#sundayechapee

For all that live in London and know the pressure of a five day working week it's hard to find the time that your bike so needs and deserves. 

We all feel this in Sunday Echapée with most of the group different working hours or with commitments off the bike (I know what your thinking, what could be more important right?), we have to find an outlet for the smashy smashy to get out. 

I write this we a smile on my face because it's funny how small moments can define so much but morning laps of Regents Park is one of those. We first me and rode here; Thursday 6.30am Rapha CCLDN laps, this round circuit of a Royal London Park, these monotonous, bland, repetitive laps of Regents Park. We put the hurt on each other here first, took digs at each other, rolled through to give each other a break on the front on these roads first.  

Maybe to some it's how I describe it above, but to me it's more, so much more. It's a chance to train through and off with the other regulars not just from Echapée to go full gas and put the hurt on. A chance to really have a go and let people see what a hard training session looks like. A chance to be hurt and know to train harder or to be smarter about your positioning on that final flying lap. All together though and however you look at it, Regents laps is a chance for all of us to meet no matter what the constraints of life. To end with a coffee and chat out the races of the past week or the working week we have ahead. 

I guess we all at Sunday Echapée hold these simple and basic training rides as some of the best rides we do. I think sometimes it's not the roads you don't know, but the ones you do so well that can put the biggest smile on your face. 

First day of fall

As a cyclist I quite like the colder months of autumn and winter. There’s something about the freshness of the cool air and the low light of the mornings, the ritual of layering up and the kit involved in keeping that optimum body temperature. Damp, greasy roads, fallen leaves, the changing colours, blah blah blah, I love it (although ask me again how much I like winter in mid-February and you might get a different answer).

This weekend we finally welcomed in Autumn, the temperature dropped 5 degrees overnight and on Saturday the heavens opened and drowned everyone who was out. Fortunately we tend to ride Sundays and were greeted in the morning by clear blue skies and not a cloud in sight. Leg warmers, check, gloves, check, long-sleeve jersey, wind jacket, over-socks, check check check.

Riding on roads through woodland really brings out the best of this time of year so that’s where we headed, climbing through trees, canopies punctured by the sun, the rays picking out the details of the undergrowth. I stuck to the script today and kept the roads paved but had a little surprise up my sleeve for the guys. I won’t go into details, if you want to find this road then you will have to look yourself, but there exists a beautiful climb back over the ridge from beneath the M25.  It’s a closed road, hidden behind a gate and a pile of fly tipping, but it is paved and smooth and winds through small switch backs turns climbing 200m, the bushes and trees attempting to reclaim the road from either side. It feels secret and you can’t help but wonder if you may have been the first to ride it.

We weren’t, but the fuse was lit, its time to ride productively over the winter, to seek out those roads less ridden to keep the motivation high as the days get shorter, by the time the summer arrives we’ll have drawn some new lines on our atlas.

Words: Steve

Surrey & Kent - 100km

Surrey or Kent? It gets to about Thursday afternoon and the question inevitably pops up on the Whatsapp group; ‘Who’s riding Sunday? Surrey or Kent?’ But what about a bit of Surrey and a bit of Kent? Can we squeeze it in, head out to Coulsdon, pop around the bottom of Caterham, ride along the ridge and drop over to Westerham? What’s that line on the map, is it a road (of course not, I’m planning the route, inevitably its gravel). 

These always turn out to be the best rides, the new roads, the little lanes, a different café and with Andy and the Panther in tow it was never going to be a leisurely jolly either. But where’s the fun in going slow anyway.  Take the left turn, not the right. Take a gamble on that line on the map, hop over a gate and take your road bike off-road. It ended up being one of those rides that really reminds you why you get up at ungodly hours, drag yourself through the suburbs and brave the elements. It’s what the Sunday ride is all about, well that and good coffee.

Words: Steve

Tumble to Crumble - Day 4

Early to bed, early to shred, that's how the saying goes. With three days in the legs already, including much more climbing than us Londoners are used to, the first part didn't prove too difficult. Thanks to unbound excitement for another day in the saddle in this beautiful part of the country, neither did the second.

And so we dragged our weary selves up at the crack of dawn to squeeze in one last ride before stuffing the van, sweeping the HQ and heading back to the big smoke. Having enjoyed the Malvern Hills and our excursion to the Brecon Beacons, today we pointed our bars south from our base camp and towards the Forest of Dean and the town of Ross on Wye in search of wooded climbs and more white knuckle descents. The terrain of the Welsh borders never let's you down, it's quiet narrow lanes meander between tall hedgerows before breaking out and crossing open fields, before rising and falling steeply through ancient woodland. The gradients never quite become flat around here and so the legs are treated to rhythmically rolling terrain. The road frequently ramps upwards and the punchiness of the climbs are well suited to our motley crew as we relish the opportunities to attack with friendly digs making sure everyone spends some time in red. This was followed by everyone's best attempts to imitate Jonny's kamikaze descending and hold his wheel, leading to more than one close encounter with heavy farm machinery heading the opposite direction. Pontshill, a Cat 4 climb rising through thick pine forest, provided Karl with one last chance to show everyone that he really did have the climbing legs of the tour and had there been a polka dot jersey he would have very much deserved it. He took a cheeky Strava KOM on this one to really seal the deal. An impromptu chain gang saw us blast our way in to Ross on Wye and the last coffee stop and a sneaky sausage roll or two were eagerly devoured. I must admit at this point to having a slight penchant for gravel, I don’t know what it is, I think it’s the challenge of removing oneself and their bike from its comfort zone and exploring new limits of where the bike can take you.  I have gained a certain reputation within the group when it comes to planning routes or taking a ‘short-cut’ and sometimes my enthusiasm for un-paved roads is not always shared. Often, as was the case this time, I have no intention of taking these roads, they find me. And so we found ourselves on a stretch of farm track, gravel, stones, potholes, broken tarmac, sand, perfection.  Opting for a little bit of a dig I dropped a gear and promptly popped off the front. It wasn’t long before I heard the familiar sound of tyres on gravel behind me and, expecting one of the fellow appreciators of the unpaved, was shocked and delighted in equal parts when Karl came hurtling past, his Dogma bouncing off the loose surface, screaming ‘ride it like you stole it!’ This made me smile.

About 2 minutes later though and Karl was firmly in the ‘Panther Den’, it’s a trance like state that only the Pink Panther himself can enter into whereby exhaustion has stripped him of all mental capabilities leaving only the ability to pedal remaining. This however did not stop the attacks which were now coming thick and fast from all angles.  With an afternoon holed up in the van looming everyone was seizing the opportunity to empty the tank and leave all that they had left on the roads of Herefordshire and with the fortune of staying in a cottage at the top of a two kilometre climb came the perfect chance to do just that.  Drained, exhausted, spent, cooked, you could stick a fork in the lot of us because we were done.  Until the next ride that is.

Words: Steve

A western style cafe raid - Day 3

Throughout the 1960's and into the late 1970's, the cafe raid was an essential part of every Grand Tour. These raids were a common occurrence. Domestiques would organise themselves for a mass raid on designated outlets, with the cafe often left stripped of all liquid. Back then it was often beer, wine and champagne on the menu, this was not the case for us; with the kilometres from yesterdays queen stage still heavy in the legs, we decided a day spent sipping good coffee and eating cake was on the cards. 

As we left base for the third day, there was a struggle with the pace that had been set, so a ceasefire was called on all smashy-smashy action, with the importance of saving energy for the last day in the back of our minds. This however didn't last 5km before the first rolling hills brought out the competitive side in everyone. Now with the pace slightly higher and everyone's legs feeling the burn of those early attacks, we decided to make haste for our first cafe raid of the day. 

Our first stop took us to Uptown upon Severn, a lovely small town that was full of friendly Sunday club riders, and enough Pinarello bikes to keep Karl's eyes busy whilst everyone else ordered up. The cafe itself, a lovely place called The Secret Mess, was really welcoming and friendly. With Karl and I wearing matching kit for the second time on this camp and the pink theme staying strong, it provided the local clubs enough smiles whilst they sipped their coffee. After an espresso and a few Limoncello profiteroles which Steve and I had the delight of trying, we rolled (pardon the pun) on in search of the next cafe to raid. 

The rolling hills come thick and fast as comes with this part of the country, and when you head west it becomes clear why a stage of the Tour of Britain was held here; not just for the beautiful scenery but the challenging terrain that must have taken its toll on a lot of the pro peloton and many a local Sunday club rider that has made this their stomping ground. With the last two days in the saddle providing no actual lunch stop and a diet of constant bars and gels, it was a welcome change to get to our next stop in Great Malvern in time for lunch. We all decided that a sit down meal was in order, so as no cake was to be had at this stop (or coffee for that matter), we all opted for freshly made milk shakes and a much welcomed bacon sandwich. We stayed here for 20 minutes and it was the first time in three days we had enough breath in our lungs to have a conversation and laugh, something that until now was reserved for the dinner table. With morale high and stomachs full, we decided to head back to base on a fast route, with just one 20% climb to test ourselves on, before returning back to base camp and the routine of bike cleaning and cooking that had become our evenings.

The day, although not a classic raid from the 60's or 70's, was by far one of my favourites. Instead of punishing climbs and moments of pure silence, it gave me a chance to look up, take in the scenery, take huge gulps of that fresh country air and share a joke with the guys that are now my best mates. Although our time here was coming to the end, and we were all feeling sad upon our return, the imaginative mini-bike dirt track we made that evening, the badminton game between Andy and I and the dinner Steve and Jonny prepared, kept everyone in a mood that just showed how much this camp meant to everyone. With a much needed early night before our early start the next day, we all one by one slipped off to bed ready, for an early day in the saddle before the drive home from paradise. 

Words: Dean

Day 2 (Queen Stage)

As the mist began to lift deep somewhere in the middle of nowhere, we loaded our trusty steeds into the van and set sail for Wales. A brief forty-five minute venture across the border, the scenery slowly beginning to head skywards as we descended into the Valley, we knew what awaited us; around 130kms and over two and a quarter thousand metres of ‘up’, to be precise. Three category two (or as category two as you’re going to get on this island) climbs being the highlights. Real climbing. Kilometre after kilometre with averages of 7,8,10%. Pain was going to our friend for the next five hours. 

The route set out to test from the outset. Category two climb número uno; Llangyndir Mountain, was staring at us just ten kilometres from the minute we’d sat on our bikes. An average gradient of 6.6% over 6kms, this was where I’d cut my teeth on the first ‘real’ climb I’d ever attempted. Starting as a group we began our ascent setting a good, sensible early tempo. After a few kilometres the group began to split as the pace and the inclines ramped up. Some decent switch backs and before I knew it I was at the summit. I stopped for a photo. Bugger! Not the summit. ‘Dont stop at the left hand turn, carry on to the top’ being the last thing that was said at the bottom. I’d stopped at the left hand turn. Cursing as I did, I launched down the little ramp and back up the other side to the actual summit. One down, two to go. 

A relatively gentle 45km took us to the base of the next big climb, Gospel Pass; the road that rises higher than any other in Wales. ‘The worst one’ as it had been cited all the way from London to our base camp. This was really going to hurt. Straight from the bottom, a hurting session was served up as a steep incline greeted us at the base of this behemoth. Then, to my surprise it decided to start meandering and at points even treated us to some small descents in the early kilometres. All of a sudden, the ‘worst one’ wasn’t looking so bad! Were the legs feeling THAT good? Was this all Wales could throw at us? Then, “the corner” came. I’d read about ‘the corner’ on a website in some pre-training camp research. The. Corner. As you hit this particular bend, Gospel Pass starts grinning it’s evil smile. Let the real pain, commence. Slip down a gear and get spinning, nope pop back up a couple and get your salsa hips going out the saddle. Scrap that, drop one and get churning…or was it spinning? I can’t remember if I’m meant to be out of the saddle or not? HELP! No consistency about this climb, there was no rhythm. Just go with what ever was round the next turn. After a couple of kilometres the world greets you as the climbs opens out and the vastness of this hill becomes apparent, it’s bloody massive. Stunning views for miles and miles help to ease the searing agony currently entertaining most parts of the legs. Avoiding sheep and a couple of sixteen percent ramps at the end and I’d conquered it. Gospel Pass, highest road in Wales, and I felt every single metre. 

Rumble on the Tumble II - Sunday Echapée edition. The Tour of Britain is to blame for this being tagged on the end. Originally billed as only having two Cat 2 climbs on this ride, Steve decided with it now being semi-famous and us being parked at the bottom, it’d be a shame to miss it. Five kilometres with an average of just over eight percent. Sure Steve, why the hell not?! I’d been climbing well all day so Dean decided that one hundred and twelve kilometres and two mammoth climbs in my legs already, he’d have a little dig on The Tumble. About one kilometre in, he jumped up and sprinted getting about six bike lengths ahead. “Ha!” I thought. “I’ll sit and watch you blow up from here pal”. Maintaining the same distance behind I sat back and got into a sort of rhythm. Two, three, four kilometres and still he was going, even pulled about another bike length. I was suffering hard. I can’t remember if it was at this point id started having motivational bouts of shouting at myself. Then seeing purple elephants. Then, I saw it. The chink in Dean’s quite impressive armour. At the next switch back, he began emptying his water bottle all over the road and as he glanced back, I saw pain burning his face. I popped up a gear and went for him. Next time he looked round I was on his wheel. The look of dejection all too clear in his face. As he waved me through ‘go on mate, it’s yours you’ve earned this one’ being the only words I remember up that climb, I shook my head and together, Sunday Echapée’s mountain tamers rode over the summit. Probably my best climbing experience ever. 

Sensational day and hands down the best we’d all ever had on a bike. Cue a well deserved meal for all and muchos sleep! Great day.

Words: Karl

Tumble to crumble tour - Day 1  

Off the bike, London has lots to keep Sunday Echapée happy - it has all the life and energy of a great world city. But with that vibrancy, also comes motor traffic, concrete and urban sprawl, which makes riding a bike here a bit of a challenge. Yes, the Home Counties have their highlights, but the hills are a bit small and the journey out to them is a hodgepodge of seemingly endless grey A-roads, industrial estates and suburbia. So every now and again, us London roadies need to escape in search of some quieter, prettier corners of the world.

Unfortunately, Sunday Escapee doesn’t have connections in the Alps or Pyrenees, but Steve does know someone that was kind enough to provide us a training camp for four days in the Malvern Hills, which has some great riding in itself, but is also close to the Brecon Beacons and the Forest of Dean. As well as the standard Sunday Echapée lot, we were also joined by Andy’s mate from Peterborough, Dave, who’s big diesel engine kept the pace high all weekend.

After enough porridge to keep Oliver Twist and his mates nourished, and 15 chicken’s worth of scrambled eggs, we set off in search of 100k of the finest lumps and bumps the Malvern Hills could throw at us. The ride was characterised by brisk, gravely ups-and-downs through woodland lanes. And no sooner than 1k into the ride did the challenging terrain claim it’s first victim. Karl, who is no stranger to falling off his bike, fell of his bike. None of us saw it, but he assures us it was a catlike, heroic tuck-and-roll that saved him from injury. More importantly, his new, shiny man-toy (Pinarello Dogma) was unharmed.

After combing his hair and climbing back in the saddle, every kilometre after was a joy, especially for us Londoners. The car-to-sheep ratio was around one in every 500, the air was fresh, and the scenery was beautiful.

At a cafe stop in Great Malvern, we all gathered around Steve’s iPhone to re-live the flowing, 70kph Wynch Road decent into the town, which he had recorded on a GoPro we had borrowed for the weekend. A great little widget, it provided some awesome footage of us grimacing up hills, and tumbling down them over the course of the whole weekend.

The second memorable section of the ride was about 5k of country lane that was in the middle stage of resurfacing. Herefordshire council’s road maintenance contractors had just dropped a fresh covering of sharp, slippy gravel which temporarily turned our ride from road into cyclocross. Riding a road bike on gravel can be exhilarating, so long as you embrace it as a challenge, and forget about the potential damage it is doing to your beloved steed. For 5k, we followed Andy and Dave’s lead at speed in a state akin to deep mindfulness, concentrating the eyes on every inch of road. All of us came out the other side buzzing with endorphins having successfully remained upright, and unscathed, apart from some terminal sidewall damage to Steve’s rear tyre.

A few dozen kilometres later, after some cat-and-mouse smashy-smashy, we celebrated the day’s efforts back at base camp with a fart-inducing mixture of recovery shake and Holstein Pills. There is something magical about the feeling of returning from a ride with good friends, knowing that the only chores for the rest of the day are bike cleaning and bullying the weaker members, with the prospect of three more days carefree riding ahead. Later in the evening, after each of us had go under the makeshift outdoor shower, we wound-down with chilli, rice, more booze and a viewing of our day’s GoPro footage. Next stop, the Brecon Beacons and three fat climbs

Words: Jonny