ETHOS TEAMS UP WITH ARENA
Top hair salon Arena on Ebrington Street in Plymouth are the latest in a series of local businesses to brighten up their walls with Ethos images. Lara, the salon’s owner, recently approached Ethos to produce a portfolio of bridal hair designs to promote Arena’s wedding service. A fun shoot ensued and the resulting images will shortly be visible at the salon. We are also planning some joint promotions, so watch this space and visit www.arenacreativehair.co.uk to find out more about Arena.
EXMOUTH CLASSIC REPORT
As you’ll have guessed from the title, I’m writing a report on my very own event, and what an event that was! An event that I named myself, that had only one entry: mine; and only one finisher: me! I’m talking about an event that combined the Exmouth Exodus, 105 miles ridden at night between Bristol and Exmouth, and the Dartmoor Classic, another 105 miles ridden in daylight up and down hills that have made many Londoners weep. One night, one day, 210 miles, simples!
Why exactly did I want to ride both? Well, I’ve done and loved both events several times before, and until this year, they have never clashed in the sportive calendar. Choosing between them seemed impossible, and would only result in regrets, or remorse. “To choose is to renounce”, and I’m not for renouncing, as you’re about to discover.
For those of you who don’t know much about the Exmouth Exodus: it’s a non-official, non-elitist, no fee, no support, no timing chip century ride that draws together a bunch of like-minded bike lovers who feel like nipping down from Bristol to the English Channel for a fry up on the beach.
After the all too familiar adventure that comes with trying to travel by train with a bike in this country, I made it to Bristol on Saturday 26th June and headed for the Exodus meeting point at the Channings Hotel. By the time I got there, the usual Saturday night genteel crowd had already been replaced by about 130 cyclists and their vehicles, some with multiple gears, a lot with only one. My friend Chris had come to catch up with me and wave me off, so the evening had already started in a enjoyable manner. At 9:30 pm, the shuffling of bikes and noise of cleats on gravel signalled that everyone was ready to go. No starting pens, waving of flag or beeping noises from timing mats here, we just left in a satisfyingly unruly manner, rode across Clifton, then over the bridge and kept going.
Nobody really enjoys a detailed ride report, so I’ll talk about what it FELT like. Riding the Exmouth Exodus is like being 7, or 10, or 13 years old, whichever was the age when you felt totally free. I was 14 and sneaking out through my bedroom window to walk in the moonlight, smoking stolen Fortunas and listening to Mike Oldfield too loud on a 125 Francs Walkman lookalike. Nothing glorious or heroic; at most a little risky. Nobody rides or walks long distances at night to show off, because quite frankly, badgers and bats don’t care in any way about how fast, out far, or on what expensive bike you’re going. It’s the absolute pointlessness of the Exmouth Exodus that makes it so absolutely enjoyable. It won’t make you stronger, as the course is almost flat (apart from 3 hills that only Londoners worry about). It won’t give you a personal best, you leave when you want and if you get to Exmouth too soon, you’ll have to wait for your breakfast in the cold outside the café. It’s not even the feeling that you’re doing something unique; over 1000 cyclists enter the Dunwich Dynamo, a very similar event to the Exodus, and there are probably many such events around Britain.
For me, it’s the feeling of freedom, the perception that I’ve stepped into a world where my senses are more acute and where the road simply belongs to cyclists.
Anyway, we rode, and talked, and got a little lost, and before we knew it, we were being serves tea, coffee, cheesy puffs and malt loaf by the ever cheerful Baggy and Chuffy at the bottom of the Cheddar Gorge. Then we rode some more, and ate pasta at North Curry at 2:30am. It tasted so good and we were so grateful. We rode past the break of dawn, only stopping to look at the cows looking at us. 6:00am drew nearer and I needed to hurry up to meet my beloved and ever so patient wife, who volunteered under duress to transfer me to stage 2 of my ride. I broke away and it was so beautiful. The light was so soft in the pine trees, I had 113 miles left to do and I was flying.
Skip to 6:10am, the car is there and I strip off to put on a fresh layer of Savlon, clean shorts and short sleeve Yogi shirt. Quick conversation with my son about why Papa is going to be quiet and close his eyes for a while, and why Jackson should do the same. I sink. 15 minutes go by and a very loud “wakey wakey Papa sunshine is out” brings me back to the sight of the A38 as we approach Newton Abbott.
Bike out, shoes on, helmet, bottles, they’ve had 50 minutes inactivity too. My legs are still warm and I speed up to the registration tent, exchanging exaggerated salutes with familiar faces. I feel sharp and overexcited like a child allowed to stay up too late. I might crash and burn later, but for now I’m ready to suck wheels and keep up. Greetings come from all sides. There’s a sea of Yogi shirts in the pens. I feel amazing. Repeated beeping noises, we’re off. I keep up. I keep up so good I get cocky, overtake, shout cocky things. I’m buzzing. I hang around other team members like a bad smell.
10 miles in, I let go; they’ve got fresh legs and I need to ease up if I want to avoid cramps and make it to the end. Time to get some music on. The tracks shuffle, I pedal, I can see Princetown in the distance. The legs still feel amazing. Then James’ “Sometimes”comes on. Bollocks, I’m crying and I don’t know why! I get a grip and think about cake. I pace around the feed station like some disorientated insect, really confused. I stay 20 minutes, maybe more, knowing that the next leg will be the toughest… and it is. I’m starting to lose focus and fall asleep. Horrabridge, I need to wake up. Others have described crowds cheering in Tavistock. I don’t remember them. My focus is now on Spar and the Red Bull I will buy from there. Disgusting, and guaranteed to give me wind rather than wings, but it will wake me up at least. I meet Mike Deacon, who briefly tells me about his pneumatic troubles. Poor chap doesn’t deserve such bad luck.
Off I go again. I astonish myself by overtaking riders climbing out of Tavistock , but know perfectly well that hell is just around the corner. Miles go y very slowly. Mentally, I’m pretty low down by now. The long ascents on the way to Lydford seem to never end and the 35 miles that separate feed stops feel like 100. Still, I’m not cramping and the heat doesn’t bother me, unlike most riders I meet, who take turn to comment on the weather as I overtake them. Pork hill and Merrivale are hard but can’t break me. Still no cramp, probably thank to the protein drink I’ve been sipping since 10pm last night, but my feet and my buttocks are raw. Second feed stop and I stick toilet paper in my socks to relieve the pressure, but there is nothing I can do about my arse. Emma Whittlesea arrives and I hang around, hoping that she will start again soon so I have a familiar wheel to cling on to. She’s taking her time so I move on. My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I’ve got 175 miles on the clock, it’s about 1pm and my sensors are switching off. The Beta Band’s “dry the rain” kicks off in my ears, and I cry again, for much longer this time. But I won’t slow down. By the time I get to Morehampstead, I get this incredible feeling of lucidity, of fluidity. My legs know exactly what to do and I even find enough arrogance within myself to encourage the riders I overtake on the climb out of town. I know exactly what’s on the other side, and I’m excited. The Teign Valley is as fast and as furious as ever, my sensations only enhanced by the euphoric state that comes with sleep deprivation. I’m riding hard, try to get a group to work with me but I’m no longer riding with my head and soon enough, they ease off and they let me enjoy alone the random pace I’m setting. 3 miles from finishing and I’ve no idea what my time is and I have nothing to lose, so I race a Condor rider who overtook me earlier. 209 miles and I’m having fun. I’m riding the last mile like I’m possessed, whilst my mind is pondering what victory stance to adopt when crossing the finish line. Final left turn, the finish is on grass. My hands need to stay on the bars or I’ll crash. No victory stance, but other Yogis are there to congratulate me. 210 miles, under 17 hours. The longest I’ve ever ridden and I just don’t know how I did it. I’m high.
You can still sponsor me here
It's not often that I pack 2 Yogi kits and use them both
Assembling the bike on the train to dodge reservation rules
I gave away bags of sweets to attract sponsorship, and it worked a little.
About to ride 210 miles and feeling pretty cool about it
Biggest turn out so far apparently
Sporting success often depends on positive support. Her my friend Chris does the honour
And they're off. Well, some of them!
The Exmouth Exodus route is a very fixed gear friendly one
Dusk
Into the warm night
Cheddar feed station
The now famous red lobster guarding the feed station van
Feed station heroes
Just making sure we aren't lost
Night train
And soon came dawn.
What are they looking at?
What they were looking at
Busy gap between rides
A sea of Yogi shirts
The only picture I took once the Dartmoor Classic had started. 2nd feed station. I got the shakes and put energy drink powder all over the bike.
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