It was simply amazing to spend last night celebrating three things; first and foremost, Val and Jeff’s 25th anniversary celebrations (congrats both), secondly to watch Pendleton time her burst to perfection (are at least, go early and hang on) for gold in the Keirin and finally to watch former Cardiff JIF member Geraint Thomas win a second gold medal as part of the world record breaking mens purusit team (congrats also to Clancy, Kennaugh and Burke). Fantastic stuff. From a British cycling perspective, the games could barely be better for reasons other than the obvious.
I went cycling yesterday. A swift blast over the mountain, wearing my spanking new ‘Here come the Belgians’ club jersey (my other club, pictured above) and grinding out the cadence on the single speed. Nearing the top of Caerphilly mountain I bonked completely, paying the price for sprinting up every hill that I came across in the lanes of Rudry and Lisvane. Heaving the bike from side to side in an ugly look-out-he’s-going-to-fall-at-any-point style, cars gave me an incredibly wide bearth, including a rather dodgy looking white van that had all the hall marks of a cycle terrorising delivery nutter. On this stretch of road, that’s a bloody first. Cars, vans, robin reliants, mopeds, old ladies on mobility scooters, you name it – you’re going to get short shrift. To some extent it’s understandable; most road users struggle to get up the last little section on Thornhill road without dropping it into first or second gear and the sight of a loopy cyclist weaving from side to side tends not to engender respect from militant motorists. Nonetheless, the relentless stream of traffic give me plenty of room to manouever. I reached the top dry heaved, gathered my wits and descended the Wenaullt.
I remain utterly convinced that the fallout from continued success at the games and the TDF will benefit cyclists across the UK – whilst they are in the recent memory at least.