And so classic spring weather for a classic Transpontine spring ride.
Whilst the big boys were being mucky pups over the cobbles of the Tour of Flanders, the sister race that is the London Classic was rolling out of the Gypsy Hill Tavern early on Sunday morning.
And whaddya know - it rained.
Chapeau!
Weather woes are what make these spring rides so… classic.
Sure it’s LOVELY to roll around town on a blue-sky day, but you need to test yourself riding in the gutters around Gypsy Hill; you need your arse to experience the cobbles of Clerkenwell. You need to puff and pant like a phone perv as you climb the Cols du South London.
I rather enjoyed the London Classic.
Sunday saw the sixth staging of the self-styled ‘urban cycling adventure.’ We signed on (it’s a cycling thing) and then surveyed the murky views of the City that stretched ahead as we approached Dulwich College.
“It looks rather gloomy over there”
…was the rather observant observation from my Domestique (handlebar, not household.)
“What do you expect from North of the river? Here be Dragons, etc.”
We border hopped from Southwark to Lambeth, and then back again.
What is truly remarkable about this patch is the affluence back dropped against the poverty. Ride down Herne Hill and within the changing of a gear you witness leafy town houses set back against grand driveways, to council houses existing along the same street.
It’s all about integration, but it’s also why I LOVE South London.
As well as the geo-social observations, the London Classic was also a good opportunity to study race face tactics. Small bunch sprints continually overtook us as we snaked our way around the North Brixton backstreets and towards Kennington. The likely lycra lads then got a little lost or snared up at the traffic lights.
“Hellooooo! Fancy seeing you here.”
Slow and steady wins the race, every time.
At least that’s my excuse for not setting Mr Strava alight with my on board data.
We crossed the Old Father at Waterloo - a first for me with the Garmin running. I’ve blogged before about the brilliance of running the open source Talky Toaster on a GPS device. Seeing a mass blob of blue as we made the crossing was genuinely quite beautiful.
And then it was a cut through Covent Garden and on to the first set of cobbles for the ride.
My backside wobbled, but not as much as my road bike wheels. It was here that I first started to show some concern about the ability of my bicycle to actually complete the course.
Out of the West End and then here comes Clerkenwell.
Here come more cobbles.
Oh Lordy.
The first Tweed War took place as we approached the feeding station of Look Mum. The self-styled urban cycling adventure may have sounded slightly hipster, but the sight of a chap decked out head to toe in retro cycling tweed - handlebar moustache and even a monacle - didn’t do cycling any favours.
He must have been about 22.
Look Mum was a welcome rest / toilet stop. Already the Flanders flaneurs [nice] had started to gather at the Old Street cafe to take in the mucky pups riding the Belgium cobbles.
Once around Arnold Circus, and then fittingly we rode along the cobbles towards the Liberty of Norton Folgate. We were riding like KINGS, and these days will last forever, Comrades.
Or something.
But not for the poor chap we encountered around the back streets of Bethnal Green.
“This is my fourth puncture of the morning”
…he mentioned as his admirable fellow team riders rallied around him and helped out with the mechanicals each time.
I didn’t like to tell him that he probably had a buggered rear end.
Watch out - here comes Wapping.
Woh.
Cobblestone Central was a bumpy ride. If you balance the bumps on the correct sweet spot of your backside [Ooooh] then you are in for a pleasant ride. Get a little tangled up down below and it isn’t just your carbon wheel that takes a pounding.
Ouch.
I reluctantly became the Leader of Pack as we cycled back south towards Transpontonia. Nothing to do with my riding skills, simply the fact that my Garmin was working wonders with the pre-loaded GPX route.
Surrey Quays saw a skunk ambience fill my lungs. It was very pleasant, but probably not what my respiratory system needed ahead of those South London cols.
We chased down the other Brixton boys and girls (yeah, right) somewhere just outside of Blackheath.
And then it was time to take on the lung-busting hills of South London.
I actually excelled in the climbing, if not the decent. I am a coward in the saddle, keen to dance on the pedals on the way up. The downside is that I won’t descend.
Up and down, up and down, up and down.
We may have missed off a final col after departing Crystal Palace. I got a little criss-crossed with the Garmin route backtracking on itself from the starting point.
The Gypsy Hill Tavern soon appeared both on screen and stretching out in front of us.
“It looks rather gloomy over there”
…etc.
And indeed it was over in the North London wastelands. Back down south and the London Classic post-race party was in full swing. BBQ’s, booze and the Tour of Flanders live on the big screen.
Call them cobbles?
Pah.
A HUGE thanks to the London Classic organisers for once again running a first class ride.
Chapeau!