The Wicklow 200 (2009) Thread

Captain Havoc · 12-06-2009 01:29PM

I use sportstracker and my bicycle computer on every ride, there's always a slight difference.

Cadex · 12-06-2009 02:55PM

Hi - 192.7km for me on my (basic) bike computer.
Will only ever act as a guide though. Would agree with other posters ref accuracy of the course distance, whether measured by the organisers, people's computers or e.g. mapmyride type apps. All the basic bike computers pretty much are set up the same based on circumference, which of course will vary with load, tyre pressure and even atmospheric conditions. All you can do is follow the set up instructions (do your circumference by rolling) and then accept that it will vary by a margin. It would be great if we got distances on these things on which we could all agree but even the (even slight) variation in routes as well as calibration of the measuring instruments would always give different answers.

gimmeaminute · 24-06-2009 08:19AM

This guy is on my wheel.

We drop a lot of people, this ****ing leecher and me. Up and up we climb, passing, dropping, passing, dropping, rider after rider. I have a magic rhythm in my head, and the puffed words one, two three four, one two three four on my lips. I have recently overheard a grunted 'Slieve Mann' and I know now that this is the big one, and that I have it in me to conquer it, to debase it, to ****ing fly up the ****er. I am grinding out my lowest gear, but with some serious spright. Quick turnover. Light legs.

And this guy is on my wheel.

Fair enough, fine. I was dragged up the first third myself, by Chris the Courier. But now Chris is far, far below us. And I'm the one doing all the work. He's on my wheel, right on my wheel so I can't see him, judge him, judge his bike, his clothing, his leg hirsutitude, without a big fat turn around in my saddle. And doing this will cost me not just rhythm but also a modicum of the cool aloofness that I suddenly find myself aggressively cultivating. I make my one two three four a little quicker.

And this guy is on my wheel.

On and on. Up and up. There is beauty, I'm sure, spread out to my left. I can't see it. My eyes stay on the road just ahead, my focus on the rhythm and the avoidance of all these dangerously weaving slow coaches that I'm flying past. My lungs sear, but bearably. My quads sing, but tunefully. Now I see the yellow Powerbar tent in the middle distance and know that the end is nigh. I glance back one last time, yes, he's still ****ing there and then I'm out of the saddle, one kick, two kicks, three. And I'm gone.

This guy is no longer on my wheel.

I look around at the summit, trying to identify this wheel sucker, this parasite, so that I might bask in his eternal praise and gratitude, but I don't know what he looks like so a thankless thankless task is what this search turns out to be. Did I imagine this pale or not so pale rider? Was he really there at all? He was, of course he ****ing was, the ungrateful bastard.