Author: liz.rylott

(Friday 4^th August 2023)

How can it be the last day already..? Cal’s bike has nursed up another over-night puncture (I’ve lost count but it’s something like Cal 6: Rest of us 1; the puncture pixie really wants to be his friend…). The pixie might be colluding with the weather imps, as my forecast predicts rainclouds to be exclusively ours. We thwart them both by cutting the route straight to the hotel, then using the car we left there, to pick up the van from Hitchin while the rain blows over.

Under tyre, the terrain is gravelly sand, with flint chips; many of the older houses have flint fronts, and still plenty of thatched rooves. The Garmins point us generally N-ish into Linton, round Balsham then nudge into Cheveley (just S of Newmarket racing, and home of the famous Park Stud). Here we cross into Suffolk (Dicks Mount, and Cock and Bell Lane) through Mouton, then S into the welcoming embrace of the, straw pheasant-topped, Guinness Arms at Icklingham.

Once the vehicle logistics have been sorted, we polish the day off with a dive into the King’s Forest, full of deer, weird sheep hares and other likable critters. Like speed traps, the sandy tracks suck the speed, but also nurse out tyres like slippers; we finish the day, and trip, unpunctured.

It would have been satisfying to complete the full OCW, but we are time poor, and need to high-tail it back home.

A few more photos:

(Wednesday 2^nd August 2023)

Well it didn’t really happen. The weather forecast was foul, and our wasp-bitten friend has a head the size of a house. It’s touch-and-go if he’ll continue the ride, and instead we all take the day off. So this is a No Riding post. But, we are freshly fed and laundered (many thanks J&G!),

We squeeze in a morning stroll around Goring-on-Thames, in the dry, then shelter in Chiltern Velo while rain and tea pour down. The bill is paid with cash as ‘something’ has bitten the local Wifi cables. An educational jolly round the National History Museum at Tring later, explains that a surviving colony of naturalised Glis glis, inadvertently released by Walter Rothschild, the indulged first son of Lord Rothchild in 1800s are the cable chewers. Back in the van and a short drive to crisp sheets at the Greyhound Inn at Aldbury.

Tuesday 2nd August

Originally, a tailwind ride across chalkland bridleways, but following a wasp sting to the forehead of one of our party, we switched to back-up mode. We left The Elephant Man and partner in Devizes to seek out NHS assistance, and hightailed it on a headwind tarmac route to Axminster to fetch the van.

Taking the busy A360, we track S through Pottern, then SW onto B roads through Marston, Coulston and Bratton, and past the Westbury White Horse; grooming crew at work.

Wiltshire boasts a herd of white horses, eight in total. There’s an enticing White Horse cycle route for another trip…We chuff S uphill on a nasty A350 through Warminster , and on to Crockerton, then quieter roads past Shear Water (with a blissful-looking lakeside tea shop). The route improves further through

Maiden Bradley, and a lovely descent into North Brewham, then Bruton. I’m hopeful for a cafe stop, but we’re time pressed, so I sulk, on a spot of gum-free tarmac outside a Texaco, with a Starbucks and flapjack.
Refreshed, we pick up the baton again and plough through Wyke Champflower, Keinton Mandeville, and Summerton. In South Petherton, my partner required immediate calorie intake, and we again huddle down on the tarmac for energy infusion, this time next to some temporary traffic lights.

Not all of the route is grim, we ride some beautiful back roads, inc. the Foss Way (an old Roman road). But SatNav algorithms are directing vehicles off the A roads to save precious minutes, these cars and trucks squeeze past us with terrifying gung-ho joy.

Showers hit both us, and the many signs we pass, advertising soon-to-be-cancelled, summer fun; soggy tombola stands, sodden Morris dancer handkerchiefs, and muddy tug ‘o war bottoms.

A long descent on busy A roads takes us into Axminster, and our van. We double back to Devizes to collect Mr Gorgonhead and partner, and head over to Goring-on-Thames and the lovely In-laws, hopefully in time for G&Ts.

Note on wasps:

Towards the end of summer, the near-exhausted Queen wasp (she’s laid 1000s of eggs over the summer) lays a few eggs that develop into fertile females that will become new queens, and males. The males live for just a few days, dying after mating. The mated queens fly away to hibernate through the winter, and the old queen dies. The worker wasps, all female, are no longer under the hormonal control of the queen. These mad, menopausal wasps party their remaining days away like a nightmare hen party. They guzzle rotten fruit, swear, wear inappropriate clothing, and get into fights. If you cycle into one of them, they will take you on Big Time. Carry antihistamines, and take them asap post sting. Don’t forget to remove any rings/jewellery too in case swelling gets bad.

(Monday 31^th July 2023)

First job of the day is to get a grip, AKA visit a bike shop and swap my split, City Slicker tyre for something with some knobs on. Offcamber Bikes is just around the corner, and they are incredibly awesome. Despite a stack of bikes awaiting work, they find time to fix me with a set of tubeless knobbly bobblies (Cinturato Gravel Classics). These guys are Heroes 🦸‍♀️!

Today’s route is not as hilly, but there’s still some climbing, so we make sure to dodge round Hodhill (144m) while we’re still settling our breakfasts. The route shadows the River Stour before turning east and rising~150m into Shaftesbury. Three of us miss the first turning, and end up powering the slippery slabs up to the hilltop town’s church made famous in the Hovis bicycle ad .

Obvs, there’s a cake stop here (trip cake+: days travelled tally now 4:2, and a chemist stop; one of our party stung through his helmet by a wasp(?)). Then I get to test the knobbly tyres on some fantastic CX down through the woods from Shaftesbury. We whisk up the chocolatey puddles into milkshake. It’s not dissimilar to the chocolate lake in Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Cholate Factory (If we’re lucky, there’s the chance of a washing machine at the next stop!).

Grinning with joy as we whiz past Great Hanging (the good ‘ole days eh?) then over the border into Wiltshire (also home of Honey Knob Hill, Old Sodom Lane, and Ram Alley). A stiff climb on loose gravel takes us up White Sheet (242m), then with a tail wind, and slight downhill, we glide across classic chalk tracks to Chiselbury (204m; so not just my dad who mislaid his tools…).

A fun descent into Wilton follows, another carpet classic with a twist. Our cafe of choice is no longer serving lunch, and despondently turned our custom away (a sign on the door revealing the business is for sale). We cross the square where parking motorists are yelling obscenities at each other, and find sanctuary in the welcoming (newly re-named/ownership?) Cuckoo cafe. Wilton is a bottleneck for the A36, and heavy, angry traffic charges continuously just outside the cafe windows. But the food is yummy😋

We follow the valley, and mercenary A36, to Great Wishford. It is a relief, and minor miracle, to survive the nose-2-tail road traffic, and we peel off for Chain Hill (142m) along a bridle way, with blackberries at the top.

Crossing more chalky paths, with wild flower meadows, the sun actually peaks out for long enough to flint on the tyre sealant hissing from my front tyre. The Sealant Gods are lenient on me today and the puncture heals quickly, although a slow puncture continues to be an issue for Cal. And his wasp bite is still swelling…

Over a small rise and there are The Henges. Bit bigger than I was led to believe from my youth at Spinal Tap concerts…

But incredulous to believe that we treat such an amazing site with such rudeness!

Thick traffic crawls past on the nearby road, and a multitude of vans, wagons and vehicles line a long, rutted siding for parking.

We’re not hanging about to be depressed by the horrors here, and speed on across Salisbury Plain, a famous active military range.

No shooting today thankfully, but some faffing with punctures, and the wasp stung Cal has taken on the appearance of the Elephant Man. We slither down deep clay-filled ruts, like hippos in a luge, then pass through villages inc the elaborately named Etchilihampton, before a ride over a monument Hill, arriving at the Bear Hotel in Devizes (with Wadworth’s 6X promised…).

We’re packing light, washing our cycling kit out each night and wearing it again each morning.  If we’re lucky, there’s the chance of a washing machine at the next stop!

(Sunday 30^th July 2023)

The start of our trip along(ish) The Old Chalk Way: following a geological finger of chalk from Axminster to Icklingham, Cambridgeshire (the actual route is longer). 

Yesterday, we got in-position at Beer YHA, and into the mood by drinking beers (obvs). This morning, due to later logistics, we drove up to Axminster then packed ‘n strapped the bikes. A light drizzle took-to-work on our dry and wizened visages as we set off. Today’s route rising like the scaley coils of a sea monster, up and down into the distance.

After ~10 miles exemplary cycling, we feel we’ve earned a treat, and swerve off the route to sample some local yumities at Attisham Farm (thewagonhousedorset.co.uk).

We’re in Dorset, and there although not directly on our route, there are some amusing place names that should be chuckled over: Happy Bottom, Piddle River, Scratchy Bottom, Shaggs and Shitterton. We plunge and soar (ok, heave and paddle) through Evershop, Holwell, Cerne Abbas…

While I’m still chortling about names in Dorset it’s a good time to mention Mr Cerne Abbas and his 11m member. The naked giant, cut into the chalk hillside is, it seems, “Britain’s most famous phallus”. Harder to make out his facial features on the Wiki image above, but I’m thinking he’s happy. Or he was…

Today he looked like this:

And we were not the only disappointed folks at the viewpoint. Strangers were audibly sniggering at his ‘invisible’ winkle.

Nutrition and adequate refuelling are critical factors in a successful cycle trip, so we pull into the Abbas Tearooms for clotted cream scones (as eaten by Tadej Pogačar on many tours).

The facial drizzle continues. It’s knocking years off us; we’re practically teenagers… it’s also making the tails slippery. The chalky sea monster scales turn into monster, wheels-sucking chocolate brownies. My

We unequivocally storm Bulbarrow Hill (275m) then poke our way through Winterborne Stickland, to arrive at Blandford Forum. The Crown Hotel welcomes us warmly with a heady whiff of chips.

Today was a hot, tough, awesome day – 40oC, lots of climbing and some great descending.

After a night spent barking like a seal for fish (good moaning alveoli), I think I’d better get an early start on the peloton and head out into the cool crisp mountain air. There’s about 1000m of climbing up to the Col de la Cayolle, I’m huffing ‘n a puffing, and can hear a marmot’s whistling laugh. Later on, another marmot is lying in the road snoozing, or possibly making a joke about my ascent rate.

One of the group, Ian, catches me up half-way providing enjoyable Bolton dialogue and gentle pacing for the rest of the climb. The col monument is buzzing with swaggering leathery bikers, their bikes and a drone they are using to record their leathery conquest. While they swept gracefully past me on the ascent, they are distinctly less fluid when detached from their bikes.

More of us arrive at the summit and we slurp sliced watermelon and re-fuel. The descent is blissful with tight switch-backs at first then carving, ski-like turns. #poogarmin tells me there’s a 150m of climbing ahead. It’s an odd profile, steeply up and down, but a smirk and relief when I realise this portrays the inability of the device to factor in tunnels.

Mr Trek Emonda and I fly through a series of stunning one-way tunnels cut through the purple coloured rocks along the valley side. The views of the valley falling away to my left are jaw-dropping.

The last dregs of the descent are eked out to a lunch stop in Entervaux. We sit in the shade, but the heat is building; this could be the hottest day of the trip.

I hop onto the back of the JuJoBra train (and jokingly take the lead) for a gentle post-lunch ride to the foot of the next climb, a 700m haul from Puget-Theniers.

The climb is a struggle; the Garmin has topped 40oC (later reaching 42oC) and I’m coughing my lungs up. But it’s the last day, the penultimate ascent, and I’m going to get stuck in. Others are struggling a little too…

Cool as a cucumber, literally: he’s parked in the shade with an ice box of drinks, Martin is waiting at the top. Not sure quite what he thinks of us. Why are we putting ourselves through this pain and suffering? We could be melting our bodies into the sun loungers of Nice. But it’s lovely to see him, he is perfectly timed as ever, and has all the supplies we need.

Briefly chilled, we sweep back out into the sunshine and power east along the baking back of the hill, passing through exquisite hideaway villages of Les Crottes and Touton and Tourette du-Chateux, then finally, down to the valley floor.

View to south from near Touton

The Final Countdown is a kitsch favourite song one of my daughters plays well on her kazoo. I inwardly giggle that has it popped into my head on the final climb of the trip. Brains; what are they like? With some light swearing, we start the climb, we’re all clearly a bit fatigued, even the train drivers. It is a rare day indeed when a mere 400m ascent is broken with a stop for an iced coke, but we all readily pull over. Some discarding shoes and socks to cool further. Taking inspiration from the 1980s Timotei ad, Brandon and I plunge our pink, boiled heads into the water trough (think the Timotei woman was probs more photogenic here).

Of course we make the final summit. It’s a source of inspiration, no matter the pain and torment, summits are always reached. My lurgied lungs are sulking, and I cough like a mad dog as we storm down the hill. A bit giddy, we naughtily race through the Nice traffic, switching lanes and setting horns tooting. Van driver Graham is waiting outside the hotel. We pull up and let out a few ‘whoops’ of excitement (it might be only me that does this).

We’ve ridden over 1000km, and up nearly 15,000m of ascent. Nearly nine miles straight up (to my metric-adverse colleagues who kept wibbling about feet: over 50 years now…).

A few remaining things to do. We dismantle and pack the bikes, shower and salve our saddle sores, then get ready to parade our Farmers Tans to the beautiful chic, Niçoise.

Thank you to the awesome @YorkCycleworks for lending me the handsome Mr Emonda SL6. Not a sausage of a mechanical over the entire trip, the cornering of a weasel, and a thousand watt-smile generator. It’s am awesome bike.

Finally, I cannot turn the lights out on this post series without thanking all of you lovely folks for donating your hard-earned cash to Bolton Lads and Girls Club. At time of typing, we’re already at £3,185. With rider donations coming shortly, I think we’ll hit the target 🙂 Hopefully, my blog shows how cycling is a great medium for allowing the mind to relax, wander and flourish. The BLGC provides young people with activities and support when and where they need it so they can flourish too. If you’re still feeling incumbered with extra cash, then here’s the link: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

On day 7, we cycled through an abandoned hamlet: Careles. From the history, I read that about a hundred years ago, a shepherding family moved into the buildings there. The buildings and location provided everything they needed; but, the wooden slated roof tiles leaked persistently in the rain. Over their first winter there, it rained a lot, and food, bedding and clothing were damaged. One of the shepherds, Pierre, was especially discontent. He called a meeting for the community to discuss what they might do. Pierre, his brothers and families argued into the evening. No-one had an answer. As tempers flared, a travelling stranger arrived seeking shelter for the night. He listened to the sheepherders discussions, and offered to supply corrugated iron to re-clad the rooves. It was expensive but everyone agreed the investment to be worth it.

The following spring, a lorry slowly made its way up the valley, swaggering under the weight of the new iron sheets. The villagers set to work, pulling away the old wooden tiles and nailing the iron onto the roofs. It was hard work, but they worked diligently, and within a few days the little cottages appeared watertight. But it was also a dry year, and no rain fell until mid September. When it arrived, it was no light shower but a brewing and angry storm. At first the rain fell onto the corrugated sheeting like sand on a snare drum. Pierre and the others glanced up at their handiwork and smiled. But then the wind whistled louder down the valley it brought heavier rain. The weighty drops hit the sheeting like bullets. Bang. Bang. Bang. The wind began to scream across the corrugated curves, and the rain turned to hail. With eye-splitting cracks, each icy pellet rapped down hard onto the roofs. Pierre cupped his hands over his ears but he could not escape the noise. Bang. Bang. Bang. For hours, the unbearable smashing continued, hitting the shepherds ears like a Gatling gun. Gradually their eyes began to glaze over…

With a jolt, Pierre screeched back his chair from the table and swiftly rose. He strode to the door, and stepped into the storm. Reaching up to the roof, he started to claw and tear the sheeting with his bare hands. The others quickly followed, and gradually the whole community were outside, with unfocused eyes, feverishly pulling and ripping at the corrugated iron. Torrential rain drenched the shepherds, plastering their hair to their faces, while curled ribbons of iron cut into their flesh, lacerating their hands, arms and faces. The shepherds did not flinch, feasting manically on a desperate urge to strip the corrugated iron sheeting. Eventually, one by one, they fell exhausted into the muddy ground, the blood from their bodies draining into the rivulets of storm water flowing down the valley.

Morning opened to clear skies, and gradually a lorry became visible trundling up from the valley.

Now coughing like a banshee. Lovely Dr Mike has given me some antibiotics for a chest infection and today I’m taking it easy. ‘Easy’ is 1500m ascent to the Col de la Bonette. We’re all wearing out pink tour tops for a planned summit group photo. Pink to replicate the maglia rosa worn by the lead rider in the Tour of Italy.

Knowing that Brandon and others will start late, specifically to enjoy picking the rest of us off like safari game, I think I’d better get going. It’s a pleasant 16oC, I pass the popular vegetable market stalls in Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée and turn the bike up towards the head of the valley.

Despite the best plans, creams, ointments and salves, my derriere is not happy. She’s close to leaving the party, and I have to coax her into staying. We compromise with some ‘stand-up’ pedalling now and again; usually an activity reserved for cyclists feeling fit and ready to ‘jump’ a lead on the peloton. I laugh to myself, and try not to cough a lung up.

The alpine flora is stunning, and I cannot help myself taking photos of most of the flowers. Something I do every alpine trip, never doing anything with the pictures, but feeling an urge to capture them somehow (maybe I’m more like Safari Brandon than I realise).

(one day I’ll insert a montage of all the flower photos I took…)

After yesterday’s efforts, I’m finding the climb tough, it’s a long way to ascend in a ‘oner’. I look around drinking in the incredible scenery, and realising that this is the penultimate day of the trip. How each day has dragged then flown.

As I press my left pedal, I hear a squeak. Oh no, a mechanical? I momentarily stop pedalling, the squeak stops too, recurring as I pedal further. I re-test several times. Finally, I locate the noise. There is a bird nearby, a pedal-tit(?). Does it do this deliberately? Laughing at all the puzzled cyclists? There is something ‘active’ about this valley. To my left, I swear a marmot is laughing at me (from a safe distance).

Pulling around the next corner, a hamlet (Carsles?)of abandoned cottages swing into view. They sit quietly hugging the hillside, their unglazed, empty windows staring back at me. The road weaves between them, and I have an eerie feeling something bad happened here…

Pedalling continues, I’m not getting in the grupetto, but I am hugely annoyed when Samantha lets me know she has reached the top, 300m above me. Samantha is my Garmin virtual partner. She runs on an algorithm written by Garmin and is designed to be an adversary to help spur you to ride faster. It doesn’t sound great to say this (I’m a little ashamed), but until this weekend, I’ve enjoyed giving Samantha a good kicking. Now she gives me a digital raspberry tune from the Garmin. Samantha and I are not friends. Tonight I will delete her very existence. And laugh.

On long ascents like this, there is the comfort that you do always finally arrive at the top, and true to form, the Col de la Bonette is (eventually) conquered! There is no café, just a dusty track and a large stone on a plinth. A small queue of polite cyclists and leather-clad motorbikes are queuing for photographs. The view is a little obstructed by the motorbikes, who I think perhaps avoid walking anywhere. They pull right up the monument, negating the need for any unnecessary walking (do they ride like this to the toilet too?).

The descent, apart from a couple of ruckles, is dreamy, creamy smooth, and even sweeter knowing there are no further hills today. We reassemble in a shady picnic table, gilets and jackets donned against the chill of the descent, are stowed.

For only the second time in the trip, we come into peloton formation, and charge, as a pink pedalling snake, down into Balconette, for a late lunch and relaxation at the hotel.

After a feverish night, I have woken to find a dead badger in my chest, Bonnie Tyler living in my throat, and Keith Richards in the mirror. Covid test is negative so no excuses. As the only female in the trip it is important to remind all the males just how stubborn and foolish females can be (I think they might already know…), and we’ve had a rest day, so no complaining. In fact I think people are keen to get back on their bikes, if not necessarily back on their saddles…

Today’s route takes us north from the coast and 24km up over the, (average gradient 5%) Col de Turini at 68km. A second, similar climb over La Colmiane pass, a popular French ski resort follows at 104km. And a final push to Le Rabuons hostel in Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée. A not insignificant day, but at least the distance should have us all finished before it’s dark this time.

A bit sorrowful to leave the cool sea breeze, but we head north, our hills in the distance peeking through the town.

Once clear of the traffic, we settle into steady uphill rhythms. The morning heat is building, and I dodge into the shade whenever possible. It is a very long climb, ~1500m, and I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself. I settle into the oven-ready pain cave trying to distract myself with the sublime scenery.

While on Italian climbs, it’s not uncommon for an affable local to pull alongside. Always male, and with the appearance of the 1980s character from Magnum PI. He’s invariably wearing a gilet to fend off the inclement 28oC morning temperatures, but with a good rug of protruding chest hair. A friendly “Ciao”, then further lacy, curling Italian follows “dove vai oggi?”. My Yorkshire ‘Chow’ is all that is needed. He will immediately detect the twang, effortlessly switching to bouncy English and ask me where I’m from. Currently, I am from Manchester, this is a place in northern England they’re likely to have heard of, so offers no difficulties with further explanation. We can then confirm that yes it is too hot for me in Italy, and that yes I do indeed like rain. We part on friendly terms, with a “Buon viaggio” from him and a ‘Chow” back from me (I have no idea what he said).

At the Col de Turini summit there is, naturally, a café. And even better: we are now in France, I’m hoping for delicate French comestibles. There is Tarte Myrtille, a right result!!!!!

The pass is famous for its twisting hairpin bends. The road is dry (I am a sensible chicken descender in the wet), and people are itching to press their bikes into the corners like gliding down like Marble Run At the valley floor, there is no respite, we are straight up into the second climb.

Long climbs: If you’re not a pro, with your Director Sportif yelling in your ear to go faster (or else…), then a big part of successfully climbing hills is to find a pace that’s going to get you there aerobically, and distracting your mind from giving up. For keen naturalists, staring into the verge for botanical relief can be quite effective. Trying to pluck from my brain, the names of alpine flowers I should know. A second approach, and not always avoidable, is a repetitious mantra. Usually banal earworm lyric, on day 5, I was unable to rid myself of Cher ‘Turn[ing] back Time’ for the best part of 20km, and just the first four lines too.

Other distractions include messing about with Garmin settings (something I would be doing if my #poogarmin powermeter pedals had chosen to ‘pair’ on this trip); trying to improve pedalling action; stretching back/shoulders/neck, naming animals alphabetically, and obviously, enjoying the simply stunning alpine scenery.

Today, distractions are not working. Melvin Bragg joins the pain cave party (and it’s 30 oC), bringing his nasal twang. The climb to the summit is horrible. I think about disabling my Share Location, and going to sleep under a tree…

We ride through towns mostly destroyed by some epic event, biblical flood, or avalanche. The residents are slowly rebuilding, diggers painstakingly moving each of the millions of ~2m diameter stones that have surged through the towns, one at a time.

I make the second summit, and a kindly Martin supplies cool Fanta. The decent is a respite, but before long, I am back in the pain cave, hauling up an endless climb to the hostel. The dead badger is getting a bit fetid. Bonnie, Melvin, Keith and I all concur it is the hardest cycle we can remember. I go for another (negative) covid test, a shower, then collasp on the bed for some gentle swearing (I will tidy this blog up later…).

As I’m still repeating…(sorry) we’re raising money for Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) a provider of targeted Youth Support services. As always, we pay for everything ourselves so you know that every penny you donate goes directly to BLGC.  Our Just giving page is here: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blgcitalianclassics 

Your support will spur me into even greater patisserie-fuelled endeavours. Thank You 🙂

No riding today, so perhaps time for a quick plug for my lovely, friendly Local Bike Shop: York Cycleworks. The team there keep my bike serviced, reliable and on the road. They also spotted some stress cracks on my 2021 (and admittedly well-used) Trek Domane frame, readily arranging an under-warranty replacement (and possibly saving a catastrophic frame failure- gulp!).

While Trek have honoured their warranty, communications and delivery have been more hiccupy. With a global pandemic, bike components are a problem even for pro teams, so when my replacement bike (ordered in Nov. 2021) failed to arrive in time for this trip, it was hugely disappointing, but not exactly unexpected.

YCWs immediately pulled out all the stops to lend me a brand new gorgeous Trek Emonda SL6. It descends hills like a rodelbahn, and I am having a complete ball!

While we all can manage a variable degree of bike maintenance, everyone in this sport depends their LBS at some point or other. There are still many things the internet cannot provide, and friendly local help and advice is irreplaceable.