Turmoil

The cycling world is in chaos. Rome (the UCI, our lovely empire) is burning. Everything is upside down then thrown in a blender to get thoroughly mixed up. At the same time, the level of work is rising while temperatures and daylight is dropping, quite rapidly. I bundled up against the wind and cold and set off not knowing exactly where I was going; a first, as I have become well-acquainted with the roads of the East Neuk. And yet, that feeling of adventure soon pervaded my psyche: light butterflies in the stomach coupled with an excitement to find hills unclimbed, descents, turns, and just roads unridden. I couldn't wait to see what awaited me; I'd picked roads that looked as squiggly as possible and hoped that they were paved; if not, at least I had 25mm tires on. I was looking to take my bike over whatever lay under my wheels, tackle whatever laid before me. Despite their polarizing nature, I think the only medium that captures this essence of cycling, this adventure anymore is the Rapha Continental. We've all seen the Tour ride up the Tourmalet thousands of times, we've all seen the peloton tackle the Trouée d'Arenberg. These are usually unobtainable for the average cyclist, they lie in far off lands to be ridden only by the best of the best. But the Rapha Continental discovers roads, routes, climbs, that are everywhere, they inspire me (personally) to go look for a new road; because maybe, just maybe, you will crack a grin wider than you could descending the hairpins of Alpe d'Huez.

Mind Games

We all (should, at least) check the weather fastidiously among other things before throwing a leg over. Plot routes, figure out how to keep the cold and wet out as long as possible, last minute tinkering with the bike. Throw the water bottles in their cages and boot up the computer and that's when the mist starts. We've been at this point frequently before: literally steps away from that first revolution before setting off and yet all the plans thrown out the window. I've changed every piece of clothing before in order to make sure I'd stay warm and something resembling dry. I've chopped off 20 miles of roads, turned around, or even just sacked the whole ride. Thankfully today just a mist, lucky I gambled on the wet weather clothing. As I spin towards the sports center, the mist intensifies, becomes heavier, until it's drizzling. Can't let down the other guys now. Get to the sports center and I realize its plenty cold with no sun. Oh well, I'm here now, can't change anything really and after I get the legs pumping and the blood flowing I'll be plenty warm. Now it's raining. Not drizzling, not misting, not damp, not humid. Just rain. And plenty of it. The roads were practically submerged at some points. The legs warmed up just as we hit my favorite little ribbon of road; quiet, rough, wet, and twisty. The perfect road can completely change your mindset: after that, it was all extensions through mud, puddles, hills all the way to a glorious cup of coffee and a warm shower.

Indian Summer Sky

There isn't a cloud in the sky today in Fife--it is something of a rarity, the sun as the needle poking through the haystack of cloud, fog, and rain that pervades the British Isles in the autumn. I've also been told that the weather is really warm. For October I guess it is, but I'm still not ready for anything but truly warm summertime temperatures; however, riding at this time of year is always enjoyable. Taking leftover form from the summer and using it aimlessly: gunning up a climb, hammering over gravé, certainly not at racing speeds, but still strongly enough to have fun with it. The legs don't shine and sparkle as brilliantly as the summer, they don't get as hot, it takes longer to get the engine ticking up to speed; but there is something lingering, a feeling, a good memory. The legs will get colder, weaker as the season trundles along and brings about winter, work, more class, papers--and that is ok. As the Indian summer passes and takes form with it, we can look for new objectives: instead of fine-tuning fitness or targeting races, pursue the mythical souplesse and the timeless class that comes with it.



Saturday:


Sunday: