Cycling: How far will you go?

Call yourself a cyclist? Murdo Jamieson went from doing the club run in a tracksuit to tackling 1200km rides in lycra and more in no time. He recounts the journey from clipless pedals to chamois cream and more.

There will be some of you out there who may not agree with what I am about to divulge. You may think the wider world is just not ready. Can’t handle the truth. But I say, let them know and only the truly worthy will join us!

It has been an interesting journey. Over the past few years I have gone from being an observer on the outside of the cycling world to now deep in the mould, enveloped in the cycling fold and often caught out in the cold. When I see another cyclist now they know ‘I’ve been there!’ Winced through the pain, taken the strain and rose above the shame. Yes fellow cyclists, it’s a journey we have all taken, each in our own individual way, and all who cycle the course know the barriers that must be broken.

I have come a long way since my younger naïve days all of 2 years ago when I set out on my first club run with the Kingston Wheelers before having even ‘gone lycra’. Anna and I turned up on our badly fitting flat bar hybrids, Anna in tracky bockys, me in basket ball shorts and t-shirt with a jersey tied round my waist while our cycling companions sported more colourful aero dynamic attire. With the gift of hindsight, it seems obvious that we might have stood out somewhat. Our anxiety increased with every slick race bike that appeared. But we stayed the course, helped along by the encouragement of club members. I made the next club ride too and remember asking someone what a Colnago was, eliciting an unimpressed reply.

Stage 1 – ‘Going Clip-less’
The first move was to swap my old trainers and toe clips for a set of clip-in pedals and cleated shoes. This was a subtle difference with little outward change and therefore no real stigma attached, except when getting off the bike to walk into a shop with knees popping backwards at every step. I also remember getting quizzical looks from fellow students when I walked awkwardly into lessons at Uni. This was just a stepping stone however, the real wedge, that would drive me a little further from general society and a little closer to cycling excess was still to come.

Stage 2 – ‘Going Lycra’
It is the outward expression of a deep and profound inward journey. When I first donned a pair of lycra cycling shorts, complete with nappy pad, it didn’t seem like a very natural thing to do. At this point I was still somewhat caught between two worlds. The outsider seeing the rider in lycra shorts thinking ‘you complete tosser!’ while at the same time a rapidly evolving cyclist persona thinking ‘mmm, practical and sexy’. Caught in this confusing dichotomy I struggled with my inner self. However, from the moment you put on that first pair of lycra shorts there is no going back. To the outsider you will be viewed as a cycling fanatic with no sense of shame or style. But among your cycling peers you will start to garner a stronger sense of kinship.

The inward journey leading to your new lifestyle choice has manifested a cataclysmic shift in outlook. Where as pre-'going lycra' cycling gear was laughable and people wearing lycra were to be overtaken and shamed whenever possible. Now, paradoxically, Lycra has become sexy, it feels good, the world moves past faster. Girls are checking your style as your colourful, exposed form glides by and other cyclists in lycra are to be respected as your friends.

After a while you realise that most people wear bib shorts, one-piece jobs that go around your shoulders so there is no need to have an elasticated waist band to hold them up, nice! You’re getting in to this. You wear a cycling top now, also lycra of course, adorned with colourful logos and sponsors for that pro rider look. Slowly one by one all taboos are eradicated, lycra is normal and riding a bike without lycra is weird and doesn't feel quite right. One of the great advantages is that lycra shorts have a bum pad which eliminates the rough, plank of wood feel of your new expensive saddle.

Stage 3 – ‘Going Commando’
The next great crescendo of cycling attainment is less outwardly noticeable but again involves a very highly personal shift in perception and cognition. My first clue to what the in-crowd were up to was at one of my first circuit races at Chertsey. While we were assembling at the start of the race an older man came up to me looking quite nervous and agitated. Without even so much as a hello he blurted out "Have you got any chamois cream?" Chamois what? I thought, but not wanting to give away my cycling inexperience I shifted my weight and coolly replied, "chamois, erm no, I don't think so." The questions “Why? What for?" were on the tip of my tongue but some how I knew I shouldn't go there... I wasn't ready yet, too much, too soon. Intuitively I also knew that whatever ‘chamois cream’ was, it definitely was still taboo to borrow some from another man!

The truth finally dawned on me while taking part in a 600k audax ride in Troyes, near Paris. Not having ridden continuously through the night before, I was required to complete a 400k and 600k ride before going to Bulgaria to take part in a 1200k SVS. I'm pleased and proud to say that after Troyes I now understand and appreciate what chamois cream is and as a consequence have penetrated the inner sanctum of the cycling fraternity, reaching the peak of bicycling knowledge and attainment.

From the start it was a strange ride. Before setting off I spent an hour frantically searching for a large group of cyclists on the outskirts of Troyes. It was 3am and raining slightly. Eventually I found 3 other cyclists and one official with a very small flask of luke warm coffee. The 4 of us set off without much conversation. As dawn approached I came to realise that much of France is pretty flat and boring. We eventually turned our first corner after cycling for 200k into a strong head wind passing endless fields of wheat, corn and sometimes, slightly more interestingly, marijuana. After stopping for a huge slap up meal at 21:00 it started raining heavily, we set off together but at the next town the others started behaving a bit strangely, stopping to poke around in other peoples garages. I didn’t really understand what was going on and was hampered by the language barrier. Eventually I realised that they were trying to find a place to doss down when they started getting their emergency blankets out (good idea that). I had no intention of sleeping, I was already wet, it was cold and stopping would have been terminal. Besides, I had a full belly and, I hoped, enough energy to get me through. It rained continuously all night, which was handy as the spray on my face kept me awake and also prohibited stopping to rest thought fear of getting too cold. At one point, travelling though a narrow avenue of trees lasting several miles, I noticed a white shape travelling beside me. Unattaching one of my lights and shining it at the shape I discovered a barn owl silently flying beside me with a short fast wing stroke. It followed me for some time before disappearing into the forest.

Cycling long distance is all about small gains. If you were to think about doing 600k at once you couldn’t do it. But you break it down, 32k to the next town, 4k to the junction, 8k to the next village and bit by bit you get through. Each small goal feels like a victory but is instantly followed by the next challenge. I was planning on getting to a large town before dawn and knew I had to cover 130k to make it. I must have been going well as I arrived at about 4:00 soaked and in need of a break. I also needed some cash so I could start eating as soon as the patisseries opened. Furthermore, I had been instructed to post a postcard from the town as an improvised night control, though the card now resembled papier mâché mush. The town was quite large, though heading down the high street there was little sign of life. As my pace slowed the cold crept over me, I needed to find some shelter. My unlikely saviour was a Crédit Agricole bank branch with an unsecured cash machine room. As I tentatively pushed on the door the lights inside came on and for a moment I imagined heaters blasting hot air above the door. Alas, this was not to be, but it was several degrees warmer than outside and it did have a piece of carpet, luxury! If anyone had checked the CCTV footage that night they would have been surprised to see me checking, cleaning and drying myself as best I could, wringing my socks and layers outside, all the while chattering and laughing to myself, then napping on their carpet.

As the new day dawned the rain and cloud dispersed and the cold effort of the night before was forgotten. However, I became increasingly aware of other aches and pains in my body, particularly my arse. 520k into the ride, it was getting tough. I’d worked my way though a continuous series of small victories and had found an open café in a checkpoint town. After a large hot chocolate, a millefeuille, an almond croissant, two quiche lorraines and 10mins blissful sleep on a bench by a river it was time to have an apple tart and leave. It was 8.30am I had been cycling at a steady 25km/hr for over 27hrs with occasional short breaks for food and drink. As I mounted my trusty steed again and took to the road things got really uncomfortable. My legs were holding out, my mood was boosted by hot chocolate and patisserie, however, nothing would overcome the pain in my backside. Bloody hell! Searing pain with each peddle stroke, I spent more and more time out of the saddle, shifting awkwardly from side to side, wasting energy and reducing efficiency.

I gritted my teeth, bit my tongue and sang stupid songs to the rhythm of my cadence. "Bugger ME! this Tom Foolery, has led to Anal Catastrophe, Such Awful pain I have not known, feel like I’m being shafted by a rusty seat pole" I bellowed out to the tune of some Scottish folk ditty. “No no no! I can’t take this any more!” I knew what I had to do, my cotton pants were chaffing my skin… They had to go!

With a surge of energy I sprinted to a copse up ahead. I'd gone quite mad and was in no state to sprint anywhere after cycling 537k. I collapsed off my bike, the lactic acid crippling my legs. I was in a lay-by on the side of a large straight ‘A’ road. There was a path leading down into the woods. I hobbled my way down then froze as the complicated logistics of what I had to do dawned on me. How was I going to do this?...

I was wearing my pants under my bib-shorts, over that I had and an under layer then a long sleeved cycling top. I was going to have to strip bollock naked to get my pants off! A few cars whizzed past… I looked at the ground... somewhere in the distance a mad dog started barking… Then I noticed I was standing in a latrine with soiled toilet paper and nappies littered about me. My legs were still shaky from the sprinting exertion and I was wearing cleated cycling shoes to add to the instability. There was no way I was going to keep my balance while taking my bib-shorts off, and even if I did I'd be a naked man in the woods next to a busy road where people shit!

Bugger! I stated taking my upper layers off in a frenzy, I was down to my bib shorts I took them down to my knees and summoning all the energy I could from my puny oxygen starved upper body I tore at the crotch of my pants. I roared with the exertion and felt a satisfying rip. Then I started on the side. Again tearing the material with all my might, "AAaaaagh Yes!” the cotton tore with a satisfying sound but the elastic was more difficult, small strands of rubber pinged back against my skin and eventually tore through. I held the pants aloft triumphantly! And threw them to the dirt!... (Then I thought better of it and realised that they would still make a handy rag for cleaning my chain.)

I felt elated! Pants free! This was the real way to cycle. I had arrived! Now all I needed was a cool soothing antiseptic lubricating cream to ease my chaffed parts… Chamois cream! The man at Chertsey! Of course, that’s what I need, it’s what every cyclist needs!