A diary entry from Zoe....

Wessex Wanderers.

Last month I joined up with most of the British public on the M5 to enjoy a bank holiday weekend in Somerset. By ‘enjoy’ I mean negotiating 200 miles of stunning (if lumpy) Wessex roads on my trusty Ribble bike. I had plans: I would ride out the first stage alone; then, after a restful night recuperating at the Kenney-Herbert household, I would return to complete the monster second stage with friends from the Cambridge multi-sports 

scene.

Day 1 led me across the Somerset levels; all ok apart from a slow-motion falling incident on the first hill when my chain pinged off. Oops. Worryingly, I soon passed some Cambridge ‘ironman’ friends by the verge. They were bleeding and attracting attention from an ambulance and the event safety officers. I pushed valiantly on in an effort to dissociate myself with such reckless company... past Glastonbury Tor, through the Mendip hills and 

Cheddar Gorge and beyond Castle Cary.

Naturally this idyllic scenery was all part of a cunning plan to distract participants from the misery of soaring lactic acid levels and sideways drizzle. From previous experiences on horseback I remember the Mendips as gently rolling hillocks. Next time I’ll show some empathy and lead the horse on foot... ouch Cheddar Gorge.

Day 2 brought me to the start line in Somerton, braced for 117 miles with Sabrina Verjee, a supreme cyclist, adventure racing queen and general endurance demon. I was numb to the sneering looks and thoughts of elite cyclists as they clocked my rucksack: ‘fancy wearing a rucksack, on a bike, such an amateur, doesn’t she know anything?’ No. I don’t. And ignorance is bliss.

Sabrina demonstrated the clever tactic of tagging onto the back of fast overtaking groups, probably in the hope that I’d manage to draft them for a while too. Wishful thinking! Hunger pangs and whining quads were appeased as we reached the 30-mile feeding station. We were joined for the next 35 miles by survivors of the previous day’s Cambridge pile-up: Jamie Brunning with a delightfully oozing knee wound, and Henry Gomersall whose broken fingers were swathed in so much bandage that they looked like a bunch of bananas. We worked through Cerne Abbas, past Dorchester, all along the coast and then headed north at Corfe Castle. We had only two near-death experiences with caravan drivers and just one foul-mouthed cursing session as I spotted TWO photographers poised at the top of a hideous 1:3 climb. Sadists.

After 70 miles I released the trio of speedy ironmen to chug on steadily at my own pace. This was possibly an error: one of my tyres then embraced something sharp and popped. I was forced to flag down and chat to an attractive group of guys sporting big smiles and very tight lycra. (Surely you don’t actually think I’m able to replace an inner tube on my own?)

Feeling refreshed I hammered out the last 40 miles. Bizarrely they were the most enjoyable of the whole weekend and my average speed ramped up. It must have been the delight of cracking 42 mph alongside the realisation that I would finish in one piece. Altogether it was an awesome tour… but I wonder where the cycling community would be without chamois crème.

The Tour of Wessex was a tough distance and made me realise that my bike set-up caused a lot of back pain. So off I trotted to see Tim Williams, the Cambridge tri club coach who’s also an expert on fitting bikes. He hooked up Ribble to a turbo trainer and analysed my body position and pedalling action. Next thing I knew we’d moved my shoe cleats, lowered the seat post and chosen some new ‘compact’ drop handle bars at Primo Cycles to alleviate my discomfort.

Steve Hawkes showed excellent taste in handlebar tape by matching its two-tone colour to the paintwork. Mmmm fit Ribble. And I’ve even ditched the rucksack...