Then Came The Sun

You can’t control every aspect of your ride, but when it all falls into place there are few places better to do it than the Cotswolds

Not every ride goes without a hitch, but on this occasion Cyclist finds a perfect place in southwest England for a plan to come together

If there’s a formula to explain a day’s cycling it would go something like this: pj = TW – P/A , where T is terrain, W is weather, P is number of people, A is land area and pj is pedalling joy. Just like a bike manufacturer’s stiffness index for its latest round of carbon fibre, terrain and weather are totally arbitrary values based on the concept that ‘bigger numbers means better’, and are marked based on an unknown, ever-expanding scale ( pj, however, is precisely measured on a scale of one to Esteban Chaves). For example, my commute from the outskirts of London last Friday came in at -5,521 Chavitos. The terrain was ugly (3), the weather only broke from rain in order to briefly snow (-1), and the population density of London is 5,518 people per square kilometre. Cyclist won’t be doing any UK Rides around the East End anytime soon. Conversely, as I look ahead to riding in the Cotswolds in two days’ time, the outlook is theoretically excellent. Population density is one

of England’s lowest at 73, it’s Britain’s largest Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (67), and the BBC Breakfast’s inimitable Carol Kirkwood reckons it’s going to be crisp, clear skies all the way (14). I make that a promising 865 Chavitos.

Weight of the Wolds

Thursday morning and the score has plummeted, and frankly I’m beginning to question Carol’s six TV Weather Presenter of the Year awards.

We meet in the obligatory car park in Cirencester at a suitably unholy hour, ‘we’ being myself, my ride partner Dave, and Grant, a British Cycling regional events officer who has volunteered to drive our photographer around the route. As Grant piles bananas and water into the car boot, Dave and I exchange kit choice chat, he noting my distinctly summery clothing, me his rain cape, legwarmers and conspicuously sponsor-clad bibshorts.

The first few kilometres are even-tempered if not entirely flat, and decidedly straight – though Dave explains that’s no surprise given Cirencester evolved from the Roman settlement of Corinium. It turns out Dave also knows a fair bit about the future as well as the past, and it’s not long before I’m flagging down the car to retrieve my rain jacket and rear light. The skies, it seems, can bear their burden no longer, and thick sheets of drizzle unite the grey road with the equally grey sky. The decision to wear brand new white socks seems questionable.

With little of the Cotswolds’ beauty on show, conversation soon turns to life stories. Dave explains he’s an aspiring pro and Grant is his coach. He got into road cycling a few years ago as part of a rehab programme to quite literally ‘get me back onto my feet’, having shattered both ankles in a motocross accident.

‘My life aim is to ride the Tour of Britain,’ he tells me cheerily, and I wouldn’t bet against him. It seems not only is he a physically gifted rider,

Frankly I’m beginning to question Carol’s six TV Weather Presenter of the Year awards

Without warning the road jerks itself skyward with 11% glee, and I feel like I’m going to stall

but a combination of inheritance and a very understanding partner means he only works two days a week and has the rest of the time to race and train. I tell him it’s a good life if you can get it, although it seems the road has other ideas for us both. Well, me at least.

Without warning the road jerks itself skyward with 11% glee, and for a split second I feel like I’m going to stall, caught between the idea of changing down gears or getting out of the saddle. But before I can make the decision, hill climb pride flicks my legs to autopilot. Dave has happily carried on cranking, and while I know it’s him leaving me not me leaving him, I still get the same sensation a fishing weight must get when it flies off into the distance to the sound of a spinning reel. Click, click, kick, kick and I’m back next to Dave, who is oblivious to the fact he nearly dropped me. I feign nonchalance but am secretly relieved when I spy a sign at the top of the ridge that warrants pulling over to read. For journalistic purposes, obviously.

The sign denotes the ‘Winchcombe Loop’, a 4,800km ‘leisure cycling route round Britain on lightly trafficked rural lanes… at nearly 1,000 feet above sea-level, Salter’s Hill provides fine views as a reward for the hard climb.’ I’d agree with all of that, save for the ‘leisure’ part, and the fact that even this high the otherwise glorious countryside looks the kind of drab landscape popular in nursing homes. The rain and mist have muted the greens yet somehow managed to augment the browns, and even the trees look fed up. We agree a proper stop might be in order.

Goodbye, old friend

By the time we finish the descent to Winchcombe my faithful old Cateye rear light resembles a red plastic snow globe. I do my best to extricate it from its bungee shackles to empty the rain out of the USB port, but it blinks twice and dies. Still, there’s a cafe over the road Grant reckons is good, so we park up our bikes and head indoors for saffron-infused teacakes. It’s what dear old Cateye would have wanted.

Generally speaking I’m not a stopper on rides – I find it hard enough to convince my legs to go the first time around – but Grant assures me it’s worth waiting for the weatherman to patch up the Cotswolds’ leaky roof. The views back up the ridge are spectacular in the right weather, and the climb back up isn’t half bad either.

I’m more than happy with the decision, and it gives us a chance to swap a few more stories over industrial bowls of tea. Grant,

I discover, is somewhat famous in these parts. He’s instrumental in the local race scene, both as rider and organiser, having helped instigate the Via Roma Twilight Criterium in Cirencester among other events. As a paid up Continental pro he rode for Italian team Amore e Vita, which lays claim to being the oldest cycling team in the world (founded in 1948), nurtured a young Mario Cipollini and, rather fascinatingly, is backed by the Vatican and blessed each season by the Pope.

Sufficiently satiated and pleased with the new pub quiz knowledge, we opt to give this riding malarkey another try, and by the time we loop back over the ridge it seems our luck might finally be in.

We pass through Stanton village, revered by period drama film crews for its quainterthan-quaint limestone cottages and total lack of anachronistic street lighting, and by the time we arrive at the foot of the climb up Snowshill, the sun hasn’t just put his hat on, but is veritably strolling to the beach with a towel tucked under one arm. Our rather dubious morning is turning into a fine afternoon.

Warming tales

There have been several uphill surprises along the way today, in a manner more befitting the Lake District than the south west of England, but the ascent up Snowshill is more steady

The sun hasn’t just put his hat on, but is veritably strolling to the beach with a towel tucked under one arm

I’ve lost myself in the road, my stem, my spinning feet, the sound of my breath and the ticking of gears

state than spiteful spike, averaging just under 6% over its 2.8km length.

Buoyed by the sun we tap along in good time, and soon I’m hot enough to remove the remainder of my autumnal attire, prompting Dave to regale me with a story from a riding mate of his: ‘This guy used to ride with Wiggins when they were younger. One day the coach tells them they’re going on a training camp abroad and it’s going to be hot, so Wiggo being Wiggo gets in the sauna in just his armwarmers and legwarmers, saying it’s to “acclimatise” himself.’

With temperatures well into the teens I’m now happily acclimatised myself. Ask most cyclists why they ride and at some point they’ll tell you it’s because it offers a kind of meditative, mental clarity otherwise precluded by the modern world. That may be, but for me, right now, it’s a sudden realisation that for the last hour I’ve not really thought about anything.

Since we left Snowshill I’ve been doing my best to take in the surroundings. But somewhere between the yellow-bricked houses of Guiting Power and the postcard-picture cottages of Bibury, I’ve lost myself in the road, my stem, my spinning feet, the sound of my breath and the ticking of gears. It’s a wonderful feeling, and one that actually defies any formula.

Cycling in good weather in a beautiful place definitely helps, but when I really think about it that all-consuming feeling of pedalling can happen everywhere from the daily commute to the Alps, and even, just occasionally, on the turbo. So long as there’s a bike involved I reckon I’d be happy anywhere. But as we draw our ride to a close in the same Cirencester car park from which we set off, I know the Cotswolds, and such good company, definitely helped. James Spender is features editor of Cyclist and is working on the formula for the perfect feature

Above: There’s nearly 6,500km of drystone walling across the Cotswolds. The number of gates, however, remains unknown Left: Little known fact, but the bicycle is said to have increased the gene pool in late 19th century Britain, allowing those unable...

There are few quieter, more quintessentially middle-englandcountry places to ride than the Cotswolds, although most of it feels like it’s uphill

Above: Brooding skies don’t look too promising, but Cyclist forges on regardless, having definitely not forgotten our legwarmers

Right: Stanton village is popular with filmmakers thanks to its complete lack of modern street lighting, but less so with those wandering back from the pub past closing

The final piece of a beautiful day’s riding puzzle clicks into place as the sun breaks cover