Well, it’s been a fun ride.

Waaay back in 2015 I started this humble blerg as a self-described “50-something, remarkably undistinguished club cyclist, all-round curmudgeon, and sometime smart-arse.” Now, eight years later I’m well into my sixth decade, though still stubbornly unexceptional, irascible, and cantankerous.

And still a dedicated club cyclist, too.

So some things remain, other things have evolved, moved on, changed completely. I mean, it really wasn’t that long ago that the Prof was the unchallenged owner of the smallest, leakiest bladder in the bunch. He’s now off, irrigating pastures new, while his vacant crown has been assuredly commandeered by Buster, who is scaling new heights, (or maybe plumbing new depths) in terms of how soon into a ride we need to stop in order to take a nature break. But I digress …

At the outset my mission – if that isn’t too grand a construct to attach to serial inane ramblings, was to deliver a eulogy to “the traditional club run in all of its eccentric, idiosyncratic, bizarre, compelling, colourful, and hugely entertaining glory.” This was back when the club was being suffocated and hobbled by an autocratic leadership structure which a weekly blerg (amongst other things) provided a release from and an opportunity for me to poke a little fun at.

Since then, and with a very firm, very welcome, final push from British Cycling, the club members have slowly found a way to outflank, circumvent, and eventually overturn said authority. Today the club has proper structures, a constitution, elected officers, alternative rides, social events, even a plan of succession … and appears to be thriving.

This months club newsletter (imagine, regular, open communication with members!) reported that we had recently broken through the barrier of achieving 100 fully paid-up club members, a 114% increase in numbers over the last 18 months and things are shockingly normal. So normal in fact that I recently completed a club run and had nothing much to write about, and this is now becoming the reality.

It put me in mind of my old English teacher’s assertion that above all else, successful drama needs an element of conflict. Now club runs are largely uneventful, peaceful, relaxing, and uncontentious. I feel less need to vent, or perhaps I’m no longer quite as irascible and cantankerous as I think and I have far less material than I would like. Did Achilles have the same doubts, regrets, and lack of direction once he’d slain Hector, I wonder?

Anyhow it’s extremely likely that blerg posts about club rides will become less frequent as they become less eventful. Perhaps there’s an opportunity to write about other things, but let’s see how I feel, I’ve no great plans but maybe one or two half-baked thoughts. After all, half-baked thoughts seem to be my métier.

Take my plans for a little more time-trialling this year, which haven’t really advanced all that much and came to a season’s close after 4 or 5 events, with our club-organised , open TT on Sunday 30th July. This takes place on the testing M12S course, a boxy-looking 12-mile route heading north out of Stamfordham, to Black Headon, west to the Quarry, and then south down to Matfen, before squaring things off with the final leg east and back to the start.

I knew from last year’s event that the first half was a draggy, seriously leg-draining, almost constantly upward grind, enlivened by numerous painful humps, lumps, and bumps along the way. Because of this, I’d left the aero bars off the bike as they make me far too lazy and discourage me from moving my hands to change gear. I knew without a doubt I’d be needing the full run of the cassette today.

Assigned a 10:34 start-time, at least I managed a bit of a lie-in before getting everything together to leave the house just after 9.00 for the drive across. Pro Tip: Chicken Dhansak and a bottle of Rioja the night before are probably not the ideal preparation for a time trial.

I arrived at the race HQ, went to sign on and Immediately put in a complaint with the organisers as the weather wasn’t what I’d ordered, and the wind, in particular, was thrashing wildly at the hedgerows and would be in our faces for the first and most gruelling part of the route.

I had a good hour for a warm-up and recon ride around the course, identifying all the potholes and hazards so I could unerringly plant my wheels in them on my actual run. It also gave me an idea of how troublesome the wind was, especially on some of the more exposed and attritional uphill stretches, and thankful that I’d never had the money, nor inclination to invest in solid disc wheels.

Warm-up and recon complete, I dropped my jacket off back at the car and called in at the race HQ for a quick pee. Outside I bumped into Crazy Legs, due to start 10 or so minutes after me and who craftily suggested a good aim might be to try and get around the course in a time that was within our start numbers. He would at least manage this very comfortably …

Then it was up to the start line where I said hello to ex-club member who would be setting off a minute behind me and who I expected to see again very, very shortly. I passed inspection with both front and rear lights working assuredly and shuffled forward as my number was called.

Richard Rex was getting in a good upper-body workout as the starter and dragged me back from where I’d rolled my front wheel over the start line, completely oblivious to my need for sneaky marginal gains, even if it was just a few centimetres. We inconclusively tried to calculate the likelihood of rain in the next half an hour or so (none, thankfully) and then I was away.

Well into the ride, the lane was scabby down the left, so I was barrelling down the white line in the middle of the Road, aware only of the wind rushing past, the gurgling, gargling wheezing of my seriously dysfunctional lungs and the distinctly audible little whimpers that my legs had started to emit. It took an almost apologetic little toot from behind to tell me I was completely blocking the road and a car wanted to pass.

I swung over for some teeth-clattering action until the patient driver could pass, then it was back into the middle of the road until I took the first left onto the scabrous lane at Black Heddon and out onto the worst part of the course. I seriously struggled against wind, gradient and ultra-grippy road surface along here and it was where, as expected, my minute man caught and passed me.

It was the rider starting two minutes behind’s turn to catch me just before the final drag up to the Quarry turn, where I stood out of the saddle and stomped on the pedals to engage in some style-less, wild bike thrashing that would have made even Annemiek van Vleuten blush. It was all a vain attempt to keep the momentum going but sadly, gravity won this very unequal contest. I plonked back down again, ground around the corner and, finally, blessedly the road tipped down at last.

I’ve ridden the Quarry maybe a hundred times in the opposite direction and never noticed there’s a slight downhill halfway along. Now, travelling the other way, it became a hugely noticeable uphill that rapidly bled away any momentum I’d managed to gain. Then, around the next corner, the road dipped once more, but it was also horribly exposed and the wind punched me straight in the face and this downhill bit briefly became as hard as any of the uphill bits.

At the bottom of the Quarry, I finally turned to put the wind behind me and started to pick up the pace. Somewhere between Matfen and Fenwick my computer told me I was touching 37-38mph and I remember thinking I was going fast … but obviously not as fast as the rider who had started three minutes behind me and blasted past in a cacophony of swashing carbon.

Finally, I could see the church tower poking through the tree canopy and knew I was closing on the finish at Stamfordham and the final rush for the line. (For the record, I managed a time of 35:13, a credible and very pleasing 1:46 seconds faster than last year. The winner was 8 minutes faster, so if I continue to improve at the same rate, I could potentially challenge him by the time I turn 70.)

Oh well, maybe next year.