It was around this time last year I was just getting used to entering my 6th decade and decided to mark the occasion with a tilt at the Wiggle Mega Meon, resplendent with a celebratory 'I am 50' badge on my bike. It fell off, but thankfully I didn't.
Revisiting Waterlooville last weekend, I experienced a total bout of amnesia about the course and had already decided it'd be a casual bimble through gently rolling country lanes. It must have been the hangover I had after my birthday celebrations, as reality came as a shock this time around.
The start was absolutely heaving with cyclists, which either meant that everyone just expected the weather to be favourable, seeing as it was the end of July, or they'd done the same as me and watched the biblical deluge the previous day and decided to come out and brave it anyway.
My selective amnesia was instrumental in my first real mistake of the day as I missed a crucial turn quite close to the start and climbed a section of the A3 behind a shapely set of wheels. It wasn't until my fellow escapee stopped and queried our collective wisdom that I retraced the route and saw the self-righteous stream of smug and attentive cyclists hang a right where we'd gone straight on.
BTW, when I say 'shapely wheels' it's not a euphemism - I was genuinely looking at the bike, a habit of mine my wife will attest to. It was only we stopped I realised the rider was both female and very pretty. It was a BMC, Ultegra wheels I believe...
Once back on course it wasn't long before the road started ramping up for the first of the day's climbs. It was like an all-you-can-eat buffet for roller-coaster fans, so much so that I began to sing that irritating Ronan Keating song to myself, and was only distracted from brain death by the interminable squeaking coming from my left pedal.
I'd had a similar problem a few months back and no amount of tightening pedals, bottom bracket or saddle had eliminated it completely. I was at a loss, until one day riding the Leith Hill Octopus a fellow rider complained about how noisy my shoe cleats were. A brief stop to apply brute strength to my t-nuts all but erased both squeaking and Ronan so I could happily go on my way.
Every road we crossed seemed to signal the start of yet another gravel-strewn, pot-holed trundle, testament I'm guessing to the amount of surface water that had sluiced down them in the last 24 hours. With these washings came the Puncture Fairy, although thankfully not for me, and cursing roadside genuflection was becoming a common sight as I approached the first feed station. Such was the devastating effect of the impromptu flint-based surface dressing that they had actually run out of spare tubes, but not, thankfully, fig rolls.
Punctures in these conditions seem to be a rare occurrence for me - not that I don't come prepared with tubes and CO2 - but it would be interesting to see if I'm exceedingly lucky or there is something about my riding behaviour that works in my favour.
The highlight of the afternoon was cresting one of the many climbs and passing fields literally painted purple with flowers near Warnford. Quite astounding to see the colour of the fields stretch on for miles. At first I thought it was lavender, but the leaves were the wrong shape. Maybe potatoes? It was a welcome distraction as Mr Keating had crept into my mind again, and I knew that there was one final, arduous climb to come up to Portsdown.
To be fair, it starts innocuously as a 2% trundle in a cycle lane, but as you spin slowly up towards the top of Portsdown Hill, the gradient ramps up to as much as 8% as the navy radar tower comes into view. It's all worth it though, for the downhill past Fort Widley and the relatively easy blast to the end.
The Mega Meon boasts an excellent route but it's not for the faint-hearted, especially with the state of some of the roads. As always on Wiggle sportives, feed stations were excellently stocked and full of friendly helpers. To save time I eschewed a three stop strategy as the route splits meant that stations 2 and 3 were too close to each other to be of individual use.
I nearly regretted this as I had a touch of la fringale in the last 10km but had thankfully tucked away a small bag of raisins to help me through. Lesson being that you shouldn't just rely on what you can get from the pit stops, and always carry something for emergencies.
I wonder if I'll remember how tough it was by next July - I'm guessing so long as I remember to pack some dried fruit, I'll get through.
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