Let's Go For An 80 mile Ride

Today we're going to do an 80 mile ride on the Island, and you're coming with me.

Preparation begins the night before. I need to make sure that my bike is ready with no annoying faults. I always check that the wheels are secure and that the brakes aren't binding. I also pump up the tyres to their correct pressures, and pack my saddle bag with my puncture repair kit, door key, £5 note, multi-tool and a spare inner tube. I reset my cycle computer and fix it in its holder on the bars.

I try and make sure all my cycling clothing is together so I can find it in the morning because I don't think the wife will be very happy if I wake her to ask where my shirt is. I'll make my mind up in the morning exactly what I'll wear depending on the weather. I mix some SIS energy drinks in my bottles, leave them in the fridge, and weigh out some spare 50g sachets and wrap them in foil. They go in the saddle bag, with some pieces of homemade flapjack.

I also need to load the iPod shuffle with a playlist. This can take ages....Do I go for music or podcasts, a mixture, a random shuffle or what? It's important because I'm anticipating a 5 to 6 hour ride and I'll go nuts if I have to listen to my own brain for all that time.

Early to bed, hopefully,having avoided any spicy food for tea. I also try and ensure I'm reasonably well hydrated with clear looking urine (as opposed to yellow). No beer.

Up at 5-15 am. Creep downstairs, feed the cats, kettle on. I often feel a bit nauseous when I get up this early and today is no exception. We're low on milk; I can't have cereal. So breakfast is a lemon curd sandwich, a banana and 3 mugs of tea. The gastro-colic reflex kicks in on cue, so after the bathroom, I get dressed. It looks grey and cold outside, and it's windy, so I opt for my warm Assos long-legged trousers and an intermediate jersey over a long-sleeved base layer. I would rather be too hot than too cold. This turns out to be a very wise decision.

Last things before I leave, empty the bladder, grab helmet, gloves and shoes, gels and energy bars in my jersey back-pockets and finally stuff my mobile in its neoprene protective case. You never know when a phone could save the bacon.

Off we go. Computer on. I'm cold, particularly my arms. I head up the steep hill from my house in Brook, then right towards Carisbrooke. The first half hour is always a little uncomfortable getting into a rhythm, and I'm still feeling slightly sick. There is always a feeling of low grade trepidation, knowing that we've got 6 hours of effort ahead of us. Arctic Monkeys on the iPod....oh NO, they're singing Mardy Bum!

7 miles and I head north to Porchfield, and then hang a left to face due west. Immediately the strong south-westerly hits me and my speed drops. I tuck down to minimise wind resistance. I try and drink regularly, a little and often. Overfilling the stomach will make me sick, and you can only absorb a limited amount per hour. I'm feeling good now, the legs are strong and I've warmed up. I hunker down and try and enjoy my music as I spin towards Yarmouth, and then on towards the extreme western tip of the Island, the Needles. I climb the hills past the no entry sign, and go right up to the coastguard lookout. 15 miles. Not much of a view today, but this is what it looked like last week.

We speed away with a tail wind and head for the Military Road which runs along the south west coast with the surf on our right. It's a 16 mile run to Niton, with 2 biggish hills to climb at Freshwater and Blackgang. The wind is pushing me along, Force 6 and so we really give it the full monty treatment. I'm flying along at 25 mph, and it feels good. Geoff Lynn sings Mr Blue Sky, but the sky is looking increasingly overcast.

From Niton we take the undulating undercliff road with its subsided road surface, and I hit a bad patch. It starts to drizzle, and my bum starts to ache. We've done over 30 miles by now. 2 hours. Time to eat. I reach behind and grab a power bar and try and open it... to no avail. I virtually come to a standstill trying to rip through the wrapper with my teeth, and I almost give up and do a Basil Fawlty. Eventually we're into it, chewing laboriously, making my ears pop. I have to wash the stodgy stuff down with lots of fluid but I do seem to get an energy buzz 20 minutes later. It's just as well, because we're facing a gruelling climb out of Ventnor. I've deliberately taken a circuitous route through this Victorian seaside resort because I want to get used to horrible hills, and so I force myself to do a bit of an up and down circuit. That's commitment. Bring on the Pyrenees.Only joking.

Unfortunately it's now pissing down, to coin a phrase, and I'm not happy. Geoff Lynn is onto Horace Wimp. A number of things run through my brain. My bike will get wet. I'm going to get wet. Will my phone be OK? Will the tiny revolving CD's in my iPod get rusty? As the water gets thrown up my back from the rear wheel I gradually get soaking wet. I feel as if I'm sitting in a wet nappy as the water soaks into my seat padding. I start downhill towards Shanklin and I'm feeling cold. It's time to dig deep. I'm also very nervous of throwing it down the road. The slick tyres are starting to skip a little on the manhole covers. Years of riding a motorbike has prepared me well, as I scan the road surface ahead for rivulets of rain, the telltale rainbow signs of diesel, and those little treacherous patches of matted leaves, blossom and gravel on the corners. Scary time on the descent.

We climb out of the side road from Shanklin towards Godshill, then take the Canteen Road. The wind blows me along at 30 mph on the flat so I forget the discomfort for the next 15 minutes. I do a loop through Newbridge and head up the downs towards Robin Hill. I'm in the clouds up here. Left to Arreton and do the loop again, but this time, hang a right after Knighton towards Brading. A long climb, not too steep, but my feet are squelching every time I push down on the pedals.

We're on the brakes,descending gently, through the driving rain which is stinging my face and blinding me. Drop into Brading on a 14% gradient before turning right and heading back to Yaverland, Sandown and Shanklin beyond. I'm cold, tired and so wet. My perineum is feeling raw on the wet saddle. Now I know why babies cry when they fill their nappies. I briefly think about bawling, but decide it won't make any difference. On the Pod, we've got Queens of the Stone Age. Pedal to the metal.

This is the toughest part of the ride with 30 miles to go, which amounts to 2 more hours. Through the back of Shanklin on autopilot then begin the utterly dreadful climb at Cowleaze. It's not so much the gradient as the appalling rutted road surface near the Rec, and the wind is relentless. My thighs are feeling tender now, but there's still plenty of ooomph in them. I've been munching my energy bars and flapjacks, and refilled my water bottles from a petrol station (NO..with water..not petrol). I'm so glad I've got wind protection from my Assos gear.

The climbs through Ventnor are not too bad, then we go out the back way to Whitwell, and head to Chale. Like Steve McQueen,a fast machine. Sheryl Crow...she's brilliant. I could be home in 10 miles from the Spar, but I need to do nearer 20, and so I head out the back way towards the Chequers at Rookley. It's all about determination at this stage, and keeping upright through the puddles, avoiding the boyracers on their way to work. Why do they stick those waste-paper bins up the back of their cars where the exhaust pipe should go? I guess they think it looks cool? You want a cool car?

Ford Capri circa 1983. That's rear wheel-drive class. I always wanted the 2.8i, but living in Liverpool it would have been a waste of time. Scally car thieves couldn't resist them.

I'm without music as I head out of Rookley, taking the back road to Carisbrooke Castle, and Michelle's horses. My ear drums are so wet that the ear-bud headphones won't grip the skin of my ear holes ( external auditory meatii actually) anymore. I hardly notice the effort of pedalling, which is a measure of my fitness after 10 weeks of training. From The Waverley, to Shorwell Shute, and I'm out of my seat giving it a bit of welly. Ralph Cook in his tipper truck. I nearly lose the front wheel on the gravel by The Crown, then it's a drag through Brighstone to Brook into the full teeth of the wind off the Back of the Wight.

We've done 86 miles at 16.5 mph in about 5 and a quarter hours. A sense of satisfaction.

Fall through the back door, peel of the sodden gear, hot shower. Food. Mugs of tea.

I hope it's days like these which will eventually pay off in July. If I can cope with the wind, rain and cold today, it can't get much worse..? Can it?

Jacko..get me a 130 mm Toupe , please.