Cycling through the pain

Friday, 18.00. Set off from College in the minibuses. Painstakingly prepared genre-based mix tape 1 out of 6 ‘Reggae’ wobbling out from Transit subwoofer to minimal enthusiasm from backseat passengers – requests for Kraftwerk’s ‘Tour de France’ soundtrack pouring in thick and fast from Sioni. Halfway along the A40 in gridlocked traffic, we realise we’ve left Cyprien behind. After a quick phone call, he forgives us and tells us to keep going so we batter on. This remarkable change from everything going to plan to everything going tits up, only to revert back to going to plan some time afterwards would set the pace (at about 45 km/h) for the weekend.

Saturday, 02:00. Arrive at mountain hut in the middle of nowhere, Wales. After being warned of ‘low outside temperature’ by the van’s sweetly humanitarian dashboard display, we could confirm for ourselves that it was right nippy in that hut. After what felt like lying down on a wooden board for about four hours being woken up periodically by some smut or other from Will and BTB in the Presidential Suite, we got up to put Lycra on, eat hot bacon & beans and get outside in what turned out to be glorious sunshine. The first day of riding was one of the best rides I’ve ever been on – and I think all others could say the same. 65 miles of curving, smooth roads up some of Britain’s best climbing roads in perfect cycling weather – sun out, no wind. I’m told the MTBers also had an amazing time walking through the ice up the tallest mountain in Wales with bikes on their backs. But then, I guess what goes up a mountain gets to come down pretty quickly – so fair enough. That evening, due to a packed-out pub in a little Welsh railway village (the only one for miles around), we had hot steak & ale pies on an ice-cold picnic bench outside. The waitress kindly turned a blind eye to us using the placemats as arse-mats, an action which for me deserves a Michelin star in itself. Get back to hut, 2 lads sick into bog after perilous descent down trapdoor ladder (off beer? Too much beer?) and a good night’s sleep for more riding in the morning.

The second day was to see things going pretty far from the original plan. Roadies jumped at the chance to be able to do a real A-to-B étape, taking in 60 miles of big hills via Lake Bala before arriving at the Coed-y-Brenin Trail Centre where we would meet our knobbly-tyred brothers with the minibuses to head back to London. About 15 miles from the finish in waning daylight and gathering cold, unfortunate events and the kindness of strangers would change the face of the Cycling Club, for at least a week or two. A crash involving a fractured carbon fork (!) on a cattle grid would leave the injured Tom, a broken bike and about 7 or 8 lads huddled on bleak Welsh moorland while me and Dan race after a Welsh man in his car we spotted a few miles down the road. Upon telling him what had happened, the kind old man drove back up the mountain to rescue Tom (and Josh for company) to drive them to the Trail Centre in order to be ‘transferred’ via Iain’s car to the hospital. We all owe him for doing what he did, and I owe Josh for this story: the 80-something year old would complain about the sun in his eyes only to reject Josh’s offer for the use of his cycling shades in favour of his own Tom Cruise-style Aviators. Just goes to prove, you’re never too old to look daft.

The rest of us set off, leaving the broken bike on topof the mountain to be collected/worried about later. The delay of the crash had seen it get darker and the batteries on our GPS run out. Confusing Welsh town names and wiggly roads meant we soon got lost. We stumbled upon a house. Asked for directions, a man obliged, we set off. As I was turning the cranks round their first revolution on the way home, the chain snapped clean down through a link. After swearing had stopped and the air had de-misted, I went back to the house to ask the man for a lift. Again, credit to the generosity of old Welsh blokes, he drove me the 5 miles (with my bike safely in the back of his car and the other lads in convoy) to the trail centre. In the car, he told me his name was David Lloyd George. Maybe he was having me on. Maybe he wasn’t. A couple of hours and several stitches later, Tom was safely out of hospital and we had the minibuses stoked up to go take him – and the rest of us – home.

Monday, 02:30. Back parking the minibuses behind the library in an eerie Sunday-night-feeling campus. All in all, a fantastic trip combining the best of cycling and going to the pub, despite the crash it was amazing watching the solidarity of the club come through in tough circumstances and credit is due to everyone there. Feeling of relief. But then, as if it wasn’t inevitable enough: “shit, we’ve left Mihai!”