November is the flattest, dullest month to be a road rider in the UK. It is cold, but not yet cold enough that it feels brave going out. It is wet and windy. The days are short, the lovely warm evenings no more than a memory. And as the summer recedes, the perspective of time helps you realise that what felt like an achievement in August was in reality only a slightly-less-embarrassing-than-usual kick back against the long slow slide to the grave.
Personally I struggle with the lack of targets to motivate me at this time of year. Next season is far away. Once upon a time I’d have been hard at work doing the winter miles. But at least a decade ago I realised that winter miles only count after Christmas. And anyway, by the time you’ve done 25 winters of gradually turning your brake blocks into black goo, you’ve got as much aimless riding stored up in your legs as you ever will. Honestly, I’m finished with winter training from a performance point of view.
