I've looked everywhere

Kenny Brown shins it 

 

Fergie said it was "obscene", how we laughed. Then we were relegated

 

 

 

My name is Miklosko, I come from near Moscow

 

He had no right to make some of those saves,  Schadenfreude was never this good

 

 

Let’s all do the Barthez

 

It was along drive back, but it was worth it

 

 

Curbishley’s first match

 

Reo-Coker didn't score that many, but one was enough

 

 

Towering Upson Park & Eliot thinks this is normal

 

But it was to be the last for a long, long time

 

 

But nothing can ever beat THAT night

 

The best of them, the last of them, and I was there.

Fortune's always hiding

As we were walking back to the station after the 4-1 debacle at home to Swansea last Saturday, we bumped into my old friend Mick, also heading for Plaistow tube station. Which is incidentally the nearest tube station to where I was born, in Plaistow hospital maternity unit. In a strange parallel, the unit is being converted into a housing development, the original Victorian buildings torn down, to profit some developer and their hangers-on, which of course includes, in a "crumbs from your table way", me.

I asked Mick if he'd heard that the club were selling us our actual seats for £50. "All my memories are in my head" he replied, echoing my own sentiments. So tomorrow I will be at the Boleyn Ground for one final time, moaning about this and that, enjoying some of it, shouting a bit, and maybe shedding one or two tears for the final time as we concede a hatful of goals in injury time.

And then they'll turn it into a housing development, and the crumbs from the table will be Dimitri Payet scoring a goal in the distance, at a shiny, new taxpayer-funded stadium. For a couple of seasons at least. It all seems a long way from 25th September 1971. Jumpers for goalposts, holding my Dad's hand in case I get lost, oh the good old days.

I could get all maudlin and sad about it, cynical and angry, or look back with rose-tinted spectacles and marvel about what a wonderful place it has been to watch football. But none of it would make a difference. And apart from the friendships I have, the sense of belonging, the weird set of common values and experiences I have gained, the atmosphere of a set of people who go for more than just the glory, the genuine "West Ham way" of playing football, that means we can beat the League leaders one day, and lose 4-1 at home the next, all while trying to play attractive football, well what have the Irons ever done for me?

So in all this, what is most important about tomorrow night, the final match? Do you really need me to answer that question?

I'm tired of watching all the flowers turn to stone

My last post was read by 245 people, which probably makes it some type of record. If only 10,000 times as many read it and everything else I have ever written. Then I could take a day off every week with the ad revenue I could generate.

But I always said I write this just for me, which of course is true, and generally I enjoy the process. As I was walking out of our office on Friday night I walked down the stairs with a colleague, who asked me, in the way that you do before a Bank Holiday, what I was up to this weekend. When I told him I planned to bike 400km across Wales and back, he asked me why such a long distance?

Now you'd think that would be both a question I answer all the time, as well as one I have a ready answer for. Thinking back on it, the seeds of my ultimate abandonment at Llandovery were already rooted and thriving as I mentally struggled to convince myself there was a valid reason. You see, I have reached a bit of a turning point. Of course I gave him all the usual guff about the camaraderie of Audax, the beauty of the countryside, and the challenge of endurance cycling. All of which are true.

But one of the reasons I gave to my colleague was that I really enjoyed the process of cycling. Well, I'm just about clinging onto that one at the moment.

But, the other reasons? They aren't enough anymore. So when faced with chronic tiredness on Saturday, not helped I'm sure by a hectic week preceding, or an early start to the trip to the Depart at Chepstow, it wasn't hard to convert a 400km ride into a 260km one.

It was still a great day, misty sunrise over the Wye Valley as we cycled up past Tintern, wide open vistas across the Brecon Beacons and the delightful Lord Hereford's knob (it does exist). Even the fight into the wind from Builth to Llandovery had its moments. And once I'd packed, I enjoyed the wind-assisted, if very blast back through Brecon and the Usk Valley. I didn't enjoy my low-speed tumble in front of a Saturday evening audience in Usk itself, or the nice swollen knee that didn't help on the climb towards Chepstow.



But I was home for Match of the Day. Instead of breakfast. A part of me misses the beauty of night-time cycling, but honestly, I'm so wrecked today from 260km that I know I might not have made it. I'd certainly not have enjoyed it.

So what am I to do? My cycling form is off the pace, my Randonneur round the Year has gone, and I don't think I'm in a fit enough state to go for the Bryan Chapman in a fortnight. So no Super Randonneur for me either this year. Worse, my motivation is falling off a cliff, and my one great strength, the ability to persist, seems to be deserting me. On bike rides at any rate.

What is to be done?

I feel about like those deluded Arsenal fans, calling for change when in reality I probably should be more grateful. I can cycle long distances, albeit less than I have set out to of late. I'm relatively healthy, fit, devastatingly attractive and incredibly funny. I get to watch London's best football team, and I have a great family and circle of friends.

What is the problem? I don't know, but right now my soul feels like this.

How low or high I go

Audax Hotels. Some of you will know what that means, some of you won't, but the apogee of this story happened in one just outside of Ascot. Just past the roundabout on the A329 where there's a nice ornamental apartment complex, although at the time all I saw was the hotel.

It was about 10PM, Thursday night, dark, obviously, it being March in the UK. Cold, very wet, pretty windy. A headwind. As it had been for me since about 5PM when I had left the City of London, only 70km previously. That's slow progress isn't it?

I've never cycled in London before. It was bad enough on the way into the town, I'd chosen main roads for navigation purposes, but I doubt I would have found it much less stressful on the back ones. And I can see why cyclists jump red lights, there's one every 50 yards, and if the taxis and buses don't get you, the pedestrians almost certainly will, eventually.

So I took my colleague's advice to heart on the way out of the city, take it slowly and stay safe. But stopping at all the red lights, trying to make a path through all that Bank Holiday traffic heading for the airport, the beach, the hills, well let's just say my momentum was non-existent. All those people can't like London very much if they were all leaving, can they?

Once past Hounslow it got worse. Although the traffic eased, I was now on main roads with fast-moving traffic, puddles of water and plenty of headwind with few buildings to shelter me. I pushed on up Egham Hill trying to get warm, but as I rolled through leafy Virginia Water and past the Ascot racecourse, I couldn't feel my hands or feet, I was shivering, soaked to the skin and I saw the bus shelter and decided to take stock.

It had all been going so well too. The wind I struggled against in the evening had propelled me in the daytime, up though Bath, Chippenham, Marlborough and Hungerford.



The view of Cherhill, Wiltshire from the A4

 I breezed along the A4, delighting at my speed along the rolling main road, which seemed quite quiet, and into Reading by midday.


Reading

From there, despite the onset of rain, I made good time to Windsor and onto Hounslow, before hitting all the traffic on the run-in to the City. I'd decided to combine a DIY Audax with a fund-raising attempt for our current office charity, Jack's Fund, that raises money for the Children's oncology unit at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. You can still sponsor me if you like via this link. My employer had also given me the day off to do the ride, as well as allowing one of my colleagues to have some time off to feed me and take care of my bike parking arrangements quickly at our London office.



Arriving at our office in London

So after arriving at about 4.30PM I was out of there and back on the road within an hour. With hindsight the timing was terrible as by now, what had been very busy traffic, had turned into nose-to-tail jams. I cut some of it out by cycling across the cycle paths of Hyde Park, but my average speed for the first 10 miles was 9mph, with plenty of stops to boot. It didn't get much faster either, looking at my Strava data, I seemed to have taken about an hour to cover each 10-mile section, culminating in that stop in Ascot.

There was still 160km to go (about 100 miles). I knew that if I continued I would have another 5-6 hours of rain, and after that the temperatures were forecast to drop to about 3-5C in open country, plus the headwinds all the way to Bristol. Even on a good day, that's 8 hours of riding, plus stops for food, and that was likely to be in the open at all-night garages.

I was shivering, I couldn't warm up, so I called Mrs Mendip Rouleur to ask her opinion. Fortunately she was able to think straight and booked me into a Travelodge in Wokingham.  I knew that this decision would cost me any chance of this being a qualifying Audax ride, as well as my attempt at Randonneur round the Year going down the drain, as it's too late in the month for me to get another ride in.

I know people who would have pressed on, and I know people who would never have started. I also know people who would get on a train home. As you can see from the trace of my route, the fact that it took me an hour to find the place shows how confused and unable to follow directions I had become. It was unquestionably the right decision for me and I don't regret it.



Broken by the weather in Wokingham

 Of course, that wasn't the end of the ride. Early the next morning, well about 8.30 actually, I headed off into the bright sunshine into the West. It was a nice day, although I did still have that headwind to contend with. Now the time pressure was off, I took it easy, finding some nice country back roads in Berkshire to cycle on, admire the views and marvel at the fate of Greenham common airbase. I also passed the Aldermaston Nuclear weapons research facility, which is set in an incongruously leafy area.

It was also a bit of trip down memory lane as I passed towns and places that my grandparents, parents, uncles, brothers and sister all have associations with, as well as my own childhood memories of climbing Silbury Hill and wandering around the West Kennet Long Barrow.

Eventually I made it to Chippenham, and not having to complete my mandatory route I decided to take the direct route back to Bristol via the A420. Now the official longest, grindiest road in a headwind in the World as voted by yours truly. As I neared the top of one slogging incline, a bloke walking his dog, called, encouragingly I think, "dig deep son, dig deep". Nice people are everywhere!

So there you have it, a 400km ride done with a break in the middle, no Audax points and a few more hard lessons learned. Does it count as a 400km ride? Yes it does, in my book, and that's the one I'm counting. It's on Strava like that anyway. And thanks to all the people who encouraged me (especially my colleague from work) along the way. And Mrs MR for making me see sense. It means everything to have that backing.

But the most important thing in this? Over £700 raised so far by virtue of the vey generous friends, colleagues, and family that have sponsored me to raise money for people who face a constant challenge far in excess of anything I had to do. So if you are feeling up to it, you can sponsor me too, even just a small token amount counts and is gratefully received. That means everything too.

Thank you.

Back to Square two

2016 has not started as I thought it would. Before I get stuck into this theme properly, I want you to understand that I am not complaining. At all. I have, as they say, so much to be grateful for.

For a kick-off, I'm not American. The world's most dysfunctional country also has a lot to be grateful for, but unlike me, it hasn't really wised up to that as yet. Last year I met a really charming man, Jeff Guara, whilst we were both cycling from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean with Pyractif. Jeff, as well as being very charming is also very weird. Not because he is American, or because he is a Christian, or because he shoots his own meat. But because he is a triathlete and wears those funny socks and other weird stuff - pointy helmet and cat-ears.

Actually Jeff and I had many very interesting conversations in the few days we were together, and even occasionally when we were cycling together. Although on that point, most of the time I was trawling a long way behind his very well-organised and meticulous pace. As he stormed up the Col de Port in 30-degree heat, I grovelled.

Jeff dressed as a cyclist on a cyclist's bike.

We did have the "gun conversation". I think to begin with Jeff was a little bit surprised that I was serious when I told him that firing guns had no appeal. Although my 15-year old son was all for jumping on a plane to Carolina immediately and high-tailing it out to the woods to blast away. But one day when our peloton had a run-in with an errant driver, and the encounter left no-one nursing gunshot wounds as a result of road-rage, I think he saw my point.

It was recent Facebook exchange with Jeff that prompted me to worry about America. Whilst we have Boris Johnson as our "I can't believe he is really in power" politician, unfortunately America has Donald Trump. So whilst enlightening Jeff, via the global tax-avoider's facility, and the history of monkey-hanging in Hartlepool and its impact on the Democratic process, he confessed that they had no-one they could actually vote for.

It was then that I realised. The actual triumph of tyranny is not global repression, tax-avoidance, abolishing free school milk or awarding yourself a whopping pay-rise as an MP when you have all the benefits of an Eton & Oxford education. No the successful totalitarian despot these days makes mainstream political life so tediously dull whilst at the same time stretching the bounds of credibility to make it seem like it is a reality TV show.

In that way we all just give up and go back to our bread and circuses, and leave the elite to go on with their Master Plan. And they say what starts out over there, soon comes over here.

By now I had also expected to be well into my first 300km Audax of the year. But unfortunately my lungs are refusing to play ball, as I succumb to my second bout of man-flu of 2016. Of course, I am making a mighty fuss about it, but I haven't helped my own cause by going and watching two West Ham games in the last 7 days. Whilst the football has also been unexpectedly good, the accompanying freezing-cold weather has probably not helped my immune system, or my asthma.

 

But nights like this one are coming to an end with our move to the state-subsidised Olympic Stadium (thank you all very much for your generosity), so I just had to go to see us beat Spurs under the lights for the final time.

Usually, West Ham's form takes a nose-dive at any hint of achievement, so it is unexpected to be both playing attractive football and winning football. Although I expect all of that to end this afternoon away at Everton. The latter have won more points against us than any other team apparently, so my natural pessimism won't be misplaced. They are 1-0 up as I type this.

In between the two colds I did manage to have a great February, with some great weekend rides and lots of commuting. My ride down to Lyme Regis was particularly epic, but maybe I overdid it there too.

So I am back to Square one again, next weekend (I hope) for the third time. I probably need to eat more vegetables and get more sleep, traditional remedies to illness. Regrettably I can't take it easy for the next couple of weeks as I'm committed to a 400km charity ride in three weeks time. Feel free to sponsor me via that last link, I'm going to be under-prepared and suffer, so make it worth my while. Please.

So hopefully with Spring on the way the cycling can get going properly, and not stop. See you out there.

My heart is where its always been, my head is somewhere in-between

Reviews of the year. This small gap of listlessness (try saying that after Christmas lunch) between the mid-Winter solstice and our collective, depressive return to work in January, seem to generate no end of them.

Here's the Tourmalet again. Yawn.

Some people even start them in advance, those truly awful missives in our Christmas cards. They must take some crafting to produce, working out the right order to place your trivia in. But they are a dying breed, mainly because Facebook has so successfully inveigled its way into our addictive souls. The online, constant version of the unwanted, and let's face it, quite dull news, is now so constant and pervasive, that it has made those despised annual circulars a thing of the past.

But not in a good way.

Christmas itself is, I'm happy to say, a pagan festival. Only a bit watered-down. Even Arthur Pendragon (real name Timothy) when he appears at Stonehenge every solstice, looks like a cross between a trainspotter and the chair of the local Am-dram society. In days of old we would have had much more riotous behaviour going on in our halls and hovels, although, to be fair, a lot of this is now transposed to so-called "Black Friday" out on the high street.

Just like apple pie on an Audax. In Wales. Only more so.





Solstice celebrations consisted of riding to work three days in a row in totally shit weather, followed by prodigious eating and trying to match my teenage son in the sleeping department. The latter task was a big "ask" in which I of course singularly failed. A bit like the Avalon sunrise in June. Near Glastonbury. Predictable.

So I hope you will be glad to know that I'm neither going to subject you to tales of what a great year I have had, or about my plans for "moving into another space" (puke NOW). Both are very, very, interesting of course. But only to me. Even Mrs Mendip Rouleur, whose job is the feigning of interest in whatever I'm talking about, is already bored, so I'll not inflict it via this forum on you. You'll have to talk to me.

Predictable metaphor alert. Bridges.



 

I did buy my dearest some good presents for Christmas, one of which is called, "The Book of Answers". On consulting it about whether I would achieve my plans for next year, its very insightful response was:

"Allow yourself to rest first"

 

How did it know? So better than reading all about it on here, or there, or everywhere, come and ride the real thing with me.

 

Happy new year. I don't have to explain all of it do I?

 

 

 

 

 



Time leaves us polished stones

This post starts off like it has a serious and profound message, but in the end you'll realise it's about cycling and the same as all the others. It's very clever.

I wonder how many people realise that today is the 52nd anniversary of the assassination of President Jack Kennedy. I didn't see anything about it on the news.I wonder how many people then knew that it would happen. He wasn't the first US President to die like that, he was the 4th, and plenty of others had near-misses.  I wonder if he thought it would ever happen to him.

On the day this picture was taken, I had earlier been in a train that filled with smoke. Brakes jammed on, but for about two minutes I didn't know that and thought it was going to get quite worrying. After the panic subsided people got annoyed about the delay. I was just grateful I wasn't actually trapped in a burning train.

I saw this beautiful sunset on the way home, and though these pictures never look quite as good on an iPhone and a blog-post, you can see where this train of thought is going.

I'm pretty sure there is no God. You are too if you analyse the situation carefully. Of course you'll bridle with indignation about it, but you know I'm right. Spirituality yes. Plenty of that, and plenty of quiet contemplation, but the need to believe? That's just a craving for the dopamine of certainty, and a need to be part of the in-group.

It inspires people to this type of architecture, all that belief. Especially when you have just skidded down a very muddy 15% gradient of a country lane, and have got to go up another one to leave it.

A real Winter's day for sure yesterday, Beast of a headwind, for once Ned Stark's warnings were all correct. I bet he never thought he'd get his head chopped off either. In fact I'm sure he didn't think it would happen to him.

But I knew I'd eventually get to Wales. Or pseudo-England as my real Welsh boss calls Monmouthshire. Although go back three generations and he's from Staffordshire. And I'm from London, Devon, Somerset. And France if you go back far enough. All the same really, there weren't enough of our predecessors for us not to be quite closely related. So wherever this was, we all come from there. Snow or no snow.

Despite the haggard experience, the next picture wasn't taken today, although I look just as bad today as I did when it was. In spite of what you may think, or others will tell you, if you can do something like 140 miles in a day on a bike, it's not that hard. It just takes practice and motivation. Like everything else. It's ordinary.

So what's stopping us?