What a week it’s been for British Cycling, dominating the track racing in just about every possible fashion. In fact the only events we didn’t win were the ones where nothing is guaranteed, but I’m sure work will be done to make this possible. Hopefully now people will be inspired as I was 4 years ago and possibly take up this most fulfilling of sports and, hopefully, of those people there will be one that is a future Olympic champion, only time will tell. The track racing has been the highlight of my day for the past few days. I got up at 8 every morning to be on the turbo for 9 and finished for when the racing started at 10.30. That is, when the French decided to show it. Saying that, I think the whole world was in awe and so they did show a little more than they usually might.
And that’s pretty much all the cycling I have to talk about, apart from the epic events that have taken place between me, the bike and my turbo trainer. That’s right, I think the best incentive not to crash is to know that you will have to spend at least an hour on the turbo if you break anything. Maybe it should be instated as some sort of punishment, because that’s what it is, torture. In fact I don’t think the UN would allow it under the Genève Convention. It’s a well known fact that time slows down dramatically once you park your ass on the turbo and even more so when you decide to make any kind of effort. I think if a scientific study were done, it would show that perception of time increases at an exponential rate for every extra watt you put out. All cyclists know (or should do anyway) what I’m talking about. Most only use the turbo when the weather is bad in the winter and this is bad enough. Now imagine it being the only thing you can do to keep fit....every day....for two weeks....in the summer. The mere thought of it should make you ride safer in the peloton, or stop playing Frisbee...and rightly so. I could go on, but you get the picture...I hate the turbo.
Nevertheless, I have endeavoured to keep race fit and this means using it, much to my distress. So for the moment its mano-a-turbo until I can finally get on the road again. I fashioned myself a sling out of an inner tube to stop my ‘hospital figure of 8 splint’ from getting sweaty, bought myself an ipod (nano 4GB, finally dragging myself into the 21st century) and got on with it. I managed one and half hours once, it was a new record for me in one sitting. I’ve even done two sessions in one day, although the second session is mostly spent questioning myself on what the hell I’m doing rather than actually training. A great perk of living in an apartment block is that when I do my training in the communal driveway thing, everyone gets a good view of my efforts. What they must think when they take the short walk to their cars, only to see a grunting, sweating idiot on a bike going nowhere, god only knows. The most I can muster is in out on breath “Bonjour” and they stare at me in what I imagine must be disbelief.
Now, onto the question I know you’ve all been wondering about...next year. It’s time for me to start thinking about next season and what I plan on doing. I’ve already deferred my university place, so dossing about is a given, but where am I to doss? That is the question. I have enjoyed my time here, although where I have been situated in relation to hubs of human activity has been a bit of a problem. But cycling wise, I have taken part in some of the biggest amateur races in France and even some small pro ones. Not many first year riders abroad do what I have done and it’s really brought me on as a rider. I would enjoy doing the same things next year, but at the same time I’d like to try something different. I think this year I’ve built myself up and next year I’d like to really put all my efforts into actually doing well rather than being an also ran that managed to finish (or not as the case may be). The hotbed of racing in Brittany is very attractive prospect and I’d really like to give it a go. The idea of not having to travel more than 2 hours to a race is also something that attracts me, having spent more time here travelling than racing. But once again, with this team I can look forward to a rich calendar which couldn’t be guaranteed by a smaller team. I’ll have to consider my options and make a decision that I feel best suits me.
And then what? I think two seasons will be enough to see what I’m really capable of and see how far I can possibly take it. My university place is for 2009 entry so I’ll have to make my mind up. I think once I reach this stage next year I’ll have to make an assessment and an important decision. But until that time I’ll keep riding my bike and seeing how I do. Wish me well.
Until next time,
Chok lepm lepm lepm
PS, here's the video of my week in the alps: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypfYbqj-Q0Q
Oh dear, how things can change so quickly, for the better or worse. Last Wednesday for me it was for worse. During a fateful game of ultimate Frisbee at the campsite where my parents were staying, a wayward throw from my brother ended in disaster. Running to stop it from going into someone else’s pitch I couldn’t stop, hit a post in the ground, smacked my head against the caravan and somewhere during this most graceful of falls, broke my collar bone. I didn’t even stop the damn Frisbee. Yes, yes, I know, I’m an idiot... yes, yes, I’m sure the team are happy, but unfortunately these kinds of things occasionally happen. An interesting trip to the hospital confirmed what I suspected, although I wasn’t entirely sure of exactly everything they were saying. An even more interesting phone call to the hospital the next day organised an appointment for the next week. I say organised, It was more a question of repeating myself until they gave me a date for something. There was much hilarity at both ends of the phone as they passed it between themselves trying to say something I understood well enough, funnily enough they all ended up saying the same thing.
Obviously this means no riding for a few weeks (trois bonne semaine), but hopefully I’ll be on a turbo soon enough (I never thought I’d say that!). I enjoyed the rest of my time my family was over doing various things and going out for a meal, but as soon as they left the boredom set in. In fact they only left two days ago, but it feels like a week. Even a one hour ride broke up the day a little bit, luckily the Olympics have started and so I have something to watch on TV. The Olympics also brings me onto the subject of my blog this week (decided after a conversation with another Brit in France at the moment, Josh Andjelkovic and because I have no cycling to talk about), which is how and why I started cycling in the first place.
Imagine, 4 years ago, give or take a week, the Carr family are on one of their famous caravanning holidays, this time down near Lands end. The weather is typical of that of a British summer, bleak. Instead of an outing to a nearby landmark we are instead huddled around the small television we have brought down watching the Olympics. An event that has always fascinated me as it appeals to my sense of scale, the best of the best of the best and yet still human. During that holiday I formulated the idea that I wanted to compete in the Olympics one day, doing what I didn’t know, but I wanted to be part of it. We watched several events, none of which I thought would suit my physique, I was never going to be a boxer and my archery skills had never been tested. But later on the track cycling events came on. We watched Bradley Wiggins storm to victory in the individual pursuit, the gold of his full set of Olympic medals that year. Something about this appealed to me, the roar of the crowds as they chased each other round the track, the incredible speeds they were going and surely it couldn’t be that hard? Cycling was what I was going to do at the Olympics one day, I decided there and then. I was 15 at the time and had always been ambitious (not that I’ve lost any of that), but this was a snap decision, influenced by nothing other than what I’d seen on the TV. I was determined to see it through and so the next day when I woke up and hadn’t forgotten about it I got on my dad’s mountain bike and rode the mile or so to the shop down the road to fetch some stuff. It felt like a marathon! I was in a state when I got back but I knew it wasn’t going easy, a future Olympian must work and train hard if they are to win.
The rest of the holiday was eagerly spent waiting to get home and get on a proper road bike; I needed to start straight away if I was to stand any chance of getting anywhere. My parents wouldn’t buy me a bike as they thought it was just another fad that would soon pass. Instead I managed to borrow one from a friend that had done triathlons; it was far too small for me, but that didn’t matter, I was king of the road. I got some Lycra shorts and a cycling top for my birthday (a step into the unknown for a 16 year old boy) and now I looked the part. All I needed to do now was get good. I joined the local cycling club, Wolverhampton Wheelers, and started to go on some club runs. The first one I went on I forgot the shoes I was borrowing (my mum drove me to the meeting point) and so had to do the first 25 miles in my trainers...on SPD pedals....good times. The chairman at the club at the time, Robin Kyte, decided I might have an ounce of talent and helped me out with all sorts of things, from training to mechanics, but mainly mechanics (to this day I am useless at fixing my bike). He helped me start racing that next season, 2005; I was a first year junior and a long way behind these people who had ridden for years. This was shown up when I competed in my first junior national series event (my first proper road race). The Sid Standard memorial was 16 laps of a circuit making up 120km, a distance that, at the time, meant nothing as I was dropped after 3 laps and nearly lapped twice before eventually pulling out.
I soldiered on though and got better, throwing myself in at the deep-end whenever possible. This is how I learnt and how I am still learning, by trying what I don’t consider myself capable of doing. The rest, as they say, is history, although not a particularly long one. I still haven’t stopped dreaming of competing in the Olympics, although now, the way British Cycling run the show, Its extremely unlikely I’ll ever get my chance. Not that I knock it entirely, BC run the best track squad in the world by far and it’s something to be very proud of, but if you aren’t in, you’re out and it’s hard to keep up with riders that are given all the support when you are given none. But representing my country is still the ultimate for me, it sounds strange, turning pro would be great but I’d love to be given a Great Britain kit to ride in. Hell, I’d buy the kit and pay my expenses if it meant doing what I wanted (If you are from British Cycling and reading this, I am serious). Maybe it’s not so good once you are doing it, but if anyone on the GB squad thinks this, I’d gladly take their place.
Thinking about it, it’s strange that I started cycling just because I watched the Olympics and actually got so far. At that age a lot of things were fads for me that I’d start and stop within the month, if not the week. Most cyclists are from cycling families, but my parents were canoeists, my mum loved the slalom and my dad did some flat water racing (I believe). But my granddad (John Bird, but known to us as gramps) was a cyclist, this I only learned after I started. He was one of the founder members of the BLRC having worked for Percy Stallard and used to ride his bike everywhere. He once told me he was invited to do a time trial down near London, but could only afford the train fair home. He had to ride down with his race wheels strapped to his forks, compete and then get the train back. These were times when this was pretty normal, but I still think they make the cyclists of today look like wimps. I always enjoy listening to his stories, of which there are many and think about all the times he must have ridden the same roads as me at one point, because he has ridden pretty much all the roads that exist and no longer exist in and around the West Midlands. He still manages to get out on his bike very occasionally, although not quite as fast as he used to at the grand age of 82.
Hopefully, I’ll still be cycling at that age, but right now I have a bone that needs fixing before I can get in the saddle and break the monotony of a day doing nothing.
Well here it is, the latest I’ve been so far with my blogs. I’m getting very slack; maybe it’s some kind of mid season blog mental block....or I’m just lazy, I don’t know? It’s difficult trying to remember where I was last when I wrote my last one, obviously I was sitting at my desk typing it but in a passage of time sense of place, it marches relentlessly on. What I do know is though that a lot has happened since my last episode, much merriment and little racing equalling something between form and fitness. I will begin where I left off, leading up to the teams most local race, The Haguenau criterium.
This race was pretty much must win for us as a team, a Remy meder rider has won it every time for the past five years and anything but first place would be an embarrassment. So at the start we had a pretty much full complement of riders along with various juniors and other seniors from the club section. The brief was simple, win, easier said than done though! At the start I took a last minute “refreshment” break with a local tree, this meant I ended up being at the back for the start while the rest of my team lined up at the front. Bummer. This was soon forgotten though after 2 laps, I sprinted inside everyone cornering like something might corner if it was really hungry...or something (similes were never my thing). This got me to the front quick enough, but by this time three had already gone off the front and I had no idea who. I asked my teammates but no one seemed to know who was up the road and quickly gaining time. By this point I had settled into the corner, sprint, corner, sprint routine and it was time to start some sprint, sprint, corner, sprinting. I countered a few moves, followed a few more, went backwards a bit, then forwards a bit more, until finally attacking into a corner a group of us got away. About 15 of us all together with no less than four of us from team Remy meder, including me...hurrah! We worked sporadically and the three leaders were obviously more constant, maintaining the gap and pulling away. The group wasn’t cohesive enough and a few attacks later it was down to about 9 or 10 and I was still there. Still the pace wasn’t constant enough and the bunch was starting to pull us back, but the race was also drawing to an end. Some more last ditch attacks brought the group down to 6 of us 3 from team Remy meder and 3 from the local rivals ASPTT Mulhouse. We attacked the hell out of each other, but with 7 laps to go the relentless peloton swept us up and ¾ of race freedom were now over...time for a sprint!
At first I decided against getting involved with the sprint, but then I started to think “why not? I’ve got the legs!” And so began the endless moving up and jostling that is a bunch sprint. With 3 laps to go I was getting into the right place, about the 3rd line of riders and moving up whenever possible. Things were getting a little risky and the skills were definitely necessary to pay the bills. With two laps to go I was on the left coming into a section where the road suddenly narrowed due to being in a town centre. I had been worried about this section at the start of the race, but being off the front had somewhat forgotten it. The big bunch tried to suddenly go from one width to one about one metre narrower, but it was never going to happen. Spokes and derailleur’s came together, handlebars became entangled and riders started to hit the deck to the right of me. I remember thinking “I sure as hell hope they don’t fall this way”, but alas, they did. They sprawled over the road making the path available for me to go forwards somewhat narrower...about 3cm. This gap continued to shrink and so the harsh reality hit that I was about to crash, well it had to happen sometime...best make it look good. I surfed my bike along the ground and onto the pavement using only the bars as a contact point and conducting a “hang 5” in the process. As a result I slowly arose with only minors scrapes and some gashed bar tape, vaguely remembering I had been competing in some sort of cycling event. With only two laps remaining, the race had finished before I got back on the saddle and pedalled round to the crowds. I found out that of the three away one of them had been from our team and had ended up winning the race! Result! Now I felt great being from the winning team and having the battle wounds of a great crash to show the crowds...they lapped it up. After riding home in the dark it was time to get some rest in as some of my friends had come over from England to take me down to the Alps to watch The Tour Baby!!!
We started out with the six hour drive down there, which was accompanied by severe rain, so severe in fact that you couldn’t drive more than 30 mph on the autoroutes due to the fact nothing could be seen more than 5 metres ahead of you. The trip also involved a 30 euro fee for the pleasure of visiting Switzerland, luckily they gave us 5 Swiss francs for change (what the hell we were supposed to do with these was anybody’s guess). Once there, we pitched up, set up camp then went off to find alcohol and food. The week consisted of much of this, but we also did some riding. In fact on the Tuesday the three of us and special guest Ben Lane, decided to do the Marmotte loop. If you aren’t familiar with this, it’s 175km of riding taking in 4 major cols, The Col du Glandon, the Col du Telegraphe, the Col du Galibier and finally the mythical Alpe D’Huez. Pretty standard stuff... Thankfully the weather was kind to us, the sun was out but it wasn’t too hot and apart from the summit of the Galibier being bitterly cold everything was good. After a couple of stops we got round the whole loop in top top shape and even sprinted for the sign going back down Alpe d’Huez (not really, we were wrecks, mere hollows of our former selves).
The next day we went to watch the people who get paid to do it ride a similar route backwards. Getting up Alpe d’Huez was quite bizarre, at first we were told to get off and walk, but then we found out it was ok to ride and then we were told to get off and walk. It seemed as if their willingness to let you ride was directly linked to how self-righteous the gendarme felt. Half way up, to please the crowds, I cracked open a beer, refreshingly warm by now in the near 30 degree heat. I rode with it through the Dutch section, by now their party was in full swing and they were playing loud music and cheering anyone on anything that resembled a bicycle. I can honestly say that riding between them was one of, if not the best experience I’ve had on a bike, it was amazing. Just after them was a man holding a piece of what looked like malt loaf on a line and hook. Spurred on by the Dutch, I made many an effort to bite it off the hook, but failed. Fortunately my attempts weren’t in vain as the next day my antics were printed in the French paper. We watched the pros go up in their poxy 25s wishing I had had one rather than my 23 to use the day before (I’m sure I was going faster than they were anyway). The rest of the trip was spent enjoying ourselves and making acquaintances with some nice Dutch girls, also cyclists, on our campsite... we were sad to leave.
But, as soon as I arrived back in Haguenau, I was greeted by my family who had come over for a 2 week holiday to see me so the spirits were soon high again. My legs were feeling good during my training sessions (although god knows how) and I was looking forward to racing again after what had seemed like a long break. The time soon came and the Prix de Authoison was a 120km race was a 20 lap race of 6 kilometres with a short but tough rise every lap. The attacks came from the gun and I was following them and feeling good. A group of 5 got away immediately and I was looking to get across to them somehow. After about 4 laps I saw my chance, one rider I recognised as being a favourite had one of those 5 metres gaps off the front that you know you shouldn’t really give him otherwise he might notice and ride off. I put in a big effort and went past him a lot faster than he was going, but he got the message along with 10 or so others. I kept it going for a couple of miles and hurt myself trying to make sure we got a good gap. We had the front 5 in sight and now the attacks were starting to come from our group to get across. It wasn’t a matter of being the strongest (although obviously this helps) but getting in the right move that managed to bridge across, something my willingness to ride hard doesn’t help occasionally. When the move went I missed it and I was stuck in the second peloton, but worse things were about to happen. With the number 14 on the lap board the structure of the race had all but been decided, but sprinting out of a corner I felt my heart skip a beat and the flutter that I have come to learn is the start of a series of palpitations.
These are caused by the wall that regulates the electric pulse in my heart being slightly more porous than a regular one. A sudden change in level (for example standing up from sitting down or getting out of the saddle to sprint) can trigger the electric pulse to go round in a loop rather than simply travelling through the heart. This increases my heart rate by a huge amount and when really trying hard I have seen it reach 230 beats per minute and 180 while freewheeling for 10 minutes. While I am having these palpitations I feel extremely fatigued, like I have already been racing 80 miles and it means an average through and off effort feels like trying to climb an alp. Once they have started it’s hard to say when they will stop, another sudden change in level is necessary, but when they do stop it’s like nothing ever happened. I have been told I can put an end to it by having a surgical procedure that burns the hole in the wall and stops the loop, although with a small element of risk as with any surgical procedure.
Anyway, the palpitations didn’t stop and the next 12 laps were sheer pain. Going up the small incline meant destroying myself just to hold on to our small group while everyone else went up there steady. I had to sit on to try and conserve what I had, which was close on nothing and with two and a half laps remaining I was dropped on the climb. The rest of the lap was incredibly slow as without other riders nothing could help me go any faster and with 2 laps to go I pulled out, my heart rate still at 190bpm. Annoyingly I had felt really good in the opening laps (I know, always the case when you have a problem mid-race) and was hoping to do well, but these things happen.
In other news I baked a cake, a coconut cake to be exact, one of my grannies special recipes. It turned out great and I was very proud of it. Next week 3 races in 4 days, two of them Elite Nationals, so it’ll be going from not much racing to too much...Should be fun!
What a week it’s been for British Cycling, dominating the track racing in just about every possible fashion. In fact the only events we didn’t win were the ones where nothing is guaranteed, but I’m sure work will be done to make this possible. Hopefully now people will be inspired as I was 4 years ago and possibly take up this most fulfilling of sports and, hopefully, of those people there will be one that is a future Olympic champion, only time will tell. The track racing has been the highlight of my day for the past few days. I got up at 8 every morning to be on the turbo for 9 and finished for when the racing started at 10.30. That is, when the French decided to show it. Saying that, I think the whole world was in awe and so they did show a little more than they usually might.
