Graham Douchebag, an erstwhile riding partner, used to do unspeakable things involving absurd mileage over the course of a weekend. He’d ride to Anglesey and back, pausing for about 7 minutes sleep in a hedgerow somewhere near Bulith Wells, resting his weary head on a rolled up copy of razzle, a discarded KFC bucket, used prophylactics, or whatever else was to hand.
It has become apparent that some of my other cycling comrades, excluding the monstrous long-distance beast who is Gareth Baines, have taken to the roads for similar hell-fests. Sometimes they instagram their exploits mid-ride. At other times they simply wait and then unleash a strava-bomb of truly horrific proportions, destroying the club leaderboard for elevation and distance in an instant and leaving the time-stretched cyclist in a reticulated state of utter slack-jawedness.
The pictures below tell a story; one of getting to Clee Hill after 104 miles in the saddle, with only 104 miles to go to get home again. As for the bottom image, I don’t think Vilas Silverton even went out with anyone else; he did what’s known as a ‘perm’. It’s some kind of existential journey into the long dark night, but with a bicycle. I imagine for Vilas, what with him being a paid-up member of the Sri Chinmoy, there was more than a hefty amount of joy involved.
I salute them all.
In other news, I got hold of my new touring bicycle this weekend.