A change of pace - Brompton World Championships

This story begins a few months ago, when I was idly reading my email on the train to work.

Junk, junk, junk... then one email stood out - registration was open for the Brompton World Championships.

I checked the date: no issue there - we are free.

I checked the eligibility. Interesting. No qualifying time required - entry is by ballot.

Tom had been saying for some time that he would like to enter a bike race. I was pretty certain he meant a time trial, or a road race. Still, riding a Brompton around central London in office attire is sort of like that, right? And as we do now have two Bromptons...what could go wrong?

Impulsively, I made two entries. One for me, and one for Tom. And then promptly forgot about it, thinking “it’s probably like Wimbledon or the London Marathon, where you wait years to get in”.

A few weeks later, an email arrived in my inbox telling me I had a place. I texted Tom - “do you have any emails today?” 

Tom checked his email. I waited nervously (knowing that this could seriously backfire if I was the only one with a place). Tom also had a place! We paid our entry monies, and that was it. We were going to the Brompton World Championships.

This. This is happening. #brompton #bicycle @FamilyByCycle pic.twitter.com/Kx8WTkyqoL

— Katie Jones (@KatieJones74) February 12, 2018

Tom immediately started sending me links to various internet offerings for titanium parts upgrades, and compiled a list of essential adjustments which must be made before the race. (Uh- oh - here we go, Tom’s competitive streak is out already...). New pedals. An upgraded suspension block. And now he’s talking about how much of a penalty the hub dynamo will be.

Anyway, true to form, life with Family ByCycle continued apace (We went to Kielder and the Scottish Borders, Rhoda went viral, we went to East Lothian, work, school etc etc) and suddenly the weekend was upon us.

As longer term readers of our blog will remember, two years ago we celebrated our anniversary with a weekend of canoeing. This year, the plan was to go racing.

The first weekend without the children in 2 years begins by spending several hours depositing the children with the various family members who are looking after them this weekend.

Saturday morning dawns. Bliss - no early wake up call. At around 10.32 am, a kind of important question also dawns. “What are you going to wear?”

Ummm....

We go shopping. A frantic rummage of the M&S sale rail (“it’s non returnable” “Not sure that’s a problem!”) and a guilty trip into Primark, and we have compliant costumes. We each have a jacket with sleeves that we aren’t going to cry over if we get them sweaty and covered in bike grease.

Reading the very strict sounding rules on eyewear, I am not sure whether my glasses will pass the strict admonition to be shatterproof (not that I was intending to test that one out), so I stick my contact lenses in and leave my sunglasses at home. I don’t want to lose them for non-compliance, and we have literally no idea how strictly these things are going to be scrutinised.

12:18: Better check the bikes. Mine has been ridden daily for the commute, so I am certain of what adjustments I need. Tyre pressures topped up to 100psi, a half turn on the seat clamp to stop the seat swivelling and I’m good to go. After all, I am not expecting a place on the podium.

12.26: I am stood by the door, ready to go. Tom is changing pedals, having decided that he doesn’t fancy the journey to and across London in his road shoes. He pauses to ask me how quickly I said he could do it in. “Oh, 25 minutes...”, I say, airily. He does a double take. “Only kidding. I said 35 minutes for you and 40 for me”.

12.42: as we don’t have any guests coming with us who we can leave our stuff with, we decide that we’d better downscale what we pack to only what we can fit into our pockets. Tom is bemoaning the fact that the other upgrades he’d have liked haven’t been done. He is concerned about how much time he will lose by virtue of the extra weight of the rear rack, pump, mudguards and the extra drag caused by the hub dynamo. Those bomb proof Schwalbe Marathons are also apparently not racing gear of choice. I observe that it might be a little late to be making changes now, since our train leaves in about an hour, and we haven’t left the house yet. Tom concedes that he might have to use this year as a “recce” for a future attempt.

13.25: we unload the Bromptons at the station, and decide to have a practice unfolding race. I win by a mile, partly because I do this several times a day, and partly because Tom's cables throw his chain off. Snorting only slightly, I promise him that (as I expect to be starting behind him), if he’s still not unfolded it when I get to him, I will stop and help. Tom is not impressed by this offer; my willingness to sacrifice my own race. I think that it’s the only bit of the race that I stand to 'win', so I am determined to get some mileage out of it.

13.55: we are on a London bound train with no luggage racks, the two Bromptons stowed in an empty row of seats. Winning.

London was busy with bikes. We arrived on the Mall as the London Free Ride was finishing, and headed to the Brompton registration desk, where there were two race packs with our names on them. We spent the next 15 minutes attaching various stickers, pins, cable ties and paraphernalia to the Bromptons and to ourselves, and then knowing we had everything we needed, we could relax and enjoy the afternoon.

We watched the Women’s pro teams contest the ‘Classique’, thundering past unperturbed by the odd huge gust of wind that swirls leaves, dust and debris across their path. I began to regret the decision to leave my sunglasses at home. We used our food vouchers and sampled sausage rolls with salad and sweet potato fries from the food vendors.

We exchanged drinks vouchers for cans of San Pellegrino, which were decanted into single use plastic cups. I try to stop the vendor: “No thank you - the can is fine”. She looks puzzled. I try again - “I’d prefer not to have my drink served in a single use plastic cup.” Apparently, it’s the rules. No one at the bar can articulate what this rule is about, but I can’t have the drink at all unless it is first poured for me into a plastic cup. If I have my own plastic cup, I can re-use that. I am told it is to do with litter, and it is non-negotiable. No single use plastic, no drink. Since the panic over not being able to race with a bag on the front, or to leave our stuff since we are both racing, and the rules about bidons having to be deformable if ridden over, we haven’t brought our own bottles or drinks, so I am stuck and forced to accept that if I want a drink at all any time in the next four hours, I have to live with the rule.

The vibe at the BWC is really relaxed. There’s also plenty of bike porn, if lusting after larger chain rings and titanium bike parts is your thing. I was frankly astonished (as a utility Brompton-er) at how much time, effort and money goes into the custom Brompton market. We met a chap with a custom sprayed Bianchi and Campagnolo themed Brompton, which had had all sorts of bells and whistles fitted to it. It had clearly been a labour of love, and made me ashamed of the not-all-that-regular wash and oil and quick top up of the tyres that my own steed receives.

The demographic is also properly mixed - this is genuinely an event for all ages and genders and all countries. We enjoyed spotting the national flags on the shoulder stickers of the various national champions who were in London to contest the World Championships. We spotted riders from as far afield as Japan - a crazy distance to come for 8 laps up and down the Mall and Bird Cage walk!

As well as the bikes having had more attention than ours, it’s also fair to say that the range of costumes also properly put our last minute bargain rail scavenge to shame. There were bespoke tweed suits, a bespoke rainbow suit, a chap in a suit (with bespoke shorts) with fish print all over it (he turned out to be pretty nippy!). The ladies didn’t let the side down either, with a fair number of decorated helmets and dresses and jackets made in cycling themed fabrics. Maybe something to aspire to another year.

Before we knew it, it was time to line up for the start. Tom and I had been allocated to different starting 'waves' - Tom in Wave C and me later in Wave D. I lined up in a group of 10 women riders at the start of Wave D, one of whom was surprised to learn that she had to run across the track and unfold the bike as part of the race. The waves set off at 10 second intervals, so we got the spectacle of looking up the mall towards the other waves as they were set off, charging over and doing some pretty speedy unfurling of their bikes.

Wave C, where Tom was, got a bit over excited, and half of them set off during Wave B. The stewards had to try to get them back in the 5 remaining seconds before their wave was set off anyway! Last in the line, Wave D were away, and I was soon pedalling past a still-stationary Tom. That win in the car park wasn’t a one off! I didn’t have to stop though, as he was about to climb aboard as I sailed past him, gaining pace. That right there was enough of a moral victory, but I meant to make it as difficult as possible for him to make the inevitable overtake.

Sure enough, during that first lap, he had caught me up, telling me that his chain had come off not once, but twice, as he came roaring past, irritated.

I have never really done any bike racing, and the notable thing from the race for me was the HUGE speed and skill differential between the lead riders and the rest of the field. There were plenty of people for me to overtake, but it wasn’t really a race with them. They were there for the experience, and not really racing at all, which made them mobile obstacles for everyone else to deal with, wandering and wobbling across the course, waving at the crowds and paying no attention to what was happening around them. Inevitably therefore, with lots of jostling for position and pretty big speed differences, I witnessed several crashes!

At the end of lap 2, the lead riders, headed by a motorbike, came past. I looked across and saw former pro-rider turned GCN presented Emma Pooley leading out the group of mainly much larger men, and I have never seen such a tiny person working it so hard. No doubt about it - the lady is fierce! This is probably the first and only ride I will ever compete in alongside the likes of Emma Pooley, so I was determined to make the most of it, even if forced almost to a stand as the group passed me where the course narrowed for a bend.

I got passed again in Lap 4, as the lead group were heading into their penultimate lap. If I upped the pace, could I make it over the line to complete 6 laps before the leaders made it to the finish? The next person to lap me, unfortunately, was Tom. So engrossed was he in the group he was chasing that he didn’t even notice that he was passing me.

I am told (but sadly I didn’t get to see it) Tom attempted a “bike throw” to gain a place at the finish, to the bemusement of the chap he was fighting for position. In the queue at the end, it appeared that Tom had finished having only just caught a very dashing gentleman attired in a tweed suit and smoking a pipe. Yes, that’s right folks, I felt fit to collapse and some dude had just crossed the line with Tom (who had himself overtaken me) clad in tweed whilst smoking a pipe. And you know what, it’s just that sort of race.

We chatted to Emma Pooley in the crowd (now Brompton World Ladies Champion), and she was kind enough to record a short message of encouragement to Rhoda to carry on riding after her recent crash. The children love the GCN show, so Rhoda was really pleased to see the video.

We met the awesome @PooleyEmma after the race (which she won!), and she had some encouragement for Rhoda after her recent crash... @FamilyByCycle @gcntweet pic.twitter.com/yqyyedVyca

— Katie Jones (@KatieJones74) July 28, 2018

Tom and I had a happy and chatty ride back across London to catch the train home. The verdict - Tom is already making notes on how he will improve his performance for next year’s race (starting with  unfolding the bike without dropping the chain!).

On Sunday morning, I was woken early. I was a bit disgruntled to be honest, because this was the bit of the weekend where I was supposed to get a lie in, because the children aren’t at home. I should have known though that in this respect, Tom is still quite the child. He just had to know! Where did we come?

Drumroll please...

Mrs ByCycle placed 53rd out of 91 in the ladies race, having completed 6 laps, and Mr ByCycle placed 175th in the men’s race with a respectable 7 laps to his name. So plenty of room for improvement for next year - if we get through that ballot again...

How do you say 'broken spoke' in French?!

This morning we woke to rain: heavy rain. Tom got up early to walk into the village again in search of 3G signal to send a message to the two nearest bike shops and to visit the boulangerie for breakfast fare.

While he was gone, our lovely neighbours (who made me tea last night) came over and offered us a lift with the wheel into Morlaix for a repair. Truly they were angels, ditching their own plans, to do us a favour.

I set off with the wheel in the back of the car. My A-level French did not include bike maintenance vocabulary. For our next trip, I must spend some time creating a crib sheet for bike terminology. I know the words for wheel, tyre, puncture and brakes, but after that I'm officially stuck. Luckily, when I visited the tourist information office yesterday, judicious use of the 'international language of the gesture' (in combination with the French I do have) yielded 'rayon' as my first new word to add to the cycling vocab arsenal. We arrived in the shop (now open) and half an hour and €10 later the wheel was fixed.

Elaine and Laura were also kind enough to wait while I nipped into the Intermarché to buy some fresh provisions for lunch and dinner. Meantime, Tom was washing the children back at the campsite.

Given the weather (and the effect of boggy paths on our pace with the trailer in tow) we decided to stay put for the day and to try to make up the mileage the following day. The next section of our route takes us back onto the 'Green way' to Carhaix.

Judi (the campsite proprietor) offered to put the trailer, my bike, the girls and I in her van to drive us to Carhaix to try to make up some mileage, leaving Tom and Thomas free to ride at a faster pace if they wanted. Having already lost a fair bit of mileage in England (and knowing that we had left room for slippage in our plans), we decided to stay together and enjoyed a leisurely afternoon at the campsite.

We therefore got chance to spend a bit longer at 'Camping des Bruyères', which is one of the quietest and quirkiest sites I have ever stayed at. In the evening, the toilet block is illuminated by oil lamps. There is a huge selection of bikes to borrow, caravans with toys for children and the Shed- a communal space with tables and chairs, a cooker, and games tables (ping pong, pool and a space for children to do colouring in).

The site clearly attracts a lot of repeat visitors, mostly British and Dutch it would seem, doubtless attracted by the tranquil setting and the real sense of "getting away from it all".

Roscoff to Le Clôitre St Thégonnac. Deuxième désastre!

We were woken gently on the ferry by piped music. We had an 'interesting' night in the girls' cabin. Ruth and Rhoda were sharing the bottom bunk, top-to-toe. Rhoda rolled out of the bunk twice before I gave up and chucked my duvet on the floor for her to sleep on. Ruth managed to stay in her bunk until at least 2.30am when she announced she wanted to go to the toilet to be sick. I dashed down the ladder as the boat pitched and rolled, but by the time I got down to her, she had nodded off again, adopting a novel kneeling posture for the rest of the night.

 It was much less exciting in the boys' cabin, by all accounts.

We were greeted by a drizzly Roscoff morning. Briefed by fellow cyclists, we made an immediate turn off the main road and up a hill out of the port. We passed along a lovely stretch of segregated cycle lane, plenty wide enough for the trailer, and took our time to help Thomas Ivor build up his confidence after his crash and to get used to riding on the right. The promise of breakfast at St Pol de Leon made the first couple of miles easy work, and Thomas Ivor ordered himself a pain au chocolat in a patisserie, quite amazed that the French he learned in school actually worked.

This is what a proper village cycle facility looks like!
Not entirely clear where the pedestrians go at this point, though...

I had a slightly larger linguistic stretch to go to the pharmacy for more paracetamol and ibuprofen for our injured cyclist, to make sure I got the children's versions, but apparently I did pay attention in class fifteen years ago, so all was well (thank you Kate Golder and Caroline Gower for the A-level tuition!).

Administering drugs to cyclists - in full view!

After breakfast in St Pol de Leon, we set off again aiming for Morlaix as our lunch stop. Today was a hard-work day for me with the trailer- a fair amount of climbing to be done as we moved inland. We had a couple of moments questioning whether we could get the Croozer down some narrow stretches of the Tour de Manche route, but in each case we managed.

We paused for some lessons in farming: despite living in Devon with his mum for the majority of the time, Thomas Ivor knows astonishingly little of what raw food looks like and where it comes from.

The road into Morlaix that we chose at Lanvéguen (D769) in preference to the signed cycle route was lovely- wide, smooth, lightly trafficked. We rolled into Morlaix, under the motorway viaduct and towards the double height railway viaduct feeling good.

Then disaster struck "TWANG!!".

Another spoke, drive side, on Tom's rear wheel snapped at the hub. We didn't realise at the time quite what a disaster it was, deciding to retire for lunch and use some of the data bundle we'd bought for the phone to look up bike shops.

Morlaix's only bike shop would have been open (Google had assured us) but a paper notice on the door declared it shut on Mondays through July and August. The lovely man at the tourist information office told me that the only other store in town was Decathlon. Zero chance of repair that afternoon. That left us with a dilemma: ride another 16 miles to the campsite on a broken wheel, or try to stay in Morlaix for the night make up the mileage later. We decided to get to our campsite and re-evaluate our options tomorrow.

Our route from Morlaix to La Clôitre St Thégonnac was along part of the former Réseau Breton 'voie verte'. In the rain, the surface was soft, and the going was slow with the trailer. There were also lots of gates to navigate with the trailer. It made for a fairly miserable afternoon, with me dragging the trailer along mile after mile of climbing and Tom nursing a broken wheel.

We were glad to find some tarmac once more, roll in to 'Camping Les Bruyères' and get the tent up. Fellow British campers gave us a lovely welcome: Laura and Elaine made me a hot cup of tea, which small gesture lifted my spirits a hundredfold, and turned out to be the first of several kindnesses they did us. We crawled into our sleeping bags and decided to make a new plan in the morning.

Road-rash rescue

We had a good night's sleep on the edge of Dartmoor, but woke to find the weather had deteriorated, as per the forecast. There was no point hitting the road early, only to end up with many hours to kill, in dodgy weather, at Plymouth ferry terminal.

Fortunately, things were expected to pick up, and in any event, Toby and Nicky had very kindly offered to show us their amazing collection of vehicles.

The one thing we don't have at home, that I wish we did, is a garage, to store bikes and allow me to tinker with temperamental little Peugeots under cover. We have a lovely big basement, slowly drying out after years of mistreatment by a former occupier, but you struggle to get bikes down there without scratching them, never mind park a car in it! Aside from Toby's simply stunning wood workshop, we were shown bikes for every conceivable situation, before being led into a garage with the matchless aroma of petrol and oil. Little did I realise, as Thomas Ivor posed for pictures round Toby's lovely early 50s Land Rover, that he would wind up riding in it before the day was out.

Toby and Nicky have not only been very kind in extending an offer to accommodate us, strangers known only as fellow cyclists with children, but have really inspired us with their use of their bikes for every day utility, not just a holiday conveyance. John, their son, took a keen interest in our trailer, and Thomas Ivor's Islabike, whilst we saw tandems, tourers, racers, an antique trike and even a cargo bike. Everything is substance over style, and their kit clearly 'just works'. Smart as our matching Trek frames and Ortliebs may look, we are already having a long, hard think about some of the clever and evidently hard-working cycling solutions we've seen.

The highlight for Thomas Ivor was his first ride on a Tandem - Toby and Nicky have a Thorn 'Child Back' which they use to take John to school. A pair of these in three or four years' time might be just the ticket for us with the girls! John's stoker seat also featured cleverly shortened cranks, tapped out to allow the pedals to be moved later on. In return for letting Thomas Ivor try his seat, John was treated to a trip in the Croozer, which went down equally well!

Turning to our bikes, Thomas Ivor pointed out that I had a flat rear tyre - and depressingly, he was right. First one the bike has had! It transpired that something had apparently got inside it when the spoke was changed afterwards, as the shard of metal had not pierced the tyre. After the events of yesterday afternoon, Toby very kindly also put my wheel in his alignment jig and got it straight and tensioned for me, whilst we repaired the tube. We couldn't have been in better hands and we were so grateful to be setting out for Plymouth with the best possible prospects.

The time came to set off, all too soon, and we bade farewell to Toby, Nicky and a rather put out John, who wanted to come with us! The damp conditions made for a tricky descent down the narrow, hedge-lined 'Devon lane' to the main road, but by the time we reached the old road to Buckfastleigh, the surface was drying in the breeze. 

Taking my first stint with the trailer, I pushed on into a dip, trying to gain enough momentum to 'slingshot' us over the top of the next crest. Katie dropped onto Thomas Ivor's wheel to coach him at a more sedate pace.

Just before I reached the top, I heard a loud, pained cry.

I toiled feverishly up the last few yards of the climb and pulled off the road. Turning round, there was Thomas Ivor, being picked up off the road, with a car very close to where he'd landed. I turned the trailer and sped back down the hill as fast as the load would let me.

Despite appearances, I quickly discovered that the motorist had simply arrived at the scene after the accident happened, and was rendering assistance. He'd not been hit. Phew. Fortunately, not only did Thomas Ivor have a perfectly lucid recollection of what had happened, but Katie had of course seen it unfold right in front of her. He'd caught a seam in the surface where the road had been repaired, and at about 15mph it had pitched him off. Not really the lad's fault, but no consolation for him. He'd bitten his lip in three places as he'd landed, and whilst his helmet had done nothing for him (not a mark on it apart from a minuscule scuff on the plastic visor) he had a bump on the forehead and some other knocks and grazes. He had a wobbly tooth, but after some debate it was concluded that this was a milk tooth which was probably due to come out as it was!

Thomas Ivor hadn't had a proper fall from his bike before, and temporarily forgot that wailing and gnashing of teeth wouldn't soothe his wounds, which made things a little more testing. We needed to be certain he was ok - not only because we were about to leave the country and do some serious miles, but because when you are a separated parent, an accident or serious illness in your care is one of the worst occurrences possible.

We felt awful doing it after all the kindness and time they had given so far, but it seemed most prudent to give Toby and Nicky a shout for some help. Before we knew it, Thomas Ivor was back at their house and I was cleaning him up whilst Katie and the girls were brought back with the trailer in the trailer, as per yesterday. In the aftermath of the accident, Ruth had sat in a bus shelter, very concerned for her brother but most of all for his bike, and 'Beinn' was suitably 'mended' by the laying on of little hands.

Newton Abbot minor injuries unit was not somewhere I'd planned to visit on our trip, and I probably wouldn't have done so were it not for the specific circumstances, but with time now ticking to departure time at Plymouth, we had to be absolutely sure and cover our backs to regain some confidence. Praise God for the lovely nurse, a fellow cyclist, who triaged the little chap and prescribed getting back on the bike - which was far more helpful than the dramatic 'Oh my GOD!' he had from someone else who should have known better. We left the hospital having been seen promptly and efficiently, with an impartial opinion that we should carry on with our adventure - and Thomas Ivor with a 'trauma teddy' (knitted by the WRVS I think!) - they chose him one specially with a yellow jersey - who has joined our team and been nicknamed 'Froomey', in honour of today's winner on the Champs-Élysées.

A ride in the Land Rover later, we were all back together again at Toby and Nicky's house, and wound up arriving at Plymouth just as we had left Teignmouth yesterday. We cannot thank the guys enough for giving up much of their weekend and deploying their resources to save our trip. If we'd missed this ferry, we'd have had our work cut out making any of it work. We look forward to seeing them again to say 'thank you' once more when we get home.

And so a sore but sleeping Thomas Ivor, having ridden into the ferry terminal and shared his 'war story' with fellow cyclists in the queue, is in the berth beneath me on board Brittany Ferries' 'Armorique' as I write; fast asleep, hopefully dreaming of France. I've had a quick visit to the restaurant for some French cuisine to keep me going, and am probably going to have nightmares about spokes...