Ride London Surrey 100 - Cycle Sportive

I have wanted to complete a cycle sportive for a few years now, so the opportunity to take on the 100 miles of the Ride London Surrey in aid of Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH) was hard to pass up. I signed on the dotted line…  www.justgiving.com/James-Sinclair5/

My friend Steve duly signed up to ride for Starfish Greathearts Foundation, and I was grateful to have someone to ride with.

Dedicated Training

OK, that would be a stretch. With the best intentions, I read over the detailed 3-month training plans that came with the sportive magazine but, before I knew it, I only had 2 months left, one of which was due to be spent on a small Greek island.

The combination of my Greek bike literally falling apart in my hands – having been corroded to the core by the Aegean winter winds – three kids to look after, and hot weather, led me to swap cycle training for daily swims across the bay. I can’t really complain, or at least I didn’t think I could until I took on my first hill once back in the UK. I had always heard that swimming was the best form of exercise, but that clearly does not stretch to propelling me up hills on two wheels. Taking on Harting Down, I foolishly locked to the wheel of a fitter cyclist and, by the top, had to stop and sit down, flashy lines crossing my eyes and heart palpitating.

This came as a bit of a shock and gave me the jolt needed to squeeze in some proper training around my hectic life. A month of after work rides through the South Downs followed. From Guildford to Chichester, up Hindhead hill twice, down Black Down at over 60kmph, on beautiful back country roads and horrible commuter trawls. It was great.

The Day

0430 alarm. Slap on some Vaseline, pull up the Lycra, and stuff so many carbs into my stomach that I want to puke. An ordinary start to the day. I understand trying to get 25,000 fun riders through the course before the pros necessitates an early start, but an arrival time starting with a 6 is tough.

As it happened, it was a glorious morning. All blue skies and crisp sunshine. This helped me get over my normal morning blues and, before we knew it, Steve and I had parked up in North Greenwich and were zooming through the Blackwall tunnel to the Olympic Park. By the time we arrived at our designated start zone, we had already clocked 8km. As if 100 miles was not enough for one day.

Barcelona Beginnings

I had been in a state of excited – if slightly hesitant – anticipation for days and this reached a crescendo as we lined up by the Olympic velodrome and we were funnelled onto the start line. Ahead and behind were thousands of cyclists, carrying out nervous last-minute checks. Music was pumping and the MC set off group after group to upbeat tunes.

When it was our turn (Yellow F), we were greeted and sent off to the forgotten tune of “Barcelona” (“…what a beautiful horizon...”), which made sense when we were informed that Sally Gunnel was in our group. Hero.

A shake of Steve’s hand, and we passed under the timing banner. Down the hill and we were off at pace through the docklands. Past the Wharf with a shiver and on into the City.

Our negative split plan (i.e. set off slowly, come back strong – or at least stronger than we would have if we had not set off slowly…) seemed to be going well, as the majority of cyclists whizzed past us. On closer inspection of our speedo, we were traipsing across the capital much faster than we planned, averaging a good 30kmph. It was just that most other people were either faster or more caught up in the exuberance of the herd.

At the beginning, we were greeted by a sparse crowd of confused hung-over people and the odd genuine supporter. As time went on, this grew to more and more people that seemed genuinely excited to have this mass participation race pass by their homes. Riding for GOSH seemed particularly popular, and I was buoyed on by well-wishers.

It was a fantastic feeling to pass by the sites of London on traffic-free roads. The Strand, Trafalgar Square, Kensington, Chelsea, across the Thames and into Richmond Park. We whizzed up and over Richmond Hill, barely noticing it compared to all steep parts of the Downs. On and on, past Hampton Court Palace and then back across the river. In the Sunday morning sunshine, our route through South West London was a real pleasure.

Into the Surrey Hills

Pouring out of London into the undulating greenery that is the county of my birth, we entered Surrey for the core part of the sportive.

We pushed on to Newland’s Corner and then up the first big hill of the day. Unsurprisingly, I soon fell behind the wheel of Steve, as my fitter friend (admittedly, on a lighter bike) sped up the hill. Surprisingly, once I got into my stride, I was passing a lot more people than passed me. Perhaps the month’s training and negative split plan was paying off?

At the top, we parked up our bikes and took a proper rest stop, stuffing our stomachs full of bacon butties and sports drinks. It was just under half and I was feeling on good form. Pity the big hills lay ahead rather than behind.

Setting off again recharged, we took on the fast, sweeping, long downhill in the direction of Shere. I have always loved this patch of road, and it was exhilarating taking it on amongst the throng of cyclists.

There is, though, a flip side to this exhilaration. Danger and accidents. We had passed three separate ambulance cases just on the first third of the ride. The problem is that in such an inexperienced crowd, very few people know how to ride in mass peloton. I include myself in that inexperienced number, but at least I had the common sense not to serially cut people up on either side, through tiny gaps without so much as a “on your right”. The situation was exacerbated on the downhills, where people would be hurtling down at varying velocities, often with little respect for those around them with inevitable wheel and handle bar clips.

Escaping unscathed, our road took us through the pretty villages of Shere and Ambinger Hammer, where smiling crowds greeted our transit. By chance, we met up with Sarah, a work colleague. I say chance – she could not miss the bright ginger side burns and incessant chatter which accompanies our rides. We rode on at a decent enough pace and prepped ourselves for the summit of Surrey: Leith Hill.

We wound round the lower slopes, before taking a sharp turn, into a decline and then, confusingly, joining up with another large stream of bike traffic. We were being diverted. The first thing I thought was that we had missed the cut-off time for the hill (there are series of sweepers along the course, ensuring we all finished or got off the road before the pro’s race). I checked the time and it did not seem possible. Not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved, we plummeted down the hill in a dangerous conglomeration of the fast and the slow which reminded me of a Delhi highway.

Snippet by snippet, we worked out what had gone on. Sadly, some guy had collapsed on the hill and the race had been halted in part, diverted in another, to allow an air ambulance to treat him. Tragically we found out the next day that he had not made it.


We pushed on to Dorking, where the crowds were at their best. Throngs of people beneath banners cheering us on. Then Box Hill. I have been up its famous – at least in Blighty – zig-zag road a couple of times before, and always found it hard going. I don’t know whether it was due to the training, adrenaline or lack of Leith Hill, but I shot up it, passing 80% of the crowd and felt well chuffed when I reached the stunning summit. Mountain it ain’t, but it is about as good as you get in the South East.

A whole lot more snack bars and fluid and we started back downhill on the final leg of the journey, back to the capital.  Feeling great, the negative split was paying off and we were going to whizz home in no time. Wishful thinking…

Troubles on the (inner) Tube

Down another long steep hill with a suicidal bend at the bottom – yes, someone did come off in front of us – and Steve shouted for me to stop. We quickly pulled up to the side and just as we stopped, his tyre blew with a large bang. He was bloody lucky it did not go at the 50kmph a minute before.

It seemed his new special “puncture-proof” tyres were anything but. They were also a right bugger to get off. After 20 minutes struggle, and with some help of a passer-by, we managed to replace the inner tube and get the bike back upright. No sooner had Steve put his bum on the saddle, the tyre had gone flat again.

Hundreds of bikes were zooming past and we were in a bit of a pickle.

Fortunately, we were less than a mile from the race “Hub” at Leatherhead and repeated mini-reflates just got us there. A kind lady in the mechanic shop identified the problem and replaced the inner tube. A gash had developed in the side of the tyre, but she thought it would be OK.

We were by now starting to run short of time, so took a final grab of bananas, cakes and energy gels on board and pedalled off. Within 15 minutes, we were stopped again. The inner tube had exploded once more with an almighty bang, and we were stuck on a roundabout feeling exasperated.

Being a gentleman, Steve urged me to push on, but we decided to give it one last go. The inner tube was harder to change than ever (the bloody “puncture-proof” tyres seemed too small for the rim), but we just about managed it. On an inspired whim, we stuck to half pressure and set off on last chance saloon. Nervous, we started slowly, before picking up speed as we entered back into London. Steve was doing his best to not put any pressure on his front wheel and it seemed to be working.

To the Mall

After about 80 miles, the tiredness kicked in. Snaking back through London suburbs, I had a 30-minute stretch when I had little option but to block it all out and put in revolution after revolution. Hills that I would not have noticed at the start were a struggle, and a surprising number of people were resorting to walking on the steeper sections.

I just about kept on and onwards, and was relieved to receive my second wind as we passed Hammersmith, pushing on through Putney and back across the Thames. With five miles to go, I felt great again. We pushed up past 30kmph again as we followed the river all the way to Parliament and through the crowds of Whitehall up to Trafalgar Square.

One final sharp left turn and we were on the Mall, racing towards Buckingham Palace and the finishing line. Positive emotion welled up inside me as we rushed past the throngs of cheering crowds along this famous thoroughfare. I even managed to rise out the saddle for a short stretch, but all ideas of racing each other to the line had gone out the window, as we finished wheel by wheel.

A fitting end to what had been an awesome day on the saddle. A quick Lycra hug and normal life was set to resume.

MOST IMPORTANTLY…

Thanks to the amazing generosity of 34 friends and family that have, to date, sponsored me on this ride in aid of Great Ormond Street Hospital Children’s Charity, this wonderful charity will be shortly receiving over GBP 1750.

Great Ormond Street Hospital Children's Charity raises money to enable the hospital to save more lives, develop new treatments, build state-of-the-art facilities and support thousands of young patients and their families.

If you want to see examples of their fantastic please go to www.gosh.org/

If you want to donate or see my fundraising page please go to https://www.justgiving.com/James-Sinclair5/

Kρίση - Referendum in Greece

 
The people are at their wit’s end and Greece is on the brink. A nervous populous is faced with a decision between uncertain futures and no good option.

I have been a regular visitor to Greece over the past decade and throughout the crisis (or "kρίση"). Over the past 5 years Greeks have become used to the depressing reality of the situation they face, to the point of fatigue. Only this Tuesday I was talking to a shop keeper who claimed the current mess was more of the same. “You will see, this is no different.” But it is. This was not optimism, but a case of the blinkers. Now, with queues at every functioning ATM, concerns over medicine supplies and non-stop animated argument dominating life from the kafe neo to the home and every TV channel, even those so recently in denial are waking up to critical position the country is in.

Anyone with Greek friends or acquaintances will know that passionate argument and discussion is part and parcel of Greek life, but what has so shocked me in the last few days is the unmissable strain of fear which sharpens opinions and lines faces.

I will not detail my own view of how it got to this point, but the reality is that the politicians and technocrats, of Greek and troika hue alike, have combined to leave the Greek on the street with no hope. A choice between grasping to a dwindling future which may have already have gone and rolling the die to likely catastrophe. I have Nasia, a Cypriot, to thank for teaching me the apt phrase – “bros kremos kai piso rema” - the literal translation being “in front a cliff and behind a ravine” or colloquially “between a rock and a hard place”.

The desperation is glimpsed through the invigoration of those demonstrating and proselytising between such opaque choices. Have you seen the question at the ballot box?

How is the everyman supposed to have a clue what this means? Add in the lies, political spin and bluff from both sides and one is swimming against the tide into a whirl pool of skata (Greek for “shit”).

Frankly, I do not know what to think and have no clue of what is going to happen next. There is no breathing space in the polls, any difference within statistical error. As those who know me are aware, I am an optimist, but I see no good outcome. Only varying levels of crap, at least in the near term.

A “Nai” (yes) vote has to be the safer option, with a chance of European reconciliation and future negotiation. This is though a rocky and highly uncertain path with little real upside. Another decade of austerity? I do not believe the populous can take it.

An “Oxi” (no) vote leads to the complete unknown. Probable melt down, but that faint almost cruel glimmer of hope. You can see it in the thousands who crowded into Syntagma for the “Oxi” rally on Friday night. Hysteria in grasping for some type of future. The polls show that those with more life in front of them are heavily weighted to “Oxi”. Change, any change.

Even with the best case scenario over the coming months, the actions and arguments of the present will divide this country for years to come. Events in the recent Scottish independence referendum have illustrated how referenda tend to harden views and polarise. Consensus will be hard to find in the difficult times ahead.

I choose to ignore the worst case scenario.

Time and time again, one phrase seems to have dominated communication between Greeks over the past week - “Ti na kanoume?” - “what can we do?” Vote and hope.

Cycladic Divemaster - A Final Refresher (part 3)

While a few weeks diving was great, I found getting to grips with what it means to work in a dive shop and start on the ladder to being a dive professional equally engaging.

There is the practical stuff, like fitting people up for gear, setting up the boat, filling tanks and the ritual post-dive dunking of gear to remove salt… and piss. Then there is the people stuff, explaining what the local diving has to offer, escorting divers around the sub-aqua sites, giving pre-dive plan summaries (I only did this right at the end of my time) and generally trying to make the diver trip experience as pleasant as possible. Inevitably, there is also the admin stuff, which seems to gobble up more permanent staff/owner time than everything else put together. Thankfully, as a short term DMT (Divemaster Trainee for the uninitiated), I was safe from the admin on this occasion.

Finally, there is the teaching or, strictly speaking as a DMT, assisting others' provision of instruction. This is the part I found the most interesting and enjoyable. During my Divemaster, I helped with pool sessions, OWT (Open Water Training) dives, refreshers, snorkel courses and discovery dives. A wonderful combo of sharing knowledge, calming nerves and invoking excitement in what diving has to offer. 

While most of this was straight forward, on my last day as a DMT I was given a stark reminder of the responsibility that comes with working as a dive professional. 

MORE THAN A REFRESHER

The task at hand seemed simple enough. A qualified diver was looking for a refresher, having had a prolonged break from diving. Yes, his demeanour was slightly odd and stuttering, but he seemed like a nice, competent person. We drove across the island to Agios Giorgos, did a refresh of diving skills and set up our gear. The sea was calm, conditions clear. All good so far. We entered the water.

We prepped at the surface, signalled to dive and submerged.  I assisted him to descend slowly and eventually settled down on the sandy bottom to continue the refresher skills. He managed with some, but struggled with others. Nothing strange in itself for someone who has not dived in a while, but there was something off which I could not quite put my finger on. 

We moved off slowly for a circuit, Peter out front with the dive buoy and the refresher diver a short distance behind him. I positioned myself slightly behind and to the side. We had barely gone a few meters when he shot to the side, arms and legs flailing. I pursued him, grabbed his arm and signalled for him to slow down and follow Peter. He nodded calmly and we moved off again. A minute later he did the same thing, but this time bolting diagonally towards the surface. Again I pursued, managed to catch up with some serious fin strokes, took hold of his arm and settled him down. 

From my limited experience, alongside heavy air usage, there are two main giveaways of a distressed diver: unnecessarily panicky movements and darting wide open eyes. He was displaying the first in droves, but the peculiar thing was that his eyes were serene, as if he did not realise he was doing anything out of the ordinary.

I signalled to Peter that something was pretty off. He had seen it too and we turned around back to towards our entry point. Just when I thought the refresher diver had found his comfort zone and buoyancy, he darted off again, more sharply upwards. As any diver knows, a golden rule of diving is to ascend slowly (rapid ascent risks various nasty gas expansion injuries). He was, though, shooting upwards at a ridiculous rate of knots, kicking and flailing his arms like a panicked swimmer. I reacted as quickly as I could, exhaled as I burst upwards, just managed to grab his leg before he broke the surface and bought us back down, dumping air from each of our BCDs (air fillable diving jacket). 

As we slowly descended to 5 meters, I signalled for him to calm down and level off. Again his eyes were calm. I just did not get it. I kept a levelling hand on him for our safety stop and all the way in.

As we got out and put the kit away, Peter and I barely said a word to each other, but a shared look of “WTF” said it all. Again the refresher diver was acting as if nothing strange had happened. It was only when back at the shop and the refresher had left, that Peter told me that this was right up there with his oddest instructor experiences, and he has seen a lot.

Diving is a statistically safe sport. When within dive limits and showing a bit of common sense, danger is at a minimum. I have dived with numerous types of poisonous, spiky, many-toothed creatures, in caves and wrecks, through tight swim-throughs, in violent currents and beneath heavy seas, but this was the dive which left me most on edge. It was a valuable lesson that the most dangerous thing to a diver is a diver.

DIVEMASTER AND BEYOND

So there you go. A strange way to finish, but I was now a Divemaster. I thoroughly enjoyed the course and my time with Blue Island Divers. Diving in Greece, while rarely spectacular, had exceeded my expectations. It left me with a real taste for more and desire to pursue my diving to the next level. The instructor course beckons… but not for a while, largely due to something (or, more accurately, someone) who quite rightly took up more of my time and attention on the island than diving. Welcome small one!

Cycladic Divemaster - Rocks and Wrecks (part 2)

The real draw of diving in Greece is the inanimate stuff. Whether that means rocks or wrecks, there is a lot in store to explore. To give you a taste, what follows are three local dives I undertook during my Divemaster, in ascending order of interest.

“Mick Jagger's Lips”

 

Back-rolling from the rib, we entered the clear, perhaps a little too refreshing, Aegean waters. Assembling and moving off, the dive route took us over a series of root-like ridges which stretch out from the south-eastern finger of the island.  Amongst the small fish, sponges and rocks, an alien shape caught the eye. Alien to the water that is. The symmetry of man-made object sticks out like a sore thumb under water.

 

First an isolated fragment, soon a scattering. The remains of ancient amphorae adorn the rugged sea bed, in places fused into the rock and covered in fire worms. The last clues of an age-old ship wreck, likely bashed up on the rugged shore by the fierce winds which rip through this region.

An interesting dive and appetiser for the hundreds of more complete sub-aqua archaeological sites all over Greece. Plus, I have soft spot for “Pots” as it was my first ever dive in Greece.

“The Cave”

 

A small, seemingly indistinct island in the Parian channel hides an underwater secret. Dropping anchor at a barren inlet, we dived down and finned over to a 30 meter sea wall. The greater part of the dive was spent making our way along the vertical edifice, peering into nooks and crannies for scorpion fish and the odd moray. There was meant to be a big grouper lurking, but I didn’t have the fortune of meeting him.

All of a sudden, 14 odd meters down, an opening appeared in the rock. Heading in one by one, we entered into a thin sub-aqua passage. Narrow and gently sloping upwards, it led on into darkness and the heart of the island. A circular silhouette gave away the end of the tunnel. It opened up into large cavern. Submerged stalagmites below, exposed stalactites above. Surfacing, we rested for an interval, listening to the echoes of the swell. On a rough day, the small band of air at the roof of the cave is compressed into waves of mist as the sea drives in and out of the cave. Something I would have loved to experience, but it was not to be on this day.

 

Descending again, we passed into an even larger chamber. Tube worms clung to the walls, gently sifting, but the scene was stolen by a vast window opening out into the blue, pimpled by shoals of small fish. That was our way out, back along the wall, to the surface and away.  

 “The Samina”

 

A wreck and memorial to a disaster. I only dived the Samina once during my Divemaster, but it was the most thought provoking dive I have ever done.

Having struck rocks – the Portes – on its way into Parikia, the MS Express Samina sunk with the tragic loss of 82 lives, including a number of locals from Antiparos. She now lies on her side in a little over 30 meters of water. This happened on 26 September 2000. This is uncomfortably recent and raw and, to be honest, I was not sure whether I wanted to dive the wreck. The respectful way in which the dive school discussed and approach the wreck persuaded me to head down.

 

Nonetheless, I had distinctly mixed emotions as I let the air out of my BCD and descended. This turned into a sick feeling in my stomach as I first glimpsed her giant dark shadow emerging from the depths. Coming closer, it was the details which really struck me. Funnels, railings, the name on her side. Despite the light covering of green gunge - plants and invertebrates inevitably colonise wrecks – she didn’t look aged. It felt all too present. Being a regular traveller on boats across the Aegean, it felt too close to home. 

At our bottom depth, we reached the rear of the ship and the entrance to the car deck. The door lay open, allowing entrance to a large metal chasm. We entered. To the front, our torches illuminated little due to the size and emptiness of the space. Below was another matter. All too clear to see were the largely intact wrecks of cars and lorries. Very raw. 

 

Exiting back out the car door, we made a long slow pass to one side, within touching distance of her exposed deck. Lines of deck seating covered in stringy-green gloop, windows intact, doors lying open. Worst of all, lifeboats never launched. 

Limited on time due to the depth, we ascended and made a final close-in pass over the top. Then slowly back to the surface, leaving the Samina where she lies.

From a purely diving perspective, the MSS Express Samina is a fascinating and significant site to dive. Circumnavigating her, the diver in me was drawn in by all the possibilities of exploring the wreck. The naturalist in me was amazed by how much sea life had inhabited her in such a short space of time – an emerging oasis in an all too barren sea. The father, husband, son and brother in me wanted nothing to do with her, aghast by the tragedy of it all.

Mixed emotions, but a dive I won’t forget.

(NB - Thanks to Blue Island Divers for the pictures...)