T is for Tockholes and Takeaway Tiffin

I think we need to redefine "capacity crowd" as despite the attractions of the Fred Whitton Challenge and the exhaustion/hangovers of several elites, some of whom went to Mallorca recently, we still got over 70 people at the shop for the 9am start. As such we got no less than five groups, with two B groups on offer, one going north to Lytham while the other went south for St Helens before returning to Twin Lakes. Matt dropped in on the C ride which left the biggest ever A group to split into two, with Mark Titchener taking one bunch to Tockholes and Belmont a few minutes after another one, featuring most of the 312 crew, headed off to do the same ride. Well, actually, that was after both A groups had left town at the same time only to start on slightly different opening stanzas, but it's fair to say the 312 crew had the all-important edge - and not just because Emma's got a new aero road/triathlon bike awaiting a set of my clip-ons to win the Southport Triathlon. Read on to find how the Canyon Aeroad would come up trumps on a fairly hilly ride (checks to see if they have any of the new ones in stock in a medium)

BANG GOES ANOTHER MAVIC WHEEL, BLOODY TRIATHLETES THEY DON'T KNOW HOW TO RIDE A BIKE..........

After leaving the cobbles of Ormskirk behind, we headed towards the A59 and the Kicking Donkey, dodging potholes aplenty as we did so, particularly on the northward run towards Burscough, where the group looked like it was performing some fort of synchronized Olympic sport - not the type you find in a pool, of course. As we turned onto the road for the Burscough Industrial Estate some bloke on an S-Works Venge who looked suspiciously like David Jackson's evil twin zoomed past the entire group and surprisingly we left him to it instead of thinking "we MUST dominate him no matter what". Indeed, Venge Man parked up shortly before the Martin Inn to mull over how many seconds he'd put into one of JP's favourite 200 metre long segments, while we carried on as we were being led by Ian Gallagher and Dave Atkinson. I was talking to Ian Hampson about how easy last Thursday night's win over Villarreal had been and also about the fact that I finally had some of last year's speed back; I should have added that Melanie's spin classes at the gym had me struggling to walk for a day or two afterwards but, hey, BEAST MODE had to come into play sooner or later didn't it? We continued onto Curlew Lane, or more to the point the Specialized bikes graveyard, but no frames died on this refreshingly repaired road and after waving at Sean Griffin and hearing DNA shout "come on lazy arse, get yourself OUT!" we could turn onto the A59 for Croston, where we overtook Raleigh Man only for him to reappear as we swung right onto the exposed road into the wind. Croston itself was a welcome relief, at least until we got to Midge Hall, where a very quiet pull-over was required. It turned out that it wasn't a puncture, but instead that Ian Hampson's Mavic Aksium wheel only had 19 working spokes; the 20th had snapped at the hub point and on all wheels with relatively low spoke counts, it makes them pretty much unrideable. Eventually after a bit of pushing and shoving, he got a clip to bond the stricken spoke together, but after my Bank Holiday Monday post-11-mile-run beast session clanger in Great Altcar, it was a second email to the Mavic MP3 protection programme from a local multisport superstar while the rest of us tried everything to cool ourselves down, such was the rising heat. We set off once more towards the back of Chorley via the country roads of Runshaw Moor, but upon approaching the A49 we were suitably distracted by a girl out for a morning jog - while having the DOG tow her. That's right, she thought it best to minimize the effort of YOLO sprints by adding four legs to help her out. That would never happen at the Leicester Half Marathon would it? As I began a good Donald Trump discussion with Andy Sparks we swung left through the modern town house estate near Merlin Cycles before we reached the right-turn for Whittle-le-Woods, where the real climbing and unbearable temperatures would really kick in.

WHEN YOU'RE FIGHTING A WAR YOU FEEL YOU CAN'T WIN, BRING OUT THE HEAVY ARTILLERY

As we swung right, then left through Whittle-le-Woods Dave Atkinson remarked that there wasn't much (non-Donald Trump) conversation, and that no-one was up for any banter. Either everyone was already feeling the effort needed to ride fast in such hot weather, or Kev Murphy wasn't around to cause any prangs. But I thought there were plenty of fashion parade items on show, not least the 312 jerseys and Ste Francis with his pink accessories (cue Navy Mentality comments here) but for now I wouldn't join such a party. Instead, it was heads down and onto Shaw Brow, before the long twisty climb through a plethora of potholes to the water pumping station which certainly played right into our resident Marine's attacking instincts, but upon resumption for the start of the next climb I got a chance to join Chris Holden out front through Top O' The Hill Lane and then the gravelly descent into Brindle. This left both of us pointing out hazards so many times that it's a wonder we kept control of our bikes, and I did wonder where his turn of speed had come from given he sold his Dolan Scala a while back (I'm sure the new Trek store in Wilmslow would love to have him pay a visit, new Speed Concept apparently due in 2017) but we stayed out front pushing and half-wheeling in quite silly fashion all the way to Riley Green, where we saw the other A group in the distance. This is where things got a bit hazy because some of them saw the 312 jerseys and thought "this must be the tiny distinction between us and them". Indeed, you should read what Sigmund Freud wrote decades ago about why we just can't get on equally; one group or individual will always HAVE to get the tiniest lead over the other, and then to insist that it's the most important thing ever. Actually, what was far more important was that another heat-inducing climb was on the cards, where David Jackson, fresh from his starring role at the Dukinfield 50 time trial yesterday, ramped things up against me and Andy Sparks, but I think I could have pulled this climb off if only I hadn't been so daft as to select the big ring shortly before the park-up point at the pub, but not to worry; I hadn't been blown off the back by these suddenly world-beating 312'ers and I had a bit more confidence that all that Project Leicester running hadn't blunted my speed too much. And now, just for Emma and Ste, it was time to show off the lifesaver/Superleggera Assos sleeveless jersey I picked up on the cheap from the B**e R***s on my last trip to Manchester; at least Chatterbox (sorry RHIAN) hadn't been terrorising the A group after her hilly century the other day or else I think she might well have put 20 photos on the club website. Instead I got the chance to cool the core body temperature down a little with the fun descent through the obstacle course into Tockholes, and then the gentle climb through the village itself calmed me a bit as well. Go and look it up under "peripheral vasodilation", trust me it works every time, especially on hot days. After a quick park-up at the A675 junction I joined Darren on the southward run towards Belmont on Row 3 where we discussed Liverpool's likely strategy for this afternoon's game; beast it or tank it? Well who wants to play on Thursday nights anyway? It wasn't long before the heavy artillery - as in my leaner but no bigger shoulders - were ready to get things pumping with a 42mm set of Vision wheels underneath them as we turned right at the Black Dog to begin the final big climb of the day, Belmont.

FIRST IN WAR, FIRST IN PEACE, AND LAST IN THE DL EAST

Once the early escapees had been rounded up I got a few seconds gap on the rest of the field, but Jonathan Collins, who had joined our group after seeing those three fabled numbers on pretty much everyone's jerseys (apart from my own fashion party piece) gave me a real hard time, but probably not as hard a time as the stupid motorbikes who blew their horns at us and forced a way past just as the first, steepest part of the climb was easing up. It was here that the Vision wheel stopped giving things away to the close opposition and with the 312'ers still nursing aching legs the end result was an UPSET SPECIAL! For those who haven't a clue what the title of Chapter 3 is about, it's a famous phrase coined in Washington DC to describe both the city's role in running the (pre Donald Trump) world and their baseball teams, as in "first in war/peace and last in the.......NL (National League) East. We would instead face the DL (Downhill) East with the right-hand bend being my first opportunity to leak a few positions and let both Jonathan and David Jackson go. After that Colin Clark and Dave Atkinson shot past me as I quivered at the biting crosswind, and soon after Darren and Emma blasted past me, the former even lifting his entire bike on the cattle grid! Now you could do that with the current Cannondale Slice or even a Scott Plasma, but a Shiv? No chance (Googles "world's lightest Di2 TT bike that won't snap Chinook's back"). Despite me nearly being the first ever person to be first to the top and last to the bottom of a hill, some were much further behind again and while most were simply happy to get some free water and double the Piano Bar's water bill for the month, I was a bit more diplomatic - or you could say Democratic - about things and also ordered a giant-sized chocolate tiffin which was very tasty, but nearly impossible for even Mr Big Mouth here to get his jaw round. Ye gods. Also, the toilet was used as a very timely piss stop, which made for incredibly good resourcefulness on our parts as apart from Emma grabbing a can of 7up I didn't see anyone else actually giving this fabled building any money at all. We were soon joined by Inder's group who were on their way to the Barn, much to DNA's disdain; methinks he's determined to do the Roman Road on no breakfast and have a willing teammate to hand over the energy bars at the flying pitstops. Either that or just employ CHINOOK as his second-in-chief and pray like hell that he doesn't eat the Zipvits himself, or take him out on the Matchmoor descent (I accept no responsibility for the lack of skill shown by the local basketball team though, my arms aren't that long). Anyway back to the ride itself, we set off across the reservoir road, where one of the riders who'd joined our group lost a bottle right in front of me, but it bounced just the right way and allowed me to continue behind Chris Holden, who was having a superb ride aboard his Trek. I thought DNA was taking us up the mast but instead he had a novel idea in mind; squeal those brakes, turn right (causing me and Jonathan to miss the apex altogether) and cross the busy main road to go to Blackrod. This would be our first real taste of tailwind, and what a speedy segment it would prove to be.

CUTTING BODY FAT IS ONE THING CHINOOK, BUT CUTTING CORNERS, HONESTLY..........

It wasn't long before we hit the final mini leg-buster of the day, one which doesn't really have a name of any sort but requires either a 28t sprocket or use of the little ring. I decided to muscle up using 52x28 (as in "look it's big ring Chinook on the attack again") and even got a few moments at the top to devour the remainder of the tiffin bought in Rivington. After that it was round the 90-degree bends of Blackrod and Haigh Hall, where the descent was pure bliss at speeds of over 25mph and had us scrubbing off so much speed at the roundabout, that I thought it better to cut the roundabout altogether much to Jonathan's amusement who noted that I was only making up for my chicken-like descending abilities. Just as well the Roman Road doesn't do timed segments on the descents isn't it? Next up was the steady uphill climb past the newly-refurbished Owls at Standish; I commented that this surely must NOT be a Sheffield Wednesday FC supporters' club (COME ON BRIGHTON) as I really don't want to face the prospect of LFC having to go to their ground with so much ill-feeling still in the air. Once we'd cleared this former golf club hideout we got stopped for a very long time indeed at the crossroads as the red light just wouldn't go to green. On the restart I thought everyone might scatter but the group stayed remarkably together, even featuring one or two of the riders who'd jumped on the back of the 312 crew, and this gave the peloton added strength as we powered away from yet another set of temporary traffic lights before the M6 junction. Here, we cranked the pace up as we went straight through Wiggo Corner and towards Parbold, where I think a few of the Southport riders turned off for Twin Lakes. It would have been nice to go there, but my local doesn't take food orders after 4pm even on matchdays and I really couldn't justify eating lunch just three hours before a beef madras when I'm wanting to cut body fat as part of Project Leicester (curry does have body fat burning properties in it, try that one for size carb cutters). On the way down Parbold Hill I started the YOLO's as the speed camera appeared, and I think my 57.6kmh (36mph) was a new PB, very important as it probably got the Volkswagen in front of us a few penalty points. After all, it was another Volkswagen who had blown its horn at us a few minutes earlier in Standish while we passed the OWLS. Having pissed the population of Parbold off big time we could continue through Newburgh and past the Red Lion where a few families were enjoying a lunchtime beer. But I was so pumped up by being with the 312'ers that I didn't even envy them; instead I was only too keen to plunge down the descent for the petrol station and prepare for the YOLO up Dark Lane. But what use is a huge pair of legs if the wheels are dragging along the ground?

THE DEFINITION OF "DRAWING THE SHORT STRAW"

As we approached the Hoscar petrol station a white BMW up ahead nearly got CHINOOK'D as I got trapped behind while others scooted out from behind me. That left me at a position of real disadvantage and worse was to come; a huge PSSSST came form the rear wheel as my Specialized Turbo Cotton blew such a big hole in it, that it looked as though straw was poking out the tyre tread. Luckily, DNA was on hand to save me for the second time in 11 months; although this didn't get rid of the gaping hole in the canvas it did at least mean I could get home and, after a quick change and a decision to leave the troublesome tube at the roadside (it had a sticky valve anyway so I was only too happy to get rid of it) I could strain to get on the back of the remaining riders as the Dark Lane Dash approached. This is where the inevitable happened; Howie did the first move, then he was rounded up by the likes of David Jackson as once more a sensible move won the day, while DNA also starred in this final stanza having led us on a spectacular route in pretty spectacular weather.

At this point Jonathan suggested Holborn Hill, primarily because he's currently based in that area - has he forgotten that whoever get to the top first has to buy the beers at the Royal Oak? - but more to the point I needed to find Ian Gallagher because we had similar depth rims and a similar shortage of long-valve latex, and if we weren't careful we'd have to call Delta Taxis for a mini van to get us both back to Formby. So while some who'd run out of water parked up at DNA's for a refill and a quick discussion of getting bevvied/going on a chainey (in no particular order) the two Formby squirrels got ready to join Howie and Ste Francis on a mission to get home as fast as possible, because we had a rare tailwind and Ste had match tickets for the 4pm at Anfield. He and Howie went straight on at the Dog and Gun while me and Ian took the clearest route home, descending the WHOOSH before time-trialling all the way across the moss as speeds of up to 25mph were recorded, only slowing as I marvelled at the idiot who looked as though they'd dumped a fridge and a freezer at the water station just before the horse stables. After one final 25mph YOLO over the Formby Cycles bridge I sent Ian on his way while I sourced the local store's final 24mm Turbo Cotton tyre, because the front hoop is still showing its wear dimples; methinks once these have both gone kaput I'll be ringing Howie for a set of his Vittoria Corsa Graphenes in 25mm. With my new tyre safely stored down my back I could set off once more for the big junction just as Rob Mcleod came the other way wondering where on earth this new club triathlete had come from. Answer: NOWHERE. Just thought I'd clear that one up. It wasn't long before I was home and in the bath having done a fantastic 71 miles in the most perfect weather possible, before walking to the pub for curry and three pints of Doom Bar while watching the red men ease to victory with a team which must surely look to challenge the likes of Leicester and Tottenham next season. A cracking day all round, expertly managed by DNA, and well done to all who stepped up and took on an A ride; indeed I think I might lobby the 312 organisers for a Sunday date next year so I could fly out of JLA on a Saturday afternoon flight to join you..........

Now for the results, in association with my lifesaver, the Assos NS Superleggera Jersey:

Distance: 114.08km/71.3 miles

Time: 3:47:21

Average Speed: 30.11kmh/18.82mph (Season's BEST)

Dead Bike Parts: 2. a Mavic spoke and a Specialized tyre

Hors Cat Climbs: 3

Dogs: 1 towing a runner

Bottles of Water Drunk: 3

Sweet Treats Consumed: Only the tiffin (Project Leicester must be really kicking in)

Money spent at Piano Bar: £2 plus the cost of Emma's 7up can

Money spent in the pub: £7 on beef madras plus £9 on Doom Bar

REJECT OF THE RIDE: Two Giant Trinity-Loving Triathletes

(That's a joint award to the one who blew a Mavic spoke, and the one whose tyre delaminated. But at least the Giant Store trip introduced me to Unit 51 cafe)

Have a good couple of weeks' riding, I've got work in Manchester next Sunday and the following week I'm at the St Annes Triathlon. Remember, that's the same day as Southport; anyone up for meeting at the Green Rooms afterwards? You think we'd get ASBO'D if we came in with completely bare arms, really?