F4 4/4 Final part of my #festive500

Falling and failing.
But let's begin with frosty.
In fact this wasn't planned to be the final ride. This was to be the middle kicker to take me towards the 300km mark and then with 2 days to follow I had two metric century rides planned.
It had been a cold and clear night, with frost patterns lying thick on the cars parked along the roads. I really like the frosty kiss on paintwork; any vehicle is turned into an icy tribute to dazzle camouflage.
Layering up I set off to the Sunday club meeting point and waited until a lonely figure came along the road.

 So, just the two of us today then. Myself and a new lad, Liam.
a quick chinwag and we were off. Given the freshness of the day I thought we would press on to a cafe a close 20 miles away, then see how we felt after that and decide the rest of the route following.
Passing through Usk and along the Llansoy gliding club straight there were a few patches of icy puddles dotted along the road. Liam and I discussed the merits of mountain bike tyres versus road tyres on ice and slush, and I half wished I had come out on the cyclocross bike. Only half wished, mind. I enjoyed the mudguards and the absence of a wet arse on the road bike.
Through Raglan and the sun was kissing us with some warmth as we headed towards Mitchel Troy and the cafe a little bit along.
Coming down towards Skew Bridge we remarked how this side of the (main) road had seen more sun and was less icy.
Oh the irony.
I was a good few lengths ahead of Liam when I saw a thick rime of icy slush across the road.
Flagging the danger to him with my right hand I began braking with the back brake. The further I travelled the more ice I could see.
There was no chance I was going to touch the front brake, there lay a guaranteed crash.
The problem now was that I had been travelling at a reasonable pace; that section is downhill and we had been rolling along at a good lick to begin with.
With a car coming the other way I couldn't head across the line to what appeared to be only wet road.
I made the decision to head towards the grass verge, in the hope I would get better purchase as I got closer to it.
I never made it that far.
Liam said afterwards that the bike fishtailed suddenly and then I went down.
That sounds about right.
With the bike sliding out to my right I went down hard on my left side.
Head, shoulder, back, hips, then a roll and head, shoulder and arm on my right side.
The speed at which it happened was what shocked me the most. In comparison to the Mallorcan crash where it all seemed slow and somewhat bouncy, this was a vivid slam of body into unyielding road.
Bang, bang, bang and stop.
I lay there staring up at the underside of the bridge.
There is a series of checks that you go through after a crash, motorcyclists do it, and I'm pretty cure cyclists do it.
You get your breath back and then check the vitals. Can I wiggle my toes? Can I wiggle my hands? Can I see? Breathe? Hear?
It's a brief pause from the situation and after that is when, for me at least, the pain begins.
Lying there under that bridge this felt bad. I'd normally be quick to try and move from where I lay but for what seemed like minutes I lay there trying to get some composure.
With my feet and legs onto the kerb and the rest of me perpendicular into the road I was struggling.
A motorist had stopped and after checking whether we wanted him to stay, proffered the advice; 'you best get out of the road, mind you don't get run over'.
I'll try, was my response.
I did. Moving up and sitting myself against the bridge walls as a couple of ladies came down from the nearby house.

The smile hides the worries and the shock. It's always best to keep these things in check until something can be done about them.
One of the ladies, or it might have been Liam, had fetched my hat from the road. It had stopped any abrasion but I could feel I had taken a proper bang to the head. I could also feel my shoulder ached and felt crunchy. My hip and back felt hot with pain.
None of these things were good.
Liam and the two ladies took turns in talking to the ambulance control centre until a paramedic, Phil, arrived.
I'll spare the details but after ascertaining I hadn't broken my back and various other checks I was helped into the paramedic car whilst my girlfriend arrived to tidy the bike up.
I was and am so grateful to those two ladies, and Liam whilst I waited. It's hard to convey that when you're the centre of attention as it were. Thank you.
The afternoon was spent in A&E with various checks, X-rays and pills administered.
With my shoulder too swollen to truthfully diagnose, and with my back and hip given the all clear I was allowed out. It wasn't that I wanted to leave, and was in two minds when the staff nurse said she wanted to keep me in overnight, but my friends Jason and his clubmate, Sian had come down to race in the Velodrome that evening and I was desperate to find a positive in the day.
Fast forward several hours, easy if you're on tramadol, and we are down the Newport Velodrome getting ready to watch Jason in his first race.

With the air still thick of Derney bike exhaust fumes they set off. I couldn't tell you what race it was, and I certainly can't remember now.
After settling in and finding a programme for the evening it began to get exciting. The meet had brought out a whole range of riders; from league riders through to National and Olympic big guns.
Jason was next up in a mens Keirin heat. The Derney bike thrumming around and bringing smoke, noise and speed to the wooden boards. Jason got his power on but it wasn't to be.

As the night rolled on there was more and more racing. Sweat, effort and speed from all who entered the wooden boards.
Sian had a great final ride in the ladies Keirin. Sat on the wheel of the Derney with Katie Archibald and Dani King behind. How many times would she get a chance to ride with that calibre of rider. She finished truly empty. Her face showing a mix of emotions, from joy and excitement through to dismay. But what an experience.

With time called on the meet the assembled riders dispatched themselves and kit out of the velodrome, and the boards settled down once again.

I didn't make my target of 500km. I failed to complete. I experienced pain and suffering which I've not had before on the bike, or as a result of it.
Next year, maybe.

Harlech to home Part 2/3

Harlech is the forgotten place.
Or so we were told by our host as we were packing to leave. After a slap up breakfast and a small back twinge it was time to load up the bikes and depart.
But not without fixing that puncture first.
Removing the lovely Veloflex Master tyre I couldn't find any debris in the carcass to suggest something remaining, however there was no denying the lack of air in the second inner tube so far. A second glance showed that the tyre itself had holed and there was a little protrusion from the carcass that appeared to be causing the tiny slow punctures. I applied a couple of patches to the inner of the tyre to cover the hole and then fitted my remaining spare tube. This one was a thicker and larger 23/28 so should provide a better chance of keeping the air in.
Tyre back on, wheel in and luggage on. Bottles are all filled, let's roll out.
So why is Harlech the forgotten place? It's really rather beautiful up there, and I would recommend it to anyone. It just seems to be one of those places you have to want to get to as a destination, rather than happening across it.
Anyway, the sun is shining againg and it's time to top up those odd cycling tans.

Given that my rear tyre is causing me punctures we decide it best to get a replacement as soon as possible. Our host Mike, had advised us there was a bicycle shop in Barmouth. The road swooped gently up and down and took us there in good time. In fact we were halfway through it before realising that we were in Barmouth.
So where is the bike shop?
Plenty of cafés and general tourist convenience shops but no bike shop yet. As we were abandoning hope and consigning it to the list of shops-that-no-longer-are I spotted it. Tucked into what appeared to be an old car workshop there was a bike hire shop. This had to be it. Peering into the dark and cool interior we were greeted by the proprietor.
'Can I help you lads?'
'Yes mate, have you got any 700 x 25 tyres please?'
sucking of air through teeth...
'for that?'
'Yes please'
After a rummage on overhead racks I was presented with a Sri Lankan special. 700 x 28 and £12.95 to you, sir.
Best get it fitted then, the original plan of buying a modern folding tyre and packing it along in case the problem recurred having now been consigned to the bin of nice ideas.
So, for the second time that morning I removed the old tyre, and fitted the fresh, heavy, stiff and other end of the spectrum in quality tyre. The shopkeep kindly inflated it for me and as he removed the pump there was that annoying hiss that signals air is not remaining where it should inside the tube.
'You've pinched it' he says.
'Not likely' says I, 'I pushed it on with my fingers.'
Off the tyre comes again, worryingly leaving some of the bead rubber hanging free. The tube has split by the valve.
Dead.
Tube number three gone.
Friendly shopkeep provides another tube. I swear this one is heavier than the tyre, and that was no lightweight.
Back together it goes. In goes the air and it stays inside the tube this time.
'Put it to 95psi' I ask.
Shopkeep looks at tyre rating of 75psi.
'You sure?'
'Yup'.
So there we have it, after almost an hour of fannying about, I am back with a functioning bike. The old tyre is folded up and slid onto the rack for fixing further at home.

At least the new tyre has gum walls so sort of matches the front.
Sort of.
Ah my little whippet is becoming more of a mongrel.
Nevermind on we go.
Out of the shop and we almost immediately drop down onto the tollbridge over the estuary. Except yet again there's no toll. Railway tracks run alongside us on the wood and iron bridge. The views are amazing, more riviera or continental than Welsh.
I perch in against the railings and snap away.

Just stunning.

No time to hang around sadly so on we pedal.
Across the water and up the other side as a train pulls in to the halt. We mull over jumping on. I'm quite glad the train hadn't come past us on the bridge. There wasn't much confidence in the structure on my behalf.
The road clings to the coastline once more with rises and falls despite the constant flat of the sea on our right. Pausing at a little shop we eat some eccles cakes and file away some Haribo for later. 'Kids and grown ups love it so, the happy taste of pigs feet and sugar'.
Tywyn and Aberdovey roll by and the sun is still beating down.
This was always going to be the hardest day, both in length and climbs. The thing is we're not even at the hardest part yet.
Five or six miles out of Machynlleth we manage to get a couple of bottles of water from a village shop before it closes for lunch. A bit of banter with a pie delivery man and then off again. Lunch is in Mach. I can't wait.
The long arches of the bridge over the River Dovey signal we're very close indeed.

The streets of Machynlleth are full of market traders as we roll on. Pete stops suddenly. His front tyre has called time, or rather the tube has. We walk the bikes down the street to find a café for lunch. Leaning the bikes against the wall outside we order in the small friendly place. Lasagne for me, double ham rolls for Pete please. While we wait, Pete wanders up to the bike shop to borrow their track pump to inflate his freshly fitted tube. With no sign of a cause it looks like the old one had just had enough and blown. Better now than on a descent...
After lunch, and chinwagging with a work colleague who happened to be passing, we're on our way. This is where it gets tough.
We're past the halfway point of distance but the climbing really kicks in as we head out towards Llanidloes via Llyn Clywedog.
It's not too bad to start with and we agree to regroup at the top. Each bike is running different gearing and I've got less luggage weight to carry than Pete so cut an early lead as the road begins to meander steadily up.

That dot is Pete.
The road goes on some more, and up some more.
I'm so thankful that the clouds have rolled in and given some cover. This would be absolute hell if the sun were still beating down.
I seem to be hardly able to keep my pedalling smooth. I'm not even pedalling squares, I'm into all kind of weird quadrilaterals.
My heart is pounding out a decent rhythm on my chest at a rate that would keep a techno fan happy, but the climb still goes on. There's a small plateau and I pause to get some breath back and neck a gel. I really don't like gels, but sometimes they will get you out of a hole. The lasagne is a distant memory.
Behind me, in the silence, the verge is full of white tufts of seeding flowers. The wind is nipping at them and every now and then some blow off. For the most part they just wave gently. Not quite ready to leave the ground.
Pete catches me and passes, carrying on. I watch him go. It's pretty tranquil here.

Tranquillity won't get me to my bed for the night though.
The next bit is tough. The road winds around and kicks up hard.

The Wynford Vaughan Thomas memorial is on our right and I holler to some waiting bikers 'give us a lift mate!'
'You're bloody heroes!' he laughs back.
Thanks, but a tow would've been nice.
This is getting a bit much. Up on the pedals and trying to keep a decent momentum going as the road climbs and curves.
My jersey is open, and I've taken my glasses off. My cap peak is up and I'm trying to get all of the air in to my lungs.
I hate my luggage so much right now.
Dragging me down with every pedal up.
I reach Pete at the top and bend over the bars, laughing.
It was either that or crying.
'That was fucking hard' we both surmise.
Thing is there are two more climbs to go.
Gobble some sweets and onward.
Heading to the next climb a bus comes the other way, the elderly driver, his white hair wisping in the breeze from the open window smiles and nods.
Best get on up this then.
Somehow it's not as bad as before, or maybe everything is dulled.
Stopping at the top, at the viewpoint, we have time to take it all in. It is lovely up there but by heck it's hard to get there by bike.

There's still a climb to go before Llanidloes.
The coach come back past and the driver gets a cheery wave, responding with an even bigger grin.
We hurtle down the road, trying to eke out momentum before the next up.
It doesn't work, and my chain ships as I change down to climb. All momentum gone.
Stopped in the verge.
Hands blackened by oil it's back on and push the pedals.
Over the top and as we go down there's a car just beginning to pull out from further on.
I'm going to have you.
The speed rushes up, all memories of crashes, blowouts, dislocations are gone as the speedo hits the high 40s. Then there's a little climb and again all my momentum is sucked back.
Still, there's not far to go now, surely.
The rest of the road seems gentler and we roll into Llanidloes. Stopping at a garage where Pete reads my mind and comes out with an ice lolly each and water.
The last 19 miles have taken a long time and taken the edge off us.
We're both coming close to sitting in the bottom of the rut.
That was the road that just kept on giving and taking.
Only 15 miles to Rhayader now and our stop.
Out past the lovely black and white buildings of Llanidloes and onto the A44, then the A470. The time for scenery appreciation has passed and there's a hard edge to the pedalling now.
I'm hurting and I'm tired.
Pete, I think, is the same. He sits in my wheel and we slog on.
Down to the roundabout and 5 miles done just 10 remaining. . The road is kind to us and I sit on the rivet, hands on the drops and go.

I won't sit down, I won't shut up, and most of all I won't grow up.

Numb hands grip the bars, the battle-scarred cork tape yielding slightly. My fingers throbbing into emptiness.
Shoulders are crying and burning.
My legs turn robot like and my finger finds the lever to click another gear home as the speed rises.
A glance and Pete is still there in the wheel.
All the pain is going through me and into the road.
I shout-sing songs, or rather the lines from them as I empty myself onto the road.

One drink too many and a joke gone too far, see your face drive like a stolen car.

The speed is far higher than it should be at this time in the ride. We're up in the high 20s. This can't last, but it does as the miles run under the wheels.
Rhayader hoves into view and after a few more pedal strokes we coast up to the guesthouse.
Today we earned it.
Today we were in the elements.

Tales from behind

I'm trying to find the perfect saddle at the moment. In order to keep myself reminded of what's gone before I thought I'd post about where I am now and what has cosseted (or not) my behind. This isn't going to be one of those reviews where I compare weights etc.

So first up the most comfortable to date is probably the CSN Superleggera K10 which I guess would come in at the budget end of the spectrum. This came with my Ribble Gran Fondo and I've done around a 1000 miles on it.

Pros- minimal numb wang and a reasonable amount of flex.
Cons- I did get some saddle soreness from it on longer days, and the shape seems to just snag a little on my thighs at the back wing.

Next up I think is the Specialized Toupe Plus. Twice the price of the K10 above but is it twice the saddle? Well it certainly hasn't resulted in any numb wang. It is quite hard though.

Pros- Lightweight, no numb wang at all.
Cons- quite stiff, and the flat shape puts pressure on the insides of my legs, more so than the K10.

Lurking in the middle so far, and also on my MTB is the Selle Italia XR XC Flow. It should be noted this is a narrow model.

I've done around 800 miles on it and find it comfy to start off with but then the narrowness begins to put pressure on my perineum. It is light, and it wasn't expensive. I used it during the cyclocross races with no problems.
Pros- short distance comfy, light, cheap.
Cons- no good over 30 miles

A friend, Pete (cheers Pete) very kindly lent me a Charge Spoon to try. I've no picture of it, so here's a stock pic from online-

I was really hoping it would be the right saddle. Not least as Pete confirmed he suffered in similar ways to me with comfort and pressure. Also I could get a brown leather one with titanium rails. This pleased me.
It was not to be. It was comfy to start with but then I found the old numb wang creeping in. Even adjusting the saddle to have more nose down didn't allay the pressure and pain. Real shame.
Pros- cheap (for non-leather), range of colours. Sit bone comfy.
Con- numb wang!

The Specialized Rival 143 was OE on my Tricross back in 2010. I did close to 1200 miles on it before changing.  It's ok up to around 10 miles and then gets rather uncomfortable indeed. Numb wang a go go.

That said it is pretty tough although the cover bubbled up a little at some point along the central groove. Although there isn't a cut out in the foam or cover, there is in the plastic base. Not that it made any difference.
Pros- came with bike, durable
Cons- numb wang.

So to round off so far is the SDG Bel-Air Ti, and I have a snazzy Palomino version.

I really wanted this to be spot on, one because I had it, but also because I liked the idea of fitting it to the road bike. So for testing I took it from the MTB and fitted it to the road bike. First thoughts were good; there's plenty of padding in the saddle and it wasn't snagging my legs at all. As the miles wore on though things became very painful down below, and then numb. The reason it's down below the Rival, despite similar characteristics of pain infliction is that it's the only saddle where I've actually felt bruised the next day or two. Back on the shelf then...
Pros- awesome style
Cons- gives me such a beating.