onionbagblog

Another weekend, another Spring Classic to Ride.

Chapeau!

Rolling out early on Saturday morning was the Walton Time Trial. You won’t see this Classic recognised in any of the more traditional bicycling calendars. You probably won’t even see the Walton Time Trial recognised anywhere in Wivenhoe.

Have road bike, will travel. Weather woes had messed up the race calendar weekend. A planned roll out with Velo Club Revolution on Sunday was brought forward. Mr BBC Weather Man didn’t like those darkening skies scheduled for the Seventh Day, and neither did my Giant roadie.

Flexibility is the key to optimum cycling performance. That’s what the back of those energy gel bars tell you, before necking half a dozen and then buzzing off yer nuts on a naked bike ride around town.

Whoops.

But flexibility can also mean abandoning the weekend VCR plans and putting in place the personal Walton Time Trial instead. Make hay, etc, and whaddya know - Sunday morning blog post publishing time, and it’s as dry as a Nun’s undercarriage out there.

Bugger.

Cycling solo can sometimes mean splendid isolation. It can also sometime be bloody hard work as you are both the Team Leader and the Domestique. There’s nowhere to hide in the pack as you plan your climb of Tenpenny Hill towards Thorrington.

I’ve long since ignored the medical advice to take up fly-fishing with the onset of an arthritic knee. Live to Ride, Ride to Live. Especially so when you see in your sights another lone rider on the horizon, also going through the personal pain that is a solo time trial.

No one likes to be caught up in the time trial, and the other rogue rider was the carrot for my donkey legs to kick against. It was a testing climb, but I could see the gap between us shortening as my mule instincts kicked in at the peak of the climb.

GOTCHA, I thought as I gave the lone rider the Lance pokerface glare through specs, before kicking harder still to be the first over the top.

The chase is always better than the kill though. Turns out that my ten-minute struggle to pull in the other personal time trialer had all been about struggling to match the half-decent riding skills of a young lady rider.

Whoops.

TWO pairs of lycra cycling tights disguised my shame.

Hey hoe. Tenpenny Hill climbed, and time to zip up the gilet and cover up the Brixton Cycles livery. I was a long way home from the spiritual cycling base and didn’t want tales of taking on a female rider with a Lance glare making it back to Brixton.

Endless crap is often written about cycling cadence, and I’m not about to spoil this fine tradition. For all your fancy on board computers and GPS data logging back at base, it really is All About the Bike.

You don’t need scientific input to tell you if you are having a good day on the bike, or simply bonking on the verges on the outskirts of Brightlingsea. But Saturday was rather ACE. I hit my stride just outside of St Osyth, barely changing out of the big cog and keeping a steady pace on the pedals.

It was a remarkably clear run. Traffic lights were kind, as were other road users in allowing me a bit of room for my backside to breathe. I almost came a cropper on the chicane of mini-roundabouts on the Clacton approach, but time trials reward those that take risks.

All in a purely legal sense, you understand…

The run in through Frinton and then towards the clock stopping finish line of Walton was fresh. I was rewarded with a stunning low tide looking out across the Naze, and a builder’s cup of tea to recouperate out on the beach.

An old boy took an interest in the bike.

“Not like the bikes of my day,”

…he mused. Betcha you didn’t go round giving the Lance glare to young females riders either, fella.

Plans for a Walton art deco house hunt didn’t quite go to plan. Mr BBC Weather Man and his rain woes was as confused as me when it comes to identifying the gender of a rider from the rear. The Walton skies had started to bruise, and my roadie ‘aint taking no puddles for no one.

The return leg of the Walton Time Trial surprisingly had the same kick as the inward ride. Never underestimate the healing power of a builder’s cup of tea taken on Walton beach. The Saturday morning traffic had started to build, but the run was a clear one back to base.

These Spring Classics are often the highlight of the season. A wretched winter off-road, and then a sudden burst of spunk waiting to be released.

Lycra does funny things to a man.