A friend of mine is undertaking a trial by
exercise in June this year to raise money for a children's charity. It's
a worthy cause. And just as well too because what he's proposing to do boggles
the brain. He is cycling from London to Paris in twenty-four (count
'em) hours.
It's 280 miles all in, and in a sadistic piece of
scheduling par excellence by the organisers, the first tranche covers
the 100 miles down to the coast to catch the ferry, leaving 180 French miles to
be covered in one go on the final leg.
My friend is a relative novice in matters cycling
if his blog is anything to go by. This is just as well. Anyone
who's done any distance cycling at all remembers the first one well. You
set off with the best of intentions, full of vim and anguished
anticipation. Five hours later you're in a dark place. No matter
how diligently you eat and drink or how well you pace your effort, the horrors
seep in.
It starts with seemingly inexplicable extremes of
mood and physical discomfort. For no apparent reason, you'll suddenly
feel nauseous and tearful. Moments later you find yourself singing to the
hedgerows as the spirit soars.
The secret is to be aware of these peaks and
troughs and what causes them. The body is trying to protect itself from
your idiocy - and quite right too. If you have an iron enough will, it is
more than possible to kill yourself on a bicycle. Because the machine
supports the rider's weight, there is no "wall" that simply stops you
in your tracks when the tank hits empty, as is the case with runners. You
need, therefore, to detach yourself from your emotions. Acknowledge them,
yes, but do be fooled into thinking you must do as they implore. It's
important in (near) extemis to reassure the body that you know what you're
doing, and that you will allow it stand down ante mortem.
This is the kind of caper James Bond used to get up to
when he was being imaginatively tortured inside a hollowed-out volcano in
Fleming's books. He used to have a mental cell that he would retreat to
to ride out the physical maelstrom. It's easier said than done
though...particularly when the leather saddle you're sat atop turns out not to
have been sufficiently broken in after twenty minutes' cycling, as happened on
my last marathon undertaking. I couldn't sit down for a calendar month
after that one. I had to pretend to colleagues and friends that I'd given
up sitting for Lent. I'd actually given up castor sugar.
...still, what doesn't kill us and all that.
