Chris Oliver's LeJoG Blog

A sting in the tail

2010-07-02T19:42:00.004+01:00

Thursday. I've got a bit of a problem. It's my hands. I cannot use my thumbs or all of my fingers effectively. It's caused by the constant pressure of the handlebars on the nerves. Road bikes (as opposed to touring bikes, for example) have no 'give' at all and so all movement on the bike is converted to movement on the road and vice versa. So, you feel every bump, every ripple, and eventually your nerves just stop functioning properly. Let there be no doubt at all in anyone's mind. This is carefully crafted and symmetrical revenge wreaked on me by Old Three Fingers Boon for the things I have recounted in this blog.

I first noticed the problem a day or so ago when trying to change gear using my fingertips (brakes and gears are integrated) and I just couldn't push the brake lever across to drop a gear. I assumed it was just muscle fatigue in my fingers but it soon became clear it was not. It has gradually got worse and now I've lost a lot of function and sensation in both hands. It's not painful, I just can't use or feel about half of each hand. Eventually I had to use the heel of my hand to change gear. This pushes the bike to the left (usually) but thankfully my neck and shoulder correction ploy (see previous blog) keep me, roughly, going straight.

Anyway, I'm off on the last day's ride to John O'Groats and leave Brora just before nine. The forecast is for rain and a very strong south-easterly wind. Neil texts me to describe the route. He also books a taxi to take me from John O'Groats to Wick. There's a target now. It's three o'clock and it can't be missed.

There's a long and very stiff climb after Helmsdale and then a good ride. The climb is hard: it's tipping down, windy, I cannot feel my fingers (part cold and wet, part nerve problem) and visibility on the tops is down to ten metres (just this one Bear Grylls moan if you don't mind). I'm hoping the big trucks can see my rather fetching, flouro-yellow, off the shoulder number and so won't run me down.

Just after Berriedale Braes there's a fast. and long descent. I'm quickly up to 50kph and I don't want to slow down because I feel I deserve the payback from the climb. This works fine because I can't feel the brake levers anyway and I couldn't possibly stop in the wet at this speed without a bit of a Clarkson. This could be scary but luckily I can't actually see where I'm going as raindrops in your eyes at this speed either make you blink very rapidly or, as in my case, you simply shut your eyes for a bit of relief. Exciting ride down. Well, the bits I saw were anyway.

The ride after Lybster is on the most remote, straight and beautiful road I have ever cycled on (picture above). I see nothing and no-one (even with my eyes open) for about six miles maybe more. My GPS screen is blank except for an arrowhead (me) and a single line. If you are into cycling then do this route. If you are not into cycling, then do this route and then you will be. Every now and then the solitude of the last few days tells and I greet the local sheep with a loud, cheery "How do you do!" There's little response, so I sing a bit (not a good idea, particularly from the sheep's point of view).

The three o'clock deadline looms and I up the pace. If I miss the taxi I'll have to cycle about 17 extra miles to Wick into the strong, south-easterly headwind. I calculate that I'm within time and anyway it's not a race. So the last few miles will be a cruise. I'm about a mile away now and I realise I am going to finish and I start to whoop and laugh out loud. The sheep look worried. Then in the distance I spy the telltale flash of fluoro yellow. It's another End to Ender. Wait a minute though...... that competitive type on Shap Fell had a shirt like that didn't he?. Can't be him, surely. Can it? Could be I suppose if he took a different route to me. He's the sort that would do something like that.

Suddenly I'm out of the saddle and stamping on the pedals. No way, absolutely no way, is that competitive type getting there before me. I'm gaining on him! I can do it! I can do it! Bob the Builder turns up. "Jump on Bob! I need your help!" My legs are aching and I'm wondering if seeking help from a cartoon character in a children's TV show means I've finally and completely lost the plot. I lose sight of him on a bend. A sly move that typifies his kind. All matey on Shap Fell and then this. So I really push hard whilst he can't see me. I must go faster or he'll nick my taxi, I just know he will. There's only about 400 metres to go and I take the last bend at pace and suddenly he's right in front of me shoving wire into a pipe. His jacket reads "Scottie Leccy: We shove wire into pipes" or something similar. I slow a bit and I know that the solitude had indeed taken its toll. And then...... and then it's all over.

I freewheel toward the signpost for the obligatory wet and windswept photo. I have to prise the 'professional' photographer out of his hut and into the rain. No matter how many times I ask him to hold my Blackberry upright he insists on doing it his 'professional' way and that's why the facebook photo is sideways. Back at his hut I scour the wall for any photo of that competitive type. He's the sort that would leave one but there's no sign. I have to write my name and address on a label as the 'professional' photographer watches. I need to grip the pencil with both hands and my brow is furrowed as I scrawl "Professor" in shaky, childish capitals. He backs away a little and I can't resist pushing my tongue out of the side of my mouth to signify intense concentration on the demanding task in hand. I bid him a cheery goodbye and he willingly agrees to put one of my postcards up so that the competitive type can see that I whupped his ass real good (if he ever makes it that is! Ha!).

Right now I'm in Weatherspoons (look, this is Wick, OK?) and it's curry night. The loss of function in my hands persists and consequently my lap and shirt are generously covered with pilau rice, onion bhaji and chicken jalfrezi. The beer I keep spilling down myself is gradually rinsing the worst off though so that's OK but it's in the toilet that the trouble really starts. I can't do my trousers up. I just can't form an effective pincer grasp and so manage the belt and zip. I don't know what to do. The best idea I have would no doubt lead to the following front page article in the Wick Weekly Advertiser:

"Wick, Thursday. A 52 year old man was arrested in the toilets in Weatherspoons last night. A customer told police: "He was covered in beer and Indian food and standing in the middle of the toilets with his trousers undone. He said "Could you do something for me please as I can't manage with my hands. I'll gladly buy you a pint afterwards". I was shocked. This is sort of thing just doesn't happen in Wick on a Thursday." The man was later questioned at Wick Police Station and claimed to be a Professor. However, further enquiries at John O'Groats revealed that he could barely write his own name and had previously been seen serenading farmstock. On being remanded in custody, the man alleged there was a conspiracy involving a "competitive type and Old Three Fingers Boon." The hearing begins on Monday."

It took me quite a while but I eventually managed to do things up and by then I wanted to go to the toilet again and so I decided to call it a night. Back to the hotel where I can't turn taps on or off, operate the kettle, undo my laces etc. etc. I think about calling reception:

"Good evening. This is Morag. How can I help you?"
"Could you send someone up to take the lid off my toothpaste please?"
"Are you the Englishman who watched the match in The Bush Inn in Carnwath?"
"(Wearily) Yes."
"Hahahahahahahahaha"
".... (Click)"

Now it really is all over and I'm on the train to Inverness. It feels a bit too fast so I might soon have to shut my eyes for a little while. Thanks to family, friends, workmates, my team and Neil at Velodays for invaluable support and encouragement. It was very important to me during some of the Bear Grylls moments. Special thanks to Liz who has put up with both me and my training regime over the last six months.

Finally, I did this ride to raise money for a very worthwhile cause but I did it at this time of year for another reason. My Mum was born on June 4th and died on July 4th. I'm not a religious man and so I needed a different way to remember her and this was it. She taught me to be independent, to try to do things that you don't think you can do and to help others who need help. So that's what I tried to do. If you're looking down Mum, I hope you will feel proud and, erm, you couldn't just give my kit a rinse could you and yes, of course I'll get my hair cut.

Blog over.

The final table:

Distance: 104.7 km
Cumulative distance: 1607.68 km (1004.8 miles)
Ride time: 4h 56m 50s
Max speed: 58.3 kph

Into the land of the shipping forecast

2010-06-30T22:09:00.003+01:00

Wednesday. I occasionally look back at this blog and it does, in places, sound rather negative. Bit of a moan here about the heat and a bit of a grump there about busy roads. I don't think this gives a very accurate picture of just how good LeJoG is. It's just that the small problems become more salient on a perfect day.

Take the brief ride on the A9 today for example. I'm only on it for a short while but it sticks in my mind. The reason is that it's fast, busy and carries the big lorries to Wick. So, I tuck in close to the kerb and this is tricky as this part of the road is littered with glass, car parts, drains, gravel and roadkill that I have to move back into the road to avoid. This would not normally be difficult but, and here I must confess something to those who were a little concerned about my safety on this trip, it is for me. The problem is that, as a consequence of a rugby injury, I cannot turn my head fully to the right and so look behind. When I try to do so I have to turn my shoulders as well and, when I'm cycling, I then drift to the right and end up, for example, in the middle of the A9.

Some time ago I tried to develop a technique to correct this by steering left a bit whilst turning my head right (don't try this at home without a responsible adult present). However, as I then couldn't see where I was going I did, more than once, end up in the gutter (precisely where Old Three Fingers Boon told me, my class and anyone else who would listen, I would end up). So now I simply have to keep an ear out (no IPod for me) and, well, trust to luck.

So, you can see how a minor bit of the day dominates when I'm sitting in The Sutherland Inn in Brora tucking into my tea and thinking back about what I've been up to and hence what might go into this blog. I could try to describe the ride through the Highlands and along the north-east coast but I know I'd just overuse words like stunning, beautiful etc. and then I'd plump for majestic and we'd all have had enough. To avoid this I thought I'd take a photo today of the long road bridge across the Moray Firth with majestic (I did warn you) mountains in the background.

I found the right view, slowed down, clipped out (no meerkat plane spotter moments for me) and was just about to put my right foot down when I realised that there was nothing beneath the long grass next to the road but a ditch. My foot went down anyway and I followed. I sort of crouched to avoid a barbed wire fence and this, rather unhelpfully, ensured that I could fit neatly into the ditch. It was a deep ditch and luckily the mud, filthy water and generally unpleasant ditch contents, broke my fall. I was then pretty much upside down with the bike, still clipped to my left foot and wheels almost vertical in the air, above me.

I paused to check nothing was broken and then realised that I was slowly sinking further into the mire and, what's more, the mire did not smell good. Three questions entered my mind. First, should I stay like this for a bit until anyone who was passing has gone and so avoid a replay of the Bidford-on-Avon humiliation? Second, will the B & B have anything smelly enough to match the Strawberry Shortcake (by Possibility) shower gel that would surely be an effective antidote? And third, in this blog did I disturb the restless soul of Old Three Fingers Boon and so bring this gutter episode on myself?

I thought it might be a good idea to get out of the ditch rather that ponder these issues and so I did (took a while though). Change of shirt, back on the bike and sod the photo. Just think stunning, beautiful, majestic mountains etc. etc. All very lovely but you're on your own on the image front. Far too dangerous. Give me the A9 any day.

Last day tomorrow. Weather forecast is not at all good. Heavy rain and strong winds and just over 100km to go over some lumpy (and no doubt majestic) mountains. Can't wait.

Here we go:

Distance: 137.46 km
Cumulative distance: 1502.84 km
Ride time: 6h 46m 8s
Max speed: 65.2 kph
Right knee: very sore now but, rather worryingly, ditchwater cleaned off the football thing. Kate Price could probably market this stuff in Bodmin.

Dalwhinnie (Twinned with Las Vegas)

2010-06-29T22:25:00.004+01:00

Tuesday. Dunkeld to Carrbridge today and so into the Scottish Highlands. The Bridge B & B in Dunkeld is highly recommended (pancakes, maple syrup and bacon for breakfast) as is The Atholl pub just around the corner (bring your guitar, fiddle, etc. and play it. World Cup? What World Cup?). Lovely evening, good beer and a chat with a couple touring in a recumbent tandem (think of lying down cycling, one behind the other). Wonderfully eccentric.

Today, I really struggled for the first time. I was stiff but fine when I first set out and then I hit a very bad patch and had real self doubt. I had been very tired over the last couple of days but this was different. From Blair Atholl to Dalwhinnie (c. 30 km) I could not get above 15 kph and I was clock watching all the time. I think it was a combination of a poor surface (cycling track to avoid the perilous A9), a constant headwind from the West and an imperceptible but relentless climb. Eventually I saw a road sign saying Dalnacardoch (I think) 1450 feet and then realised that I had indeed been climbing for well over an hour without knowing it and thinking all the time that I was so slow because I had finally reached my limit.

After Dalwhinnie (a two horse town twinned, bizarrely, with Las Vegas) I turned eastward (tailwind now) and was on the flat on a good surface. For two hours I cruised with ease at just over 30 kph and all was well. Real contrast between before and after and I am still puzzled by how badly I misinterpreted the cause of my very slow pace.

Anyway, I digress. Well, actually I don't, do I. This cycling stuff is what this blog is supposed to be about. Imagine someone surfing the web looking for advice on LeJoG and finding stories about football chants that feature shower gel, X-ray specs and Old Three Fingers Boon and Bear Grylls stuffing spinythorny bush down his pants. It's not really what you'd want is it.

Now I will digress. Carrbridge has more pubs than Dalwhinnie has horses and I've tried them all (pubs not horses). That's it really.

Those all important stats:

Distance: 124.67 km
Cumulative distance: 1365.38 km
Ride time: 5h 49m 45s
Max speed: 47.7 kph
Right knee: rather worryingly it looks like a football. It's not swollen or anything but I've written FIFA 2010 on it with indelible ink and can't wash it off. Is the solitude finally taking its toll?

Where were you when...?

2010-06-28T21:29:00.002+01:00

Monday. I am gutted. Yet again in a major international competition we trail in the wake of the Germans. We were stuffed. No question. I've said it before and I'll say it again. We will not win the Eurovision Song Contest unless we bring back either Cliff or Lulu and, come to think of it, they could also add pace and guile to our back four.

I made it to Carnwath yesterday in time for the kick off and settled in The Bush Inn in front of the big screen with a copy of Scotland on Sunday providing cover. A couple sat next to me and made themselves comfortable for the match. We're off! After a few shouts and groans he turns to me and says "You English?" and then the cat is out of the bag. "Right" he says and shuffles in his seat, sticks his chest out, sits up a bit more and folds his arms. Now we really are off.

And so it starts. As the Germans score the third the word spreads that there's an Englishman in and the room fills with locals with newly discovered German heritage. The banter is relentless but good fun. When the score hits four one, I can offer no further defence (your turn to do the back four joke) and I finish my pint and order a last one. Out of the corner of my eye I just catch a head nod and then my money is no good and the pint is paid for. End of the game and I pop to the toilet and when I return there's a new pint for me and no-one to thank. In total this happens four times. Rather churlishly I suspect this is a ploy to keep me there to answer for Culloden, The Highland Clearances, inequitous use of oil revenue and Gordon Strachan's loss of form (post 1985). I gladly fess up to it all and also agree to pay for the refurbishment of the Forth Road Bridge.

Eventually I escape and head to the local Co-op to buy the ubiquitous Scottish hangover cure Irn Bru (made from girders allegedly) ready for the morning. If you haven't tried this and wish to do so then do the following: put three sugar cubes and two pieces of bubble gum in your mouth, wrap your lips round the end of an industrial strength soda siphon and turn it on. That's Irn Bru.

Whilst in the Co-op, the following conversation takes place:

Local lad: "Are you the Englishman who was in the pub?"
Me: "Yes"
Local lad: "hahahahahahahahahahaha"
Me: "Please don't buy me any more beer."
Local lad: "hahaha.... what?"

Up early to ride to Dunkeld just north of Perth. Weather is warm and sunny and the scenery and route are unbeatable. The solitude of the lanes is very welcome but the highlight of the day is crossing the busy Forth Road Bridge. This was an important milestone for me on the ride and now I know I'm close to my goal. Three more days and about 240 miles to go. I just hope both me and the bike can hold out.

The real results (following video review):

Germany 4 England 7
Distance: 130.27 km
Cumulative distance: 1240.62 km
Ride time: 6h 9m 8s
Max speed: 74.7 kph (Woohoo! beat the previous best of 71.9 kph whilst on a training run with (honorary Ironman) Jim's son, James, coming off Dartmoor. Still yet to hit the elusive 80 kph though).

Seize the moment

2010-06-28T19:15:00.002+01:00

Sunday: Just when you thought LeJoG couldn't get any better.... it does. Last night the ride into and beyond Carlisle was stunning and I eventually ended up in a wedding reception in Gretna (difficult not to really, as the place is awash with brides, grooms, pipers, kilts etc.). At the hotel I watch a bit of the Uncle Knobhead wedding dancing (you see it's not just me Hanch) and then off to bed to get up early to finish the ride in time for the England-Germany kick-off. It's a push, but I'm sure I can do it.

The ride from Moffat onwards is the best I have ever done. Whilst at Moffat Neil warns me, by text, that there is some "up and down ahead" and, as usual, he is right. Double espresso in my coffee at Moffat and then 13km of climb followed by well over 20km of descent. I'm just touching the pedals and cruising at 35 kph through the Borders, pretty much alone, in the most beautiful landscape. If you're a cyclist then do this run. Just do it. It is beautiful.

Every now and then I see a roadsign for Edinburgh and I reminisce a little about the time I spent there training to be a Clinical Psychologist and, more importantly for me, playing rugby for Edinburgh Northern. We won the local league that year and were promoted to the National League. Our captain was Dave Hadden, who played inside centre. His brother, Pete, played at fly half. They were both very skilled and accomplished players. Their elder brother, Frank, was also an exceptionally good player who became coach to the Scottish national rugby team. They were always great company after training or on a Saturday night after the game. Really lovely guys.

So.... I'm watching a Scottish rugby international game on the TV and the camera zooms in on Frank as coach. I'm thinking: "Hey Frank! Good to see you doing so well mate! Do you remember when.... " and then the commentator says something about the sad loss of his brother and my heart just stops and I can't think straight for quite a while. Eventually I get on the internet and there it is. It's Dave. Ten years previously he was hit by a Range Rover whilst cycling and suffered substantial brain damage. The reason it's all over the web is that record damages were awarded even though he wasn't wearing a cycling helmet. The reason? He was hit so hard it wouldn't have made any difference whether he was wearing a helmet or not. In a very selfish way I don't regret not knowing what had happened ten years previously. I want to remember Dave dancing through the Murrayfield defence on the day we won the league and then celebrating in the Grassmarket pubs until the early hours and not in any other way.

The point of telling you this? Well, these things, born of loose associations (Edinburgh, cycling), just creep into your mind when you are cycling alone and there they stay for quite a while. If you do LeJoG alone, remember that. Also, if you're thinking of doing something like this, then seize the moment and do it now. You never know what's just around the corner.

Those numbers (sorry, no jokes today):

Distance: 112.6 km
Cumulative distance: 1110.35 km
Ride time: 4h 46m 40s
Max speed: 60.3 kph

Bear Grylls and the camel spit

2010-06-27T21:42:00.002+01:00

Saturday: Lance Armstrong (winner of Le Tour more than just a few times) swore by pasta. So, very, very hungry (almost constantly) I ate at Bella Italia last night:

"I'll have the Fusilli please and a Pepperoni Pizza."
"Would you like those together Sir?"
"Why not. In fact, just shove it all in the blender and we can avoid all that foodie taste and texture nonsense and save on the washing up at the same time."

I don't know what brings these rather unpleasant and sarcastic ripostes to mind. I think it's the hunger. I never say these things of course but sometimes it's a close run thing.

Today breakfast is in the pub. "The cereals are on the bar Sir." The muesli is indeed right next to the handpump for Dizzy Blond beer that I could only point to, rather than ask for, last night. There's something very pleasant but indulgent about staying in a pub. The Wagon and Horses in Lancaster is a great place to try it out for the first time.

I'm off on the next leg and aiming for Gretna Green, just over the border and into Scotland. I stop for coffee (very important) in Kendal and chat to a couple who ride regularly in the area. They tell me what I already know and have been worried about for a while; the climb up Shap Fell is long and hard. It starts just north of Kendal and the view of the Lakeland Fells to the west is well worth the effort but it's very hard work. After about 14 km of climb I start writing this blog in my head about how tough and hot and hard and difficult it is and then I have a Bear Grylls TV moment.

Bear (to camera): "It's my third day in the Kalahari and I've just eaten raw hyena liver with mealy worms and have drunk a pint of camel spit. My hair shirt is seriously whiffy and I have pushed poisonous thornyspiny branches into my pants as the local tribesman say this will bring great joy to their village." (Over his shoulder there are indeed belly laughs and thigh slaps together with much pointing in Bear's direction.) "Tomorrow I'll tie my flip-flops together and climb the biggest hill I can possibly find and then moan endlessly about ......"

At this point I shout at the tele: "Look Bear! It is your, I repeat, your, decision to do this! I will only sympathise with hardship when it is foisted on someone. Like, for example, that woman behind you going to collect water with a container the size of a small Fiat on her head so that you and the camera crew can have a nice cup of Earl Gray with your Chocolate Hobnobs! If you don't like it, give it up!"

.... so, I was really enjoying the climb and can see the top about a mile away. Then I spot the telltale flash of fluoro yellow that signals the presence of another cyclist grunting up Shap Fell. Can I catch him before the top? Let's have a go. The competitive thing kicks in and I am chanting "I can do it!" in my head as I push harder. Bob the Builder tries his luck but I banish him to the same place that Begin the Beguine was sent after Julio served me a pint on Thursday. About a quarter of a mile to go and I catch him. I take a few deep breaths so I can pass, apparently effortlessly, with a cheery "Lovely view!" when suddenly he speeds up and then we're side by side.

He's also an End to Ender and the competitive thing just disappears as we trade stories and then it's just us against Shap Fell. We crest together and enjoy the freewheel down into Shap where he's going for a swim. We manage a left-right handshake and wish each other a safe journey. About half hour later I'm thinking I'd be gutted if he makes John O'Groats before me and I up the pace. Whoever you were, thanks for your company and I bet I get there before you do but if I don't it's not a race you know. Taking part is the most important thing.

The ride today could not have been better and I made it to Gretna Green. Onward to Biggar tomorrow. I've banked a few extra miles so I can make the 3 o'clock kick off. I've been practising my Scottish/German accent ready for the pub. A warm welcome awaits me surely?

Today's results:

Distance: 135.5 km
Cumulative distance: 997.75 km
Ride time: 6h 10m 46s
Max speed: 64.5 kph
Right knee: worryingly sore at times
Meerkat plane spotter problem: sorted with a spot of lube on the pedal (might try it on the knee)

The meerkat plane spotter

2010-06-27T21:37:00.002+01:00

Friday. Arrived in Lancaster after a hot but reasonably quick and flat ride. The route that has been put together by Velodays (see sidebar) is perfect. Just enough civilisation when needed but mainly country lanes. I can't recommend Velodays strongly enough. I text Neil at noon when I'm reasonably sure of how far I can get that day and he books a room for me near (or in!) a pub with somewhere to eat nearby and then sends directions. It means I don't worry about any logistics and I know that if I have a problem then it will be sorted. This is the way to do LeJoG, especially if solo and unsupported.

Bike is holding up well, as am I, but we are both starting to creak just a little bit with about 500 miles down and 500 to go. My main worry is that I'm finding it hard to clip out of the right pedal and this can lead to the meerkat plane spotter problem.

Let me explain. Cycling shoes have a metal cleat on the sole that attaches the shoe, and thus the rider, to the pedal. This makes pedalling more efficient. When you set off, you push your foot down and forward and then you're clipped in. When you stop, you clip out by flicking your heel outward and you are then detached from the pedal. The most important thing to remember is to clip out before you come to a halt, otherwise .....

When I first started cycling I managed just fine until the day I passed through the buzzing metropolis of downtown Bidford-on-Avon one Sunday afternoon on a training run. The local teenagers, seeking excitement, had gathered at the crossroads to watch the traffic lights change. I approached and was about to clip out when a car cut in front of me and I braked quicker and harder than I had expected to. I was focusing on the car, and about to offer some advice, when it happened.

The best way to picture this is to imagine a meerkat watching a Boeing 707 flying directly toward and then over it. The meerkat looks up, tilts its head back, bit further, bit further..... and then just falls over. And that's what I did. I slowed, stopped and then with both feet on the pedals and both hands gripping the handlebars, I simply keeled over pavement side. The locals just could not believe their luck. I muttered something about all the pro's doing this on Le Tour but it fell on deaf ears.

Anyway, I digress. It hasn't happened yet and, with luck, it won't happen again. On to Carlisle tomorrow through the nice flat Lake District. I might try to cross the border and make Gretna so that I can be sure of arriving in Biggar in time for the England vs. Germany game on Sunday. Bound to find a pub in Scotland in which I can shout at the tele with a few like minded souls. Just hoping the wind changes direction by the morning and is with me for the first time on the ride.

Those all important numbers:

Distance: 117.47 km
Cumulative distance: 826.6 km
Ride time: 5h 21m 34s
Max speed: 57.6 kph
Bottom bracket: creaking
Right knee: hot, sore and noisy on the downstroke

The beard of bees

2010-06-24T22:37:00.001+01:00

The two most unpleasant things in the morning are waking up when I feel I really must sleep for longer and then smothering myself in nappy cream, lip balm and sticky suncream. (..... sorry I was momentarily distracted then. The pub bore at the bar just said, in a very loud voice, "He had one arm and he was handicapped at golf.") Anyway, it's the sticky suncream that causes the trouble because as you ride everything gets attached to you, mainly insects. After an hour or so I can look like the man with a beard of bees that I once saw in Mick James', Ripley's "Believe It Or Not" comic that he bought to school on "Show and Tell Day".

Naturally, with a comic from the USA the rest of us just trailed in his wake. The hot tip, Greta McEvoy's potato the shape of a, erm, well, a potato really, (she thought it looked like Jesus but there were far too many eyes), came second and my matchbox collection (144 boxes no less, but sadly all the same) wasn't placed. But the main interest we had in Mick's comic was the adverts on the inside back page. It was there that we discovered X-Ray specs.

About a dozen of us, who were taking French taught by a young female exchange teacher, were intensely interested in these specs, to extend our familiarity with the French of course, but those being taught woodwork, by Old Three Fingers Boon, less so. (There was something rather disconcerting about being taught band-saw safety by a man with only three fingers.) Anyway, we agreed to pool our paper-round money, cut down on the fags to 20 a day and buy a pair. The main barrier was that the price was in dollars and we didn't know the exchange rate. So, we collared Dale Dawson, who was so clever that he had proper specs rather than the NHS unbreakable tortoiseshell jobs most kids had. His first estimate meant we'd have to cut down on the fags for days. A couple of wedgies later and he produced a downward revision that made it all seem possible. It was never to be though. Just before we had gathered enough money, our French teacher was replaced by Mr. Farrow and our interest in both French and X-Ray specs waned. I tried to get back into woodwork but after the unpleasantness involving the glue and the staff toilets it just wasn't an option.

Anyway, I digress. After the ride today I didn't have the full beard of bees but did have a few fruit flies stuck on in the shape of a lopsided goatee. So forget all that stuff above. Pure self-indulgence.

Two wonderful moments today. Outside my front door this morning were helium filled balloons with messages of support and encouragement from my team at work. Thanks to you all! You are wonderful! A real boost to my morale. Then, after 50km I shouted "Hello!" to a waving mum and her daughter in their car parked on the roadside and suddenly realised it was Debbie, a postdoc from my team who had turned out to cheer me on. Really uplifting to chat to her for a while and I felt back on track after the day off. Thanks Debbie!

The route is still perfect and the weather good. I banked a few extra miles today to set up a short day on Sunday for the three o'clock kick off. Tonight I am really enjoying listening to Julio Iglesias. He's the landlord of the pub at which I am staying and he asks what I would like to drink. Few more beers and I think I'll teach him "Wild Rose and Raspberry" (to the tune of Guantanamera) that was such a success in Bodmin.

As we approach the end of the group stage, here are the numbers:

Distance: 150.2 km
Cumulative distance: 745.13 km
Ride time: 7h 14m 16s
Max speed: 57.2 kph
Right arm: looks like bubble wrap and getting ready to peel
Right knee: noisy
Bottom bracket: creaking
Mood: very good, thanks to my team!

Stacey Jane and the anxious chicken

2010-06-23T09:23:00.003+01:00

Tuesday. Very slow start to the morning and I could have quite easily slept for a couple more hours but I'm up and sitting down to breakfast. I recognise the trainee waitress who was practising her lines the night before and over she comes.

"Good morning Sir. Did you sleep well?"
"Bit restless actually. The room was very hot and stuffy."
"That's good Sir. Nothing like a good night's rest is there."
"?"
(She's right on script and flicks the page)
"I'm Stacey Jane, your waitress, and I'll be serving you breakfast this morning"
"I'm Chris, your guest, and I'll be eating it."
"Brown or white toast?"
"Brown please."
"We've only got white."
"White it is then."
"Tea or coffee?"
"Have you got both?"
"Of course Sir."
"Coffee then please."
"And how would you like your eggs?"
"I think you've skipped a page."
"What? Oh, sorry. Yes. You're right."
"Let's go back to page two and take it from the top and.... Coffee then please."
"Certainly Sir. Would you like the Full English Breakfast?"
"Yes please but definitely no eggs at all though. I'm allergic to them and they always make me very seriously ill."
"And how would you like your eggs?"
"Still half way up the chicken would be favourite."
"I'll tell Chef."

Ten minutes later and I'm enjoying my second bit of brown toast with a pot of Lapsang Souchong. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a large Dutch businessman asking the manager where his fried egg is. I can see a bit of it peeping out from under my napkin. Stacey Jane was far too sunny and cheerful to be grassed up in her first week.

And then I'm off on day 5 of LeJoG and heading for home in Birmingham and a rest day. The first 30 km passed quickly and then I had a bit of a moment and decided to go on a bike ride. No, really, I did! So I turned off the planned route and east toward Stratford on Avon. Got there, ate lunch and wondered if I could find my way home through country lanes without the GPS. So that's what I did. Quickly got lost but not in a bad way. I just didn't have a clue where I was and I was in no rush. I kept the sun over my left shoulder and soon arrived in villages I knew from training runs. From there to the soulless suburbs and on towards home. Last challenge was to pass Moseley College where a pupil once threw a full bottle of water at me as I rode by in heavy rushhour traffic. I was lucky as it hit me rather than the front wheel and I stayed upright. First time I've come that way at that time of day for quite a while. Then I'm home, having added about 20 km to the planned route. Time for a Balti or two!

Here are today's numbers:

Distance: 95.9 km
Cumulative distance: 594.93 km
Ride time: 4h 39m 20s
Max speed: 59.8 kph
Today's soap: Carbolic by Poundland (well I am home)

The redemption of Kate Price

2010-06-23T09:19:00.002+01:00

Monday. I'm loading up the bike outside my seriously chintzy B and B in Bath as the Italian owner is describing the joys of cycling. "Youa canna smella da countrysida" (hands flapping noseward). This is true but not necessarily good news when you get a sizable waft of Eau de Horseshit with more than just a hint of Dead Badger. (Actually, I think that could significantly improve Kate Price's Ethical range). It's at that point, and here I speak with the voice of experience, that you regret lunching on a Cornish Pasty the size of a small garden shed. Anyway, he was right and was also a friendly and hospitable host in a beautiful city.

And .... I'm off! Straight up the hill from hell for 3km. It's a whoppa and 20 minutes later I have drunk half my water ration for the day. Not to worry though as it is pretty much the last hill of the day and the rest is fast and flat. I did suffer a bit after the hills yesterday and was in some discomfort between Pucklechurch and North Nibly but felt better in the Knobly Cobb at lunchtime. I think it might be unwise to Google that little lot.

Had a smidsy in Gloucester, close but survivable. By the way, a smidsy isn't a nice little cake or anything like that, it's a Sorry Mate I Didn't See You. The driver stuck perfectly to script and I suppressed the urge to say "It's OK. These brightly coloured, high visibility cycling shirts just sooooh blend in with the dank, grey buildings. Easily done, especially when you can't be arsed to look 'cos you're on the phone."

Finished the ride in the Centre of Worcester and am rehydrating in the pub. Oh OK, since you've asked (yes, you JP), tonight I smell of Sea Kelp by Gilchrist and Soames. I'm pretty sure that's the stuff that me and Dave Herrick shoved into Ashley Rix's sleeping bag when we were 12 and at Boy's Brigade camp in Margate. What a hoot! He squealed like a girl! If I'm right then there's hope for Kate Price's redemption yet with the Eau de Horseshit and Dead Badger. Just don't forget who had the idea Kate luv and steer clear of the pasties when you're dabbing it behind the ears.

Those ride stats in full:

Distance: 120.83 km
Cumulative distance: 499.3 km (so near yet so far)
Ride time: 5h 42m 0s
Max speed: 56.8 kph
Right arm: puce
Socks: lethal at 20 metres (ooh Kate luv, I've just had a thought.)

The Ironmen of Devon

2010-06-21T21:27:00.005+01:00

Sunday. Jim and I are just loading up the bikes when the owner of West Down Farm B and B (recommended by the way) presented me with a donation for the cause. This matched her generosity from the previous night when she hung my cycling shorts up in the conservatory. Pretty brave as I had beat them into submission with a knobbly stick only half hour previously. Gave the missus (or Lady Elizabeth Groves as she is sometimes known) a kiss and we're off. Lady Groves? Ah! Let me explain.

Our friend Alison (think Victoria Wood on speed) edits Spanish-English dictionaries for Oxford University Press. She needs to use examples and this is where we come in. This is the sort of thing you might see in the 2003 edition:

"Lady Elizabeth Groves and Professor Chris Oliver enjoyed Champagne (pronounced shampayne, note the silent g) at the Queen's Garden Party. The Queen Mother was radiant (pronounced bladdered, note the soft g in 'pint of gin and tonic')"

That sort of thing. Anyway, I digress. We're off! After about 40km we start to race. Not me and Jim of course, we're not into that. We just inadvertently joined the route of an "Ironman" race and suddenly we're right in the middle! Me and Jim! Ironmen! So, we climb up the stiff hill with the best of them and we're actually doing OK amongst the energy gel fuelled competitors. I've liberated a couple of bananas from the B and B communal fruit bowl and I've long suspected Jim's holding out on the trailmix so we're no match on that front but there aren't many Ironmen passing us. And then .... we overtake Ironman number 1028 who is walking! Ha! Eat our dust Ironman 1028! Me and Jim! Ha! We crested (as they say on Le Tour) to applaud from a lone woman. Jim shouted "We're only out for a Sunday jaunt!" Her applaud faded a bit and I made a mental note to introduce her to Victoria (she of the form episode). Now there's a woman who'd know how to celebrate our Ironman victory.

A long, hot, tough day. 150 km and some very steep and punishing hills. Here's the boastful bit .... neither of us stopped on any hill, none of 'em, not one, nada. Not even the last lungbursting, leg wobbling, stem biter leading into Bath that we both thought we just couldn't do. Eat your heart out 1028, eat your heart out (either that or have a banana).

Sorry to say goodbye to Jim at Bath station. Mine of information on the history and geography of Devon. So long 'til we meet the ironmen again Jim.

Those ride stats in full:

Distance: 149.54 km
Cumulative distance: 378.20 km
Ride time: 7h 46m 11s
Max speed: 56.8 km
Left arm: browner
Right arm: Neopolitan (from top to bottom: white, pink, red, very red, brown)

I rode out thrice with the legendary Jim Morrison

2010-06-21T21:22:00.005+01:00

Saturday. Let me explain a part of this title. I was standing indecisively at the Land's End Hotel "all you can fit in your plastic bag lined handbag so you can save on lunch" breakfast buffet, when I hear the Eastern European waitress ask the waiter (a local lad) this: (and you must now let your inside voice become that of Magda from Jack Dee's inimitable sitcom) "If is still alive, then how can be legendary?" What a cracking question. A real Paxman poser. I must hear the answer. So, as cover for my illicit eavesdropping, I start to slowly fill my bowl with Muesli, spoon by spoon by spoon. He is dumbstruck, absolutely stumped. "Er, well, it's er, a bit hard to explain". Tell me about it mate! and so I spoon on. "It's sort of a fig...." and then, quite suddenly, they both look at me. "Can I help you Sir?". I want to say in my Robin Day voice "Just answer the question!" but instead it's Basil Fawlty "No, yes, no, good, all fine, yes, thanks, all absolutely fine, thank you, thank you" and retreat to my table with a small hillock of muesli that then takes me the best part of half an hour to wade through.

Anyway, the upshot is that as there was no definitive answer I am now able to say that today I rode out with the legendary Jim Morrison, who is alive and well and living in Chudleigh. In fact, we rode out not once, nor twice but thrice. We met at the church and I confidently led the way out of Bodmin. We're off! It's a thrill to start the ride with such .... oh dear... computer says noooohh. So back the other way. We're off! It's thrill to start .... oh deary dear, computer says noooohh. Jim's confidence in me is fading. There's only one road left and it goes straight up the north face of the bloody Eiger. A real lungburster that includes a copper in his car laughing at us. But it's the right road and the computer is happy. We're off! It's a thrill ... blah, blah, blah.

Seven hours and 123km later we arrive in South Molton and I bonked. No, not that. What kind of blog do you think this is? It's what cyclists call a hypoglycaemic episode caused by not eating enough proper food (or excessive muesli intake.... same thing really). Luckily, Jim produced a couple of bananas and the bonk was over. Dinner in The Stag's Head (pretty much perfect) with Jim, Mary and Liz. More than enough to eat and drink to prevent the bonk (what? .....oh puuhhlease!). Tomorrow, the long ride to Bath. Looking forward to it.

Those ride stats in detail:
Distance: 123.03 km
Cumulative distance: 228.66 km
Time: 6h 46m 10s
Max speed: 69.1 kph (wheeeeee!)
Left arm: brown
Right arm: red (bit of a cock up on the suncream front)

Strawberry shortcake

2010-06-19T11:16:00.003+01:00

Friday. So, I'm in the pub in Bodmin (The Weavers since you asked) with a pint of Cornwall's finest beer (Tribute, very hoppy and smooth) and yet..... I'm worried. It's not the England vs Algeria game, it's erm .... how to put this.... well, it's erm ..... the way I... erm... smell. I showered straight after the ride, of course, and that's when the trouble started. You see, I just grabbed the shower gel in my very boutique B and B without looking. It was, perhaps inevitably, Strawberry Shortcake by Possibility. So now, I whiff, not unpleasantly I might add, of Strawberry Shortcake. Normally this would not be a problem but right now I am surrounded by a pubful of footie fans who have seen off a couple of barrels of Tribute (each). The conversation might go something like this:

Fan: Bloody hell ref! Leave it out! He wants bloody shooting he does!
Me: Yeah! What a plonker!
Fan: You smell funny.
Me: No I don't.
Fan: Yes you do. You smell like a girl. Oi lads! This geezer here smells like a girl!
Me: I had no choice but to lather up with the Strawberry Shortcake.
Fan: Strawberry bleeding Shortbloodycake!
Me: What would you have me do? Use the Wild Rose and Raspberry Leaf rinse from the Eco range? That would soooo clash with my nappy cream and could stain my Lycra.
Fan: Yeah. You are so right. Point taken. Ref! You are a right wan...!!!
Me: Yeah! And he smells of Wild Rose and .....
The whole pub: (to the tune of 'Guantanamera') Wild Rose and Raspberry. He smells of Wild Rose and Rasberry. Wild Rose and ..... etc.

Lovely ride today but hilly and hot. If you don't want to see the results, then look away now.

Distance: 105.61km
Time: 5h 34m 14s
Max speed: 51.4kph
Legs: wobbly
Nose: sunburned
Bum: sore

My pride knew no bounds

2010-06-17T19:40:00.004+01:00

I left Penzance station at about 3pm to cycle the ten mile scenic, and only, route to Land's End. A mile away from the hotel I passed "The Last Inn in England" and felt sad and not a little anxious. The low mood didn't last for long though as things cheered up quite a bit at the hotel. I parked the bike and approached reception clad in cycling shorts, cycling shirt, cycling shoes, cycling helmet, cycling sunglasses and cycling gloves. The receptionist, helpfully labelled Victoria, looked at me and then said "Did you cycle here?" A witty response was clearly warranted, it was an open goal, an absolute shoe-in. "Yes" I said "it was quite warm for the time of year actually." Ha! Brilliant! Read it and weep Oscar, read it and weep.

The flowing, poetic banter didn't stop there as Victoria provided a very informative and helpful running commentary on her every action. "I'll just find my blue biro, my black one ran out earlier, and I can register you." ....... "I'll look in my pile of forms for your details." ..... "Oh deary me I am soooo disorganised!" (God help the rest of us then luv). "Here's the pile and... ooh look! Yours is on the top." And then .... she said it ....... "Well done you!" I was just about to do one of those snorty laughs that can go so messily wrong if mistimed when I inexplicably felt an overwhelming sense of pride and achievement at the position of my form. Top! First! Numero uno! How many can say that, eh? I wanted to punch the air but instead settled for "Oh, great".Two witty ripostes in the space of a minute. I'm on a roll.

So a great start to the ride. Victoria was wonderfully helpful and friendly and the towels are so fluffy I can hardly shut my rackpack. It all starts tomorrow with a 120km ride to Bodmin. Hopefully I'll arrive in time to see England scrape through courtesy of the inevitable jammy deflection. Wish me luck with the next form shuffle. Can't see me managing two in a row. But you never know eh? How good would that be!

How very dare you!

2010-06-15T17:32:00.002+01:00

I've had a few comments about my behaviour in the last couple of months and I feel the need to respond. Just because a man chooses to dab on a bit of nappy cream, slip into some skin tight lycra and get a bit hot and sweaty going up the Lickey Hills doesn't mean to say........ how very dare you!

hey there mr blue, we're so pleased to be with you, look around see what you do, everybody smiles at you.

2010-06-15T09:54:00.005+01:00

Last long training ride at the weekend from Thurgoland to home. 104 miles with 1700m of climb across the top of the Peak District (turned out to be surprisingly hilly). Nine hours in total due to a puncture in the Lower Frogatt area. Slow ride home with Mr. Blue (by ELO) in my head. It was my nephew's favourite and played at his funeral on Friday.

It worra top ride home Dan, a reet gud'un.

Final training graph

2010-06-05T17:00:00.004+01:00

Training is over and here's the final graph.

Bit of a problem........

2010-05-31T07:16:00.006+01:00

I forgot to mention a problem I had yesterday whilst training. After about four hours of riding I found it increasingly hard to hold my head up. At times I could barely see where I was going. It wasn't fatigue or injury, it was the shame of coming last in The Eurovision Song Contest. I just couldn't look anyone in the eye without a deep sense of failure and embarassment. Cameron and Clegg must resign with immediate effect and Cliff Richard should take the helm. It's the only way that we can restore national pride before the inevitable no-score draw with Algeria

What could possibly go wrong?

2010-05-30T17:05:00.004+01:00

Just finished a training run of 150+ km with a ride time of about 6.5 hours so everything is going in the right direction. Last 50km were into a headwind and so I had to up the effort but still kept the pace around 24kph. Two more tests to go and I think I'll be ready. There's a 100 mile event in Bristol in a couple of weeks that will be the last long run and I need to do some hills and that means a trip up the Lickeys (ooh er Matron). I'm now starting to put my kit together and I popped into Evans in Birmingham yesterday. Whilst there I was assured that if I bought a Castelli Prologo short sleeved Lycra jersey with writing on it and a bright fluoro yellow bit then I would definitely go faster. The guy obviously knew what he was talking about as he helped out in the shop on the occasional Saturday and has got a bike. I asked some probing questions just to check I wasn't being ripped off ("How much faster will I go?"; "How does the zip work?") and he was well informed even under this intense pressure. So I coughed up (I cannot reveal the price as he said too many people will then want one and besides Liz might read this) and I am now the proud owner of a new cycling shirt. I didn't use it today as he said I would use up too much of the extra speed and I need to save that for the Scottish Highlands. My plan is gradually taking shape. With forethought like this what could possibly go wrong?

Training plan

2010-05-25T17:58:00.007+01:00

If, like me, you find yourself inexplicably attracted to numbers and graphs then here is the training plan I've been following since January. All getting a bit close now, with a start date of 17th June.

Keep the windows shut

2010-05-25T15:27:00.005+01:00

Short run of 60km early this morning saw me pass the 2,500km mark since I started training in February. All was well for the first 30km and then, as is usual, a little bit of self doubt crept in. Nothing serious to begin with and I've grown used to it. But suddenly things took a catastrophic and ugly turn for the worse. I was just reassuring myself ("I can do it!") when a terrible thing happened ........ the theme tune from Bob the Builder slipped through an open window and into my mind. You know the one: "Bob the Builder. Bob the Builder ...... Can we do it? Yes we can!". And, as you well know, just like all builders, he doesn't turn up for ages, arrives unexpectedly and once he's there you can't get rid of him. After an hour I was desperately trying to remember the second verse just to stop the endless loop but to no avail. He's still there now, over and over. So I thought I'd share it with you and then there will be a bit less in my head. I'm a psychologist and I know that's how these things work. I am starting to wonder if the 100+ hours of solitary cycling really will just fly by. So please everyone, between now and the end of the ride, do not mention the Birdie Song.

They've got big backyards in Church Lench

2010-05-24T07:44:00.014+01:00

Let us be clear. The good people of Church Lench, who have big backyards, do not want a windfarm. I repeat, under no circumstances do they want a windfarm. I discovered this whilst on a training ride a couple of weekends ago. That's all sorted then. But, as I left Church Lench about thirty seconds later (no I'm not fast, it's a very small village) it was made clear that a windfarm would be OK if it was 2 km away from Church Lench. Hence, we may conclude that the backyards in Church Lench are about 2km long and there should be nothing in them. As I was taking this all in I passed a cottage about 2km away from Church Lench called 'Windy Dreams'. The comedic possibilities are pretty much endless here, so you do the work and please post your favourite.

My training? Well I have increased the average per week up to 220km and my distances without a stop are going up (c. 100km) and times are coming down. The test yesterday was a 100 mile event in Sheffield and I set myself a target of under 8 hours including stops. Came in just under 7 hours and so am delighted, especially as the temperature soared (as they say) to 81F. No matter how much I was drinking it all kept leaking out at a frightening rate. Picture above taken in the last 1/2 mile, hence the grimace.

Have just received the first few stages of the LeJoG route from Neil at Velodays who is organising the route and accommodation for me as I ride. This is really helpful as any drift from a plan would have knock on effects that would take a while to sort out. Velodays is recommended, Neil has a lot of experience of LeJoG and gives balanced advice. One more 100 mile event to go in Bristol and may do another one in Norwich if time permits but the days are passing very quickly and there's a small matter of a hundred exam scipts to mark. Give me a hundred miles in burning sun anytime.

Arse Calf and Horsey Legs

2010-05-01T14:52:00.010+01:00

As the total passes £2,000, I am overwhelmed by the numerous, generous donations and messages of goodwill and support . I think this means that the shiney chap on the Nivea for Men advert is wrong and Britain is probably not broken. Now you've got me started.... I watched Cleggy, Compo and the other one on Thursday as they went head to head (to head) at our University. (Finally we knew why on Wednesday there were policemen on campus up to their necks in our drains). Following the Tweets on #Leadersdebate was worthwhile. Best of the night was: "I think at this point Brown should take his eye out just because he can and Cameron can't", closely followed by a belated: "No Iceland! No! We said "Send all your cash. That's cash!"".

Bit of a break in training last weekend and climbed up Scafell and Coniston Old Man. Variety might help me not to peak too early (Geddit! ............. did you see what I did there?). Wanted to get some hills in as a friend had warned of the dangers of my training plan leading to 'arse calf'. Not too worried about this as it is, of course, 'horsey legs' that keeps cyclists awake at night. Anyway, I think they might cancel each other out somehow. Two low points in the day. First, while grunting up the final slope to the peak of Scafell, panting and sweating, we were overtaken by fell runners (83 if they were a day) who each looked as fit as a butcher's dog. Second, on the way down as we passed a father and son, Liz asked the boy if he'd climbed to the top. "Yes, and I'm only five". Self-congratulation is so unpleasant sunbeam. We rehydrated in what is, quite possibly, the best pub in the world at the foot of Scafell. Mercifully free of whippet-like fell runners and bouncy five year olds, so we could congratulate ourselves in peace.

Minutes of LeJoG Support Team Meeting

2010-04-21T14:37:00.011+01:00

A Saturday meeting with families of children who have 9q34.3 deletion syndrome provided enough inspiration to take me on a 115km training ride to the south of Birmingham on Sunday. On the churchyard noticeboard in a small village in Worcestershire was an outdated flyer inviting all to “Lunch for Lent”, which sort of suggested the locals have not quite yet got the hang of Lent. On the route home I weaved my way through piles of manure on the lanes trying to remember not to yawn when passing cowsheds. The LeJoG Support Team meeting took place in the LeJoG operations room (our kitchen) in the evening. Director of Fundraising (Liz) said her corporate donation strategy was to smile at the people at Shell. Physiotherapist (Liz) said I looked knackered and Director of IT (Liz) said no, I couldn’t have an IPhone for the trip. I responded that if not I would feel obliged to let her mother know, via this blog, that when she phones, Liz pours herself a very large gin and tonic (without tonic) puts her mum on speakerphone and reads “Hello” magazine whilst occasionally shouting at random “Really? …. She didn’t ……. I know…..How interesting…”. I’m thinking a black 32Gb model might do the job. Liz’s mum: if you’re reading this then I’d like to offer you the position of Director of IT. Just post your CV here, nuff said. Nutritionist (Liz) had to be reminded of the gender related, chip sharing rule during Any Other Business and the meeting was then adjourned. All shaping up pretty nicely I think (apart from the resignation during AOB).

Three types of Mondeo man

2010-04-15T08:07:00.014+01:00

As the election looms and 'motorway man' takes centre stage I must introduce a refinement to voter classification. It is the 'three types of Mondeo man'. The first type waits for cyclists to get about 10 feet behind their parked Mondeo, partly opens the car door, looks behind, sees you, pauses, smiles and then allows you to pass without incident. Type 2 simply opens the door without looking behind and with one swift, gleeful, well coordinated swipe helps you to mess up the local bus timetable and add to hospital waiting lists . These types are well known, but a third type was discovered early Tuesday morning 30 miles south of Birmingham whilst I was training for LeJoG. Type 3 waits for cyclists to get about 10 feet behind, partly opens the door, looks behind, sees you, pauses, smiles and then flings the door open anyway to try and do the bus timetable chaos thing. I'm thinking the Greens shouldn't be offering type 3 a saddler to the polling station. Waddaya reckon? Post your answers here.

Potholes, like broccoli, are the Devil's business

2010-04-13T14:42:00.009+01:00

First 100 mile training ride of the year on Sunday (104 miles actually but who's counting? er.... well, I am, obviously). Went down into the Cotswolds to do some hills. The word of the day was 'potholes', that's 'potholes'. Try to use it in a sentence that doesn't start with "Deary, deary me, another crater in the road, how bothersome. I nearly went under that lorry but mustn't grumble. I do hope those nice chaps at the council aren't working so hard drinking tea that they can't find time to ....". It's actually quite tricky. Answers on a postcard or add to your message when you visit: http://www.justgiving.com/Chris-Oliver

It is going to happen

2010-04-09T15:06:00.002+01:00

Started training in January and passed the final test last weekend by covering 400km in 4 days without too many aches and pains. Thanks (I think) to James for taking me up and over Dartmoor. It now seems possible to do the whole ride so I set up the justgiving page this week and sent out the e-mails. Ten minutes after hitting the submit button, the first donation appeared (thanks Gemma) and now there is no going back. 24 hours later and the total has risen to £610. Crikey! This really is going to have to happen.....

Sponsorship

2010-04-08T20:30:00.000+01:00

This summer I am cycling a 1,000 mile route from Land’s End to John O’Groats to raise money for the Cornelia de Lange Syndrome Foundation (UK and Ireland). It’s a very impressive charity that offers families effective support and up to date information that simply isn’t available elsewhere. If you would like to sponsor me, there’s a justgiving webpage http://www.justgiving.com/Chris-Oliver

Thanks very much.