I was reading an article in Cycling Weekly earlier, my preferred organ of record on these matters, about a club cyclist from Rotherham who's just broken the world record for distance cycled in a week. He covered 1758 miles, this chap. In a week. Don't bother; I'm waay ahead of you - that's 252 miles a day. When asked if he'd experienced any hiccups (sic) during the week, he gave up the following gold-plated quote:
"I had a bad day on Tuesday. I fainted after a massage."
As well one might. He's not a pro, by-the-way; he does this for a hobby. He was also riding circuits, not place to place. So he didn't even have the satisfaction of reaching a new town each day. What was he thinking about as he pounded around for hour after hour? Not much, I'll warrant.
I torn between admiration for the endeavour and horror at its utter futility. Like darts.
A couple of years ago, I had a bit of a dalliance with distance cycling. I was getting bored of race training, and I thought I'd have a crack at the Dunwich Dynamo, a 120-mile overnight ride from London to Dunwich in Suffolk. By way of prep., one Saturday in high summer, I rode from my home in London to Maldon in Essex and back, a distance of 90-something miles. I immediately vowed never to do another long ride unless there was a valid reason for it - touring, for example, or fleeing toxic fallout.
These days I like my bike rides like my women: short and sadistic.
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