@Heltor Chasca interesting name on that top tube. Lady Eleanor Granville was a 17th century natural historian specialising in insects. Didn’t know she rode a bike!
Your ride today....
- Thread starter gbb
- Start date
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Heltor Chasca
Out-riding the Black Dog
She was a marginalised and discriminated against woman of her time. Deemed mentally unwell or ‘mad’ by the patriarchy for wanting to do a man’s job. I am all for inclusivity and female empowerment.
The first tour I went on with this bike was down to the Isle of Wight to seek out the endemic Glanville Fritillary. Hence the name of my bike.
jongooligan
Legendary Member
- Location
- Behind bars
EltonFrog
Legendary Member
Another pop down to the shops and another soaking, feckin’ bastid, weather.
It was sunny and windy when I got the bike out of the garage, as soon as I was fifty feet down the road it pissed down all the way to Didcot, and the wind kicked up a few notches too, at least it was mostly behind me. I was not looking forward to the ride back.
Did my shopping, twenty minutes later I was out again and the rain had stopped and the wind had mostly calmed down.
So, 5.52 miles on the Whyte hybrid today.
It was sunny and windy when I got the bike out of the garage, as soon as I was fifty feet down the road it pissed down all the way to Didcot, and the wind kicked up a few notches too, at least it was mostly behind me. I was not looking forward to the ride back.
Did my shopping, twenty minutes later I was out again and the rain had stopped and the wind had mostly calmed down.
So, 5.52 miles on the Whyte hybrid today.
The_Weekend_Report_Guy
Pablo's Cycling Tours
- Location
- Coín, Málaga
Saturday: One more ride and a few to go before reaching the yearly goal of distance..
Nice bunch out this morning..
15590 km … 600 to go!
Nice bunch out this morning..
15590 km … 600 to go!
The_Weekend_Report_Guy
Pablo's Cycling Tours
- Location
- Coín, Málaga
Sunday and the journey to 10.000 miles.
Another one to get closer...
Today was a MTB day. This same loop might be doable with the gravel bike.. Maybe I give it a try one day.
Not may pics today since I could not get to the top of nothing before the rest of the guys. Except this one little hill with a view.
The Ride
Another one to get closer...
Today was a MTB day. This same loop might be doable with the gravel bike.. Maybe I give it a try one day.
Not may pics today since I could not get to the top of nothing before the rest of the guys. Except this one little hill with a view.
The Ride
I’m just up the road in Oxford, it was lovely until about 1.00pm. I got out this afternoon and just pedalled in to town on our old hybrid hack, quite a nice ride though just took it easy and enjoyed a slower pace.
footloose crow
Veteran
- Location
- Cornwall. UK
7 December A day at the seaside
'Sibling rivalry is bad' says my sister-in-law who is a consultant clinical psychologist but I remember her as a gawky eighteen year old when she first met my brother. That helps overcome my natural deference to authority.
My brother is here for the weekend and we are going for a bike ride. This means a hidden agenda of who can climb the hill fastest, who can descend most crazily, who has the best boasts about virility and activity levels for late middle aged men. We have been practicing sibling rivalry for sixty years and we now are quite good at it. Madame Crow and the Psychologist are coming with us on a cycle ride over the hill to Perranporth for lunch. The Psychologist wants to know "how big is the hill?".
I mumble. There are more in fact than I can remember as it turns out. Madame Crow who is now an e-Crow with her carbon fibre and battery bike is floating above the discussion on the number, steepness and height of hills to come. She no longer cares as long as she still has power. I am split between psyching out Brother in advance with improbable tales of vertiginity and exhaustion and not putting off the Psychologist who dislikes hills. I expect she knows this.
The lanes out of Truro have not improved since the last time and we are quickly deep in the mire. Especially me, as the Psychologist does not run mudguards on her bike and I have been instructed by Madame to stay behind her and not try to force the pace. I am rapidly turning the same colour as the road as a stream of filth leaves the Psycholgist's back tyre. I try to avoid breathing it in.
The first hill arrives just beyond Idless Woods, initially overhung with old oaks and then twisting up towards a leaden sky. I detect an overtaking manoeuvre from Brother and Madame's instructions are forgotten as sibling rivalry courses through my veins, pumping out of my heart and with lungs burning we race each other to the top. Only I know where the top is and it isn't at the place that he thinks it is. As Brother relaxes thinking he has won, I pass him and am onto the next steep ramp. He is broken, unprepared for more uphill and cannot keep up. The Psychologist detects what has happened when she arrives at the top and I sense disapproval from both females.
The views open up now, rolling fields and small woods. A hint of sunshine, some blue space in the sky, a cleaner road all combine to make me forget the turning I meant to take and we emerge onto the A30, stopped in a line, the shockwaves from passing lorries hitting us like lines of surf.
"Is this where you meant to be?" enquires Madame.
I nod. Never admit to failure.
"It isn't is it?" says the Psychologist.
Just a few hundred yards along the road I tell them and we can turn right. All follow me as we hug the nearside curb, wobbling in the slipstream of passing vehicles. Scuttling across the road at the junction and onto another busy road. I head off, looking as if I am leading but really trying to remember how to get from here to Zelah, which is where I meant to be originally. A sign finally appears and we all gratefully escape into the quietness of Zelah, a village where nothing happens and there is no traffic. Peace and quiet.
But not today. The hunt are meeting here. Thee are horses and horse boxes. Hounds and spectators. A forest of green tweed, Range Rovers, Land Rovers, the odd Suzuki, quad bikes. Everything except the fox is in Zelah.
Confused by the commotion I make another wrong turn, uphill and along a lane that has seen only tractors all winter. There are two deep tracks between a foot of mud that runs from hedge to hedge. I entreat everyone to stay in the ruts and quickly get ahead before Brother can get in front of me. He can't overtake as he cannot get out of his rut.
"Do you actually like going uphill?" gasps the Psychologist. I am surprised she is asking as I thought my body language would give it away. We have climbed several hills now. I have lost my heart - it has jumped out and is somewhere inside my jersey banging on my ribs to be let back in. My lungs are inside out.
"And are there any more hills?" she asks. I avoid looking her in the eye. I decide a lie is best.
"No, just a section of rolling road."
I think she knows I am lying but nothing is said.
'Rolling road' is a promise that will be brought up in conversation for the rest of the day and not in a good way. We descend down a helter-skelter hill, brakes on, sliding on the mossy road surface and then gasp up the 8% hill to follow. Another dip, another hill. Goonhavern comes and goes, a brief oasis of horizontal road, a reminder of what it feels like to pedal normally. The road continues to 'roll' until the sea comes in sight. With collective gratitude we descend the hill and are quickly onto the beach.
We are very dirty. Heroically we have taken on the task of cleaning Cornwall's back lanes by attaching all the dirt to our clothes and bikes. It takes a while to find a pub that will allow us in. During the meal I am cross examined on the nature of the route back home and promise faithfully that it will be cleaner, much less steep with hardly any hills. I do not admit to having lost my map earlier this week and be navigating entirely by reference to the sun, which I can't see through the clouds and sneaky looks at Google maps, which I can't read very well as my glasses are filmed with mud. I have a map with me, but it does not cover this area, it just covers me from from Madame Crow's suspicions that I am making up the route as I go along.
Out of Perranporth and along Perrancombe, a steep sided valley lined with individual houses and bungalows of many ages and styles, all vying to be as different from each other as possible. The road rises slowly and gracefully and I sense approval for my choice of route, until a sudden left hand turn shows us to be at the bottom of a steep road to the valley top. Very steep. I lead the way.
Brother arrives at the top several minutes after me. I say nothing. He knows. He tells me he thought he should wait for his wife at the half way point. I nod. He knows.
Madame has been here for a while. She breezed past me half way up the hill, saying "are you finding this difficult?". She loves her e-bike. The Psychologist is last, pushing her bike. She says nothing but I get the message.
The hill was an error. It wasn't the hill I meant to go up and it has deposited us on the main road from Perranporth to the rest of the world. We make a file, as vans and cars caress us with gusts of slipstream, some drivers seemingly unaware of the length of their vehicle. I dive off at the first turning and soon we are hurtling down a hill, tree lined, shrouded in gloom and I know what goes down must come up. As it does. Another long bursting effort, the lane going left and right, hoping each new bend will bring sight of the top. We emerge back onto the road that we left half an hour ago. A glance along it shows it to have taken a level course, unlike us. Madame asks me if this is the same road we were on before. I assure her it is a completely different one.
Another hundred yards and another turning. Anything to get away from the traffic which seems ceaseless today. Only the traffic wants to come with us as this road joins another, a major vein joining an artery and I can see the the roundabout on the A30 a mile ahead. No one is saying anything. Cars, vans and lorries continue to swerve around us, some more effectively than others. I am following the Psychologist's back wheel again, scolded by Madame about "running ahead all the time". It is not a happy place to be. She seems to take a delight in cycling through puddles. Almost as if I am being punished for some wrong. Brother sees his opportunity and comes past. Soon he is a fluorescent blob in the distance.
The roundabout is too dangerous to cycle around and we cross lanes of traffic, bump up kerbs, push through the rubbish strewn edges of the dual carriageway until I see a quieter road. No one asks any questions now.
Within a mile I thankfully find a blue NCN sign showing me the quiet way into Truro. Familiar lanes now, I know the way. Brother and I are being held on a leash and we cannot get ahead, cannot race for the bridge, jostle for the junction, edge for the lead. Except that we are inexplicably far ahead anyway as we descend into the madness of Christmas shopping traffic in Truro. There is a final hill. One I know well. I win.
Later, after showers and tea and with mince pies in our hands, we talk about the day. Brother's Strava track is three miles longer than mine and has 300 extra feet of ascent. We cannot decide if it means he won or lost. Madame has the final word:
"I am getting you a cycle GPS for Christmas".
'Sibling rivalry is bad' says my sister-in-law who is a consultant clinical psychologist but I remember her as a gawky eighteen year old when she first met my brother. That helps overcome my natural deference to authority.
My brother is here for the weekend and we are going for a bike ride. This means a hidden agenda of who can climb the hill fastest, who can descend most crazily, who has the best boasts about virility and activity levels for late middle aged men. We have been practicing sibling rivalry for sixty years and we now are quite good at it. Madame Crow and the Psychologist are coming with us on a cycle ride over the hill to Perranporth for lunch. The Psychologist wants to know "how big is the hill?".
I mumble. There are more in fact than I can remember as it turns out. Madame Crow who is now an e-Crow with her carbon fibre and battery bike is floating above the discussion on the number, steepness and height of hills to come. She no longer cares as long as she still has power. I am split between psyching out Brother in advance with improbable tales of vertiginity and exhaustion and not putting off the Psychologist who dislikes hills. I expect she knows this.
The lanes out of Truro have not improved since the last time and we are quickly deep in the mire. Especially me, as the Psychologist does not run mudguards on her bike and I have been instructed by Madame to stay behind her and not try to force the pace. I am rapidly turning the same colour as the road as a stream of filth leaves the Psycholgist's back tyre. I try to avoid breathing it in.
The first hill arrives just beyond Idless Woods, initially overhung with old oaks and then twisting up towards a leaden sky. I detect an overtaking manoeuvre from Brother and Madame's instructions are forgotten as sibling rivalry courses through my veins, pumping out of my heart and with lungs burning we race each other to the top. Only I know where the top is and it isn't at the place that he thinks it is. As Brother relaxes thinking he has won, I pass him and am onto the next steep ramp. He is broken, unprepared for more uphill and cannot keep up. The Psychologist detects what has happened when she arrives at the top and I sense disapproval from both females.
The views open up now, rolling fields and small woods. A hint of sunshine, some blue space in the sky, a cleaner road all combine to make me forget the turning I meant to take and we emerge onto the A30, stopped in a line, the shockwaves from passing lorries hitting us like lines of surf.
"Is this where you meant to be?" enquires Madame.
I nod. Never admit to failure.
"It isn't is it?" says the Psychologist.
Just a few hundred yards along the road I tell them and we can turn right. All follow me as we hug the nearside curb, wobbling in the slipstream of passing vehicles. Scuttling across the road at the junction and onto another busy road. I head off, looking as if I am leading but really trying to remember how to get from here to Zelah, which is where I meant to be originally. A sign finally appears and we all gratefully escape into the quietness of Zelah, a village where nothing happens and there is no traffic. Peace and quiet.
But not today. The hunt are meeting here. Thee are horses and horse boxes. Hounds and spectators. A forest of green tweed, Range Rovers, Land Rovers, the odd Suzuki, quad bikes. Everything except the fox is in Zelah.
Confused by the commotion I make another wrong turn, uphill and along a lane that has seen only tractors all winter. There are two deep tracks between a foot of mud that runs from hedge to hedge. I entreat everyone to stay in the ruts and quickly get ahead before Brother can get in front of me. He can't overtake as he cannot get out of his rut.
"Do you actually like going uphill?" gasps the Psychologist. I am surprised she is asking as I thought my body language would give it away. We have climbed several hills now. I have lost my heart - it has jumped out and is somewhere inside my jersey banging on my ribs to be let back in. My lungs are inside out.
"And are there any more hills?" she asks. I avoid looking her in the eye. I decide a lie is best.
"No, just a section of rolling road."
I think she knows I am lying but nothing is said.
'Rolling road' is a promise that will be brought up in conversation for the rest of the day and not in a good way. We descend down a helter-skelter hill, brakes on, sliding on the mossy road surface and then gasp up the 8% hill to follow. Another dip, another hill. Goonhavern comes and goes, a brief oasis of horizontal road, a reminder of what it feels like to pedal normally. The road continues to 'roll' until the sea comes in sight. With collective gratitude we descend the hill and are quickly onto the beach.
We are very dirty. Heroically we have taken on the task of cleaning Cornwall's back lanes by attaching all the dirt to our clothes and bikes. It takes a while to find a pub that will allow us in. During the meal I am cross examined on the nature of the route back home and promise faithfully that it will be cleaner, much less steep with hardly any hills. I do not admit to having lost my map earlier this week and be navigating entirely by reference to the sun, which I can't see through the clouds and sneaky looks at Google maps, which I can't read very well as my glasses are filmed with mud. I have a map with me, but it does not cover this area, it just covers me from from Madame Crow's suspicions that I am making up the route as I go along.
Out of Perranporth and along Perrancombe, a steep sided valley lined with individual houses and bungalows of many ages and styles, all vying to be as different from each other as possible. The road rises slowly and gracefully and I sense approval for my choice of route, until a sudden left hand turn shows us to be at the bottom of a steep road to the valley top. Very steep. I lead the way.
Brother arrives at the top several minutes after me. I say nothing. He knows. He tells me he thought he should wait for his wife at the half way point. I nod. He knows.
Madame has been here for a while. She breezed past me half way up the hill, saying "are you finding this difficult?". She loves her e-bike. The Psychologist is last, pushing her bike. She says nothing but I get the message.
The hill was an error. It wasn't the hill I meant to go up and it has deposited us on the main road from Perranporth to the rest of the world. We make a file, as vans and cars caress us with gusts of slipstream, some drivers seemingly unaware of the length of their vehicle. I dive off at the first turning and soon we are hurtling down a hill, tree lined, shrouded in gloom and I know what goes down must come up. As it does. Another long bursting effort, the lane going left and right, hoping each new bend will bring sight of the top. We emerge back onto the road that we left half an hour ago. A glance along it shows it to have taken a level course, unlike us. Madame asks me if this is the same road we were on before. I assure her it is a completely different one.
Another hundred yards and another turning. Anything to get away from the traffic which seems ceaseless today. Only the traffic wants to come with us as this road joins another, a major vein joining an artery and I can see the the roundabout on the A30 a mile ahead. No one is saying anything. Cars, vans and lorries continue to swerve around us, some more effectively than others. I am following the Psychologist's back wheel again, scolded by Madame about "running ahead all the time". It is not a happy place to be. She seems to take a delight in cycling through puddles. Almost as if I am being punished for some wrong. Brother sees his opportunity and comes past. Soon he is a fluorescent blob in the distance.
The roundabout is too dangerous to cycle around and we cross lanes of traffic, bump up kerbs, push through the rubbish strewn edges of the dual carriageway until I see a quieter road. No one asks any questions now.
Within a mile I thankfully find a blue NCN sign showing me the quiet way into Truro. Familiar lanes now, I know the way. Brother and I are being held on a leash and we cannot get ahead, cannot race for the bridge, jostle for the junction, edge for the lead. Except that we are inexplicably far ahead anyway as we descend into the madness of Christmas shopping traffic in Truro. There is a final hill. One I know well. I win.
Later, after showers and tea and with mince pies in our hands, we talk about the day. Brother's Strava track is three miles longer than mine and has 300 extra feet of ascent. We cannot decide if it means he won or lost. Madame has the final word:
"I am getting you a cycle GPS for Christmas".
Heltor Chasca
Out-riding the Black Dog
Tricky filming yesterday but you may need something other than thumb twiddling to bide your time away with:
View: https://youtu.be/HWD1jUVn88o
View: https://youtu.be/HWD1jUVn88o
Fiona R
Formerly known as Cranky Knee Girl
- Location
- N Somerset
Fiona R
Formerly known as Cranky Knee Girl
- Location
- N Somerset
Really good reminder of the 90% lovely day, but the glaring lights/traffic at the end reduced me to a quivering mess. I do seem to remember I was quite glad we were going down Burford High Street. I like the "well fuelled tired bunch" bit, I didn't even eat all of my sausage roll
We all had a far better day than all those Christmas shoppers... great film, lovely representation of what audax is all about.Shearwater Missile
Veteran
I know that sign post very well as often on my route from Brettenham. What was the route if I may ask ?I did a 30 mile loop this afternoon to complete my annual mileage target of 3500 milesI have been very sedentary in the last few months so my legs are really feeling the 121 miles I've ridden this week
A nice route out in to the Suffolk countryside through some very pleasant villages. I passed by Wattisham airfield but there was minimal activity today, quite often there are Apache helicopters whizzing around nearby but it was quiet.
I stopped for a quick photo op at Buxhall, a spot I have several photos of now over the past few years
View attachment 495753
View attachment 495752
This was my first ride out on new tyres, Schwalbe Durano RaceGuards. A friend recommended them to me and I have to say I was quite impressed with the wet weather grip they offer 👍 All in all a very pleasant ride
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Small world. I work in Stowmarket and am a member of Stowmarket & District Cycling Club
Cor.. a tough old ride today.
It's December, so the finale for the Imperial Century a Month Challenge.
A fantastic tailwind for the outward journey didn't help my legs who decided they didn't want to play today. However, a gut busting huge brekkie from the most excellent Exchange Cafe in Tiptree helped fuel the fire for the return. A return with brutal headwinds and for short while, freezing cold rain.
There were no Turkey's at the Turkey farm to talk gobble, gobble gobble to this year. I Wonder where they've all gone?
So, 2019's challenge done and dusted. Thank to @rb58, @Trickedem @mark st1 and a good few others who i rode with and who helped me complete the challenge for the 9th year in a row or 108 months even.
Roll on 2020's challenge. It's only a few weeks away. And we're ready to roll again.
It's December, so the finale for the Imperial Century a Month Challenge.
A fantastic tailwind for the outward journey didn't help my legs who decided they didn't want to play today. However, a gut busting huge brekkie from the most excellent Exchange Cafe in Tiptree helped fuel the fire for the return. A return with brutal headwinds and for short while, freezing cold rain.
There were no Turkey's at the Turkey farm to talk gobble, gobble gobble to this year. I Wonder where they've all gone?
So, 2019's challenge done and dusted. Thank to @rb58, @Trickedem @mark st1 and a good few others who i rode with and who helped me complete the challenge for the 9th year in a row or 108 months even.
Roll on 2020's challenge. It's only a few weeks away. And we're ready to roll again.
Heltor Chasca
Out-riding the Black Dog
Admirable 👍
