This tale begins many years ago on a dark
stormy night (OK, that last bit was poetic license) when I was a
small boy watching a television programme about Jim Peters and his
dramatic collapse at the end of the 1954 Empire Games. For those
who do not know Jim Peters was expected to win this event for
England despite the midday Melbourne heat. He had a lead of 3 1/2
miles going into the stadium but had become dehydrated and
confused, collapsing with 400 yards to go (it was before metric
existed). Thinking his rival was close behind he got up and
staggered on with the capacity crowd roaring him forward. With only
200 yards to go he collapsed again and was unable to finish the
race to take the gold medal.
I was overwhelmed by the courage and determination of this runner.
Ever since I have harboured an admiration of endurance feats in all
sport and exploration.
Up until my 30's this admiration took a very passive form
(drinking, driving, eating - and not all at the same time) but a
gentle introduction to cycling enabled me to really feel what it
must be like to push your body and mind to its' limits. As I came
to love cycling and racing I had the opportunity to see how I could
perform. The "race of truth" is the name given to time trialling
and it is a very simple, pure test of man and machine against time.
No one to draft behind and no team tactics.
Initially I was content with 10 mile and 25 mile time trials but I
hankered for something more. 100 miles - not quite enough. 12 hours
to see how far you can go? Now that is a test of endurance.
So, in my "prime" I became something of an expert at these
managing to come 3rd in the National Championships twice and
recording 276.5 miles at my best.
Then came mortgage, job responsibilities and (happily) family.
With these came a lack of opportunity to ride 300 miles a week in
training and an age related slowing down.
To counteract this trend I discovered triathlon (or more precisely
a bunch of triathletes at the Dolphin bar) and a new world of
extreme pain and suffering opened itself up. As someone who didn't
learn to swim until I was 26 I was surprised to find myself able to
take on and complete an ironman.
OK, you are asking what an earth has this got do with Zombies -
let me explain.
If you were at the club middle distance triathlon (or indeed
within 20 miles of Ardingly) you may have heard an unearthly
rumbling emanating from the region of my rear. It was not the after
effects of "Friday night is curry night" but an unfortunate
puncture of my tyre on the downhill off camber descent into Turners
Hill. Of course I had no repair kit with me. Not thinking very
clearly I decided to try to ride on hoping to make it around the
course and complete the race. I soon got used to the bump, bump
thud of the flat tyre and the unpredictable handling and was able
to continue at a moderate speed by keeping out of the saddle. I
even became quite adept at controlling the rear wheel slide that
occurred when I strayed off the crown of the road. However by
Balcombe the noise had changed to a deep metallic rumble and the
handling was now non existent and terrifying. I stopped to take a
look and wished I hadn't. The tyre had completely disintegrated
with the sidewalls entirely missing and a small strip of rubber
nesting between the aluminium sidewalls of the rim.
I am not sure if you have tried riding on two 3mm bits of shiny
metal but I can inform you of two notable characteristics of this
technique - you can't get much traction to move forward and you
cant get much traction to stop the bike going sideways. These
weren't desirable attributes particularly on the descent towards
the viaduct and just as undesirable on the ascent after the
viaduct. Happily I needn't have worried too much as my inner tube
decided that the steepest section of the uphill by Copyhold Lane
was the right place to wrap itself around the axle, seize the wheel
and throw me into the hedgerow. Emerging from the shrubbery I took
another glance at my £1000 Zipp disc wheel and realised that the
rim and braking surface had been more than somewhat abraded by the
top quality road surfaces that grace our part of the world (as
Austin Powers would say - it was "totally shagged").
I freed up the wheel as best I could and reluctantly teetered the
quickest route back to transition along Copyhold Lane to limit any
further damage.
After I finished the run I was greeted by hoots of derision and
mockery as my wheel had become a source of fascination to
spectators and competitors alike in my absence.
Telling everyone that I had a 12 hour time trial the next weekend
and had no back wheel just compounded the ridicule. Mentioning that
my new bike was fitted with a special aerodynamic spares storage
box and it was empty didn't help matters. And I really shouldn't
have said that I had just sold my only suitable spare wheel.
With no forthcoming offers of a loan ringing in my ears I went
home and sadly dismembered my pride and joy. My Zipp was
dead.
Or was it....
Scouring the internet for bargain or second hand discs revealed a
dearth of wheels meeting my criteria - round and less than £500. An
e-mail to Zipp suggested a repair price of £800. So I took a
very good look at old Zippy. Whilst the delicate aluminium rim had
definitely been comprehensively reprofiled it seemed that not much
metal had been lost. Realising that I had little to lose, I set
about a 4 hour marathon of filing and sanding by hand. Doing this
by hand gave me a very good idea of how thin the aluminium was and
how sharp the edges were. Too much sanding would have left the rim
too weak to hold the tyre on and too little would have left sharp
edges that would destroy the tyre. At 2am I went to bed dreaming of
exploding tyres and man eating wheels. Zipp had been raised from
the dead. Zipp the Zombie wheel lives.
Never one to let inadequate preparation get in the way of racing I
only reassembled my bike and pumped up Zippy to (nearly) full
pressure the day before my 12 hour race. As nothing gave way
immediately I decided to go to bed and was slightly comforted by
the knowledge that Steve (A) had loaned, against good advice, his
tri-spoke as a spare.
Race day started in the usual way - pitch blackness, sense of
dread, last minute carbo-loading (which for me was 3 bits of toast
with peanut butter and bananas and a slice of cake at the HQ),
getting lost en-route to the HQ and remembering what you had
forgotten to bring just when it is too late to turn around and get
it. In my case I had forgotten to bring the spare back wheel.
I opted for a modest 120psi as I readied my bike for the race. I
had no support crew for the first 3 hours and had taped various
bits of food to myself and my bike with 1.5 litres of High 5 to
keep me going. However, the real limiting factor would be the
afterlife of Zipp the Zombie wheel. Would it last 12 second, 12
minutes or 12 hours? Anything less than 12 hours would mean a
DNF.
You may wonder what the state of mind is as you start a 12 hour
and I think this is critical to how you manage your physical and
psychological state as the day progresses. I viewed this as a nice
day of training at a moderate pace and if I got tired I could
always take it easy or stop for a rest.
You may also wonder about the logistics of a 12 hour race where
the result depends on measuring how far you travel in this time
(obviously any time you spend off the bike will mean less miles)?
It is very cleverly organised so that all riders complete 3 or 4
different circuits of 10-30 miles before ending up on a "finishing"
circuit. This circuit has timekeepers every mile or so with a
spotter who identifies the rider number. When you have reached the
timekeeper just after your 12 hours are up you can stop. Your
mileage is worked out by adding the numbers of laps you did of the
first circuits, the number of laps you did of the finishing circuit
and the number of timekeepers you passed on your last lap and a
calculation of the distance you covered between the two final two
timekeepers (the one you passed just before 12 hours and the one
you passed just after 12 hours who you may have kissed for telling
you to stop).
Like all time trials, riders start at minute intervals. Out of the
72 competitors I was number 70 and was soon enjoying the
countryside around Ashford and Rye. After a couple of hours I had
almost stopped worrying about Zipp and was buoyed by the sight of
helper at 10am. Helpers are allowed to hand you food and drink but
must not follow behind you, hand up supplies on the move or
overtake you more than once every 10 miles so we decided to have a
set point on each circuit where I would expect to see my helper.
This reduced the amount of driving he would do and meant I would
know where I could get any assistance I needed.
Being such a long event means you get to see a lot of the
marshals, riders and their helpers and I made a point of greeting
them all. After a while you can sense where you are in relation to
other riders. I had managed to catch all but 2 of the riders and
had been caught by the last man off (the favourite, last years
winner, Andy Miles) by 120 miles and was pleased that Zipp was
holding up well and, apart from an increasingly sore undercarriage,
I was holding up pretty well too. This was a nice surprise as my
training had consisted of getting shingles, not training and then
doing the club middle distance race. Of course a lot could happen
in the next 7 hours. With 6 hours to go I stopped for my first wee
(probably setting some sort of record for time and volume). At 5
hours to go I recaught number 72 and left him trailing. Even with
my diminished mental functioning I knew this meant I was in 3rd or
possibly better. Reaching the finishing circuit at 200 miles my
helper informed me that I may be first or second as I stopped again
to relieve myself over my own foot. This was possibly where things
started to unfold. I stopped being focussed on staying hydrated and
thought more about keeping my stops to a minimum to maintain my
position. I was also becoming increasingly unable to sit on my
saddle as it was the first time I had used it and it wasn't proving
as comfy as the manufacturer claimed. At 215 miles I went to take a
bottle on board but dropped its contents over my knees. This had 2
consequences of note. The first was that I would have ridden 50
miles without a drink and the second was that I had become a wasp
magnet. I noticed the wasp just a little too late and it was
probably the sting that alerted me to its presence. In trying to
brush it off I managed to get another two stings and watched in
dismay as my knee started to swell and become really stiff. I guess
I should be pleased that I didn't spill it over my shorts!
I could sense my slowing and by the time I had stopped for a drink
I had lost any ability to try and push on. I then managed to lose
my chain twice necessitating more stops and, more importantly, one
of my tribar pads. This left me unable to put my arm in an aero
position as there was just that really hard, bristly Velcro and a
protruding bolt to rest on. Now I was really up against it mentally
but the happy appearance of Daniel, Daisy and Alice (my long
suffering family who had come out for the last hour) made me
determined to finish.
As the sun started to set and the breeze drop I enjoyed my last
lap at a leisurely pace along the scenic leafy lanes and said a
last thank you to the crowds (yes, really), marshals and
timekeepers. My 12 hours elapsed and I coasted to a grateful halt
with my family and helpers not far behind.
Back at the HQ there was a lavish selection of food and many
stories of individual adventure and endurance being shared amongst
our community of long distance lunatics. As the timekeepers
reported their findings and mileages were put onto the results
board it seemed I had managed 3rd place and a total of 258 and a
bit miles.
As I wearily packed my bike back into the car I am sure that Zippy
gave me a knowing wink. Yes Zippy the Zombie wheel lives on, and I
was the grateful dead.
Loz Wintergold
This tale begins many years ago on a dark stormy night (OK, that
last bit was poetic license) when I was a small boy watching a
television programme about Jim Peters and his dramatic collapse at
the end of the 1954 Empire Games. For those who do not know Jim
Peters was expected to win this event for England despite the
midday Melbourne heat. He had a lead of 3 1/2 miles going into the
stadium but had become dehydrated and confused, collapsing with 400
yards to go (it was before metric existed). Thinking his rival was
close behind he got up and staggered on with the capacity crowd
roaring him forward. With only 200 yards to go he collapsed again
and was unable to finish the race to take the gold medal.
I was overwhelmed by the courage and determination of this runner.
Ever since I have harboured an admiration of endurance feats in all
sport and exploration.
Up until my 30's this admiration took a very passive form
(drinking, driving, eating - and not all at the same time) but a
gentle introduction to cycling enabled me to really feel what it
must be like to push your body and mind to its' limits. As I came
to love cycling and racing I had the opportunity to see how I could
perform. The "race of truth" is the name given to time trialling
and it is a very simple, pure test of man and machine against time.
No one to draft behind and no team tactics.
Initially I was content with 10 mile and 25 mile time trials but I
hankered for something more. 100 miles - not quite enough. 12 hours
to see how far you can go? Now that is a test of endurance.
So, in my "prime" I became something of an expert at these
managing to come 3rd in the National Championships twice and
recording 276.5 miles at my best.
Then came mortgage, job responsibilities and (happily) family.
With these came a lack of opportunity to ride 300 miles a week in
training and an age related slowing down.
To counteract this trend I discovered triathlon (or more precisely
a bunch of triathletes at the Dolphin bar) and a new world of
extreme pain and suffering opened itself up. As someone who didn't
learn to swim until I was 26 I was surprised to find myself able to
take on and complete an ironman.
OK, you are asking what an earth has this got do with Zombies -
let me explain.
If you were at the club middle distance triathlon (or indeed
within 20 miles of Ardingly) you may have heard an unearthly
rumbling emanating from the region of my rear. It was not the after
effects of "Friday night is curry night" but an unfortunate
puncture of my tyre on the downhill off camber descent into Turners
Hill. Of course I had no repair kit with me. Not thinking very
clearly I decided to try to ride on hoping to make it around the
course and complete the race. I soon got used to the bump, bump
thud of the flat tyre and the unpredictable handling and was able
to continue at a moderate speed by keeping out of the saddle. I
even became quite adept at controlling the rear wheel slide that
occurred when I strayed off the crown of the road. However by
Balcombe the noise had changed to a deep metallic rumble and the
handling was now non existent and terrifying. I stopped to take a
look and wished I hadn't. The tyre had completely disintegrated
with the sidewalls entirely missing and a small strip of rubber
nesting between the aluminium sidewalls of the rim.
I am not sure if you have tried riding on two 3mm bits of shiny
metal but I can inform you of two notable characteristics of this
technique - you can't get much traction to move forward and you
cant get much traction to stop the bike going sideways. These
weren't desirable attributes particularly on the descent towards
the viaduct and just as undesirable on the ascent after the
viaduct. Happily I needn't have worried too much as my inner tube
decided that the steepest section of the uphill by Copyhold Lane
was the right place to wrap itself around the axle, seize the wheel
and throw me into the hedgerow. Emerging from the shrubbery I took
another glance at my £1000 Zipp disc wheel and realised that the
rim and braking surface had been more than somewhat abraded by the
top quality road surfaces that grace our part of the world (as
Austin Powers would say - it was "totally shagged").
I freed up the wheel as best I could and reluctantly teetered the
quickest route back to transition along Copyhold Lane to limit any
further damage.
After I finished the run I was greeted by hoots of derision and
mockery as my wheel had become a source of fascination to
spectators and competitors alike in my absence.
Telling everyone that I had a 12 hour time trial the next weekend
and had no back wheel just compounded the ridicule. Mentioning that
my new bike was fitted with a special aerodynamic spares storage
box and it was empty didn't help matters. And I really shouldn't
have said that I had just sold my only suitable spare wheel.
With no forthcoming offers of a loan ringing in my ears I went
home and sadly dismembered my pride and joy. My Zipp was
dead.
Or was it....
Scouring the internet for bargain or second hand discs revealed a
dearth of wheels meeting my criteria - round and less than £500. An
e-mail to Zipp suggested a repair price of £800. So I took a
very good look at old Zippy. Whilst the delicate aluminium rim had
definitely been comprehensively reprofiled it seemed that not much
metal had been lost. Realising that I had little to lose, I set
about a 4 hour marathon of filing and sanding by hand. Doing this
by hand gave me a very good idea of how thin the aluminium was and
how sharp the edges were. Too much sanding would have left the rim
too weak to hold the tyre on and too little would have left sharp
edges that would destroy the tyre. At 2am I went to bed dreaming of
exploding tyres and man eating wheels. Zipp had been raised from
the dead. Zipp the Zombie wheel lives.
Never one to let inadequate preparation get in the way of racing I
only reassembled my bike and pumped up Zippy to (nearly) full
pressure the day before my 12 hour race. As nothing gave way
immediately I decided to go to bed and was slightly comforted by
the knowledge that Steve (A) had loaned, against good advice, his
tri-spoke as a spare.
Race day started in the usual way - pitch blackness, sense of
dread, last minute carbo-loading (which for me was 3 bits of toast
with peanut butter and bananas and a slice of cake at the HQ),
getting lost en-route to the HQ and remembering what you had
forgotten to bring just when it is too late to turn around and get
it. In my case I had forgotten to bring the spare back wheel.
I opted for a modest 120psi as I readied my bike for the race. I
had no support crew for the first 3 hours and had taped various
bits of food to myself and my bike with 1.5 litres of High 5 to
keep me going. However, the real limiting factor would be the
afterlife of Zipp the Zombie wheel. Would it last 12 second, 12
minutes or 12 hours? Anything less than 12 hours would mean a
DNF.
You may wonder what the state of mind is as you start a 12 hour
and I think this is critical to how you manage your physical and
psychological state as the day progresses. I viewed this as a nice
day of training at a moderate pace and if I got tired I could
always take it easy or stop for a rest.
You may also wonder about the logistics of a 12 hour race where
the result depends on measuring how far you travel in this time
(obviously any time you spend off the bike will mean less miles)?
It is very cleverly organised so that all riders complete 3 or 4
different circuits of 10-30 miles before ending up on a "finishing"
circuit. This circuit has timekeepers every mile or so with a
spotter who identifies the rider number. When you have reached the
timekeeper just after your 12 hours are up you can stop. Your
mileage is worked out by adding the numbers of laps you did of the
first circuits, the number of laps you did of the finishing circuit
and the number of timekeepers you passed on your last lap and a
calculation of the distance you covered between the two final two
timekeepers (the one you passed just before 12 hours and the one
you passed just after 12 hours who you may have kissed for telling
you to stop).
Like all time trials, riders start at minute intervals. Out of the
72 competitors I was number 70 and was soon enjoying the
countryside around Ashford and Rye. After a couple of hours I had
almost stopped worrying about Zipp and was buoyed by the sight of
helper at 10am. Helpers are allowed to hand you food and drink but
must not follow behind you, hand up supplies on the move or
overtake you more than once every 10 miles so we decided to have a
set point on each circuit where I would expect to see my helper.
This reduced the amount of driving he would do and meant I would
know where I could get any assistance I needed.
Being such a long event means you get to see a lot of the
marshals, riders and their helpers and I made a point of greeting
them all. After a while you can sense where you are in relation to
other riders. I had managed to catch all but 2 of the riders and
had been caught by the last man off (the favourite, last years
winner, Andy Miles) by 120 miles and was pleased that Zipp was
holding up well and, apart from an increasingly sore undercarriage,
I was holding up pretty well too. This was a nice surprise as my
training had consisted of getting shingles, not training and then
doing the club middle distance race. Of course a lot could happen
in the next 7 hours. With 6 hours to go I stopped for my first wee
(probably setting some sort of record for time and volume). At 5
hours to go I recaught number 72 and left him trailing. Even with
my diminished mental functioning I knew this meant I was in 3rd or
possibly better. Reaching the finishing circuit at 200 miles my
helper informed me that I may be first or second as I stopped again
to relieve myself over my own foot. This was possibly where things
started to unfold. I stopped being focussed on staying hydrated and
thought more about keeping my stops to a minimum to maintain my
position. I was also becoming increasingly unable to sit on my
saddle as it was the first time I had used it and it wasn't proving
as comfy as the manufacturer claimed. At 215 miles I went to take a
bottle on board but dropped its contents over my knees. This had 2
consequences of note. The first was that I would have ridden 50
miles without a drink and the second was that I had become a wasp
magnet. I noticed the wasp just a little too late and it was
probably the sting that alerted me to its presence. In trying to
brush it off I managed to get another two stings and watched in
dismay as my knee started to swell and become really stiff. I guess
I should be pleased that I didn't spill it over my shorts!
I could sense my slowing and by the time I had stopped for a drink
I had lost any ability to try and push on. I then managed to lose
my chain twice necessitating more stops and, more importantly, one
of my tribar pads. This left me unable to put my arm in an aero
position as there was just that really hard, bristly Velcro and a
protruding bolt to rest on. Now I was really up against it mentally
but the happy appearance of Daniel, Daisy and Alice (my long
suffering family who had come out for the last hour) made me
determined to finish.
As the sun started to set and the breeze drop I enjoyed my last
lap at a leisurely pace along the scenic leafy lanes and said a
last thank you to the crowds (yes, really), marshals and
timekeepers. My 12 hours elapsed and I coasted to a grateful halt
with my family and helpers not far behind.
Back at the HQ there was a lavish selection of food and many
stories of individual adventure and endurance being shared amongst
our community of long distance lunatics. As the timekeepers
reported their findings and mileages were put onto the results
board it seemed I had managed 3rd place and a total of 258 and a
bit miles.
As I wearily packed my bike back into the car I am sure that Zippy
gave me a knowing wink. Yes Zippy the Zombie wheel lives on, and I
was the grateful dead.