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I hit the big ‘Four-oh’ the year I rode the Kent Classic and the landmark birthday inevitably brought with it a period of melancholic reflection, AKA a mini middle-aged crisis.
No, I didn’t splurge out on a red Ferrari, nor did I get a Celtic band tattoo. But the ‘coulda, woulda, shoulda’ thoughts still crept up on me and gave me an unwelcome tap on the shoulder, the Back to the Future daydreams where you return to the past to prevent your younger, more naive self making the dumb mistakes you’ve always regretted.
Where we’re going, we don't need roads
One of my first Marty McFly acts would be to hop in the DeLorean and wind the clock back 20 years to when I was at university - and proceed to give myself a swift, stinging slap across the chops for getting to more than 16st thanks to an unrelentingly aggressive diet of pizza and beer.
I’d tell the lard arse to spend his parents’ hard-earned money on a second-hand bike rather than an ill-fitting leather jacket and rollneck sweaters. And I’d suggest that in the breaks from his gruelling lecture schedule of eight hours a week, of which he turned up to about three, he might like to get out and ride rather than rustle up another Richmond sausage sandwich.
Perhaps it had been on my mind as I’d fallen into a bit of cycling rut. Family and work commitments had restricted my time on the bike - although, to be honest, they had just provided me with a convenient excuse. Lofty yearly Strava goals were revised and downgraded. First from 15,000km to 12,000, then to 10,000 - and I was off the pace even for that.
The Velo South was meant to be Broleur’s final sportive hurrah of the year but its cancellation due to adverse weather had left me without a focus. Why bother to head out for hours in the cold when there’s no end goal? The other brother signed up for the British Rowing Indoor Championships; I signed up for watching Paw Patrol marathons with my four-year-old kid.
Getting a Wiggle on
The Wiggle Kent Classic provided the opportunity to get back on track and a welcome break from seeing Ryder and his team of ‘pups’ save the hapless residents of Adventure Bay. I knew I would be without the other brother, who had locked himself away in his rowing pain cave, but I registered regardless.
To add some extra mileage to my Strava total, I came up with a cunning plan: 5.40am alarm call. Coffee and banana. Sneak out the door by 6, not waking the sprog. Easy-going, pre-dawn 30km ride to the start line at Lingfield Racecourse. Arrive by 7.30am. Toilet break. Meet Broleur’s supeur domestique, Paul Tippett. Register. Stretch. Relax. Get underway by 8 and smash out the 130km epic distance.
All good. Except that my plan was about as cunning as one of Baldrick’s. In reality, it went something like this: 5.40am alarm call, which was loud enough to wake the dead, leading to an understandably disgruntled missus. Forgot about coffee and banana. Clatter out the door at 6.10 and wake the sprog. Suffer puncture in Limpsfield, meaning I have to drop the hammer to Lingfield - which was in fact 40km away from home and through flooded roads. Arrive at 8.20. No time for toilet break. Meet Broleur’s supeur domestique, Paul Tippett, in flustered state. Register. No stretching. No relaxing. Straight into the start queue and finally getting underway at 8.45.
Conceding leg-byes
Almost immediately after crossing the start line, I knew that the ride to Lingfield had taken more out of the legs than I had expected. And what had been a pristine bike two hours before was now caked in dirt and creaking like a rusty door hinge. But I was temporarily - and happily - distracted by the scenery as Paul and I crossed from Kent into West Sussex.
