The Quad-Boiler 25

(Photo by G Dixon)

I’ve been nursing my dodgy knee all week. This followed my running niggle, recently  aggravated by an ill-advised but enjoyable 50 mile ride with buddy Steve, previously an outstanding runner (so he tells me!, No, really) but who has, I suspect, worn himself out in athletics, and latterly became a bikie with some relish. 

Today was the first event for several months and I was one of one hundred cyclists who had succeeded in landing a place in the Barnesbury 25 mile time trial. A competitive event is big news these days. The organisers were duly cautious. 

Based from Cramlington, the course is two laps of an ‘out and back’ dual carriageway affair. Last Monday I had emailed the organiser to advise that I might not make it after my knee ligament starting rebelling. I think they used to call it tendonitis. After an excellent massage on Thursday, however, by the North Shields shamen, Sean, I felt immediately more lucid in the knee department. This manifest itself  yesterday in me spending all day digging out a gate post, replacing it and then hanging a new gate. It was a triumph, I tell you. Monty Don would have been welling up with pride. Anyway, today, I was off number 34. The weather was fine with a light crosswind. I was fuelled by a bowl of shredded wheat, a slice of toast, raspberry jam and a coffee. I was riding the Planet X bike, its proper racing debut since I bought it off a sporty chap in Selkirk last year. He was making more space for his daughters horse. I didn’t think the house looked that big. I did ride the bike in a hill climb at Elsdon last September, but that wasn’t so much of a race rather than a chance for me pose in front of the one or two accomplished paparazzi who periodically turn up at these events. Rising majestically in slow motion up the Gibbet at Elsdon, I looked the part, pouting hard, even if I was nearly last.

The last time I did a mid-distance time trial like this was in Stirling three years ago. I had just purchased the Focus and hammered my way up and down some flat potholed piece of road in the drizzle with all the purpose of a apathetic sloth to finish just off the podium for the wooden spoon. It was a 30 miler. It took me a couple of hours before I could walk properly. I think that holding the same position for an hour focuses all the induced stress on a small group of muscles and joints around the thighs, pelvis and glutes. You definitely need to train for this malarkey. Your shoulders, arms and fingers spend their time talking about old times, shuffling cards, pointing and being generally garrulous. The result of this effort is the development of an unwelcome crippling of my central torso; I kid you not. I didn't notice anyone else struggling to stand or walk, so it must just be me. 

The sun was up and I was quite relaxed this morning as I dug the bike out of the car, realising that I had forgotten my pump; but it wasn’t a disaster if I rode on flabby 40psi tyres. There was a doctor at the start to take our temperatures. I thought it odd that anyone feeling dodgy might still elect to turn out to thrash themselves for an hour, but hey-ho. Even though we had to bring our own pens to sign on with we still all had to use the same plunger of the bottle of the sanitiser beforehand.  I got my disposable number and then spent a good 10 minutes doing the dance of the diddy as I tried to pin the number on the back of my skinsuit, which I was already wearing.  

After an unconvincing 3 mile warm up I rode the 1.5 miles to the start and before you could say ‘get your masks on’ I was under starters orders and was dispatched. There was a slight tailwind on the way to Ashington which was worth having. The lad behind me, Daniel Dixon, passed me after 6 minutes. I could have tucked in, but apparently it’s not allowed.  There was then a long spell when no one else came past. However, I was fully committed to my cause and tried to remember to keep in an aerodynamic pose as my quads began to boil. I passed the 10 mile mark in 26 minutes and cracked on as the occasional bead of sweat wandered down my visor and the traffic increased markedly. In decades gone by and on a narrower road, a build-up of traffic was inevitable as riders hogged the lane. There are a myriad of stories of top riders deliberately backing the traffic up in order to reap the benefit of the draught once the traffic starts to come through. Spotters were frequently posted by organisers trying to monitor this in the 70’s.

After 20 miles or so my upper and inner thighs confirmed that they were having a visit from the friction police and by 24 miles my attention had moved from the road to my gusset and a mile later I was relieved to sit up as I passed the line after 1:06:10 of relentless graft. The last 25 time trial I rode was in Ayrshire when I was 18. David Hannah won it. I recall the time might have been 1:04.

Its evident that I can improve, but the objective this time round was to get a couple of competitive events under my belt before the season finishes. This year the only winner has been Covid.  If I remember to bring my pump next time, I might at least look like I mean business.  I’ll wait to see if I’ve got into the 10 mile event next month.  In the meantime, remind me to train.             

Can I come out now?

Ok, lets get something down here or folks in the future will think that Aunt Aggie got the better of me. Looking back through earlier blog entries this year, I can’t really believe I managed 5 races or so before it all imploded. I never really envisaged that the Government would crash the economy in order to control transmission, but here we are 100 days later. As March gave way to 'Lockdownmania' and we all towed the line, my running continued on an upward trajectory and well into June during which I was churning out several fifty mile weeks. I was regularly delivering 70 minute x 10 mile runs and was quite perky. It was a little off-putting seeing people diving into hedges and holding their breath or grabbing their scarfs when I careered round the corners, and for a while there was a real fear that runners were the enemy with all their extravagant breathing, huffing and puffing. 'Nothing personal', I thought.

As this state of economic and social torpor dragged on, my earlier enthusiasm appeared misplaced and my training runs slowed markedly. This culminated a fortnight ago during an eight miler in the heat of a Wednesday morning running along the by-pass when my left calf tightened. I was on the bike the next day, the first ride since January.  Over a thousand miles running this year and only seventy on the bike said Strava. It was possibly the longest period of continuous uninterrupted running I have had for ages. A day or two later I developed a swollen knee and have rested all this week, succumbing to that wee voice in my head this morning to nip out for 25 miles on the bike. There was a ferocious westerly and as I cut along through the lanes of Duddo, Belsay and Whalton the crosswinds were waiting to pounce, an ambush on the unprepared rider with huge gusts funnelling through any breach in the hedgerow. The swelling has gone from the knee and I assume it’s a ligament thing. Since I blogged last, I am a year older and in celebration I have entered two local time trials. We’ll see if they go ahead or not. This years Lairig Ghru, my running target for the year, is an ancient memory that never was. 

The running club have been organising a virtual grand prix, but I’ve not managed to register any times for the various events. Mrs Mac and the flying chef (Linds) have been burning up the calories though and Linds has really come on with a recent sub-20 5k. Let’s hope the running calendar resurrects itself at the same time as my knee makes a full recovery.  It’s not only a means of competing, but there is also a social element to racing and, of course, if you are a runner, its partly who you are, part of your fabric.

On the book front I eventually ground my way through ‘Papillon’ and finished it yesterday. This followed 'Conclave' (Robert Harris) which I whizzed through in May and is highly recommended. I have dropped straight into Falkner's 'Moonfleet' which I recall reading when I was 12 or so.  It’s quite a welcome contrast to ingesting the trials and tribulations of a serial escapee in the French penal system.  Anyway, I hope it not another 2 months before I blog again. Lets hope its worth me ordering some new trainers shortly and that the lectern-hugging first minister gives us a break or I’ll be demanding a rebate from Scottish Athletics.