Sometimes I think I’ve done an epic ride and I sit back, smug at the 70 miler I’ve casually spuffed out. I then check on strava to see how it measures up against my peers, only to be confronted by some slab of degenerate madness.
And I think, well, at around the 70 mile mark when I was limping home through Whitchurch, legs like rotting pieces of whale blubber quivering on the shoreline, old Spinky and Gesink had another 137 miles to go and were just getting warmed up.
I’ve never ridden 137 miles in one go in my life, let alone 207. I have ridden 100 miles or more on two occasions. Once in a time trial, and once on tour. I have no plans to repeat either event. Maybe I’m just jealous.