I was awoken by flashes of lightening and loud overhead thunder at about 04:30am this morning. Now I generally sleep like the dead. Once my head hits the pillow I’m out for the count for 8hrs minimum. So, if anything wakes me up – it’s loud, really loud. My bedroom windows overlook the sea and, since we’re not overlooked, I see no reason to cover the magnificent view with curtains. The bedroom was lit up like the Blackpool illuminations by the thunderstorm.
When the alarm went off at 06:00am, I could hear the rain so turned over and went back to sleep: no L’Antiboise today. Yes, once again rain has stopped play on a Sunday. I had planned to do the 150km Brevet today thereby garnering maximum points for the club and putting in some valuable Livestrong training mileage.
Last year I had ridden the 100km with my husband. The course starts in Antibes, goes along the coast to Agay, then turns into the l’Esterel hills before returning back along the coast via La Napoule. The longer route takes you past Lac St Cassien and over towards Grasse before returning to Antibes via Valbonne. Both great rides in good weather.
It’s not that I’m afraid of getting wet but, as I found out in the Pyrenees, my brake pads need replacing. They’ve been ordered and will be fitted next week. We rode in the pouring rain in the Pyrenees over Easter. On the Saturday I was able to demonstrate “how to perform an emergency stop” to the rest of the group. My brakes failed as I was rolling down a hill to catch up with them. They were waiting for me by the side of the road. Noting that they were next to a grassy patch, and my husband was at the back I hollered “my brakes aren’t working”. My husband caught my arm, thereby slowing me down somewhat and I flung myself over to my right and onto the grass. Both the bike and I came away unscathed, though I did have some rather spectacular bruising to my right knee and elbow.
Now, I’m a pretty good descender, largely thanks to my bike. I had thought that it was due to my superior bodyweight but if my husband and I descend at the same time, I go much faster than he does and he’s a good 20kg heavier than me.
By 10:00am the rain had stopped and the roads were starting to dry out. So I went for a ride with my husband, meeting a number of club members en route. Let’s hope the weather will be fine for the Louis Caput sportif next week end.
I still remember the warm glow when I found the two-wheeled, red bike Santa had left for me in a nearby park the Xmas I was five. But I have conveniently forgotten how long it took me to shed its training wheels. When I was nine, I got a pale blue and grey Raleigh, but I was not allowed to ride it on the road, only in the garden and not on the lawn which took up about 85% of our garden.
At university, I once borrowed a friend’s bike and ran it into a parked car. I dimly recall I rode to work during the late 80s, early 90s on those few days when all forms of public transport were on strike. I also indulged in a spot of mountain biking in Austria. Though, lest you get the wrong impression, this consisted of me cycling down the hill from the hotel, along the valley and back to the foot of the hill whereupon my husband went to get the car to convey me and the bike back up the hill.
So, not exactly an auspicious history on two wheels even though my father was a keen cyclist, frequently cycling from Birmingham to Portsmouth (and back) to visit family, and my maternal grandfather made bicycle frames. Indeed, family and friends continue to be bemused by my very recent love affair with two wheels.
When I first started cycling my husband would not allow me to ride unaccompanied. If only you could have seen me, you would have understood why. So for the first 6-9 months I rode only at week ends or on the home trainer. Once I had my first road bike, it took me almost three weeks to master cleats and pedals, not realising that the latter could be loosened to make it easier to disentangle the former from the latter.
Pushing off on my left foot, I would cycle around the gated domaine where we live, then position myself handily near to one of the flower beds as I attempted to kick either one of my feet free. If I failed, I would just keel over into the flower bed. During this period, the gardeners wisely postponed putting in the summer bedding plants and I do believe that my miserable attempts to cycle provided them, and my neighbours, with some amusing moments. But they were hugely supportive and gave me a standing ovation, when I finally triumphed. And, even now, they exhibit a lively interest in my cycling wanting to know how many kilometres I’ve covered and where I’ve been.
I’m now endeavouring to employ those same flower beds to cushion the impact as I try to cycle hands-free. I watch enviously as fellow cyclists ride along nonchalantly, answering their mobile phones, taking off or putting on articles of clothing without ever once wavering from the straight and narrow. Of course, when I ask them how they do it they all reply that they learnt when they were young. Is it simply a case that I’m too old to learn new tricks? Who knows? But I’m not giving up; not just yet anyway.
It pains me greatly to say this but if I’m ever knocked off my bike by a car it is bound to have been driven by a middle-aged woman. I say this with some authority as all of my closest shaves have been with cars driven by unobservant, middle-aged women.
We’re supposed to be able to multi-task better than men but put us behind a steering wheel and we seem to lose this gift and more. Yes, we also lose any sense of spatial awareness. Girls, God gave cars three mirrors for a reason! Please endeavour to use them.
These incidents happened on roads I regularly frequent and, at this point, I should add that I’m a law abiding cyclist. I don’t jump red lights or cycle recklessly. I wear clothing which makes me clearly visible and I give plenty of hand signals. And, if you’ve seen my photos, you’ll know I’m not a small cyclist.
Two incidents happened on the very same roundabout where, from one of the eastern approach roads, there’s a very sharp, first exit, north- north- east. Incident no.1 involved a Twingo driver attempting to smoke, talk on her mobile and drive at the same time. However, not content with trying to dislodge me from my bike on the roundabout, she then tried to run me over on the ramparts of the old town, where due to the steep camber, there’s room for either one but not both of us. I managed to prevail, but only just.
Incident no.2 involved a mobile phone wielding woman at the wheel of a people carrier who, having failed to run me over on the same exit on the self-same roundabout, came to an abrupt, unscheduled halt 50 metres later as she searched in vain for a parking spot. Her startled look when I rapped on her window spoke volumes.
At the intersection of two one-way roads, I had to take evasive action to avoid being gunned down by a Berlin registered, turbo charged, Porsche whose driver (female, middle-aged with male passenger using mobile) totally ignored a red stop sign and my right of way. On the bright side, a Porsche driver would probably have been able to afford to replace my bike. Always assuming I had survived our contre-temps.
The most recent incident involved yet another middle-aged woman, driving a clapped out, red, Peugeot 205 in the on-coming direction, who turned left across my bows in complete ignorance of the road markings. Realising, rather too late, that she was about to turn me into road kill, she braked, allowing me to swoop past her bonnet, rather than over it. My front wheel met the curb stone full on (haven’t yet mastered the bunny hop) and I sailed over the handlebars to land on my right elbow and hip. I leapt to my feet, no real damage then, and checked the bike which was, thankfully, also unscathed. The woman opened the door and suggested I should look where I was going. In return, I ventured that an early visit to the optician’s might be advisable along with a refresher course at the nearest driving school as that thick white line over there gave me right of way. Having seized the moral high ground, I gave her “The Look”, remounted and rode off.
Now “The Look” is something I have perfected, along with a whole series of hand signals, to express my disgust at the driving antics of my fellow road users. However, I suspect that they go largely unnoticed as these drivers rarely glance in any of their mirrors. Nonetheless, they allow me to vent.
Not wishing to give you the wrong impression, I should add that, by and large, the drivers on the Cote d’Azur are pretty forgiving and understanding of cyclists. This may be because many of them are cyclists themselves. Of course, the solution to my dilemma may be to get many, more middle aged women to take up cycling.
Friends have been urging me to write a blog for some time largely on the strength of my amusing emails. But emails are easy to write; you write a long newsy note and then tailor it for each of your addressees. In my case, friends tend fall into one of two categories: sports fans or not. Though to be fair, those in the “not” category do try to show an interest in my sporting passions.
Blogs on the other hand may be read by any number of people, known and unknown, whom I would prefer not to offend. I now have an even healthier respect for those who write daily blog entries. Where do they find their inspiration? More importantly, how do they find the time? I know that’s rich coming from someone who only works part-time but in between the cycling, household chores, taking care of my high maintenance husband (have I mentioned that before?), looking after our company’s administration etc etc I struggle to put fingers to keyboard every day. However, I do have surges of inspiration when I write 4-5 shortish blog entries.
Having spent years trying to condense reports into executive one-page summaries, I find I do the same with my blog entries. But is less really more?
I rode the La Charly Bérard with a girlfriend. It was the first time for both of us and we’d elected to ride the shorter course: only three hills. At the start, the organisers were urging all the girls to the front of the peloton. We declined. What was the point, we were only going to be overtaken by the boys. We knew it would be much better to get underway at our own pace, well to the rear of the peloton, out of everyone’s way.
Five minutes after the depart réal, there was just the three of us: me, my friend and a guy 500 metres up the road. I managed to bridge up to him once past the steepish 2km climb to Falicon. As I drew alongside, I engaged him in polite conversation and soon realised that I was talking to the Wim Vansevenant of La Charly Bérard. Well not this year pal; it was going to be a three-way, tightly contested fight to the finish to be this year’s lanterne rouge.
It was a perfect day for a ride, sunny without being too warm. And, with the Broom Wagon keeping us company, we were in no danger of getting lost. I had cycled most of the route beforehand, so knew where to go and what to expect: for me, the perfect scenario. Just as well really given that the guy charged with removing the “fleches” (directions) was a couple of kms up the road from us.
So how did we fare? My friend won the Lanterne Rouge and Wim Vansevenant claimed the same prize for the medium course. Me, I was just glad not to be last.
However, I had won a prize in the tombola: a month’s cycle training. I was thrilled. I never win anything on tombolas or in raffles. In fact the last thing I won was a box of broken biscuits in a working men’s club raffle when I was playing in the bank’s ladies darts team. I know, is there no end to my sporting talents?
I got back last Friday from a cold and wet few days at a major exhibition in Germany, looking forward to a few hours out on the bike. Goodness knows how I ever spent all those years working long hours in an office. I could never go back to it. Me, my bike and the open road: it’s such bliss. I even managed a couple of hours on Saturday before the rain arrived and settled in for the day.
Saturday afternoon, I settled down to watch Pippo Pozzato get the better of Tom Boonen at E3 Prijs Vlaanderen but most commentators failed to appreciate the uber smart ride from Astana’s Max Iglinsky.
Sunday morning I woke at 06:30 to discover it was still raining – game over. So much for setting off nice and early so as not to miss the pointage. Maybe it’ll only be postponed. I hope so, I have unfinished business with the Col de la Madone.
You’re probably wondering how I fared in “The Gentleman”. That Friday evening I had a call from M le President (yes, that’s what we call him). He asked me whether I was riding the short or the long course on Sunday. I said I had thought that as a mixed pairing we would be riding the short course. It appears that my partner had also volunteered to ride with one of the youngsters on the short course and therefore we would have to ride the longer one. No problem, I said. Of course, I had been training all week for the short course. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I could hold my top speed for another 13km, even though I was getting a tow!
That evening I checked out the start list for Sunday and found that there were NO all-female teams! So, if I had managed to find a female partner the trophy would have been ours. Instead, all the girls had teamed up with chaps and were mostly riding the short parcours. That’s right; you know when they say “you should be careful what you wish for? Well, I was riding in the 100+ category with all the two-man teams. Either we were going to be last in that category or first in a category of our own.
My partner had only enough time to change the number on his back after completing the short parcours, where he and his partner turned in the fastest time in their category, before we were off into the strong headwind. What can I say? We finished strongly, my partner was hugely supportive and rode the perfect race, but I could have gone faster. We finished last. I wonder what we might have achieved if only we’d trained beforehand.
I’m a girl who believes in lots of planning and preparation. If I’m doing a cyclosportif, I like to have cycled the route beforehand. This is so that a) I know I can do it and b) I know when to conserve, or conversely, expend energy en route. It also gives me an opportunity to scout possible locations for a pit-stop as these generally tend to be few and far between. I prefer to wear bib shorts or tights, so there’s no way I can discretely slip out of my kit behind a bush. It’s a full-scale strip job, so you can understand my concerns and preference for a toilet.
I am currently training for the Charly Bérard which largely takes place on the course of my first ever pointage. A year or so ago, one the girls at the club invited me to cycle with her on Sundays, promising that we could go at my pace. She cycles with two of the club’s very spritely octogenarians who are both glowing adverts for the long-term benefits of cycling. I can only hope to emulate them when I’m their age.
When I told my husband I was going to do that Sunday’s pointage he was somewhat dismissive of my ability to get up the climbs. This time however I will have to ascend a tad quicker for fear of falling behind the dreaded “broom wagon” and having my timing device unceremoniously removed.
Most of the club events I take part in are self-timed. You tell the person writing the certificate your time and they put it on your certificate. Whether you finish first or last, your club gets the same number of points. You just have to finish. There are usually two courses on offer: one 50% longer than the other with more points for the longer course. Trophies are awarded to the clubs whose riders garner the most points. There are no individual prizes save those for the youngest and oldest male and female entrants to complete the course.
In preparation, this week I did my first ascent this year of the Col de Vence (963m). This has to be my closest and favourite climb. I did it for the very first time in early April of last year. Buoyed with my feat of climbing Col d’Eze, via the more strenuous Grande Corniche, I decided I was ready to tackle the Col de Vence. I rode the slightly longer but less strenuous route up to Vence via La Gaude before turning onto the Col itself. The first few kilometres are the steepest but it soon levels out and there are simply splendid views down to the coast plus some pretty pricey real-estate to admire as you pedal your way up to the Chateau du Domaine St. Martin and beyond to the open pastures full of sheep.
I took comfort from the road markers telling me how many more kilometres I had to travel and the average gradient (7%). The top is a bit of an anti-climax but I couldn’t resist sending my husband a text to tell him I’d done it.
Today I cycled the quicker, slightly steeper route via La Colle sur Loup. Under darkening skies and into a strong headwind, I managed to ascend the hill for the first time without stopping at all: another first. Col de Vence is my favourite col not because of the ascent but because of the descent. You can easily see what little traffic there is coming up the hill so you can throw caution to the wind, keep your hands off the brakes and pretend you’re Samu Sanchez. With that tailwind, it was my fastest descent ever.
Last year I arrived at the pointage at St Agnès ten minutes after it had closed, thereby collecting nul points. Something which still rankles!
I had cycled almost the entire route on my lonesome. From my map, handily placed in my back pocket; it appeared to be a left-hand turn out of Menton. This pointage was the same day as the Monaco marathon thereby rendering any road in Monaco out of bounds (guarded by hoards of armed police) to everyone, including cyclists. This meant cycling up and around Monaco. Once back on French soil, the police were only too happy to allow me onto the marathon route, ahead of the runners.
I was somewhat unnerved by the general lack of cyclists en route making me check and re-check the map to ensure I had not gone astray. Eventually, I found the road to St Agnès and wound my way up it not realising that this was the famous Col de la Madone. Allegedly one of Lance’s favourite training rides.
On arrival, I was too tired to cycle up the final steep incline to the village. So I walked and once there enquired about the pointage. I was told it was closed. I was too tired to come up with a pitchy retort in any language.
Fortunately I was rescued by the mother of a club mate (there had been a race there that morning) who put my bike in her car and drove me most of the way home.
This Sunday I will be collecting maximum points. I will be leaving well ahead of the club peloton, the Monaco marathon was held last week end, I’m riding with a club mate and I can confidently cycle the distance.
I recently told a friend that, while Mark Cavendish would never win The Tour de France, he would definitely win one of the big classics. Well that someday was Saturday, 21 March 2009. He won by a cat’s whisker in a truly exciting, heart stopping finish: yet another wonderful, wonderful day for British cycling. I was so glad I’d decided to go down to San Remo to watch.
The trick to watching live racing is to find somewhere you can both watch and hear the race unfold, plus see the finish. Of course, when I said see the finish, I should have said feel the finish. They just go past in a blur. This time it was a black and white blur.
Almost no one thought Cav would win this year. Quite rightly both he and his team downplayed his chances. But he looked as cool as a cucumber over the Cipressa and Poggio, quietly staying in contact until the final run in to the line where he pipped Heinrich Haussler to the post.
Interviewed after the race, Cipo said Cav had an “extraordinary talent” and Eddy was equally complimentary. But the most emotional response was from Eric Zabel, who had tears in his eyes. Smarts to Bob Stapleton for hiring Mr Z to advise Cav. Money well and wisely spent.