Training – February to August

I used to be fit you know. Really fit. County high jumper in my youth.

Before I met pizza, beer, and a sales job where I sat down all day every day for 8 years.

So this was going to be both challenging and big: I came to consider me as being something that was too big to do the challenge: I had to lose some weight, and this was a challenge in itself.

When it came to training, I had an idea that there would be some sort of montage of images of me cycling up hills in the early morning hours, trying and failing to get to the top in one go. Pushing myself harder and harder in all weather, getting up early and cycling through the pre-dawn light having drunk 5 eggs raw in one go. Having a music track playing over it all like in Rocky: “Getting strong now, won’t be long now, getting strong now...” And then I’d cycle through Richmond being chased by children and market vendors and I’d leave them all behind as I flew up Richmond Hill (probably laughing) and did laps of Richmond Park for fun (still laughing and boxing the air. How would I steer? Errm – I never said this would make sense. With my knees..?)

Sadly, this did not happen.

The first time I got on my old hybrid bike I managed about 8 miles with a couple of hills in about an hour, and I had a small asthma attack while the heavens opened and dropped an unpleasant mix of rain and hailstones upon my shivering, wheezing form.

I was absolutely destroyed by the time I got home, with thighs like stone, calves burning, and an unpleasant chafing in my groinal area. Also, I had forgotten how uncomfortable my bike was over broken terrain / smooth terrain / freshly laid silky-smooth tarmac. This was going to be a bit more difficult than I had thought.

I tried drinking 5 raw eggs. It made me very unwell, and I decided that perhaps I shouldn’t do that again as I am allergic to eggs.

A week later, I managed to get back on the bike again without thinking of committing murder for a warmly heated car, and realised that if I was going to manage this that I needed to Get Tough. I had to go Old School, I told myself (unsure what this actually meant, but sure it was encouraging). I had to Man Up, Get Back on that Horse and Chew Razor Blades and Spit Lightning!! I had to pedal that damned bike and get back out there!!

I managed 6 miles that night, and ended up wheezing and shivering whilst the heavens opened and dropped freezing sleet on me.

And this was Will’s Lesson Number One: There is Never Anything Other Than You and The Road. You Have to Make It Happen Yourself.

Will’s Lesson Number Two was a little less profound: Get Some Proper Cycling Clothing, with a VERY Padded Crotch!

After a week of getting out in the worst that the weather could throw at me, I realised that I wasn’t going to make it on my hybrid as it was slowly destroying my will to live – it was incredibly uncomfortable with absolutely no suspension and which transmitted every jolt straight up my spine via my increasingly sensitive buttocks. Remember – 16 ½ stone, and then some...

Will’s Lesson Number Three: Get The Professionals In To Help You...

I went down to Sigma Sports in Kingston (a specialist bike shop which caters to all levels of cyclists, including those maniacs who do Triathlon), and stood looking around at a different world of lycra-clad aliens.

There were more brightly coloured bikes than I had thought possible, cranks, chainsets, gizmos, shiny thingies which do... something, and rack upon rack of brightly coloured tight garments, any of which would make me look like the Michelin Man. A very brightly coloured, lurid Michelin Man.

I may have stood out as I was sweating and had a confused look of terror on my face, and was rescued by the incredibly friendly and efficient staff.

“I’m thinking of doing an End-to-End.” I blurted, thinking that this might get me some kudos.

“Oh – great. We get a fair few guys through here doing that! Are you going to do it in one week?” Came the reply, and I gave up the bravado and confessed my ignorance of all matters bicycle.

2 hours later I had been measured, poked, prodded, squeezed into an Assos lycra shorts / vest all-in-one combo-thing which left me feeling surprisingly... cupped, and most importantly not made to feel an ass.

And I had picked out my steed for the journey: its name was ‘Specialized Tricross’ and although it had a road bike set up is designed to go off-road during triathlons. To me it was a rugged, manly, down to earth beast of burden in amongst the prancing, vain, frivolous foppishness of the other lighter framed pure road bikes I’d tried.

And something happened when I went to pick it up a couple of days later: I got into the saddle, leant forwards, and my sandpapered buttocks gave a loud sigh of relief (nobody was nearby, thank the lord) and as I pedalled the Manly Steed homeward I swear I heard the Hallelujah Chorus playing, and the sun came out for the first time in weeks.

Life out and about on the Manly Steed was increasingly pleasant, and with the greater comfort provided by the padded shorts and the road bike set up I was soon increasing my distance from 10 to 15 miles three times a week, with a longer excursion on a Saturday or Sunday.

The first serious longer distance test was a trip to Chobham and back, a distance of 30 miles. My good friend Richard (who had been coming out a couple of times a week with me on the hybrid but who had politely declined to cycle the length of Great Britain) and I set off one blustery, cold April Saturday and we cycled the 15 miles there in just over an hour. Stopping for a couple of cokes and some nuts in a chilly beer garden we laughed at how easy it had been.

Will’s Lesson Number Four: Never, Ever, Ever Tempt Fate. Ever. Fate is ALWAYS Listening.

The way back was fine until we both started getting very tired at about the 23 mile mark. This was new territory, neither one of us having gone so far in a single day. After 27 miles, and just passing through Lower Sunbury, Richard managed to get a 3-inch piece of wire lodged through his rear tyre, and he got a puncture.

Not having changed a tube in 20 years, we both tried to appear confident to passers by whilst furtively looking at each other and muttering under our breath. Fate decided to be a bastard that day, and we were aghast to discover that the replacement inner-tube was the wrong size. Way too large. Yep – that laughter was Fate having a great time, and the ripping noise was his sides splitting.

Will’s Lesson Number Five: Always Check Your Spare Gear.

I decided to take one for the team. Mounting the Manly Steed, I headed off leaving Rich hunkered under a bush in the increasingly heavy rain, and I pedalled for 4 miles before stopping at a bike shop a mile from home. I bought another tube, and with a rush of energy from who knows where headed back to save Rich and to allow us to finish this epic Together.

Fate was having a rare old time, it seemed. The gent in the shop had sold me the wrong tube, despite assurances to the contrary. So, back I hopped on The Manly Steed, and wearily pedalled for another 5 miles home, parked the Manly Steed in the garage with some WD40 as a nosebag, and got in the car to head back for Rich.

Distance travelled: 34 miles.
Lessons learnt: many, including ‘Check Your Gear’ and ‘Don’t Tempt Fate’.
State of Will: Exhausted. Utterly Destroyed. Feeling pretty good that I had cycled so far.

And so it went on the next few weeks into May, and I got fitter and stronger. I made the jump to much longer distances at weekends and attempted to cycle solo from my home in Twickenham to my wife’s family home in Kent, a target distance of 68 miles. I nearly got there and was 5 miles from the end when I bonked (a great term meaning ran out of all energy) so completely that I was stretched out on the bench in a bus stop unable to get up. Fortunately the cavalry arrived in the form of the father-in-law in his Volvo estate with Hannah (the wife) there to make soothing noises and to stare in admiration.

Will’s Lesson Number Six: You Need To Eat Way More Than You Think.

I also rode the 57 miles to Brighton with Rich; both of us determined that we could do it. We stopped at Fanny’s Farm Shop for cake and coffee, and ate some of the best strawberries I’ve ever had. A slight error in navigation turned 57 miles into 67 miles, and we hit Ditchling Beacon in no way able to pedal up. I walked the Manly Steed up the mile long climb, and then collapsed at the top to the sound of applause from some proper cyclists who had pedalled up.

It was in May that I was training with another great friend Ray Allen, who had until then expressed no interest in cycling the length of Britain. I expressly did not ask him to come. At all.

I did point out how tough it would be on my own. And how lonely. And how dangerous in the middle of nowhere if I had an accident. And what an adventure it would be.

Ray and I have been firm friends for about 12 years, and it’s always he who does the failed trips with me. He knows how accident prone I am.

Remarkably, and seemingly from out of the blue, Ray offered to come with me, and make sure that I made it home in one piece. Team AllenRowe was born to the sound of trumpets and singing angels!!