Two broken
ribs have prevented me from riding horses but not the bike. This has given this
year’s summer holiday something of a different complexion compared to the recent
past. Not only have I had the time to sort out paintings, light fittings and
other accessories for the patio at home, I’ve also been out on my bike almost
every day over the course of the last week. As well as losing a few extra pounds,
this has also meant that I’m completely up to date with the audio editions of
the Economist and various podcasts. More revealing however is what happened on
Thursday when I stumbled across a young cyclist who overtook me. I had
previously thought I was quietly sliding into middle age quite nicely (save the
odd broken bone). But as this young whippersnapper passed me, some remnants of
my youthful competitiveness came to the fore, and I decided that I wasn’t going
to be shown a clean pair of heels by the little upstart. I jumped up out of the
saddle, gritted my teeth with the pain of the ribs, and went off to hunt him
down. As I caught up I was questioning the wisdom of having every Garmin gadget
under the sun because I could now clearly see that my heart rate was about 627% of its
maximum for a man of my distinguished age. Thankfully after a few minutes
things settled down, my lungs filled with oxygen, and we (he) got talking.
He was 17 and from Paris and he was in Biarritz on holiday. He trained about
four times a week including a race on Sundays. Given all of that I was very
pleased to have been able to stay with him for the last half an hour of the
ride or so as we flew along at almost 40 km per hour – there’s life in the old
dog yet it seems.
Yesterday’s ride however was quite different and arguably even more fun. I had masterfully managed to convince everyone to combine a day trip with the wives and kids in San Sebastian with an opportunity to ride with my brother. The plan was simple – we’d set off late morning on the bikes, and the fairer members of our respective families would leave slightly later in the car, and we’d all meet on the beach front in San Sebastian for a tapas lunch before riding/driving back. What could possibly go wrong?
Er quite a lot it seems, although I think our downfall was assured early on when I only thought about route planning as an afterthought, roughly ten minutes before rolling out. When I did finally decide to shove an automobile map into my back pocket, it didn’t take me long to realize that this type of map was of limited use. It wasn’t just that any of the cycle routes weren’t on the map, it was more a case of it being was abundantly clear to us both that we shouldn’t really be riding alongside 10 ton trucks on a motorway on the way into San Sebastian. Thankfully the Spanish are bike crazy so the drivers were, in the main, respectful of the unusual presence of two rare MAMILs (middle aged men in Lycra) who were clearly some distance from their natural habitats. When we finally did get into the city centre (Spanish motorway architects really weren’t life’s most lucid thinkers or best designers), things only got more complicated because there turned out to be three beaches not one, and Sandie also discovered that her phone didn’t work across the border in Spain. Thankfully she managed to use Gaston to convince unsuspecting strangers to let her use their telephone to ring me (blonde hair and blue eyes is a rarity in the Roma community), and we finally managed to find each other after an hour or so. Thankfully the tapas lunch was very enjoyable. Compared to what was about to happen, one could conclude, so far so good. Much of the lunch was spent discussing how to get back avoiding any stretches on the motorway. Sandie kindly said she’d use her car’s GPS to lead us out of the city and onto the country roads before she picked up the main road again. I wouldn’t like to speculate if it was the blonde or the car’s GPS that was faulty, but let’s just say things didn’t go to plan. When we finally agreed to part ways, Kieran, I and our automobile map just gritted out teeth and got on with it. By some strange twist of fate and despite my famed lack of ability to orientate myself, my limbic brain suddenly swung into action after 35 years, and I stumbled across what I felt had to be the right road even if it did look (and turn out to be) a very large hill. Half way up I decided to confirm my suspicions with a group of ten Spanish pensioners who were all delighted to contribute to the conversation (I believe they are still discussing it as I write this post), and with that, we were en route for home. The good news was that we had indeed managed to avoid the motorway. The bad news was that unbeknown to us both, we (I) had chosen a rather scenic coastal route that contained a 12 km category one climb up Mount Jaizkibel, which also turns out to be a regular feature of the professional San Sebastian Classic road race. The view was beautiful at the top, but at one stage and despite the consumption of a rather large number of “Power Bars”, Kieran did complain about the loss of any feeling in his hands and feet. This came just before he got off the bike stating that it would be quicker for him to walk (in cycling shoes) up the mountain rather than cycle. Thankfully after I had calculated the timing of the fast approaching nightfall, he graciously let himself be coaxed back onto the bike. As we whizzed/wobbled our way down the mountain, Kieran decided that he was a broken man and that the final 30 km to home (which did include one more gruesome climb) was quite simply impossible. So after few calls to our support teams, we’d managed to arrange babysitters and drivers, and Sandie set off to the Spanish French border to pick us and the bikes up. As we sat in a rather dubious bar in the rather unpleasant frontier town of Behobia (which is so bad it doesn’t even qualify for a Wikipedia entry), Kieran was less than impressed when the local aging, stubble faced and pot-bellied drunk regaled us of tales of how he used to be a professional cyclist, and how he’d once sped up the Jaizkibel climb in 26 minutes and 08 seconds with the Motorola team which at that time included a young Lance Armstrong. Things did however pick up after a recovery snooze in the car, the warm embrace of his better half, and a little sandwich and a glass of warm milk that had been lovingly prepared for him before an early bed. I’m looking forward to seeing him later today to help him reattach his legs to his body…
Yesterday’s ride however was quite different and arguably even more fun. I had masterfully managed to convince everyone to combine a day trip with the wives and kids in San Sebastian with an opportunity to ride with my brother. The plan was simple – we’d set off late morning on the bikes, and the fairer members of our respective families would leave slightly later in the car, and we’d all meet on the beach front in San Sebastian for a tapas lunch before riding/driving back. What could possibly go wrong?
Er quite a lot it seems, although I think our downfall was assured early on when I only thought about route planning as an afterthought, roughly ten minutes before rolling out. When I did finally decide to shove an automobile map into my back pocket, it didn’t take me long to realize that this type of map was of limited use. It wasn’t just that any of the cycle routes weren’t on the map, it was more a case of it being was abundantly clear to us both that we shouldn’t really be riding alongside 10 ton trucks on a motorway on the way into San Sebastian. Thankfully the Spanish are bike crazy so the drivers were, in the main, respectful of the unusual presence of two rare MAMILs (middle aged men in Lycra) who were clearly some distance from their natural habitats. When we finally did get into the city centre (Spanish motorway architects really weren’t life’s most lucid thinkers or best designers), things only got more complicated because there turned out to be three beaches not one, and Sandie also discovered that her phone didn’t work across the border in Spain. Thankfully she managed to use Gaston to convince unsuspecting strangers to let her use their telephone to ring me (blonde hair and blue eyes is a rarity in the Roma community), and we finally managed to find each other after an hour or so. Thankfully the tapas lunch was very enjoyable. Compared to what was about to happen, one could conclude, so far so good. Much of the lunch was spent discussing how to get back avoiding any stretches on the motorway. Sandie kindly said she’d use her car’s GPS to lead us out of the city and onto the country roads before she picked up the main road again. I wouldn’t like to speculate if it was the blonde or the car’s GPS that was faulty, but let’s just say things didn’t go to plan. When we finally agreed to part ways, Kieran, I and our automobile map just gritted out teeth and got on with it. By some strange twist of fate and despite my famed lack of ability to orientate myself, my limbic brain suddenly swung into action after 35 years, and I stumbled across what I felt had to be the right road even if it did look (and turn out to be) a very large hill. Half way up I decided to confirm my suspicions with a group of ten Spanish pensioners who were all delighted to contribute to the conversation (I believe they are still discussing it as I write this post), and with that, we were en route for home. The good news was that we had indeed managed to avoid the motorway. The bad news was that unbeknown to us both, we (I) had chosen a rather scenic coastal route that contained a 12 km category one climb up Mount Jaizkibel, which also turns out to be a regular feature of the professional San Sebastian Classic road race. The view was beautiful at the top, but at one stage and despite the consumption of a rather large number of “Power Bars”, Kieran did complain about the loss of any feeling in his hands and feet. This came just before he got off the bike stating that it would be quicker for him to walk (in cycling shoes) up the mountain rather than cycle. Thankfully after I had calculated the timing of the fast approaching nightfall, he graciously let himself be coaxed back onto the bike. As we whizzed/wobbled our way down the mountain, Kieran decided that he was a broken man and that the final 30 km to home (which did include one more gruesome climb) was quite simply impossible. So after few calls to our support teams, we’d managed to arrange babysitters and drivers, and Sandie set off to the Spanish French border to pick us and the bikes up. As we sat in a rather dubious bar in the rather unpleasant frontier town of Behobia (which is so bad it doesn’t even qualify for a Wikipedia entry), Kieran was less than impressed when the local aging, stubble faced and pot-bellied drunk regaled us of tales of how he used to be a professional cyclist, and how he’d once sped up the Jaizkibel climb in 26 minutes and 08 seconds with the Motorola team which at that time included a young Lance Armstrong. Things did however pick up after a recovery snooze in the car, the warm embrace of his better half, and a little sandwich and a glass of warm milk that had been lovingly prepared for him before an early bed. I’m looking forward to seeing him later today to help him reattach his legs to his body…
It's good to have you blogging again! And what story..
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