BRAVO TO ZERO

OUR MAN IN THE NORTH, TREVOR WARD, KNOWS A THING OR TWO ABOUT COLD RIDES, GIVEN THAT HE CALLS COASTAL NORTH-EAST SCOTLAND HOME. HERE HE MAKES THE CASE FOR GETTING OUT INTO FREEZING TEMPERATURES THIS WINTER

Ionce went to extreme lengths to beat the wind on my bike. I attempted to plot a route that made use of all available resources, man-made and natural, that were likely to offer me shelter from the prevailing south-westerly winds that regularly assault the land mass of Great Britain. I live on the north-east coast of Scotland, so know all about being pummelled into a sobbing wreck by relentless headwinds. Using my knowledge of the local roads and an Ordnance Survey map, I spent months constructing a parcours that utilised the protection offered by walls, woods, embankments, gradients and buildings. The closest I got was a 50-mile loop that spent the first 10 miles traversing hedgerow-lined lanes in a north-westerly direction before turning into the wind. The struggle of the next 10 miles of exposed terrain was alleviated by them being slightly downhill. By the time the road started climbing again, I was sheltered by a section of forest, some tall hedges and even the extensive and ornate masonry surrounding a local castle.

It was an interesting exercise, but the net gains were so marginal as to be barely discernible. Forces of nature can’t be tamed, merely tolerated. Even if it had been a success, what would I do on the days it rained, or when the temperature plunged to sub-zero? Would I construct a route entirely beneath a canopy of tree branches? Or stick to industrial estates and the warmth generated by factories and workshops?

Despite my best efforts, I eventually realised I should be treating the wind as a friend, not foe.

There’s a key passage in Tim Krabbé’s 1978 novel The Rider – about an amateur rider competing in a fictitious race in the south of France – that perfectly sums up the fine line between suffering and pleasure on the bike:

“Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lady with few suitors these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms she rewards passionately.”

Admittedly, you may not feel as though you have been passionately rewarded as you wring out your sodden socks or thaw out your fingers after a typical winter’s ride, but there is a hint of truth in Krabbé’s words.

Cyclists are more exposed to the elements than most other sports people, with the notable exceptions of sailors and mountaineers. We soon get used to the vagaries of nature and its extremes of heat, cold, wind and rain.

Yet modern garment technology means the weather shouldn’t really cause us any real inconvenience. I can pack a waterproof or thermal gilet in my back pocket without it weighing more than a few grams, and breathable layers are designed to cope with fluctuating temperatures.

Weather has been an integral part of our sport’s history and mythmaking. Bernard Hinault suffered frostbite after riding solo through a snowstorm to win the 1980 Liege-Bastogne-Liege race; Gerald Ciolek won the blizzard-hit 2013 Milan-San Remo after 65 riders had abandoned. Wherever there’s bad weather and a bike race, you’ll find a hero.

(Unless, that is, you’re the British team who climbed off their bikes well before the finish of the 2012 World Championship road race in Florence because of torrential rain.)

As a nation, we are already obsessed with the weather. As cyclists, we are defined by it, never more so than during the long, dark months of a UK winter.

Where I live, rule number five of the Velominati’s ‘Rules’ – “harden the f**k up” – is a default setting. As Billy Connolly famously said, Scotland has just two seasons: winter and July (although even July is arguable). North of the border, layering up with tights, gloves, hat, overshoes and thermal jacket is a regular ritual for up to six months of the year. You learn to love winter riding. Okay, you learn to endure it.

‘Type 2 fun’ is how those hardiest of cyclists, the audax riders, describe their epic journeys, often in appalling conditions and usually involving taking shelter at an 'audax hotel': a bus shelter, church or disabled toilet. (Those aiming for the official title of ‘Round the Year Randonnéur’ have to do at least one 200-kilometre ride every month of the year.)

There’s no denying, however, that the wind and the rain and the cold are best enjoyed in retrospect. As Krabbé writes elsewhere in his novel:

“After the finish, all the suffering turns to memories of pleasure, and the greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is Nature’s payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering.”

“AS CYCLISTS, WE ARE DEFINED BY THE WEATHER, NEVER MORE SO THAN DURING THE LONG, DARK MONTHS OF WINTER”