Back when tigers smoked

Back when tigers smoked*, this week kicked off with a jolly alongside the Phantom. We cycled a gravel circuit, weaving through the local lanes and off-road trails with all the zeal of explorers searching for lost treasure. Incredulously, the Woods of Doom let us pass without incident—a rare stroke of luck, since last time there were more dramas than East-Enders on Christmas Day. The only excitement came courtesy of Phantom’s rear tubeless tyre, which decided to spit out a gob of Stan’s fluid like an annoyed llama. The tyre sealed itself… eventually. Phantom, with his new plug obsession, insisting he would plug it later. The weather behaved nicely for the time of year, and I hope for more of the same.

After the outdoor escapade, next ride was all indoors and in my bike-room on Zwift. The session demanded a spell at threshold, then a dip below (thankfully not over), and so on, repeated until my legs felt like cooked spaghetti. No matter how much I tried, my calves were obstinately sluggish, and the following day they ached as though I’d run the London Marathon in clown shoes. Even my Garmin app got involved, gleefully informing me that my VO2 max had dropped back down to 48. Typical.

Midweek arrived with a wallop of work stress and zero exercise. Calves still grumbling, so I did the only rational thing: consoled myself with chips and chocolate—practically health food in these circumstances.

Thursday saw a return to Zwift for some seated sprints—an easier session until I powered down hard and the chain snapped like the tension at a family reunion. Luckily, I had a spare chain handy for just such emergencies and was soon back in business. My Zwift set-up now masquerades as a single-speed thanks to the hub, so I found myself pondering: what chain suits such a machine? The wisdom of Google and my own curiosity led me to the answer—a trusty 8-12 speed number from Shimano or KMC (go with HG53 or HG40 models) and regular attention with wipe and wax lube every 20 hours ought to keep the chain singing quietly and happily.

Kim

My dear mother

Motivation on Friday sank to the bottom of the barrel. Not a single workout logged, unless one counts getting into bed at the earliest socially acceptable hour. It was Kim’s and Ma’s birthday, but I couldn't get hold of them, so good reason to take it easy.

Painting in the underpass

Saturday shone brighter, despite wetter. I started with a brisk warm-up before ParkRun, marvelled at a colourful painting in the underpass and wondered how long it had been brightening up that otherwise dreary spot. The plan was simple: don’t run flat out, save a bit for Zwift later. Not aiming for a personal best anyway, especially given Storm Amy’s best attempts to transform the course into a wind tunnel. Major congestion at the start saw me clock over 5 minutes for the first kilometre and resignation set in—this would not be a heroic day. Still, a burst of competitiveness struck with 200 metres to go; I overtook Kirk, (knowing he is Jonny Mitchum's nemesis, not mine), and—against all expectations—finished with a sub-25 minute time (24:55 for the record), 112th out of 400. Not bad for what turned into a gentle jog, and a random bloke muttering “nice finish” as proof of my athletic prowess.

Zwift session later was much kinder, endurance-focused and mercifully free of snapped chains or pedal-pounding agony. Top wattage sat at a lazy 230, so I didn’t need to empty the tank. In hindsight perhaps a smidgen more effort at ParkRun would’ve been good, but considering recent mechanical mishaps it felt wise to keep mechanical drama to a minimum.

It was a packed Saturday overall. After all the running and cycling, I took Ernie for a windswept stroll over Upper-Downey, which felt a lot like walking through an industrial fan.

L-R: Z, mama Petra, Roxy, Carmel, Aruna, Pam, Kerry, Adrian, Carl and Doo

Saturday evening was spent at a birthday bash (with my kids and wife), celebrating Carmel and Declan’s 60th. Many moons ago, I worked with Carmel in a frantic home treatment and crisis team deep in the heart of Birmingham. Those were golden days and tonight many of the old crew turned up, turning back the clock—at least in spirit if not in knees.

My beautiful girls

The week wrapped up with a final walk with Ernie and a last Zwift workout. High cadence was the name of the game, legs whirring faster than my favourite vinyl. I did allow myself a bit of satisfaction admiring the virtual Zipp 858 wheelset I splashed out for—in Zwift at least, dreams are achievable (and much less expensive than the real thing).

And so, another week zipped by—tyre drama, chain carnage, chips, chocolate, birthdays, wind, and the occasional triumph. All back when tigers smoked*, of course.

(*In Korean folktales, "back when tigers smoked" is a playful way of saying "a very, very long time ago"—the equivalent of "once upon a time" in Western stories. The classic phrase in Korean is 호랑이 담배 피우던 시절에)

From Rat Race to Campfire Boogie: Adventures with Ernie, SJ, and GoaTheaD

Started this week with a run with Ernie. It was great to see the new bridge that had finally been built in Studley and Ernie and I enjoyed running across same on our route this day. I wasn't wearing my usual trail shoes thanks to a little forgetfulness after our Rat Race adventure. Mr O's car has a new fragrance - Eau de muddy trainer!

Talking of the Rat Race, there is now a brand new video, live from this years adventure. Follow this link: Rat Race 2025 video, and you'll be able to truly marvel at the mightiness of Mr O and I. Ha!

Spent much time on Zwift this week, trying to get my monies worth from my subscription. I mentioned that my FTP wasn't the best it's been last week and this week I felt I was really put through the test. I completed some threshold work, followed by a sweet spot workout which was bitter sweet indeed. This work out was hard and I struggled to spin my legs as fast as I would have liked. However, my efforts appear to have paid off as my V02 max score has increased significantly on my Garmin app. I was always around mid 40's, but following my Zwift subscription bumped it up to 48 and then 49 after the sweet stuff. Sweet! Also completed a cadence workout which got me spinning my legs quite nicely and plan to complete my Zwift training for the week later today with some base effort building climbs.

Only been outdoors once on a cycle ride. I completed a lap of the dear old deer route on my gravel bike 'GoaTheaD'. She's still spinning smoothly after all the Rat Race abuse.

Highlight of this week though was an awesome camping trip with the Mrs. My Quechua 3 person, 2 second tent finally arrived Friday afternoon, ready for the adventure planned that night. Coincidentally, so did my trail shoes that Mr O kindly posted back to me. (He commented 'ready in time for ParkRun', however, camping won this weekend).

SJ and I headed to Atherstone for a spot of rustic camping at a Hollinshead Family Farm. My tent, as suggested, was up within seconds. SJ also brought along a fire pit and it didn't take too long before this was up and roaring too. SJ became cook and dished up some delicious steaks!

We warmed ourselves around our campfire and drowned out sounds of youth music with our own choices from SJ's iPhone. As is custom when camping around a camp fire we had a little boogie and drank spiced rum from a hip flask (the rum Boof gave me for my 50th). The lights we could see in the distance looked pretty too.

It was nice and warm and cuddly in our new little tent and we snuggled up sweetly. I awoke in the night and had a mild panic attack, we had drifted apart and all the quilt was piled high above me and I felt claustrophobic. This didn't last long and we soon shuffled back together for some more sleep.

Very pleased with the tent. So handy to have a tent that does not require poles and that gets set up within seconds. It didn't condensate either which was fab. It's defo not suitable for 3 persons and with my height of 6' 2'', I only just fit. It didn't rain so could not test the waterproofness and it was a wind free night too. Even the ground outside was bone dry when morning came - bonus!

It was nice, romantic like, with SJ and I just chilling out together in the morning sun light. I cooked breakfast (porridge) and tea on my little MSR stove. SJ had brought bacon but we would have struggled getting the firepit started again. (We plan on buying our own fire pit soon, this one was borrowed, and will research same shortly).

Putting the tent down was a tad more difficult that setting it up. It only took us a few minutes to work it out though and it was kinda fun playing tent origami. Such a neat little tent. Next time we will remember to bring a groundsheet and probably invest in a double air mattress to stop us drifting apart.

We spent some morning hours walking around Harthill Hayes Country Park. We couldn't find the route I had semi-planned but we walked anyway in this beautiful part of the world. Was awesome to use my walking pole at long last (cheers Phantom), though the terrain didn't really require same. 

Spent the remainder of the day visiting Atherstone Town centre. We had a pootle around the shops and even brought some Christmas presents. The shops made us think of our kids, we saw E.T. in one shop and Wednesday Addams in another. Ate a belly busting full English and then set off back home to be re-united with the kids.

All in all, a week packed with adventure, a dash of fitness modesty (enjoy it whilst it lasts) and the bonus of a tent that behaved itself.

Post-Race Blues, Tent Temptations, and Gravel Grudges: Adventures in Between

I suppose this is what they call the post-Rat Race blues. Last weekend’s big adventure feels like a glorious blur of mud, sweat and mild panic – and since then, well, not a huge amount has happened. But not nothing, and that’s something.

First up, I’ve signed up for the Dirty Reiver in April. I say “I’ve signed up,” but in reality, the Phantom pressed a few buttons and – poof – my name is on the start list - he signed me up! It’s a mere 130 kilometres of gravel cycling, mostly off-road, designed to be both punishing and life-affirming, a bit like British weather. Hopefully, the Phantom, Mr Orange, Boof, and K will all be rolling tyres alongside me, assuming nobody is suffering from selective memory loss when April comes around. Word on the grapevine says entries are sold out, so at least we can collectively suffer with some exclusivity.

Speaking of suffering, I spent an indecent amount of time obsessing about tents recently. At the Rat Race I spotted one with the words “the classic 2 seconds” emblazoned on the side. Naturally, I had to investigate. Turns out it’s a Quechua pop-up tent, which you can pitch in all of two seconds – less time than it takes me to clip into my pedals. A quick Google inevitably led to Decathlon, who happened to be flogging the three-person version for under £70. Thanks to PayPal temptation, I am now the proud owner of one (just awaiting delivery). It weighs just 3.6kg, promises to be dismantled just as quickly as it’s pitched, and is rated for “occasional outdoor use.” Which I generously interpret as “perfect for Rat Races, weekends with SJ, and pretending I am an organised outdoorsman.” Can’t wait to test it out.

Elsewhere, ParkRun continues to be a strangely addictive Saturday ritual. I’ve now completed my 95th, lining up at Arrow Valley for the 50th time. Out of 472 runners, I finished 107th in 24 minutes 23 seconds – my fastest time of the year, clipping 11 seconds off my previous best. That’s also two consecutive weeks of running my quickest of 2025, which either means I’m peaking nicely or about to injure myself in a blaze of misplaced confidence.

Cycling-wise, I’ve returned to the land of Zwift. My “bike room” had been untouched for a while, so reassembling it felt like piecing together a forgotten archaeological dig. The fans had migrated (cheers, Spoon), the smart plug sulked, and the heart rate monitor played dead. Eventually, I cobbled things together in time for an FTP ramp test – which, unsurprisingly, after a morning ParkRun PB, went about as well as testing one’s brainpower while hungover. Let’s just say the results were “character building.” My second pedal wasn’t officially a test, but still managed to prove my legs aren’t quite speaking to me yet.

Outside of self-inflicted endurance antics, I’ve walked Ernie a few times. He remains a mischievous little monkey, happy to remind me that a tug of war with the lead requires as much energy as a 5k run.

Looking ahead, next week promises something to get excited about: camping with SJ, testing the gifted walking poles, and that 2-second tent begging to prove its worth. Because in the end, whether it’s 130k of gravel or wrestling with a pop-up, it’s all an adventure in its own way.

Rat Race Coast to Coast 2025

On the weekend of 13 and 14 September 2025, Mr Orange and I set ourselves the small matter of completing the Rat Race Coast to Coast, a 100‑mile challenge involving running, cycling, and kayaking across some of Scotland’s most savage and spellbinding landscapes. The route threaded its way through places that carried an air of folklore and grandeur—Cawdor Castle, Loch Ness, Glen Nevis and Glen Coe—all playing backdrop to our epic attempt. This was no afternoon jaunt; it was an unforgiving Highland adventure, but we took it on as a determined duo and came out the other side triumphant

The escapade actually began on the Friday, with Mr Orange arriving at my door early to scoop me up into his trusty Skoda. For the record, I did apologise for making a Postman Pat comparison, but as it turned out his family wagon was impressively comfy and swallowed our mountain of kit without drama. The journey north was one of steady fuelling, courtesy of fish and chips and some not-too-bad chicken curry. By the time we reached Cawdor Castle, we were in event mode: bikes racked, trackers collected, poster map glanced out and hot drinks for good measure. It was here I had nostalgic flashbacks to Ironman 2016, that same excited buzz of seeing hundreds of competitors preparing for something almost absurd. We retreated to our digs in Nairn, ready for the morning’s assault.

At 7:30 the following day, the Rat Race began with a neat 11k run—a mixture of trails, little “stunty” sections, and plenty of mud underfoot. We were feeling strong, gliding past competitors who’d already slowed to a walk. Before long, Cawdor Castle appeared, the first major milestone, and our bikes awaited. 

The transition was an exercise in dignity preservation: long‑sleeved jerseys strategically tied round our waists while bare bottoms were slathered with chamois cream. Rude health established, off we sped on our 86k cycle.

Wasps were happy here too!

That ride was a tale of contrasts—sunlit tarmac and blue skies morphing into cloud, hills, and the odd food stop where fruit was enthusiastically mobbed by wasps. The big climb of the day was steep and commanding; others pushed their bikes up while I felt uncharacteristically heroic grinding to the top. 

A rapid descent spat us into Nessie‑themed tourist territory before a flat section that felt suspiciously like canal towpath, except the canal was a loch and the ford we crossed was decidedly real. 

Then came the unexpected gift: a good 10k of gnarly singletrack, loose gravel and switch‑backs. We were advised to dismount in hairy sections. Naturally, we didn’t. 

The day ended at Invergarry, bikes racked, heavens now open, tents pitched in the rain. Consolation came in the form of burgers, fries, and the smug novelty of drinking from a collapsible cup. A relatively early night followed—though “early” in a tent really means listening to gusts of wind (?farts) and snore around you.

Sunday began damp and disorganised. We faffed with tents and chocolate muesli—rehydrated by water, which I found delicious and Mr Orange found revolting—before setting off half an hour behind schedule. The first section was a 45k gravel cycle, smooth enough to be enjoyable and scenic enough to be utterly distracting. Lochs, hills, and crisp Highland skies all made for a ride that felt like a postcard.

At Fort William we had a mandatory kit check: waterproofs, thermal mid‑layer, headlamp, food, first aid kit, the works. 

From here came the real sting in the tail—the supposed “8k flat run” immediately betrayed itself by launching uphill. What followed was a tough, bog‑ridden marathon‑in‑miniature. Trails disappeared into streams, gravel became boulders, then bog.

I fell three times, the third with comic timing that made me grin harder than it hurt. Mr Orange, annoyingly, stayed upright even when we descended on gradients so steep (25% was quoted) they might as well have been labelled “abandon hope.” After what felt like a lifetime of squelch, we finally reached shouts of  only 3k to go'. 

This was 3k of descent then a last bit of merciful tarmac before hitting the kayaks.

The kayak was a mile long, windy, wet, and wobbling as Mr Orange paddled with gusto, soaking me further. Cramp-like pain struck him but was vanquished by some creative leg positioning. 

We pushed across the chop to land at the Isle of Glencoe Hotel, sprinted through the finish, high‑fived a child for dramatic effect, and I even found the spontaneous energy to double‑jump and click my heels like some deranged leprechaun.

The official tracker gave me a finish time of 15 hours, 14 minutes and 42 seconds. Mr Orange’s tracker claimed he’d finished faster—though I reserve the right to question its honesty. Either way, top 25% finisher status sat very nicely on our shoulders. (Mr Orange informed that we finished 87 and 88/472 on day one, finished 227 and 228/468 day 2 and finished 166 and 167/466 overall).

We collected a fine medal, devoured burgers and chips washed down with celebratory pints, and then retired to a hobbit‑like house for the night. Breakfast was back at the Glencoe Hotel the next morning, after which a coach whisked us to Nairn to reclaim our bikes.

It was, in all respects, a staggering event. A wild adventure, a tough test, and a joyful way to mark our 50th birthdays. The question now is what we might plan for our 60ths—though that thought alone is almost as daunting as cycling through bogs with chamois cream drying on my behind. Above all, what made this journey extraordinary wasn’t just the epic Scottish scenery or the medal at the finish, but the fact I shared every mile, stumble, climb and laugh with a great buddy. Adventures are always bigger, braver and funnier when done together, and I couldn’t have asked for better company than Mr Orange.