Cast your mind back, if you will, just a couple of years to the sordid case of then FIA chief Max Mosley and the 3 prostitutes. The nation was thrown in a state of moral outrage when it was revealed that Mosley, whilst dressed in a ridiculous outfit, paid for the privilege to be subjected to sadistic pain and humiliation all for a little sexual pleasure. What kind of despicable pervert must he be?

Anyway, enough of that, last weekend I rode the National Cyclo-Sportive:

Yes, last Saturday I survived – for 95 miles in 9 hours can’t be dressed up as anything else – the National Cyclo-Sportive (aka the Pendle Pedal) at Barley in Lancashire.

I suppose before going any further, I should say that,  yes, I did wear a ridiculous outfit (ridiculous to the average Daily Mail reader at any rate). Yes, I did pay for the privilege to be subjected to pain and humiliation but no, I didn’t take any sexual pleasure from it. Not one drop. If for no other reason than – as any male cyclist whose mind has wandered to a different kind of riding or even one who’s just enjoyed the tingle of chamois cream a little too much whilst riding a bike can testify – even the slightest arousal of the Member for Crotchly South is excruciatingly painful. Something that’s still true despite saddle makers designing their wares to look like a sex toy for  lonely men:

Back to the National Cyclo-Sportive. This was my first time in Lancashire and as a bike rider I thought it was both spectacularly beautiful and unnerving in equal measures – much like the sight of a super-model approaching you with a pair of sheers and a sinister glint in her eye. In fact the county was so picturesque that even the view from the window of the sterile Travelodge-next-to-a-motorway room that I stayed in the night before the ride was pretty (I believe this maybe the first time those words “Travelodge”, “view” and “pretty” have ever been typed in the a sentence without including the disclaimer “only a pit pony would think that…”.)

As morning broke on Saturday, my bladder was filled with yesterday’s PSP22 and my stomach with a sense trepidation at what the day’s riding would hold. The sky had a light covering of cloud with shafts of sunlight already breaking through hinting at the temperatures that were to come. A quick shower using the world’s smallest bar of soap/towel combination – what do you expect for 30 quid a night? – helped me shake off some of the nerves as well as the tiredness from a night sleeping on a pull out bed a good 6 inches shorter than me. Arriving at the car park and the sight of Pendle Hill filled the pit of my stomach with those bad feelings once again.

Water! Water!

I shan’t bore you with a pedal by pedal account of the 154 kms that I rode except to say it was every bit as challenging as the organisers had warned it would be. I’d convinced myself that I was prepared for the climbing involved – I’d bought a smaller mini-pump for God’s sake! –  but the reality was I was ridiculously unprepared. Compared to Lancashire, Staffordshire is as hilly as a mill pond and by the top of the first big climb, Waddington Fell, I knew I was in trouble. In place of training properly before the day I’d studied the route profile, erm, studiously so I knew that the first half of the day was tough but the second was tougher – it was hot, it was hilly and it was relentless.

The going was made slightly harder because I, like virtually every other rider, missed the ‘secret’ first feed station. I call it secret because every other turn and feed station was so well signed that they were impossible to miss but I pedalled straight by this first stop. By the time I made it to the 2nd feed stop – at 75 kms – I was running on fumes. But no need to panic, I knew that gallons of Gatorade waited for me. Although a drop had never passed my lips before in my life, I was convinced that this elixir would expunge those 75 kms from my legs and get me to the finish in no time. So imagine my disappointment as I rolled into the feed station not to be greeted by the sight of a Gatorade tanker lorry. Infact, I could see no Gatorade at all. It was a real punch to the stomach and by now I was low enough – both my energy levels and my motivation. I dragged myself over to a trestle table in the shade of a tree.

“Is there any Gatorade?” I asked a guy chopping bananas in two.
“No, but there’s a tap in the toilet block”.
“Is the tap sponsored by Gatorade, at least?”.

Sadly, it was not.

So I had to make do with a bottle of water, half a banana and a fistfull of CNP cola flavoured electrolyte gels – the consumption of which is much like having a diarrhoetic monkey shit in your mouth only with a slightly worse after taste.

Still, it seemed to do the trick and got my legs turning again.

Thank God, I’m Not the Only One!

The combined effect of my inadequate preparation, the heat, the hills, the dehydration left me ready to quit, ready to be swept up by the broom wagon each time I approached a feed station. “I’ll make it to the next feed station then pack it in” I told myself. “How far to the next feed stop?” I’d ask a marshal. “‘Bout 5 mile”. “5 miles and I’ll pack it in, then”.

But at those feed stations, sat on the grass, leaning against the walls, heads hung over their bars were dozens of others in the same boat as me. And each one of them squeezed a gel down their neck, then swung their weary leg over their cross bar and set back out into the hills.

This shared suffering is strangely reassuring. It’s the feeling of a condemned man, walking out to face the firing squad, only to temporarily forget his fate as he sees someone else is being shot that day. “Thank God, I’m not the only one”. So I let the monkey shit in my mouth, swung my weary leg over the cross bar and set back out into the hills to see how long I could survive for.

And thanks to some encouraging words and a tow from a high spirited bunch of Clitheroe Bike Club riders and the company of another condemned man, Julian, I did survive. My sincere thanks to both.

So finally, it was over. And as I sat on the grass verge at the start/finish area, with water pouring down my chin, I was struck by just how much endurance cycling is much like child birth. You lose all sense of your own personal dignity, bodily fluids are discharged, you look an absolute shower and you just couldn’t give a monkey’s. And it all leaves you walking like John Wayne, unable to sit down for a few weeks afterwards.

Pain is Temporary

I’ve been reminded since the ride of Lance Armstrong’s motivational words: “Pain is temporary but quitting is for ever”. But let me tell you those 9hours under the sun in the Lancashire dales it certainly felt like pain was actually forever as well – and thanks to the mother of all saddle sore’s pain has lasted at least a week.

As we all know, cyclists are one of the greatest scourges of modern life.

Despite there being no evidence whatsoever to prove it, acts of wanton cycling, such as riding through red lights, down one way streets or a short dash along a pavement to miss a dangerous junction, are more than likely responsible for the meltdown of the global financial markets, the rise of binge drinking and the MPs expenses scandal.

And it will come as no surprise to some if it transpires that cyclists were stood on that Grassy Knoll, are the reason men go bald, and faked the moon landings.

It’s heinous acts like these that’s made it particularly grating for readers of the Daily Mail that a “complete waste of my hard earned tax payers money” quango has recommended vulnerable road users – such as cyclists – should be greater protected as they go about their destruction of society by the introduction a “strict liability” policy in the UK.

The bastards!

Strictly Come What?

In short, “strict liability” takes the onus off the most vulnerable road user to prove that they weren’t at fault if they’re involved in an accident. For more accurate information about it, check out Road Peace’s web site.

So that’s it. Nothing too controversial there. Defending the vulnerable is a noble and worthy cause, wouldn’t you say? Well, somewhat surprisingly for the internet, there’s been an ill-informed shitstorm whipped up by this suggested change, and that’s all it is – a suggestion. Shockingly, the Daily Mail has been in the eye of the storm and chose to lead their coverage with a sensationalist headline to report the, erm, report:

“Motorists should be made legally responsible for all accidents involving cyclists, even if they are not at fault, say Government advisers.”

As Roy Walker more than likely didn’t say when he probably didn’t read that “It’s close, but it’s not right”.

Not happy with one misleading headline, to really fire up the mob, the Mail also published an ignorant opinion piece by Robert Hardman about what an “undeserving bunch of lawbreaking shits cyclists really are” – I’m paraphrasing there –  which amusingly includes the phrase “Lycra Louts” in its title.

Go on, read it. I dare you.

Despite opening his “strict liability” bashing piece by describing a situation in which he himself would actually have benefited from the change in the system, what really caught my eye was Hardman’s lovely comparison of cyclists and African paramilitaries:

“I prefer to think of them as the Mai-Mai, the Congolese militia who believe that they are endowed with magical qualities making them immune to bullets.”

OK, OK, Robert’s trying to be funny. I know. I know. Cyclists think they’re invincible which is why they all ride so recklessly. Very good. But all the same it’s a little strong to slyly compare people commuting to work (sometimes illegally on the pavement) with terrorists. I suppose I should be glad that he didn’t go the whole hog and call us “Nazis on Bikes”:

The Cycling Terrorists Club

After reading Hardman’s article and once I’d finished my self-righteous, teeth-grinding, head-shaking and tut-tutting, I drew up my own, mercifully short, list of cycling terrorists organisations (just when you thought it Hardman’s article couldn’t do any more harm, hey?).

So, strap yourselves in for some fairly horrific pun based terrorist action:

Shining Cycle Path
Even Peruvian Communists enjoy a good bike ride, you know.

Real Tyre.A
Dissident group fighting for the freedom of Irish cyclists.

Cycle-Qaeda
Riding bicycles into buildings is so much less destructive.

Raleigh-ban
Bike brand specific cycling hardliners. Very keen on compulsion.

And you can open your eyes again now.

On the off chance that you’ve not laughed up too many of you major organs please feel free to add any of your own in the comments below.