Why you shouldn’t sit up in the bell lap of a crit

This note was prompted by a rider who sat up at the last turn of the bell lap of the 2008 Trofeo de Evesham in New Jersey, saying “I’m not contesting the sprint.”

Speed and safety in criteriums are based on the principle of relative velocity. When everyone maintains approximately the same velocity, relative velocity is near zero: the effect of the draft is maximized and available reaction time is high. The peloton moves fast and safely.

This is why licensed races are categorized – when all the riders in the race have roughly the same strength (assuming a given level of skill), the principle of relative velocity works. This is also why Cat 4 and 5 races tend to have the most crashes (and the lowest speeds, relative to strength). These races contain riders with the most variation in strength, resulting in vastly differing velocities in the field, compromising both safety and speed.

The last lap of a crit is where testosterone levels are maxed out, everyone is focused on a narrow field of vision – straight ahead – and the majority of riders are jockeying for position, trying to find wheels and then daylight. A rider of who plans to sit up has the luxury of surveying the field in front with a wide ranging view and is tempted to think “if I fade to the left of the rider in front of me, the field will pass on my right.” No matter how narrow the field seems up front, it will be wider behind – and unless you are in the gutter, there are almost always riders looking to pass you on both sides. You can't see them: no one has eyes on the back of his or her head! Slowing down just as others are speeding up directly violates the principle of relative velocity, greatly increasing the risk of a crash.

So if you are in the bell lap, keep riding as hard as you can till you hit the line. It doesn’t matter how hammered you are, just try to keep your speed constant and line straight, others can come around you with safety. If you don’t want to do the last lap, fade out before it starts, preferably around the start-finish line, going wide of the field into the wind on a straight section of road.

Back in the day when race promoters had limited equipment, races entries were five bucks, primes were water bottles and prize lists were limited to the first six (since these places got USCF points), we all lived by the adage: “If you’re out of the money, sit the f___ up.” Whether you were 7^th or 37^th, you got an FIF: finished in the field. Well, those days are gone. Races cost 30, 40, even 50 bucks, promoters have the equipment to record everyone’s finish and everyone gets USA Cycling points. No one’s sitting up just because they’re out of the money; they’re all going for the line.

Offshoring

Offshoring: Economic geography and the multinational firm

Loosely defined as the relocation of business processes from one country to another, offshoring is currently one of the most hotly debated aspects of globalization. As part of the global disaggregation of the value chain, it provides a critical template against which to view the intertwined issues of geography and the multinational firm. This disaggregation is the outcome of firms combining the comparative advantages of geographic locations with their own resources and competencies to maximize their competitive advantage. (McCann and Mudambi, 2005). The interplay of comparative advantage and competitive advantage determines both the boundaries of the firm (outsourcing decisions) as well as the optimal location of value chain components (offshoring decisions). The importance of this analysis transcends the strategy of international business, for it is a key aspect of unraveling one of the most critical questions in modern social science – why are some nations rich while others are poor?
One of the most important insights to emerge from Pyndt and Pedersen’s (2006) new book is the crucial link between knowledge and value creation in the Danish context. This ‘smile of value creation’ echoes findings in the US, where ‘taking out costs’ is the main reason to offshore (Lewin and Furlong, 2005). Thus, poor countries that host low knowledge, low value-added offshore operations need to think of these as stepping stones to operations with higher knowledge intensity and wealth generation (see Figure 1). Ensign’s perceptive review draws out the essence of each case study and relates it to international business theory.

One of the most important insights to emerge from Pyndt and Pedersen’s (2006) new book is the crucial link between knowledge and value creation in the Danish context. This ‘smile of value creation’ echoes findings in the US, where ‘taking out costs’ is the main reason to offshore (Lewin and Furlong, 2005). Thus, poor countries that host low knowledge, low value-added offshore operations need to think of these as stepping stones to operations with higher knowledge intensity and wealth generation.

http://astro.temple.edu/~rmudambi/Publications/Mudambi-Offshoring-overview.pdf

Philadelphia Marathon

The Philadelphia Marathon

November 19, 2006

Ram Mudambi

It was a perfect day for marathon – cloudy and overcast, but no rain, with temperature in the high 30s at the start, getting up into the low 50s by the finish. The only thing to complain about was the gusty wind, but more on this later.

For us newbies, the whole event was eye-opening. So much hoopla compared to even fairly large bike races! The pre-race expo was huge. My wife, Susan and I spent over an hour there on Friday evening, going from stall to stall, buying gloves and gels.

The start was even more of an eye-opener. I don’t quite know what I expected, but it was mass chaos. Susan and I never found the promised apparel drop-off site and eventually just dropped our old sweatshirts and bags by the roadside – we never saw them again.

Somehow, we managed to find our Cliff Bar pace groups. I decided (in what turned out to be a very wise choice) to go with the 3:40 pace group rather than the 3:30. Susan was to go with the 4:00 pace group. We are packed in the start area like sardines and could see or hear any instructions. I had ‘Dreaming of 3:35’ on my Cliff Bar Pace tag on my back with my name a woman standing next to me said that she was shooting for that time too, could she come along with me? I said fine. However, once I said that it was my first marathon, she quickly lost interest.

We moved forward when the huge crowd in front of us moved. Our pace leader, Bill, warned us to not cross the start mat before him, as he would be running to finish in 3:40 and if we crossed before him, our chips would record an earlier start time.

The Start

After what seemed like ages, we crossed the start mat and we were off. The first few miles were chaotic as we funneled from the wide Benjamin Franklin parkway on to narrow Arch Street and even narrower Race Street. It was so tight that I was constantly hitting people with my elbows and getting hit in return. We finally turned on to Columbus Boulevard and it got a bit wider and there was some elbow room.

We turned on to Washington Avenue and hit the first water stop. It was a struggle to get to the water as everyone tried to get fluid and back on the run as quickly as possible. Pushing, shoving, stepping on toes, using shoulder and stiff arms – all of these tactics and more were used. I followed our pace leader, who went for the very last table at the water stop and was in and out without much trouble. This pattern repeated itself at every water stop thereafter. Another learning experience for the first time marathoner.

We turned on to Front Street and then on to South Street. Here we came upon the first really large crowds. It was nice to hear the cheering and we were still less than 5 miles into the race, so we were all feeling good waved back, many ever whooped and hollered back. I stuck to waving, minimizing energy expenditure. I looked back and now got a fairly good idea of the size of our pace group – there were over a hundred of us at this stage.

Chestnut Street was a long straight run that took us over the Schuylkill River and on to the University of Pennsylvania campus. We turned on 34^th Street through Drexel University campus. There was a slight rise here that felt paradoxically good. The pace was still very comfortable, and by now I could see that our pace leader was maintaining metronomic cadence. We were doing 8:23 miles and each mile marker and we were never off our pace by more than 3 seconds. It was uncanny.

We went by the Philadelphia Zoo at about nine miles on to a long steady descent. Here our pace leader left us to answer a quick call of nature, abruptly handing his balloons to one of the front running women in our group with ‘Laura Meyer’ on her name tag, saying, ‘Just run a steady pace, Laura.’ Half a mile later, he was back, looking a bit hot and slightly less effortless. ‘A little bit of higher heart rate work to liven things up,’ I said to him. He nodded.

Mid-race

A few hundred yards later, we hit the only real climb of the course, the run up to Memorial Hall. It is not much of a climb, and coming at about the 10^th mile, it was not very taxing. I felt pretty good going up – heart rate had been running between 144 and 146 and it only got up to about 155 by the top of the climb. It brought back many pleasant memories as we came on to the Memorial Hall Criterium course, the scene of so many hard efforts and good finishes. As we crossed the old start-finish line (going against the direction of the bike race), I remembered my 3^rd place finish in 2004. I hoped for a similarly successful effort at this marathon.

From the top of the ridge at Memorial Hall, it was a long descent back to West River Drive. We split with the Half Marathon here. Several of the women in the group talked about how much better it was going down than up – I couldn’t disagree more! The jolts on the descent were the first signs of the pain in the race. Getting to the first water stop on West River Drive, we were at the half Marathon point. I was feeling very good at this point and very hopeful.

It seemed a long run from the half Marathon point to the Art Museum start/finish area. Perhaps it was that from here on, I knew the course intimately from innumerable bike rides and commutes. Running is so much slower than biking that every section seemed to take an inordinately long time.

The start/finish and the Rocky Steps seemed to pass in a blur. There were cheering crowds here, but I guess I was focused on our pace group, now down to about 30 runners. Besides, I did not expect anyone I knew to be there. Past Boat House Row, there was an oddly sited mat for chip timers that I only accidentally managed to cross. We crossed mile 15 on Kelly Drive and now the race, at least to me, was on in earnest. So far it had been fun, a relatively easy effort. Now I began to feel the distance a bit. I checked my heart rate monitor – I was up to 150.

The struggle begins

At mile 16, I saw my friend, David Reeb riding on the Kelly Drive bike path. He yelled encouragement and I called back – ‘Still here!’ Shortly thereafter, we saw the winner (a Kenyan, of course) pass us with the preceding police cars and bicycle escort. The second place runner was quite a way back. Soon thereafter, a ‘runner-type’ in our pace group asked me when I planned to ‘break away to go for my 3:35 target.’ ‘Right about now,’ I said. With that I experimented with a mini surge to get in front of the pace group. The increase in effort and pain was tremendous. I tried gamely for about 400 yards, but it was clear that I was not getting away from the pace group. When the pace group caught back up to me, I said to the runner-type, ‘I don’t think a 3:35 is in the cards today.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah, not me either.’

The really fast runners were now steadily streaming past in the opposite lane. For the most part, they looked lean, focused and fit. We saw the West Point team, its front runners looking like finishing inside 3 hours.

By the time we got to Falls Bridge and mile 18, I knew that it was going to be hard to stay with the 3:40 pace group. We had been shedding runners steadily outbound along Kelly Drive and were down to about a dozen now. We dropped on to Main Street Manayunk, running past the furniture stores and my heart rate was 155. There is a small riser on Main Street and it was hard going on the outbound leg. I was also starting to get hot.

The turnaround at the Manayunk firehouse was a welcome sight. ‘Just a little 10K to do,’ someone in the group quipped. ‘With a 20 mile warm-up.’ It was back up the Main Street riser now and it was all I could do to stay with the group. ‘You have to stay really close to me now,’ our pacer said. ‘If you drop back 10-20 yards now, you’ll never get back on.’ This sounded ominous. It was even hard word to stay with the group on the downhill side of the riser – in my heart of hearts, I knew that the end was near. Nonetheless I hung on grimly till we hit the 21 mile marker.

Hitting the wall

A hundred yards past mile 21, all systems shut down. It seemed like the pace group – now reduced to 8 runners – suddenly sped up dramatically. Obviously it was the reverse – my own pace had dropped catastrophically. I struggled up the climb out of Manayunk, trying to keep the group in sight. But it was no use. By the time I go to Ridge Avenue, they were out of sight. I passed two members of the pace group on the Ridge Avenue overpass – the so-called ‘heartbreak climb’ of the Philadelphia marathon. One of them passed me back on the descent.

Back on Kelly Drive for the return leg, the first thing I saw was Susan coming the other way. She looked tired, but game. She waved at me gaily and called encouragement. I think I waved back, but my encouraging response came out as an unintelligible gargle.

At Falls Bridge it was less than 4 miles to go, and I knew every inch from my bike commuting. A runner pulled up in front of me and stepped on to the grass verge. His legs seized up immediately and he fell over like he had been pole-axed. That was a sobering lesson. I knew that if I stopped, I would never get going again.

Every yard was hard now. The pain in my quads was almost unbearable. It felt like I was moving in slow motion. Two more water stops and at each one the volunteers called out encouragement – ‘You’re almost home! Not far now!’ But I knew exactly how far it was – and I was not almost home. I checked my watch, but I no longer cared about my time – I just wanted to finish. I kept expecting the 3:50 pace group to come by me. I noted that my heart rate had slowed, paradoxically, to 144. I feel like I’m going to pass out, but my heart seems to think things are going pretty well!

Just past the 25 miles marker there was a troop of photographers from the Island Photography, the official commercial vendor attached to the Philadelphia marathon. ‘Smile, this is your official photo! It doesn’t matter how you feel, its how you look that matters!’ I tried a smile, but it came out as a grimace. The resulting photo was not pretty.

The finish

Just past the sculpture garden on Kelly Drive we turned on to Boat House row. Here the crowds began and the volume of cheering grew with every step. Incredibly, I found that I was picking up the pace – the prospect of finishing was now so tangible, I could taste it. I passed two or three runners but eight or nine passed me. I didn’t care. I rounded the bend past the Rocky statue and beheld the finish, barely a hundred meters away. I turned in a 100 meter sprint that felt like I was running in molasses. But getting to the finishing mat was a wonderful feeling. I was dimly aware that the large finish line timer read about 3:52.

The finishing chute was full of solicitous volunteers who urged all of us to drink water and get a polythene victor’s shawl. I forgot to stop my stop watch till I had drunk some water and gotten my shawl. I then heard the announcer calling out the arrival of the 3:50 pace group – so at least I had held them off. (I later discovered that my chip time was 3:49, for an average pace of 8:45.)

I got to the table to return my timing chip tried to bend to remove it and found that I could not. Both my legs seized up simultaneously. I teetered precariously, but managed to stay upright. A few people asked if I was OK, and I managed to nod. Eventually, I found a pair of scissors at the chip table and managed, with great difficulty to cut off the chip and return it.

I walked around to get circulation going and settled down to wait for Susan. She came in at 4:45 and in much better shape than me. She helped me across Kelly Drive and then went ahead to warm the car for me. The half a mile from the finishing area to the car was the hardest half a mile I have ever walked in my life. It took me more than 25 minutes to make it. But I did.

Commuting Diary - 10-23-2005

The first serious commuting week of the year for me. It felt good to roll the old fixed gear down Kelly Drive. Never a dull moment.
Monday hitched up with a couple of old guys all tricked out for winter one on a touring bike another on a mountain bike converted for road use.
Tuesday and Wednesday hooked up with a come 'crossers. After the obligatory 'can this guy hang with me at 24 mph', had a nice chat about cyclocross and I am encouraged to try it! As they say, trying new things keeps you young.
Wednesday I also had a couple come steaming by at the beginning of the paved section of the bike path before Miquon station. I figured I had less then three miles to go so hitched on for a short thrash. The guy stayed on, the girl did not. Not good for harmony within the dyad, I thought.
The anthropology of bicycling continues to fascinate.

PA State Master's Road Race - 2004

Blue Bell Bike Race
PA State Master’s Road Race Championships, June 5, 2004

The day was grey and overcast. The roads were extremely wet from heavy overnight rain. It continued to drizzle, punctuated intermittently by heavier showers. The Pro/1/2/3 field was small and the races took considerably longer than the promoters expected, so our race start was delayed by about half an hour. We eventually lined up about noon. We were to do five laps, making up twenty-five miles of racing.

The course is quite technical with many sharp turns, including one of about 170 degrees. However, it only has one sprinter’s hill. No surprisingly, the field had many of the state’s notable sprinters in it.

Bob Kehl of Guy’s Racing launched an attack from the gun, which brought an immediate response from Art McHugh. The field was soon back together. Several attacks were launched over the succeeding laps. I even tried one myself, just after the start-finish. There was nothing doing – the sprinters reacted quickly, neutralizing attacks within a matter of yards.

Eventually on lap 3, Darryl Vreugdenhil launched an attack going up the sprinter’s hill and got a small gap. At the top of the hill, going around the 170 degree turn, he was able to open it up a bit more. On the succeeding straightaway, Art McHugh jumped across the gap and made it to Darryl’s wheel. The two of them were about 100 meters off the front of the field. A few more meters and they would be out of sight around the numerous turns on the course.

I decided to make my move here and attacked down the left side of the field. I took a small group of two or three with me, but no one would pull through. Dropping back into the draft, I took a breather and then surged again, this time slipping away from the field. I put my head down, chasing hard at about 28 MPH. My HR hit about 180 and stabilized there. I gained ground very slowly. It took the best part of a mile to bridge up. Once on, I sat on for a few minutes and then began taking my pulls. We were not working very smoothly. Tri States Velo, that had a large squad in the race, chased and launched Tom Kellogg, who bridged up. We were only away for another quarter mile before the field caught us.

There were no more serious breakaway attempts. I stayed at the front and stayed glued to the wheel of Art McHugh or Patrick Gellineau, the two strongest sprinters in the field. We went through the start-finish for the last lap four abreast. I took care to keep an eye on the likely contenders – Art McHugh, Patrick Gellineau, Bob Kehl, Tom Kellogg. The last time up the sprinter’s hill was fast and separated the contenders from the rest of the field. We entered the last two miles of twisting and turning through neighborhoods at high speed, in a long single file. Then with a mile to go, a rider went down on a rain-slick 90-degree corner, just behind my right shoulder. This was the signal to put the pedal to the metal and we took off. I was secure in the knowledge that the strongest riders in the field were in our group of eight. Through four more 90-degree turns, I was able to work my way up to the 7th spot. Turning into the final straight, sprinting out of the saddle, I was able to pick up another place and crossed the line 6th.

Art McHugh won the race and the gold. Bob Kehl took silver. Patrick Gellineau was third, but since he is a NJ resident, Tom Kellogg in fourth took the bronze. Darryl Vreugdenhil was fifth.

Amsterdam Tour - 4

HARWICH – BUCKINGHAM, July 25, 1994

Another difficult night with little sleep and I was landed in Harwich. At least I knew exactly how far I had to go and hopefully would know the route. By and large this proved to be the case. I made no really long stop and ate very little. It was a very hot day - much hotter than on my way out - and I knew that I would have to drink a lot, but that food would be difficult to digest.

I was rolling out of Harwich at just before eight in the morning and reached Halstead at 35 miles without incident. I proceeded after a short break of less than ten minutes. I planned to make a stop at Thaxted, but did not really see any place that looked promising, so I pressed on thinking I would stop in Newport. Again, I did not see a place immediately and so pressed on, finally stopping for another short break at Hare Street (70 miles), where I bought a banana and a bottle of Lucozade at a petrol station. Here the proprietress of the petrol station asked me where I had been during the "flash floods" and the "thunderstorms" of the previous day. I was glad to have missed them!

It was market day in Buntingford, but only two miles after my stop in Hare Street, I pressed on. I went on and again fell afoul of the road system in Hitchin. I ended up getting lost and missing the road to Barton-le-Clay and found myself in Ickleford, which is north rather than west. Computing an alternative route, I rode on, muttering nasty things about Hitchin under my breath.

While on this detour the clock showed me 100 miles and I was beginning to get both physically and mentally weary. I found that I had to encourage myself and keep telling myself that I could do it, even though there were certainly less than 30 miles to go. This was certainly the low point of the ride.

Riding into Woburn with 107 miles on clock, I began to feel encouraged, as I knew that I was only 2-3 miles from "home" roads. A brief stop for a drink and sure enough, I crossed the county line into Buckinghamshire and was on the A5 within 2 miles. The Fenny Stratford roundabout never looked so good and in Bletchley I saw a sign reading "Buckingham 9 miles" which I had never seen before.

As I emerged onto the A421, a racing cyclist on a Pinarello came by urging me to "Come on". I could only wave wearily and watch him disappear into the distance. The familiarity of the roads made things seem easier and my mental outlook improved markedly. If the Pinarello had overtaken me ten miles earlier when I was at my nadir, I would undoubtedly have cursed him.

As I rode into Buckingham, the clock turned over 125 miles. The ride was done.

EPILOGUE

Almost exactly 48 hours after my return, I rode out to a '10' and did it in 24:42. There was some lingering soreness, but I was almost completely recovered. I reckon it cost me only about 20-30 seconds.

It was hard and difficult and lonely at the time. Looking back was it all worth it? I don’t really know. I guess I proved to myself that I could do it. Except for one short period of 4 or 5 miles, I never doubted that I could do it. But knowing you can do something and actually doing it are two different things. I did find the solitude extremely monotonous. It was a very hard way to save a few pounds. That is all.

Statistics
OUTBOUND 20-21 July 1994
Buckingham – Harwich - 122 miles
Average Speed - 11.43 MPH (incl. stops)
TOTAL TIME - 10 Hours 40 min
Depart - 06:45
Stops - Brent Pelham - 52 miles 11:30 (20min)
Halstead - 85 miles 13:40 (35min)
Arrive - 17:25

Hoek van Holland – Amsterdam - 62 miles
Average Speed - 11.81 MPH
TOTAL TIME - 5 Hours 28 min
Depart - 07:47
Stops - None
Arrive - 13:15

INBOUND 25 July 1994
(Ride in the car with Suresh: Amsterdam – Hoek van Holland)
Harwich – Buckingham - 125 miles
Ave Speed - 12.29 MPH (incl stops)
TOTAL TIME - 10 Hours 11 min
Depart - 07:49
Stops - Halstead - 35 miles 10:40 (10min)
Hare Street - 70 miles 13:30 (10min)
Woburn - 107 miles 16:35 (10min)Arrive - 18:00

Amsterdam Tour - 3

HOEK VAN HOLLAND – AMSTERDAM, July 21, 1994

After an extremely uncomfortable night on the ship - the reserved reclining seat was OK to sit on, but impossible to sleep in - we sailed into Hoek van Holland and disembarked about 07:30 in the morning. Interestingly, there were no passport or immigration checks of any kind - perhaps a sign of the "free travel" provisions within the EU.

Again, I was lucky with the weather. It was warm and fairly sunny. I found a cycle path right outside the harbor gates and luckily got on the coast route to Den Haag. The first ten miles were very pleasant and I arrived on the Southern approaches to Den Haag feeling quite good. Unfortunately, here it began to go wrong. The cycle paths in the city were poorly signposted and so I was soon lost. After much wandering around, I found some signs for Scheveningen. While I had not originally wanted to take this route, I decided that it was better than being lost. This took me on to the path through the dunes that I had ridden in 1986 with Susan and her cousin Andrea. It was quite pleasant.

With a few minor wrong turns, I arrived in Haarlem and then got on a cycle path following the main A5 highway into Amsterdam. I got into Amsterdam around 12:45. The plan was for me to meet my cousin Suresh at the Concertgebouw that he assured me was ‘easy to find’. Needless to say, this proved to be a slight exaggeration and I would not find it for love or money. I also had serious problems with the pay phones. Eventually I managed to get a call through to Suresh and we agreed to meet at the Central Station instead. This worked quite well and half an hour later I was at the station.

Holland is said to be a paradise for bicycles and cycling. I certainly did not seem that way to me. The infrastructure for cycling in Holland is based on the assumption that everyone will ride and is designed to conform to the fitness level of the average person. [Just as our roads here in the US are designed on the assumption that everyone will drive and so conform to the ability level of the average driver.] The Dutch system is wonderful for someone who wishes to travel 10 miles or less at a speed not exceeding 10 MPH.

However, for a reasonably fit cyclist, the cycle paths are a nightmare. The vast majority of them are paved with a modern version of cobbles. With a racing tire pumped up to 120 psi or more, this means that riding at normal cycling speeds of 14-16 MPH is a bone-shaking experience. In populated areas, sharing the cycle ways with a heavy traffic of one-speed 50 lb bikes can be quite dangerous, not to mention the "bromfesters" or small motorcycles that are allowed to tear along the cycle ways at up to 40 MPH! On one occasion a woman on a bromfester ended up in the ditch after she attempted to overtake another one while coming straight at me in my lane!

The only way a system of cycle ways can work is if we realize that cyclists, like motor traffic, are made up of a great deal of variety in terms of speeds. Smoother surfaces and multi-laning in densely populated areas is the only solution. The Dutch system is the equivalent of a road system made up exclusively of two lane pot holed roads.

I don't think I would like to be a racing cyclist in Holland. I can't imagine a fast-moving racing pack on a cycle way!

Amsterdam Tour - 2

BUCKINGHAM – HARWICH, July 20, 1994

The morning arrived and I awoke slightly later than planned. An uplifting phone call from Susan set back my departure another ten minutes, but it was small price to pay. I loaded the panniers on the bike and was rolling by 06:35. The morning was slightly chill and I turned back after 0.1 miles to don a fleece vest - another small delay. When I finally turned on to the highway it was 06:45.

In spite of the chill, it was very bright. This was a cheerful start. What was less cheerful was the traffic. In interests of getting a lot of miles done in the first part of the ride, I rode on the highway for the first 12 miles, which was not very pleasant. Nonetheless, it was done and just over an hour later, I was riding down a shady lane, rolling towards to Woburn.

I entered Bedfordshire with just under 20 miles on the clock. I also discovered to my pleasant surprise, that my route took me right through the grounds of Woburn Abbey, rather than bypassing it, as I had thought.

At two hours, I passed under the M1 and began to anticipate my first major target, Barton-le-Clay. As I approached it, I passed through Sharpenhoe. (Home, I discovered, of the famous "Sharpenhoe Clappers". I must return some day to find out what these are.)

Passing through Barton-le-Clay, I made my first serious time check and was astonished to discover how slow I was going. With an unladen bike, I find that 16 MPH is an easy solo long distance pace in rolling terrain. I discovered that I was running at just under 12 MPH! Experienced tourists had warned me that with stops, 10 MPH was what I should aim for. Nonetheless the actuality of the slow pace was a shock.

Proceeding out of Barton-le-Clay, for the first time I ran into inclines of more than half a mile. At the top of first long grade I passed into Hertfordshire. Thereafter I got several opportunities to test my lowest gear. It was tempting to get out of the saddle and muscle up the risers, but I forced myself to change down and spin a lower gear. On some rather nasty steep bits, I was forced out of the saddle even in my lowest gear. I could now see why in touring terms, my gearing wasn't as low as I had thought.

And so to Hitchin. Here was my first serious problem. The constant building of new bypasses and roundabouts by the Public Works Department ensured that my map did not correspond in the least with the town's road system. Soon I was hopelessly lost in the wilds of Hitchin suburbia. Help appeared in the form of a Water company van. The occupants had planning maps of the whole town and were able to direct me on my way. After a few more wrong turns, I was on the road out of Hitchin. Leaving it was certainly the high point of my brief visit to Hitchin. This pattern was to repeat itself.

Leaving Hitchin gave me great impetus. I was bowling along, following a fairly straight 'B' road with a good surface. The day grew warm - I had long since removed my fleece vest - and I began to think about making my first stop. I decided to stop in Buntingford, but when I got there the clock showed I had done 48 miles and I was still feeling good. I decided to press on till I was at least 50 miles to the good. At about 52 miles, I reached the leafy hamlet of Brent Pelham and saw a quaint village “Post Office and Stores”. The proprietress was not the sunniest of individuals. Nonetheless, a few flapjacks, some mineral water and a bottle of Lucozade in the shady lawn of the village hall and I was on my way in 20 minutes.

Fortified with food and drink, my mental outlook improved and it was helped further by passing into my target county of Essex shortly thereafter. Just over the Essex line, I saw a large radar installation flanked by a control tower. I thought I must be near Stansted Airport. (Checking the larger map on my return, I found that it was not, though I have not established was it actually is.)

I was now thinking about a longer stop for lunch and tentatively decided on Great Bardfield. I passed through Thaxted, which seemed very promising, but it was too soon after my snack stop. Great Bardfield proved to be a bit of a disappointment, so I decided to press on. My planned route out of Great Bardfield took me on to the narrowest (and steepest) lanes of the trip. Fortunately, my map proved accurate and I approached the town of Halstead without incident.

In Halstead, with the clock reading 85 miles, I discovered a perfect sidewalk cafe. It was flanked by a fruit stand to boot. I stopped immediately. A banana, a tuna-tomato sandwich, a coke and apple pie with ice cream. Just the lunch for a hungry cyclist. During lunch I examined my map more closely and felt that I was about three quarters of the way to my destination. This gave me heart, for I was beginning to feel the first signs of fatigue.

My planned route out of Halstead was the A604, which turned out to be rather busy and covered in places with a sandy residue left over from road re-surfacing. Passing through the Colnes (Earls Colne, Wakes Colne, Whites Colne) I left the main road at Fordstreet to circle north around Colchester. One wrong turn and I was lost, finally discovering where I was three miles later. The detour added a few miles to my trip, but I eventually made it to Great Horkesley and then on to Langham. Here I discovered that work on the A12 trunk road had again rendered my map obsolete. Fortunately I was able to follow road signs to Manningtree. One last wrong turn took me towards to A120, but I was able to find a lane that took me back to the B1352, my planned route.

At Ramsey, with the clock reading 120 miles, I was beginning to feel seriously tired. I knew I was nearly home. I stopped at a shop and bought a coke, filled my water bottle and on impulse bought a liter and a half of lemonade. The shop owners informed me that I was only 2 miles from the ferry terminal. This was welcome news. I saddled up and was at the terminal is less than ten minutes. It was just before half past five in the evening.

The first cars were beginning to arrive. There were a few motorcycles (one a long-forked Harley with Florida plates ridden by a latter day Easy Rider). In the last two miles I had overtaken a pair of Dutch matrons on upright 5-speeds in at the end of their holiday in England. They informed me that they had covered almost 700 km in a week’s touring.

More cars, motorcycles and bicycles arrived. Eventually there were over a dozen touring cyclists in a small group at the front of the queue. I was amazed at the manner in which people seemed to go about touring. A young Dutch couple on mountain bikes with off-road tyres; the two Dutch matrons on "cross" bikes; an elderly Dutch couple on creaky, rusty old bikes that were designed to be ridden around the block and a pair of Dutch gay men on ancient Dutch one-speed "classic" bikes of WW II vintage design. Not a single genuine touring bike was to be seen. Mine was the only bike designed for long distance travel.

None of these people were ‘cyclists’. Most had very expensive panniers and tents and sleeping bags, but these were slung on bikes that were not fit to be ridden out of city limits. It is interesting to conjecture as to whether this was a representative sample, i.e., are most tourists not cyclists? Do ‘real’ cyclists make up a small percentage of those who do loaded touring?

Amsterdam Tour - 1

Tour Diary, 1994
PREPARATIONS

I approached the tour with a mixture of confidence and concern. On the plus side, the tour had the attraction of being cheap – riding straight from home to my destination. Further, the distances did not seem huge. To a touring cyclist, a tour of roughly 310 miles is rather short. I myself have lost count of the number of century rides that I have done. The idea of doing two century rides over five days was not daunting. On the minus side, I had never ridden a fully laden bicycle over any appreciable distance before. I was concerned that my racing mentality would lead me to drive myself "into the ground" before I reached my destination.

I spoke to some experienced tourists in the club, the A5 Rangers of Towcester in Northants. No one seemed to doubt my ability to carry it off. I had long discussions about stops and gearing. Ultimately, I decided that I would make stops roughly every 40 miles. I decided to keep my 53/42 rings on the front, but to change my block from a 7-speed 12/19 to a 7-speed 12/23, giving me a low gear of 42 - 23 (roughly 49.3 gear inches). I expected the terrain to be fairly flat and thought this was sufficiently low. I also decided to leave very early in the morning to give myself plenty of time for mechanical problems and rest, if necessary.

Bike Commuting Chronicles - 1

I merged onto the Kelly Drive bike path at about 6PM and my fears of the morning were confirmed. The strong tailwind that had borne me so speedily into work was now a punishing headwind on my way home. I was preparing myself for the long homeward slog when a blur of color zipped by. Almost by instinct I sped up and with a short twenty-yard burst, latched onto the wheel of the fast moving cyclist who had passed me. He was a big guy, maybe six-two or six-three and rode a nice Campagnolo-equipped Havnoonian road machine. He wore the colors of a local racing team.

He soon sensed my presence on his wheel and glanced back several times to ascertain I was still there. He churned out a smooth cadence at about 21 MPH in the 53X17. I could almost hear him thinking – ‘Muddy commuter frame, faded jersey with no team logo, fluorescent vest, rear blinkers and a headlight!’ I felt like telling him – I’ve been there, friend.

He began to accelerate and up-shifted to the 53X15, getting to about 23 MPH. He was glancing back every few pedal strokes now and his annoyance at not dropping me was palpable. In contrast, I was happy as a clam in his slipstream – it was like drafting a truck. Then he up-shifted again to the 53X14. I thought - there’s probably ten riders in Philadelphia who can turn that gear into this wind, you’re not one of them. Sure enough, his pedal stroke grew choppy and his speed began to decline as he ground away at the huge gear. Soon he shifted back down to the 53X17.

After about two miles of this, I began to feel a bit sorry for him and came around to take the pull. I rode a steady pace, but he had shot his bolt. Within half a mile he fell off the back. At the Falls Bridge traffic light he was distant dot. I beamed a thought at him - thanks for the tow!