Away days

I have just gotten back from the club’s annual cycling trip. It appears that we never venture too far from home. This time it was 140km up the coast to Alassio on the Ligurian Riviera.

This is my third club trip. My maiden one, a Tour of southern Corsica, was two years ago. It was the first time I had ever cycled on a road bike. I had ordered the bike back in February in the belief that it would arrive in six weeks, leaving me a further six weeks to be become fully acquainted with it, and all its functions, before the club’s cycling trip. In the end, it took three months for my Orbea Diva to be lovingly crafted by the Basques/imported from Taiwan and painted.

The bike arrived the day before we left for Corsica, too little time to become conversant with cleated pedals, so I rode in my training shoes. Wisely, my cycling was limited to downhill after lunch on the first two days, plus a trip along an undulating coastline, before lunch, on day three. Day four, I sat in the club car and enjoyed the scenery.

Day two was almost, but fortunately not quite, my last day on a bike. As I set off with my husband, ahead of the rest, to descend into Porto Vecchio, the bike “felt strange” and I was slightly nervous about the steep, switchback descent. Rightly so as it appeared the bike shop (not my current LBS) had not correctly tightened all of the screws and on taking an almost 360 degree turn, the wheels and I went one way (straight ahead) and the handlebars another.

Thank goodness I was wearing training shoes. I was quickly able to put my feet on the ground and prevent my imminent, and quite probably fatal, departure down a precipice. Needless to say, I was more than a bit shook up, so we sat on the parapet wall and waited for the others to catch us up.

On seeing us, the rest slowed and stopped. As they did so, M Le President’s front tyre blew out. He would probably have taken that corner at speed and so another serious accident had been averted. Our DS quickly tightened the offending screws on my bike and we continued on our way.

The following day, my husband and I set off up the coast well ahead of the others with me aiming to stay away as long as possible. Lunch was some 75km off and I had calculated that the boys would catch and pass me at around 45km. Thanks to a couple of punctures, they didn’t overtake me until around 70km. It was quite exhilarating being an escapee, though to be fair they don’t usually get a 30 minute head start in the pro-peloton.

The annual club trip is meticulously organised by a member of the committee and for a very modest price. In fact the only thing I buy on these trips is my daily copy of L’Equipe. Though, I didn’t even have to do that this time as the hotel supplied a copy of its Italian equivalent, La Gazzetta dello Sport.

The aim is generally to cycle around 450-500km over the four day trip, one of which will be the “Queen Stage”. Last year it was our ride up Mont Ventoux, this year it was a trip into the Italian hinterland and three cols. I bailed after the second one which had an average incline of 10%, though some bits bordered on 18%.

Although I had set off some 30 minutes ahead of the rest, they had all caught and passed me by the top of the first col. This meant I was rapidly distanced on the second one where I probably set some sort of record for the slowest ascent. At one point my average speed was 3.5km/hr and my cadence 31. Any slower and I would have fallen off. In fact I did walk for about 500m, at 4km/hr, as I was too tired to get my feet back into the pedals after I had gotten off to take a drink and a bite of my energy bar. Yes, when I’m tired, my limited bike handling skills totally desert me and I’ve found that it’s quicker, and safer, to dismount for refuelling.

One advantage, maybe the only one, of going at my average speed is that I have plenty of time to admire the scenery, the vistas and any buildings of architectural note. However, I leave it to those, who can both cycle and take photos at the same time, to record all this for posterity.

After a fulsome picnic lunch provided, as always, by the girls, I was advised that the return would be flattish. I was sceptical and rightly so, as the road turned upwards, I got in the “broom wagon”.

This was not my first trip to the Ligurian coast. Indeed, it was the setting of our first family holiday in Italy. I would have been eight when we stayed in a family-run hotel in Laigueglia. I still have plenty of memories of that trip: the hot jammy donuts on the beach, my first taste of pizza and pasta, pushing my kid sister out to sea in our red and white plastic kayak and the dodgy raffia sunhats we were forced to wear. Mine was pale green and my sister’s pink, white and brown. Incidentally, the hotel is still there but sadly the jammy donut seller is not.

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