
WEIGHT: 61 kg
Breast: 36
1 HOUR:200$
Overnight: +30$
Services: Tantric, Massage, Massage, Tie & Tease, Pole Dancing
It strikes me there have been three distinct eras since our cycling journey started nearly four years ago. The first was the distinctly amateur era.
Richmond park was a slog. We rode side-by-side. We treated feed stations like tea breaks, stopping for a sit down and a natter. Next came the digital era. We started the blog and got social on Facebook , Twitter and Instagram. It added a whole new dimension to our riding. I can remember back then looking at iconic rides like the Marmotte, the Maratona and L'Etape and thinking: not for me. Over a hundred miles: sure given enough time. Over three and a half thousand metres of climbing in a day: never.
But with each big ride ridden, the itch got stronger. Watching my bro conquer Ventoux and the pro's smash the climbs of the Tour, Vuelta and Giro, I began to question if it really was beyond me. My heart started racing the moment the 'submit' button was clicked on the entry form. The performance era had begun. Nothing motivates quite like the fear of failure. Where could I find those marginal gains? I started riding the 11 miles to and from work on the Brompton, experimenting with heart-rate training and even fasted rides to try to get my weight down that one didn't last long.
I woke earlier on a Sunday to squeeze an extra 10 or 20 kilometres in and embraced the exquisite pain of myofascial massage using a foam roller. But the biggest single change came with the purchase of a power meter. With expert guidance from Trolleur and some fantastically helpful articles on his Mountain Mutton blog , I discovered the world of FTP tests, normalised power, Watts per Kilo, under-overs and 2x20s and became very familiar with the sight of my sweat pooling on the rubber mat beneath the turbo trainer.
Being able to properly measure your performance gains is an addiction all to itself. Seeing the direct link between improved power stats and easier climbing is intoxicating. I'll never have the frame to be a grimpeur, but the jeans began to hang off my backside and a jawline reappeared beneath my stubble.