuesday for a potter around Belgium’s back roads and I was pleased to be able to ride pain free and at a decent pace.  Within two hours I was back home with my desire to race returning.  Wednesday evening was a local race for me.  I felt the slight flutter of nervous energy the first few laps as we sped around the village of Wiekervorst.  135 riders made up a good quality field but the course was the great leveller.  Long straights with gentle headwinds made sure even the AnPost and Ovyta riders were made to look average.  I made only one attack all race, bridging up to a tasty move of 4 riders but the race stayed all but together for the 108km.  I was tentative in the finale; I was on the Specialized Venge, or to put it another way… my last bike left.  I rounded the last corner and went through the motions in the hectic sprint for the line.  I had to check my speed twice to avoid riders slipping back but as I rolled over the line 31st from 62 finishers I felt I had enjoyed my return to the kermisse circuit.  I was handed a welcome 10 euros for my efforts bringing this seasons bulging prize pot to ahem… 79 euros.

Barely 24 hours had passed since my last race but as the saying goes ‘time waits for no man’, especially when he’s trying to recover.  I don’t mind warm weather but as I arrived at the village of Oplinter the thermometer read a sweltering 34 degrees.  I didn’t need a thermometer though, the fact that various parts of my body were sticking to each other told me this was going to be a sweat fest.  I barrelled into the first corner; the familiar smell of carbon brake pads clung to my nostrils but even that was overpowered by the pungent body odour wafting through the peloton.  I was paying for my exertions the day before.  My tactic was to try and get up the road in a break in the easiest move possible.  I thought I had succeeded briefly as 20 of us got a handy gap on lap 2 but the wind and the constant up and down nature of the course reeled my group in.  I was being careful to ration my water.  As the bunch was strung out a fleeting glance up the line showed many a hand jut out to collect a much needed water bottle.  The race began to really break up by lap 6 of 12 and I was once again paying the price for the day before with probably a bit of dehydration just for good measure.  I had a couple of team mates jump up the road in a counter attack which was a relief for me as It ensured there was less pressure for me to follow every move.  With a good 40 riders up the road my spirits dropped a little towards the end of the race.  As we rounded the finishing straight some 5 minutes down on the leaders the commisaire waved his flag as opposed to showing me the lap board… my group had been pulled out with just 15km remaining.  I tried to feign disappointment at being pulled out but the race had been over long before for me and I was happy to just get back to the car.  The temperature was still a stifling 29 degrees by 9pm… maybe I should have had a barbeque instead! Below is an excellent photo from Belgium’s finest snapper, Jean Bollaerts.       

Tuesday 19 June 2012

Thrills and spills

Temptation rears its ugly head many times a day when you’re a cyclist. The list of things you can do is significantly shorter than the list of don’ts.  With this in mind I found myself in the beautiful student city of Leuven on Thursday night with the aim of enjoying a nice meal and watching the European football on one of the big screens.  Sure enough temptation caught me off guard when I found myself chatting to a few of Leuven’s students who were enjoying a post exam season blow out.  Before I knew it I was sat with a group of 15 or so, dusting off my GSCE French, Spanish and Flemish with one of the local beers in my hand and listening as they wet my appetite for the night ahead.  I had planned a reasonably early finish but as everyone else was heading for Leuven’s various clubs and bars I was invited to tag along.  Forgive me if I skip the several hours of dance moves and resurrected chat up lines but to cut a long story short we all enjoyed a thoroughly good night and met some great people.  It had been 6 months since I had even drunk alcohol but the Belgian drinking culture is vastly different to England’s.  Almost everyone drank a few beers, had a good time and went home sober enough to pass their exams the following morning in some cases!

My test was to come on Saturday evening in the village of Sint-Katherine-Waver.  The race started at 6pm and promised 106km of blustery conditions, long exposed straights and a reasonable field.  I took a dive off the front on lap 1 and was joined by a nifty group of 4.  Within a couple of kilometres of riding through what felt like treacle we were reeled in as the headwind took its toll.  I sat in the slipstream as the field was stretched on the crosswind sections, watching carefully to make sure I could always ride across the echelons.  My legs were incredibly average after a hard week of training and as we entered the last 20km I could see the elastic that had held the peloton together beginning to snap.  My housemate Chris put in a big turn of speed as the break threatened to pull clear and I used that as my springboard, attacking in the crosswind section so as to avoid dragging half the peloton with me.  After a little over a minute of full throttle I had reached the back of the swelling break and with around 25 riders clear it seemed as though this was to be the winning move.  We had less than 10km left but as the sole representative of my team it was not my job to drive the break.  I gambled that the Ardela team with 5 riders would drive the break and this largely worked out.  With 5km to go we still had around 10 seconds on the peloton as I squeezed the gels in.  My legs were feeling the night’s exertions big time by this point and my prayers for a bunch gallop offered me my best chance of getting up there.  With just 2km remaining the Ardela boys let 2 riders slip off the front.  This was like bait to the break, if I sprinted across now I risked bringing the rest of the break with me and having nothing left for the sprint.  This time I gambled and lost as the 2 riders hung on to win by just 2 seconds.  I gave it my best in the sprint but the wind sapped my strength leaving me to come away with 15th on the night.  It was a case of what could have been but I welcomed my second top 15 of the season and a return to the first page of the results. 

Sunday was to be a similar affair with 130 riders lined up for my 28th race of the season on a tricky course in Halen.  I started with heavy legs having finished a 70 mile race no more than 17 hours beforehand.  Peter Van Petegem was in attendance in the crowd, helping to whip up the anticipation.  By the half way mark I was feeling significantly stronger than at the start and I began to plan more than just hanging on until the finish.  The course had many pinch points and I feared a crash from the start but as a racer this is never more than a fleeting thought in the back of your mind.  With three laps to go I approached the finishing straight.  Suddenly the front wheel went from under me, without warning I was hurtling into the tarmac at 40kmp/h with nothing more than a polystyrene helmet and some lycra to protect me.  I went down hard, taking gouges out of both knees and taking a knock to the head in the process.  The art of crashing is entirely involuntary, all I saw was tarmac, sky, a blur of riders, more tarmac and finally sky as I ground to a halt at some poor spectators feet.  I was helped straight away by the ambulance crew and various spectators.  As I clung on to the stretcher as the ambulance hurtled round the streets, the young paramedics bandaged me up like a mummy.  The crew dropped me off at the finish line were my bike was propped against the railings looking very sorry for itself.  The reaction of the old boys said it all, the word ‘kaput’ was thrown in for good measure as I saw the handlebars snapped in half, the frame cracked clean across the head tube and the front wheel resembling a rugby ball.  This was insult to injury. 

It has been two days since that grim crash, retrospectively I consider myself relatively lucky.  I fell within 2 feet of a barbed wire fence and avoided breaking any bones.  My knees resemble a tin of corned beef but time will heal them.  As for the bike… the damage is about two thousand quid’s worth and at this point of the season that kind of hit is about as welcome as a hog roast at a veggie convention.  I have a few days of enforced rest now but I must give my special thanks to the ladies who patched me up in the ambulance, the spectators who took my bike to the finish and to my landlady who has taken it upon herself to make sure I get back up and riding soon.  One final word of thanks must of course go to the Dave Rayner fund for helping to fund my ambitions out here in Belgium.  A quick mention also to my trusty mechanic at home, Joe who I know is currently ill, so fingers crossed for a speedy recovery! 
At the lack of pictures from this weekends races I had a look back at the archives to find this beauty, sadly this is the last time you'll see me atop this awesome machine...