Dave The Punk

I used to be a runner — until football did what it does best: ruin knees and dreams. In 2012, I got back on the bike, mostly to avoid spontaneous combustion. My first sportive that year was a 44 miler. Modest. Respectable. Like a polite handshake.

Fast-forward to 2014. The Haywards Heath Howler — 102 miles of scenic Sussex suffering, wrapped in a name that sounds like a lost Exploited album. I wasn’t nervous. I had a plan: break six hours, don’t die, look cool doing it.

Ditchling Beacon was the only real villain in the first half — a vertical punch to the lungs dressed as a country lane. The sadistic route planners kindly saved most of the climbing for the last 20 miles, by which point my legs were writing angry poetry. The weather was kind, clocking in at 22°C — warm enough for a sweat, not enough to hallucinate badgers.

I cruised over the line in 5 hours 48 minutes, feeling like I’d cracked the code. Century ride? Done it. Nailed it. Retired champion, yeah?

Except… no. That was just the gateway drug.

It was supposed to be a one-off. My grand finale. My two-wheeled mic drop.

I’ve now ridden 97 centuries. Somewhere along the road, “never again” turned into “just one more.” Classic punk move, really — say you’re out, then jump back in when the guitars kick off.

Dave The Punk

Two years after my first century, I lined up for number 12 — the RideLondon 100, a closed-road blitz through the capital and out into the Surrey hills. The goal? Smash the five-hour mark. I’d trained hard, was feeling strong… and I’d bleached my hair for good luck. (Because obviously nothing screams “aerodynamic weapon” like peroxide.)

I left home sometime around stupid o’clock, drove to South London, then rode the final six miles to the Olympic Park. My wave rolled out at 7 a.m., straight onto the A12 — and boom, we were off. The city turned into a tarmac racetrack, and I tucked in, chasing wheels like a kid buzzing on Haribo.

London was a blur of brilliance: Tower of London, London Eye, Trafalgar Square, Pall Mall, The Ritz — I might’ve high-fived a Beefeater at one point. It was fast, it was furious, and it was utterly surreal.

Then the hills arrived. Newlands Corner at mile 45 — sharp, testing. Leith Hill came next, steep enough to make you question your life choices. Box Hill followed, smoother but still a leg-sapper. The crowds in Dorking gave it some lungs; the cheer squads on Box Hill could’ve carried me up themselves.

Then it was back towards the city — no big climbs, just rhythm, speed, and caffeine-fuelled adrenaline. A rise through Wimbledon, a flying drop to Putney Bridge, and then the final straight. The Mall. The crowds. Buckingham flippin’ Palace.

I went full gas over the line, stared at my bike computer like it owed me money — 4 hours, 27 minutes.

Job done. Target obliterated. Hair still ridiculous.

Dave The Punk

La Marmotte Pyrénées: 104 miles, 6,500 metres of climbing, and one deeply unhinged route planner who apparently thought one ascent of the Col du Tourmalet just wasn’t character-building enough. So we did it twice. Up. Down. Back up — like some sadistic game of alpine ping-pong.

The first climb of the Tourmalet was brutal. The second was personal. Somewhere along the way, my legs stopped working and my brain started asking questions like, “Is this what dying feels like?” and “Can you sob and pedal at the same time?”

Throw in the Hourquette d’Ancizan and Col d’Aspin — which sounds like a Bond villain and climbs like one too — and the whole thing stopped being a bike ride and started feeling more like a mountain-flavoured fever dream.

I burned, I bonked, I may have barked at a goat. But I made it — over every peak, through every meltdown, and across the finish line at the summit of the Hautacam in one soggy, salt-streaked, semi-conscious piece.

I went to the Pyrenees to ride like a legend… and nine hours later, left wondering if I needed therapy.

full story on Sportive.com

Dave The Punk

I took my (then) teenage son to the Undercover Festival. I had noble intentions: skip the booze, focus on collecting setlists. He had other ideas.

Between the bands, he’d reappear with a pint for me. I couldn’t refuse — fatherly bonding and all that — but after a few, I warned him: no more, I’m getting drunk. Naturally, they kept coming.

After the headliner, I staggered away from the main stage only to be dragged into a smaller room where punk covers band The Fanzines were kicking off. Cue drunken dad dancing, intermittent falling over, and a glorious generational mash-up as I relived my teenage years with my teenager.

When the set ended, he vanished… then reappeared from their dressing room, setlist in hand, and a can of beer for each of us. The lad’s a legend.

Dave The Punk

Waiting for Möngöl Hörde, I’d picked my spot — side of the stage, up against the barrier — planning to stay clear of the pit until they played Hey Judas. They opened with it. So much for the plan. I was in the pit from the very first riff to the final chaos.

It was full throttle. At one point my glasses flew clean off my head — I thought they were lost to the punk gods — but during a rare lull, I spotted them on the floor: bent, filthy, but miraculously intact.

Later, just to complete the look, the sole of one boot ripped clean away from the toe. Still hanging on at the heel, flapping like mad as I kept bouncing. Style and safety, both absolutely out the window.

Dave The Punk

Mont Ventoux. The Giant of Provence. The Queen of iconic climbs. Call her what you like — none of the three routes to her summit take prisoners.

Some people ride up once and call it epic. Some go up twice and start questioning their life choices. I did all three — because apparently, I think exhaustion is a personality trait.

Round one: Malaucène — a gentle opener, if your idea of gentle includes 13 miles of uphill and the occasional identity crisis.

Round two: Bédoin — the brute. Steep, relentless, and about as forgiving as a French waiter when you mispronounce croissant.

Round three: Sault — the “easy” one, which was adorable considering my legs had launched a coup and were demanding I pedal with my arms.

By the end, I’d ridden over 40 miles uphill, climbed half the height of Everest, and earned the wonderfully unhinged title of Cinglé du Mont Ventoux — which translates to “madman of Ventoux.” Accurate.

It was beautiful, painful, and entirely unnecessary. Just how I like it.

full story on Sportive.com

Dave The Punk