Beginnings

Throughout 2019, I  tried to convince my fellow clubmates to join me riding this race I had heard of called the Trans-Portugal. Some mutual friends completed the event in 2015 and described it as the 'hardest thing they had ever done' and that had piqued my interest. 8 days off-road mountain biking from the north to the south, over 900km in total ride distance and over 15,000 meters of climbing....what's not to like?  

After months of trying to raise interest with my WEC buddies with zero success, in September 2019, I finally let a few too many pints make me brave and I pulled out my phone and entered there and then in the pub.  I did what any self respecting modern man would do in the circumstances and figured I would be able to buy my way out of this little pickle.....and immediately went shopping. I bough a Wattbike (a device for turning human beings into sweat) to get fit over the winter...who wants to cycle in the cold dark UK winter? Tick, job done. Time for one for the road.....

I resolved I would start training immediately... once the Wattbike arrived... sometime the next week. With 8 months to go to race date, I had no idea about what was going to be required to get ready... not a clue. But you never think of these things after the 4th pint.

Last time I did anything even remotely comparable was to ride the 900 miles from Lands End to John O'Groats in 7.5 days on the road. That time, I had fitness and youth on my side. I was in my mid 20's and still had most of my hair though I could see that it was a losing battle.  Here are a few pictures of the 27 year old Skidmark and friends and this is as about as good as it got for me. That was apparently the 'Prime Of My Life' though it certainly didn't feel that way at the time. Thats me in the the WEINMAN jersey in case you don't remember that I had hair and it was red once.

Back in 1993 I was an active triathlete plus I had 6 clubmates to ride the route with. I remember some pretty average eating in every 'Little Chef' we could find on the route (remember them?), lumpy youth hostel dormitory beds and living on god-awful High-5 energy drink with consistency and taste of wallpaper paste. 

A particular highlight was the rudimentary cycling chamois of the times (made of real leather as the name suggests) which required a handful of something like a mix of axel grease and 'Deep Heat' plus a 30 minute delay each morning before my nether regions went numb enough to sit on the saddle without grimacing. You dont need any pictures of that.

When we got to John O'Groats I was exhausted and semi crippled with roughened patella, the effects of which lasted for weeks after we got home. I don't recall any great rush to get back on a bike for some time. 

I didn't think of any of this until I started writing this post. I only recalled the best bits of the trip. Isn't it funny how we gloss over some of the tough times we have had if we have ultimately succeeded at something? Trans-Portugal....  Here's hoping I will be able to look back as fondly.