Bike Racing Part 1 - the palmares of an also-ran, who fell out of love with the sport

Bike racing and I go back many years. As a 16 yr old schoolboy in the very early 70's I remember the excitement of visiting the Skol 6 Day indoor track racing at Wembley. The thrills and spills on the steeply banked boards. Blood, sweat and gears.

It wasn't until I reached my mid thirties that I thought about myself taking part in bike racing. I had always enjoyed bike rides, indeed one day when I was about 20 I cycled to my nan's house, from Colchester to Grayshott, over 100 miles. Approaching 40 I was aware that my fitness was poor, so I dusted-down and oiled-up my fabulous old lightweight racing bike, and put some miles in, and then some more miles, and then a bit more on top of that . Steadily I improved my fitness and lost weight. Compared with most people I met on the road I was fast and furious, so I paired up with my friend Paul Mason for chain-gang rides under the banner "Racing Team Last". I decided to join the local bike racing club Colchester Rovers to see how quick I had become.

First lesson from competitive sport. Not very fast at all. But I persevered, and eventually became barely adequate. Although I wasn't going to climb high in the club rankings, my efforts were recognised and I won an award for "most trying cyclist", which I think was a compliment. I became very fit, felt full of vitality, and developed a resting pulse in the low thirties. If I had gone to the Doctor with that, I would have been pronounced dead.

As a spectator I followed the sport, mainly at local and sometimes at national and international events. I didn't get much opportunity to travel at the time, but remember a trip where I cycled in the Alps, uphill for 13 consecutive miles, and I felt good as I crested the top. Coming down was good too, as dusk fell, and I got warmth from an old newspaper that I stuffed up my jumper, just like the pros!

I became obsessed with the Tour de France, overlooking the doping aspect of the sport as I swallowed the propaganda that these were highly tested and honourable athletes. Somewhere along the way I fell out of love with the sport. My private life was going through big changes and I realised I couldn't keep cycling off into the distance. Also, scandals like the Festina affair broke, suggesting that many of my heroes were doping cheats. I became involved with anti-doping organisations and individuals, and pursued some stories about doping as a freelance writer. I did a one-man demonstration against the cheats, when the Tour de France started in London. (pic above) I got some national media coverage, but I don't think the sport was listening to me.

I got to know a lot about the darker side of bicycle racing, and the sport and I went adrift. I despised many aspects of the drug takers, looking at the morals, ethics, and health issues. I felt great sympathy for the riders that were trying to ride clean.  It seemed that no one wanted to face up to the truth - the sport authorities, the riders, the sponsors, the media, and the fans. So I turned my back on the sport, and no one missed me, with my modest plamares of some mediocre time trials and "most trying loser" trophy. 

I was still riding mainly locally, but also for fun Land's End to John o'Groats, and another trip of 500 miles of Scotland coast to coast including the Corrieyairick Pass off road in the Scottish Highlands. Plus I was still using the bicycle for transport, but utility cycling is another story. So that's my glorious cycle sport career, an interest that had faded away ... but the embers never quite went out. For Bike racing Part 2  I'll cover what has changed, why it's back in my life, and some new heroes.

Fred Slattern's "Message from Essex" in haiku

Here's Fred's poster, to be found in bus shelters and cafes in the Scottish Highlands.

And here are Fred's experiences, in haiku.

rain wind rain wind rain

cape wrath inaccessible

gairloch inn haven

Fred Slattern goes down a storm in Scotland.

So how did Fred Slattern's bid to become Britain's most north-west poet unfold? With visions of warm dry May days, the travel schedule for trains to the north, and cycle camping itineraries were planned. For Fred, a string of potential venues was identified, to coincide with the cycle camping trip. Train tickets were bought, and inns and cafes were approached, with a "too-good-to-miss" offer of a short set of Essex oddity.

For Fred realises he's not in the running for Britain's finest poet, but one attainable title he fancied was to become Britain's most north-west poet, by appearing at the Ozone Cafe in the lighthouse at Cape Wrath. It's the top left corner of Great Britain, a place that is a foot-ferry ride and a further eleven miles from a public road.

The journey started at 05:40 on the Peterborough train. Next change Edinburgh, then the third train, to Inverness in the Scottish highlands. The second day was spent travelling towards the west coast, where I get off the train at Achnasheen, and immediately needed my wet weather top and cycle boots, the latter working as sponges after five minutes. (I persisted for three more days, before abandoning the boots, but I suspect they may be walking home from their own efforts, as a new life-form could have developed in their warm damp shell.) The anticipated gentle 35 mile ride downhill to Plockton was a battle against the elements, with an intense head wind blasting up the valley from the coast, as well as heavy rain; I even had to pedal downhill.

At Plockton I met some old friends, and was looking forward to Fred's first gig of the tour. The Plockton Inn provided fine food and local real ale, adding weight to my theory that the best pubs have the worst views, but make up for it in other ways. It was very popular with the locals, who were well-oiled and raucous. Fred was to negotiate for a poetry slot with the traditional music band who arrived at 9pm, but the three-piece of unamplified traditional instruments struggled to be heard against the hubbub of the pub. Fred elected not to attempt his spoken word set, lacking a powerful enough voice of his own, or a microphone. Camping overnight, the rain lashed down on the dry-inside tent.

The next day was Friday the 13th, and I hoped that the wind would work more with me, and the rain would have blown over, following the buffeting overnight. Catching the midday train back to Achnasheen, I headed north, into another head wind and rainy day, getting to Gairloch, where Fred was booked for a slot that evening at The Old Inn. Unbeknown to me, the landlady had arranged for Fred to be interviewed by the local radio station, about his quest, and his "message from Essex", but they had gone ten minutes before I arrived. The Old Inn hosts treated him well, offering him hospitality, where he had the best meal of the trip, before slipping into the main bar where singer songwriter guitarist Dave Fleming was playing that evening. I much enjoyed Dave's material and playing style, but Fred took the opportunity to perform a set, which went very well.

The audience didn't know what to expect from this Slattern "poet" but seemed well entertained and enjoying it, as Fred snarled his various ditties about topics such as the highland clearances and his pal Steve Ball. A hearty round of applause was given, as Dave said, "well we've had some different talents call in here over the years, but we've never heard anything like that before" (in a good way, I think). A very memorable night for Fred, and his audience of around seventy Scots, English and assorted Dutch people from the Netherlands Volvo Owners' Club.

The late show meant that I didn't get enough miles in that day, eventually doing about forty by the time I put up the tent in the dark, wind and rain, in the hills north of Gairloch. No point blaming the weather; those damp heavy clouds had come a long way across the sea, and were desperate to dump their load on the first bit of high land on their journey east.

The next day had the longest mileage in the schedule, and I was several miles short already, so I got up and away by 06:15. Another morning of tough cycling over rough topography in bad weather, before I managed to hitch-bike to Ullapool, and catch up on my schedule. Many thanks are owed to the Australian couple who picked me up in their camper van and took me twenty miles. I had previously offered Fred for a slot at the Ceilidh Place at lunchtime, and spoke with the duty person, but it didn't happen, as people were quietly enjoying a very peaceful cafe. There's a time and place for poetry, and for tea and cake, and sometimes they don't coincide.

Leaving Ullapool in more wind and rain, I headed north to Lochinver by a side road. Still very blustery, but at last the sun came out some of the time, and the camera (picture above). This was an EXTREMELY hilly route, with warning signs to motorists. When back home I read about this route in Harry Henniker's book "101 bike routes in Scotland", saying "Loch Bad a Ghaill to Lochinver - there is barely a yeard of flat, you should allow at least two hours for the twelve miles". With my portly personage, loaded bike, and lack of fitness, it took me longer. Plus I had already cycled 50 miles that day. 

I arrived in Lochinver having ridden 62 miles  since leaving Gairloch twelve hours earlier that morning, and was too tired to go out and eat that evening. Watching TV in the B&B, the weather forecast for the next five days was continuous wind and rain. I was feeling a bit tired and emotional, and phoned home, where things had been difficult without me there to help manage Frank and his diabetes. So I decided to jack it in, as the schedule for the next few days was tough enough, without the extra effort against strong rain and headwind. I was here to enjoy myself, and the constant rain was cutting into the fun element of the trip, making me wet, and robbing me of the fine views that I had seen only on the internet before the visit.

I decided to hop on a train and go home, after all Fred had no more firm bookings, just some possibilities. Heading east, for the first time I had a backwind, and I as I left the far north-west the weather improved. Chatting to people I met on the road I found that Cape Wrath was inaccessible, as the foot ferry was not running, with the sea too choppy. It was mildly pleasing to know that I wouldn't have made it, even if I had kept going into the wind and the rain. I rode 42 miles on the last cycling day, from the west coast to the east coast, Lochinver to Ardgay near Bonar Bridge. Finding a B&B for the night, I caught the 06:15 Ardgay to Inverness, and then five more trains, changing at Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Newcastle and Peterborough, getting back to Colchester at 21.45. It started to rain as I cycled home from the station........ Never mind - I had over 180 miles of cycling under my waterlogged belt, and many thousands of feet climbing up hills, in a spectacular and very empty corner of Britain.

I record these cycling and camping efforts, but am certainly not seeking any sympathy; I am, after all, a voluntary patient. Compared with my normal life looking after a young child with diabetes, the cycling trip was easy. I slept well, exercised in the fresh air, and away from the 24/7 caring job we usually have. Plus I was warm and dry in my tent. The Cape Wrath "I hate diabetes" escape ride was a super break. And I'll be back, but next time with the family, in our van.

And Fred's a legend in Gairloch, only possibly Britain's most north-west live poet that evening.

Fred Slattern getting ready to be Britain's most north-west poet

Fred Slattern/ Big Swifty set off for the far north-west on Wednesday's 05:40 to Plockton on the west coast of Scotland, from Colchester, changing at Peterborough, Edinburgh and Inverness. It's a "poetry and escape from diabetes tour", by bicycle and camping in my tiny tent, pedalling about 300 miles to the top left corner of Great Britain, at Cape Wrath. It's for entertainment, and hopefully a bit of awareness and fund raising for Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund (JDRF).

I'm sure Fred will be very popular in the Ross and Cromarty area, and that his Essex and USA fans will be gutted to miss his "message from essex" set, in person at various pubs, cafes and music venues in n/w Scotland. For those Colchester peeps that can't be bothered to travel 736 miles to see Fred at Cape Wrath Ozone Cafe, I suggest you go to www.justgiving.com/planetfrank and donate some of the money you saved by not supporting me.

For the many Fred fans that are travelling to the far north, here's the link to the gigs: http://andrewbudd.blogspot.com/p/fred-slattern-colchesters-slum-poet.html 

So how is the preparation going? Now this is a bit worrying, as I've been a bit busy and haven't ridden much, excpet the usual short local trips. The 300 mile cycle ride may look like an idyllic journey along the Scottish coast through a beautiful romantic landscape, but I reckon only about twenty miles will be flat. There will also be 140 miles slogging uphill, and 140 rolling downhill. The coast road does not follow the coast; indeed at one point I'm 1200 feet up. And with a heavily loaded bike, and an overweight rider.....

I have had a preparatory ride to test my newly kitted out, old-junk bike. I rode home from a work trip at Chelmsford to Colchester, twenty-five miles with a headwind, and it took nearly forever. And don't give me that "Essex is flat" rubbish.The route included Wickham Bishops hill, from 8 metres above sea level, to the top at 89 metres. The randomly passing ambulance had oxygen on board.

So this is my last posting for a few days, adventure beckons for Colchester's slum poet.

(Set list includes: "Had James Dean lived, would he have shopped in Waitrose?", "House clearances", "I love the smell of insulin in the morning", and "Steve Ball - a love affair through Facebook".)

Bear baiting, Jane's Walking and Colchester

You think you know where you live? Think again! I've lived in Colchester for over forty years, yet last Saturday I went down a town centre street that I had never before visited. And what a story it has to tell.

So what has been happening? Walk Colchester http://www.walkcolchester.org.uk/ is a local organisation promoting the cause of pedestrianism. The group has been around for about a year, and their first big task was the development of a community mapping site. The next big project was to place itself amongst the international community of "walking as transport" advocates. And later this year Walk Colchester are promoting a series of practical projects to make the town more walking friendly.

Last weekend was Jane's Walk weekend, where there have been a series of local walks led by local people, celebrating the legacy of Jane Jacobs http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Jacobs . Colchester was the first town in the UK to take part in this international festival. Eleven exciting walks and events were set up, the publicity machine was set rolling, the sun shone, and the crowds turned up.

Frank and I attended "Professor Charles Young's Quest to Unlock the Secrets of Colchester", for young urban detectives. Frank loved it, wearing his binoculars and following the clues. Well done Neil Jones and Jo Coldwell, acting out the Professor's and Inspector's roles, and to the kids too, for following all the clues round town, and cracking the secret code.

And what's the story behind the uninspiring looking place, in the photo at the top of the page? It's Arthur Street (a road, not a person), and Dorian Kelly, standing on a red stool, is getting near the end of a fascinating tour of the "Theatres and Lost Theatres of Colchester". Now I consider myself fairly knowledgeable about Colchester and its history, and I thought Dorian might have  maybe a dozen places to show us or talk about. And he came up with over thirty locations, varying from Roman amphitheatres, to halls used for AmDram, to old music halls, to flea-pit cinemas, to professional theatres.

The photo is the location of Colchester's Bear and Bull-Baiting Ring, identified from a medieval map of Colchester. Looking back eight hundred years, not many bears were baited, as they were rare expensive items, but plenty of cattle had suffered on this spot. The tradition continued for centuries, with a slaughterhouse very nearby. Indeed this was the last surviving abattoir in the town centre, until closure a few years ago. However the meat tradition continues to this day, with the long established butchers "Allen's" in adjacent St Botolph's Street.

And from these facts, we move into speculation. Why were animals baited at this location? Maybe this was where the Romans had their amphitheatre (Camulodonum must have had one somewhere, but where exactly?), and the medieval people took over the ruined oval shape for their activities? And what happened after it was a bull ring? The town must have had an Elizabethan theatre, but no site has been identified. Think of Shakespeare's "The Rose" or "The Globe" theatres on London's southbank. Maybe a theatre became the next tenants of the circular arena of the killing floor, on waste land just outside the town walls?

What we see now are the remnants of some Victorian housing, and a big shed now being used by Emmaus, the charity that helps tackle poverty and homelessness, and helps recycle old furniture. All trace above ground of the bull ring has gone, but the disused slaughterhouse remains, and Allen's trade on, with 800 years of meat history under the fingernails of this corner of town.

And you thought walking was just about putting one foot in front of the other? Love your neighbourhood, join Walk Colchester now, and strut out for Jane's Walk next year.

Politicians rubbing our noses in their dirty work.

"I think our councillors are good people doing a good job". There, I've said it. But what is the public's opinion?

Chatting with people, and eavesdropping on private conversations, (don't get all moral high ground with me - I'm not Jonathon Ross leaving obscene messages on Andrew Sachs' answerphone) it is clear that many have a much lower opinion than I do, of the efforts of our local politicians.

Partly it's caused by expenses scandals, partly it's our media, partly it's a national malaise that we'd rather see bad in people. And partly it's down to the bickering between politicians, particularly now, in the silly season leading up to elections.

A good principle in life is to under-promise and over-deliver; then people are usually quite satisfied with one's performance. But of course the politician is put in an awkward position. Who will stand on a ticket of "my influence will be limited, as the authority's powers are weak, and their funds meagre"? And if they stood as an "honest appraisal of the situation, but I'll do what I can" candidate, would they get elected? (Even under an AV system?)

Over many years I have got to know dozens of local politicians, some quite well, and I would say that most of them are good people who want to do their best to serve their community. They work hard with the local people and businesses, showing tact and patience, have barrow loads of case work, put in endless hours at public and private meetings, and are rewarded with reasonable expenses, some allowances, and very little glory. Yet so many people have nothing but contempt for the councillors' efforts.

And now it's the run-in to the local elections. And what do we receive from the political parties? A load of messages from new people seeking election, describing what the current incumbents have failed to achieve, even if the issue is not the responsibility of that authority, out of their control or influence, and regardless of central government regulations and any budgetary restraints. And to counter that, those currently elected are claiming the glory for things that have been provided by others, and would have happened anyway. And the current and prospective candidates are making promises to the electorate that they cannot possibly keep.

No wonder the public has so little faith in politicians to deliver. And I find it all very sad, as I am very fond of our democratic system, I admire those who dedicate their efforts to serve the public, and I appreciate all they are trying to do on our behalf. So why, why, why do you all make the elections such a turn-off, with all that silly posturing?

a letter to Great Britain's furthest address

In the days of the Royal Mail monopoly, in response to a challenge from alternative service providers, the RM always pointed out that they would deliver a letter anywhere in the UK for a single price. And today I have posted a letter to the most distant address from home, to Cape Wrath lighthouse. That's some kind of milestone in my life, as well as being a brown envelope with a stamp on it.

The lighthouse is at the extreme north west corner of the island of Great Britain. It is eleven miles from the nearest public road, and my letter will have to travel on a foot ferry to get onto their access track. There's no road name, or any houses, but the area is called "the Parph", a happy coincidence in that it is Essex language for "path".

I have written to the owners, the Ures, who also run a cafe at this remote spot, and explained to them about my quest for Fred Slattern to become Britain's most north-west poet. I sent them a Fred Slattern poster, as I'm sure the people of Sutherland will love to hear Fred's "message from essex". Their "Ozone Cafe" at the lighthouse never closes, not that they get much passing trade, being at the end of an isolated cul-de-sac with a 600 foot drop to the sea, ten yards further on.

Fred will be there for lunch and a recital at lunchtime on 16 May. I'm sure his many followers will drop in to say hi. And I'll give the Post Office a bit more time than the usual next-day delivery for first class letters.