onionbagblog

A pre-Tour roll out around Abberton Reservoir early on Saturday morning. No pelaton bunch sprint along Peldon Road, and no bloody bus blocking the final stretch back towards Fingringhoe either.

Instead a light leg stretcher ahead of an ambitious few weeks of cycling coming up. You ride yourself into fitness for these Grand Tours apparently. The same can be said for a mid-summer period of rolling out across the Essex and Suffolk border.

Failing that then I’ve got a fridge back at base loaded up with sufficient gel bars to lube up my internal (and external) mechanisms, not to mention my rusty old crankshaft that hasn’t seen much action of late.

Time to get tooled up.

But first the beauty of Abberton Reservoir.

The rolling fields of Fingringhoe reflected a subtle light purple pastel colour as an unnamed flower covered an entire patch just past the old Post Office. Whilst Le Grand Depart was played out under Corsica’s maquis countryside, a hybrid of a beautiful English rose / garden weed characterised the Essex experience.

Other weekend riders appeared along Layer Road, confirming the belief that Saturday mornings are all about the lycra. Club rides, personal time trials or perhaps equally confused amateur bicycle and botanists - all life form was observed as we hit Abberton Road.

As well as being a time to celebrate Le Tour, we are also now entering the prime of Summer Garden Fete season. The crazed flag wavers that greeted the pro riders in Corsica were replaced by elderly gents carrying trestle tables into village halls along the route. I attempted a cheeky Chapeau! …just outside of Layer de la Haye. I suspect the bunting being hung wasn’t in honour to greet my passage.

Birch Road was a bit of a bugger as an impatient motorist tried to take me up from behind. An acceleration - the impatient motorist, not me - and the horror of him missing another car coming up the hill reminded me why I still don’t own a driving license.

The only company along Layer Breton Hill was the early morning birders. Binoculars were out, and so was my Race Face as the straight stretch crossing the reservoir was completely car free. Handlebars took up the drop position; the ride yourself into fitness mantra lasted for, oooh, around thirty seconds at least.

Beware Cyclists is the BONKERS sign that greets you on the other side of the crossing. Beware Cars, possibly?

We are the traffic, etc.

Everybody’s gotta keep moving, which was most certainly the case when a tri-bar lycra kid effortlessly sailed past my slipstream without even breaking sweat.

Bugger.

A peacock shuttled across my path, and I tried to convince myself that it’s all about the journey, and not the finish line. A fine position to take, but there comes a point along your journey when you have gobbed out half a dozen flies and you find yourself trying to chase down the tri-bar lycra kid, rather than embracing Mother Nature.

I took on a metronomic approach. Fuck the science of cycling - it’s all about the free spirit and overdosing on gel bars. I’m gonna drag my arse up that bloody hill for the sheer thrill of it, rather that a pre-planned approach to cadence and all that crap.

I bonked halfway up.

Whoops.

A steady pace along Wigborough Road, and then a glorious archway of overgrowing brambles as we hit Langenhoe served up as le flamme rouge replacement for Saturday morning. I zipped up the jersey, raised my arms aloft and prepared for the victory salute. An old boy carrying a trestle table tutted.

Chapeau!

Same again next Saturday.