Distance:

Month:

Country:

Event Name Like:

Event Search:

What are these?Cyclosports Newsfeed UK Events for Google Calendar UK Events for Outlook UK Events for iCalendar Join us on Twitter Join us on Facebook  

Where am I?

Member's Blogs
 

 

 

 

 

 
I meant to sit down and write this straight after the ride whilst everything was fresh in my mind, and while my legs ached.
 
The longer you leave it the less truthful things are. Cos’ let’s face it there is always a mix of pleasure and pain in riding any sportive. And if you leave it, all you remember is the pleasure.
 
I say there’s always pain with the pleasure, but I am sure it doesn’t need to be that way. It just seems to be when I ride a Sportive.
 
I have vowed one day I will do it differently. I will detach my computer and tootle about, stopping to enjoy the views. Maybe take a few photos. One day I will stop at a food stop, and sit down; and have a cup of tea, and few sandwiches and chat to the ladies helping. Then I’ll let things digest a bit, enjoy the banter, and in the fullness of time roll on to the next feed. 
 
But not yet. There is a demented bit of me that can’t help itself, and has to push on. I blame my education. Lots of sport, and training, and “The more it hurts the more good it is doing”. I just ride my bike for fun - really. But all you have to do is put on an “event” with other bikes, and other people and a whole lot of primeval stuffs rears its ugly head.
 
All I need is to see a bike in the distance, and something in gut says, “Catch him.” Going over a climb in a group and the voices say, “Don’t get dropped”. Worse still, if I am feeling good, they sometimes whisper, “Wind it up a bit, go on hurt them a little. Go on, go on, go on, go on, Drop them”. I should not admit this but I am one of those awful competitive people who can’t help treating Sportives like races.
 
I am not trying to beat anyone in particular, just myself and anyone else I can.
 
And so it was that I came down to Grassington again last weekend, for my fifth Etape, all full of pasta, and adrenalin. As usual I was nervous. Because I think this is a hard ride. Maybe it’s because my first attempt left an indelible mark in my psyche.
 
In my first outing in 2006 I was new to all this stuff, having come to cycling late(ish), ie post 45, when my legs decided running was bad for them. That day started cold and crisp; the forecast was bad, and it turned out worse than the forecast. It was wet, cold and windy, and my abiding memory is sitting by the road, in the rain,  3 miles from the finish, trying to open a gel with frozen fingers.
 
When I did get to the clubhouse it looked like the canteen in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. There were a lot of people with strange vacant expressions and faraway eyes, stumbling about, or just sitting wrapped in blankets rocking in a mist of hypothermia and exhaustion.
 
This year the forecast had been good but it deteriorates as the day approached and I wasn’t too impressed when I parked up, and went to check in.
 
 
Photo of Rain on window.
 
But the drizzle was short lived, and it looked like it might become a decent day for a ride. Anyway not much to do but get on with it, and this year I was going to have company for the ride.
 
When I started riding Sportives I just rode off on my own and  marvelled at the way groups of disciplined looking riders would periodically come floating past me on climbs, or hurtling past me in the valleys. One consistent group who usually feature near the front end of these northern sportives are the lads from Richmond (North Yorks – not down south – these boys understand hills...) You will see them out on the Fred, Etape, White Rose challenge, and of course their own excellent 5 Dales ride....(coming up Saturday!)
 
Gradually I have got to know them a bit. It developed from “Hi” as they flew past for me far too fast to catch their wheel; to snatched, “Hi lads...[puff pant].... you are going well today......[try to stay with them].....OK, well, see you next week.......Bye”; to starting the odd event with them, and being dropped on the first climb; to last year when we rode the Etape du Dales and I managed to stay with them until I bonked on the last climb.
 
Well I say I stayed with them the whole way until then. Not really true. Coming over Buttertubs I touched wheels with Big Dave (more on this colossus later) and I ended up diving off the road into the grass. I caught them again after a five mile chase down Swaledale. They seemed to welcome me back into the fold, but I did notice an interesting comment Dave put on their forum later; something about how he couldn’t think of any other way to stop me talking.
 
Um, yes, you will have guessed from my rambling self indulgent writing style (please no comments of agreement...) that I can go on a bit.
 
So, back to this year. I together with a few other hangers-on rolled out with the Richmond boys and headed for Fleetmoss. It was the usual tale. Sven, and Dave drove things along the flattish roads of the first half an hour. They swept up other riders, and the group swelled to maybe 15 or so before Deepdale, and the first hint of the climbing ahead.
 
The road up Deepdale is one of my favourite roads in the Dales. It is beautiful. You run up an open valley cut by a stream, which can be torrent or completely dry as it drops underground to limestone caves. There’s something about the proportions and light in the place which is magical. Sadly, no time to linger.
 
It often happens that big groups form behind the big lads on the flat, and evaporate like mist as soon as things point up. But the extraordinary thing about the Sven and Dave, is they can still rip the legs off you on the climbs. I had better keep up. Don’t want to get dropped yet......trying to take this photo on the hoof didn’t help.
 
Photo of richmond boys leading the way 
 
The joy of the valley was soon over, as we turned right and hit the first of the hard ramps that lead you up to the highpoint of the route. My legs were protesting, but I was encouraged by Mark Bayne (also Richmond) who said he never got into his riding until he had been going 2hs 45mins. An interesting (and strangely precise) observation.
 
The climb was a bit Macho. I don’t think anyone in the group wanted to get dropped so we all just went up a bit too hard......at least that’s my story and I am sticking to it.
 
Eating on top of Fleetmoss, always seems a good idea. I have been riding for an hour or so, and should top up my energy. But, until my heart rate calms down after climbing with this lot I can’t even think about it. Anyway food was the last thing on my mind a minute later as we bowled over the top and onto the poker straight dive down to Hawes.
 
Oh, I love this descent. 54mph this time. Clear road, good visibility. Small tuck, big smile. Here I demonstrated what Galileo was on about with his gravity experiments. Being heavy does not mean you fall faster. [You can hear me rant on the subject of bad cycling science some other time.......]
 
Buttertubs passed uneventfully this year, as I kept my mouth shut and my wheel clear of Dave’s. It was fast down into Swaledale, and along to Low Row with the wind behind. It felt good, but didn’t bode well for the slog west to Tan Hill.
 
Still being in a good group of ten or so bikes, the lane out of Low Row was tricky. It is steep, narrow, gravelly and a bit of a shock after 20 minutes of cruising. We were all over the road in seconds. It was out of saddle, head down and try to turn the pedals smoothly. It is too steep for me to ride seated, but out the saddle if you put a tyre on the gravel it spins.
 
I also got a bit confused by a car that wanted to drive down the hill. (Possibly not a good day for a drive in the Dales?) I didn’t see or hear her until I was nearly on her bonnet. My rasping chest must have deafened me to her approach. Actually she might have been stationary for all I knew. I must pay more attention.
 
Over this climb there is a ford, and getting through it safely is always nice. I came off once, which was inelegant to say the least. I had foolishly decided I would be best unclipped and freewheeling with my legs out, ready to put them down if there was a problem. Bad choice. Unsettling the balance of the bike, and not being able to pedal through any wobble meant when a wheel started to slip I could do nothing to correct it.
 
Oh, and by the way, carbon-soled-cleated- shoes will not stop you ending up on your bum in the stream.
 
So, through safely and down to Arkengarthdale for the left turn to Tan Hill. Now this was odd. Where was the group. All we had left was me, Dave, Mark (Bayne), and another lad whom we didn’t know, but I didn’t know we didn’t know him. Well I knew I didn’t know him, but thought the others knew him, but they didn’t. Anyway he was also called Mark (Jacobi), not that I found out until the end, otherwise I might have got confused. Clear?
 
Dave mentioned we had dropped Sven. (Not a concept to which I could relate). But he and Mark didn’t seem inclined to wait up for him, (they are his friends you see) so off we went. Maybe he had a puncture, because he was there a minute ago.
 
So we were 4,  and we just worked away together into the wind. Not a bad wind by Tan Hill standards but still taxing enough. Of course I was a bit flummoxed by Dave, who said how much he liked this road. But this is his terrain. He is well over 6 foot, and weighs in at a healthy 15 ½ st. [ie about 50% more than me] Not an ounce of fat on him, he can grind a big gear away into a headwind all day long.
 
But we did take it in turns – honest. I am not really sure how much it helps Dave to sit behind me, but it is great for me to shelter in his wake. And so to Tan Hill for a quick munch and bottle fill.
 
The run down from Tan Hill to Keld can be great, but somehow the niggly wind still seemed to be knocking us back, and when we turned directly back into it to go over Birkhope, I was feeling a bit worn down. After the first steep mile or so this is a long open draggy road. If it’s windy there is no hiding place. Nothing to do but get on with it.
 
On Tan Hill we had picked up another rider, whom I would call young. The other four of us are not what I would call young. Fit but not young. Anyone who is more than two decades younger than me, is expected to be fit, and strong, and able to go to the front when we, more mature riders, are getting a bit knackered. So Danny was welcome.
 
Unfortunately Mark B had been struggling with a post-Fred chesty cold, and without us noticing he dropped off the back, somewhere before the dive down to Nateby. So, down to 4 again, and so it stayed over Mallerstang, past the Moorcock, and over the Coal Road from Garsdale to Dentdale.
 
As always the Coal road was challenging, but the wind seemed benign, and thankfully neither Mark, nor Danny, seemed keen to push on the climb. I employed one of my patented, “Don’t drop me” tactics as we climbed; namely, talking. Or more precisely asking them questions. (My talking can have the reverse effect - they can accelerate [or worse Dave] to stop the noise) But it is rude to ride away from someone who is sincerely enquiring about your life, job, family, interests.
 
Also if they are talking they get distracted, forget they are going really slowly, and use their breath for answering you instead of pedalling.
 
If things are getting really tough, ask them something technical, which requires brain function. Brain function requires oxygen, so they slow down a bit more. Now it is tricky thinking of a suitable techi question when your own brain is oxygen deprived. So here are a few examples you might want to have up your sleeve and adapt as appropriate. Make sure the question is short and answer long.
 
Ask about their kit eg:
·         I see you have the Campag 11 sp group-set, how do you find it compares to the 10?
·         How do you find those R-sys wheels? How does that compression and tension at the same time thing work?
 
Ask something that involves doing maths:
·         What’s 7 miles an hour in kilometres per hour.
·         How far have we got to go? How long will that take?
·         Have you any idea how many vertical meters per hour we are climbing at?
 
If they have a Garmin, you have hit the jackpot, just ask them anything about the ride so far. They will fiddle about from screen to screen getting the info, and basically slow down. Job done.
 
So by hook or by crook I managed to keep Mark and Danny close. Dave lost a bit of ground on the steeper bits of the climb, but by the time we hit Dentdale he was back with us, and we rolled on together towards Stainforth. Once under the viaduct out of Dentdale and onto those fast rolling roads, the group came into its own again. We were hammering it.
 
I don’t know how the others felt, but I was getting pretty tired by this point. I had managed to eat couple of clif bars (highly recommended by the way...choc chip..great) during the ride, but not much more. And, although I could do with more instant energy, I was feeling a bit queasy, and I knew from experience I wouldn’t get anything down while I was working this hard. So I just ploughed on.
 
At the Stainforth feed I just checked in, and decided I better not stop long. Anything to upset my delicate equilibrium and I am not sure how my tummy would have coped. So I headed up over the last climb of the day.
 
This is a nothing climb really – a bit steep at the bottom, but then it just rolls up in steps. Fresh legs and it would be one to fly over. But with 90 miles in the legs it is hard. Last year, the group of 6 of us, who had ridden together from the start, hit this climb together. But only 5 went over the top together. I was out the back. After painfully yo-yoing off the group, unable to find the right gear or position on the bike, I let go and drifted away. I had bonked, and that was that.
 
I wasn’t at all sure the same thing wouldn’t happen again this year. I knew there wasn’t a lot left in the tank, but thought that if I just tapped away. I might be alright. Of course since I didn’t feel up to eating I didn’t see much point in waiting for the others before I started climbing. A little head start wouldn’t do any harm, would it?
 
As it transpires it wasn’t bad, and I got over with no big issue, and was caught by Mark and Danny just at the right time – when we hit the valley again. No Dave though. He had been suffering too, dropped off a little before the feed and waved the others on when he got in. Bad news.
 
In the valley we soon caught a bunch of 8 or so regrouping after the climb. Good news.
 
This group seemed to have a couple “testers”. These machines sat on the front and drove us along at an incredible pace. The wind was more or less behind us, the road gradually down hill, and we were being dragged furiously. All I could to do was hold the wheel.
 
It was more like a road race then a sportive. [But, “No, officer, we did not spread across the road, or ride in a dangerous fashion. There was due care and attention at all times.”]
 
Well, actually, there was one dodgy moment when our train came across a camper van coming the other way. He took up most of the narrow lane and the remaining gap was too narrow to negotiate at warp speed. Amid much shouting, precipitous breaking and concertinaing, we all got through safely, and were chasing the tester’s wheels again. Had they really ridden the whole way, or were they ringers, sent out to tow their mates home? I can’t say I minded; they were towing us home too. Thanks boys.
 
I did feel a little guilty about being dragged along and not helping out, so about 1 ½ from the finish there is nasty little rise on the main road into Grassington, and I thought I would go to the front, give it a bit of wellie and drag them up. So I did.
 
Unfortunately my effort to help went wrong, and next thing I knew I was at the top of the bank, Mark and Danny were rolling past my shoulder to do a turn, and the group that had pulled us for the last 20 minutes was about a hundred yards back. Glad I couldn’t hear what they would have been saying about, us “Wheel sucking *******’s, who just sit in for miles and then attack at the end” - Sorry lads.
 
And so, the three of us rolled in together. Dave who had soloed over the last hill, and all the way in from there, was just a couple of minutes down. Chapeau, and thanks Lads.
 
Figure out who’s who from the subtle clues hidden in the text above.
 
 Photos of Dave, Mark danny and NJM
 
What a grand day out.
 
 
PS I still think that overall Etape du Dales is harder than the Fred.
 
PPS Shouldn’t it be Etape des Dales?

 
 
 
 

Comments:

Click here to add your comment.
 

Fred Whitton 2010

09/05/2010
 

Road, Track, MTB, TT, Hill climb, Audax, Sportive, leisure, commuting, touring; all excellent, health-building and invigorating, and I would recommend them to anyone young or old. Get on your bike and ride. Go anywhere, explore, get out in the country, enjoy the freedom and fulfilment of the two wheeled world.

But don’t try to ride up Hardknott.
 
Don’t even think about it. One of two things will happen:
 
a)     You will get over it on the bike, but wonder why you were mad enough to put yourself through the pain, or
b)     You won’t get over it on the bike, and wonder why you were mad enough to try.
 
4 years in a row I have done the Fred. 4 year in a row, I have wondered why on earth I put myself through the ordeal of Hardknott and Wrynose after 100 miles of hard riding.
 
I say hard riding but this year I was being “sensible”. I was riding with my sensible friend, Andy. It was not a year for getting in with the 8 O-clock group, and hammering it over the fist climb, and all the way up Kirkstone. So we headed out at a sensible 8:02 and took things at a sensible pace.
 
It never crossed my mind that we might catch the 8:00 group and have two minutes time advantage, as they towed us home........ No this was sensible riding.
 
My trouble is that what feels sensible at 8:02 doesn’t always feel sensible with hindsight at say 14:02. But this year was at least semi-sensible. As we clicked over the first little hill my legs, lungs, and heart suddenly woke up, and protested. Theoretically we had all been awake for hours, but they hadn’t done anything, and were still in the stupor we all should have been in at 8 on a Sunday morning.
 
But that always happens on Sportives. I know it will get better in an hour or so. And so it was. I felt pretty good as we went over Kirkstone. I had thought it would be really hard with a Northerly wind blowing. But the wind wasn’t bad at all, and it was the merry dive down to Ullswater.
 
I like the Kirkstone descent. Good wide road with excellent visibility. There are a couple of bends but nothing that needs much more than light feathering the brakes and flowing through.
 
As usual a good group formed at the bottom and we worked together up past Dockray, and down the 66 to Keswick. There was some odd riding in the bunch, and that rather disorganised feel of a group of strangers trying to work out whether to sit in or take a turn; whether to peal off right or stay left flick their elbow and expect the bunch to pass. There were the riders who tore to the front, and then eased right off, or those for whom going to the front was the same as attacking and ended up towing fresh air 20 yards ahead of the group.
 
Despite the yo-yoing it was better than Andy and me doing all the work – and this is all part of the fun of Sportives; rubbing shoulders (and hopefully not wheels) with other riders.
 
And so we arrived at Seatoller feeling pretty good, which was good news. Sensible is good I was thinking. All good so far; but next was the little matter of Honister. This to me is the first real test of the Fred. Climb this like a bag of spanners and the next 60 miles are going to be tough. Get over well and you might be on a good day.
 
I can’t make up my mind about Honister. Do I love it, or do it hate it? It hits you hard. You have been rolling along flat roads since Keswick, ambling past Derwent Water, down towards Seatoller. As you get close to the village you look up at the hills around, and try to figure out there the road could possibly go.
 
Then as you ride through the village you see the 25% sign and you realise. The road suddenly kicks, turns left and heads straight up through the woods. It is a beautiful road. A fast flowing stream cuts down through a gorge to your left. The road is shaded and cool, but sadly also a little steep.
 
The trick here is either to go straight if your gears allow, or zig zag. But whichever way you go, be careful because other riders have randomly chosen from those two options. Out-of-synch zig zags, clashing with those going straight up makes for some erratic dodging about, and the odd friendly, “I say old chap, I don’t suppose you’d be good enough to hold you line”.
 
The climb eases off as you come out the woods and you see the slate mines at the top of the pass. This is a lovely place to be on a sunny Sunday, but no time for picnics. The last bit is fairly tough again, but not too long, and then it’s time for the first dodgy descent of the day.
 
I was met by a stream of cars coming up, so was forced to take care. Care is good on this descent. About 200 yards down there is a 25% sign, then as the road steepens even more there is a nasty dogleg right then left. Camber is all wrong, and the surface is rough. A place for extreme care.
 
Sadly for a couple of riders ahead of me it had all gone wrong. There was a rider lying in the road receiving attention from a paramedic, and another round the corner sitting nursing her knee.
 
After that bend, I let out my breath and my brakes, and swept down the valley, hoping they were OK and being thankful I hadn’t messed up, or been caught up in one of those unavoidable accidents.
 
Next stop Buttermere, and the feed stop. But I didn’t want to eat. Never feel like eating on these things – I should but I can’t. I tried a cheese sandwich, but after one bite couldn’t face any more. I had managed a Clif bar over Kirkstone, I would just tuck into another on the road.
 
Refilled water bottles, Andy arrived and we were off again over Newlands. Now that descent was good. Just let go and let gravity do the rest.  Time to eat, and drink and get ready for the drag over Whinlatter.
 
Whinlatter isn’t a hard climb, it more continental that the others – mostly 5-8%, but there are deceptive steeper bits, which look benign but aren’t. I started off climbing smoothly thinking this is great, winding steadily through the woods, but then I seemed to slow, went down a gear, then another, and then was out the saddle. It didn’t look any steeper, but my legs said it was. Mercifully Garmin confirmed the gradient was 15%, at that point, before easing off again.
 
Every year I feel tired on this climb. I think it is because it looks like it should just be easy but it’s not. Or maybe it’s just in my head. Anyway the crowds cheering towards the top were great. Once again a picnic would have been nice....
 
By this time in the ride Andy and I had got into a nice working routine. I being the smaller rider would generally gain a bit on all the climbs. Then on the descents he would catch me up and being good at time trialling would come into his own on the flat, when I would mercilessly suck his wheel.
 
So as I wearily rolled off Whinlatter there he was again, and we worked together with a couple of other lads down past Loweswater and over the rolling country side to Cold Fell. This run south through west Cumbria is normally hard work and the prevailing South Westerly tends to slap away at you. But this time the wind was in the North, and all seemed easier than I remembered. A good group, sun in the sky and a gentle tail wind. Doesn’t get much better.
 
By the time we reached Cold Fell, my Whinlatter bad patch had evaporated, and I felt really good, spun my little legs and before I knew it was over the top, and flying down to the feed in Calder Bridge.
 
I say feed, but I didn’t stop except to dib my transponder, and then carried on. Not sure if it was the Clif Bars I had eaten en route, or the fact that Kate had been on a Betty’s of Harrogate cookery school the day before and come home to feed me up on fresh sweet Crab Ravioli in a shellfish bisque, followed by succulent Beef Wellington, but I seemed to have strangely high energy levels.
 
[Note to self: Red meat. Don’t have much in my near vegi diet. Eat more fillet steak]
 
So just one thing left to do. Get over Hardknott and Wrynose. This is where the rubber hits the road. Or perhaps more accurately where you hope your rubber stays on the road
 
Up Eskdale you see the hills closing in again, and again you start to wonder where the road goes. And then you see it; carving its way impossibly up the hillside. Oh dear.
 
Then it starts. Telephone box. 30% sign. Bear right a little and bang. You are scrambling own through your gears as fast as Tullio Campagnolo’s lovely 11sp Record group-set will let you.
 
There is a cattle grid, which I always feel ought to be where the climb starts, but I am always out the saddle before I get to it, and have to sit down to get over it safely. Then I am out the saddle again, for quite a while!
 
I would love to say that the fact I was having a good day on the bike meant I conquered the climb in a composed fashion......(like the annoying bloke on the Cyclefilms recce of the route. He rides up on 39-23 whilst talking to the camera.....show off), but I didn’t. It was not a pretty sight; again.
 
2007: I tried the zig zag technique. Cutting 1 in 3 down to a manageable 1 in 4 was the idea. But a zig followed by a failed attempt to turn it into a zag left me in an embarrassed heap in the verge.
 
2008: I met a car on one of the hairpins. For those lucky enough never to have been on Hardknott, these are not sweeping elegant alpine curves. These are knotted twists in the road. It’s as if the road builder has just realised he was going the wrong way, and his best line was somewhere about 20 yards above where he had got to. So he just headed straight up to it, without regard for gravity.
 
It’s like the road was build from the top to the bottom (instead of the other way round), in the mist, when there was tarmac rationing, and the “engineers” only stopped going in a straight line when they came to a precipice.
 
Anyway back to my tale; I met a car on a left hand hairpin. I was going up at my accustomed 3mph and he was gently burning out his brakes as he crawled down. But careful though he was he felt he should stay on the left. Must have read the highway code. So I was forced left into the apex of the bend.
 
Now I have read all about cornering on a bike; start wide and smoothly flow through the apex. Um doesn’t work on Hardknott. The inside of the bend is a wall. So I fell off.
 
Now having fallen off you have three options:
a)     Try to clip in where you are – and fall off again.
b)     Head for somewhere flatter and try to clip in.
c)     Just walk.
 
For me 2007 was a) followed by b) followed by c). By year 2008 my technique had improved, and I had learnt from 2007, so skipped a) went for b) and managed to stay on.
 
By 2009, I had invested in a 27 instead of a 25 (to go with my compact 34 chain-ring), and so for the last two years I have managed to stay on the bike all the way up.  
 
But staying on the bike and making it move forward isn’t what I call cycling. On Hardknott it’s like power lifting or bench-pressing or some similar meathead activity which hurts and I can’t do! Arms, shoulders, and back are just wrenched and stretched. Legs are OK. Legs are fine, they are used to pushing pedals - that’s what they do. But hauling bars is not what I do.
 
When you can hardly overtake someone in cleats pushing his bike up beside you, you wonder why you are bothering. My only answer= Pig headedness. And quite right too - we are cyclists after all – and where would cycling be without pig headedness.
 
So, assuming you have managed to get over the top you have the small problem of getting back down. I would like to say the descent is fun. But it’s not. Be careful. The asphalt snake into the valley between Hardknott and Wrynose is what some might call a “technical” descent. I’d call it worrying.
 
But it’s not half as bad as coming down off Wrynose into Little Langdale. That is chamois endangering (shorts not goats), and another good reason for not eating too much at the last feed stop.
 
Coming off Wrynose there are some inviting looking straights, and you feel you can let yourself go a bit. It’s nearly over, you have conquered the fearsome climbs and you are chasing down to get your time. I was even spurred on as two lads flew past me. They clearly knew the road. Or they had a death wish!
 
I eased off the brakes thinking I could just follow their wheels. Foolish boy! I stayed on the bike, and the bike stayed on the road, but it wasn’t pretty. The road is not holed, just bumpy. I was breaking as hard as I dared, but realised that anything too severe would unsettle the bike, which was already bucking all over the place. So nothing for it except “Stay relaxed”, “Don’t tense up”, “Flow with the bike”....and “Don’t crash into that car that’s coming up! Aim for that 2 foot gap, and avoid that bolder sticking out from the verge.”
 
Obviously I got down in one piece; otherwise I doubt I would be writing this jocular little blog.
 
Once down in the valley, and my internal plumbing had settled down again, it was full steam ahead. Those last miles are great. There are just a couple of little clicks, but they’re OK,  just a question of spinning a small gear over them.
 
Andy and the other lads in our group had dropped back a little as we went over Cold Fell, and perhaps because I hammered it over the top and didn’t stop at the feed, they didn’t come back to me. [He he he - Mutley my dasterdly plan worked!!] So I was on my own, but managed to catch a group of three strong lads on the last little rise and then it was light the blue touch paper.
 
We came over the brow, the landscape opened out, the road pointed gently down and it was a three mile blast to the finish. Funnily I forgot all about Hardknott as we raced home.
 
A great event as always. Scenery, weather, organisation, cheering support on the road, good feed stations (I am told), all fabulous. But Hardknott...Oh dear, no, no, no!
 
 

Sorry no photos......If you expect me to stop to take snapshots on Hardknott, then think again....

Garmin for trip..... http://connect.garmin.com/activity/32760727
 
 
 

Comments:

Click here to add your comment.
 
ricardo
Glad to hear you're OK JIm, and hope other riders pay heed....... Looking forward to a Fred when I don't see someone wrapped in a space blanket on Honister. Etape harder than the mighty Fred???? Get real!! How many riders do you see pushing on the tape?
 
Mike Allison
If I may say so Nick, this is brilliantly written and reading it is like experiencing last Sunday all over again. My "never again" was replaced by "cant wait for next year" once I had received my certificate and despite saying to my better half that my one remaining ambition was to complete the FWC, its now to ride that vertical bit of Hardknott that continues to defeat me and learn to descend without constantly thinking I am going to fall off.
 
Toddy
Great article Nick and well done on a fantastic time. I slogged round in 8 hrs 30 after two punctures and a mechanical! Just hope that this, my first Fred Whitton experience, won't be the last as I absolutely loved every minute :-) Jim - I was overtaken on the ascent by 3 medical cars which got me worried, when I saw you lying there on the descent I feared the worst and am so glad to hear that you are on the road to recovery. Hope you get back on a bike really soon.
 
Nick
Um NC - Harder than the etape du Dales? Intersting one for debate - think it depends on what type of rider you are. Etape's climbs are less brutal but longer, with few easy bits between. It is more exposed and wind can be a big issue, but descents are generally much better in the Etape. For me Etape is harder..what do others think?
 
Steve
Nick - great write up and time, almost makes me want to do it agian this weekend... almost. Jim - glad to hear you are ok. i was the rider you overtook just before that bend, you never stood a chance despite your best efforts. it looked really nasty and certainly concentrated my mind.
 
NC
Fantastic blog. I went out on the Saturday and did Wrynose (both ways) and Hard Knott. These are just evil brutes of climbs. I'm super-impressed by anyone who can get over Kirkstone and Honister and THEN tackle these climbs. Must try doing the Fred sometime. How much harder is it than the Etape du Dales?
 
Dave
Glad to hear you are 'just' battered and bruised Jim - seeing you lying on the tarmac made a lot of folk snap into focussed descending from then on...
 
Dave
Great blog Nick, my legs are aching just sat here reading it :-( Fantastic ride time, respect ;-) Jim, your crash sounds horrific, wish you a speedy recovery :-)
 
Tortoise
Well ridden and beautifully written Nick. Brought a smile to my face imagining vividly a fellow "lighter rider" battling with the often ignored problems that feather weights encounter on uneven descents. Forza !
 
basilbrush
Well done, good effort. It took me 8:23 of cycling time and my HR going up newlands was 184! A fantastic ride, though, and I too will be back. The best organised sportive I've done to date.
 
Nick
Phew Jim.....yes glad you're OK.
 
George
Glad to hear you are alright Jim. I did a similar thing on Kirkstone last year including the broken bits and trip to A&E. Heal strong and come back stronger next year. George
 
Jim
Sadly I was the guy being treated by a paramedic half way down Honister! I really want to just hide but if this helps someone in the future then it'll be well worth it. I simply got caught up in having a good ride. I felt good, the time was good etc but my mind was elsewhere when I reached the top. It was flitting back and forth between the upcoming feed station and the nemesis that is Hardknott! I rode Honister the week before and knew how tricky the bend was but can honestly say I didn't switch on to the descent at all. If only I had gathered myself at the top, just remembered the week before. Seasoned riders would have but being somewhat a novice I didn't. I let it get all too fast. So fast my braking for the corner had me going sideways and I knew then I was in trouble. I'm writing this because I sincerely hope in the future nobody else makes the same mistake. I was very lucky, very lucky. Knocked unconscious, broken collar-bone and lots of bruises, (thankfully my helmet did its job as I hit the wall) it could have been a lot worse!
 
Cyclosport.org
Good to hear from you Nick after your amazing time last year! We will publish your experience of this years Fred Whitton for others to read.
 

 

Cent Cols Challenge
Day 10 Montmellier to Annecy

70 miles, just under 3000m climbing.

There was bit of an end of term atmosphere in the peleton this morning. Those, who had not been injured, or taken the various "short" cuts (ie "just" 100 mile days not 125), had already been over Cent Cols. So it was all done, and we could relax.

Sounds good. But 3000m of climbing squashed into the first 60 miles is a lot, and perhaps not surprisingly after the epic ride I had yesterday, I was feeling decidedly sluggish. But frankly I didn't care whether I went fast or slow. It was a lovely day to be in the hills.
 

Now, I know I said I didn't mind how fast I went, but it was rather galling to be overtaken on a long 8% climb, by a little convoy. It consisted of 3 members of the injured athletes team. One had a knee problem, had crashed twice and was covered in road rash; one was nursing achilles, groin and knee problems and living on pain killers, and worst of all they were pushing the third, whose knee was absolutely shot, and could hardly turn the pedals. But he was riding for a reason, and was determined to do this day's ride, for the sake of sponsors and family.

So, three riders with only three good legs between them came past me. But then again they would not have passed any drugs tests!

It was a laugh on the road today, and team noisy were definitely having fun, missing a feed station and having a long indulgent cafe stop. A road was blocked so we had to go up a col to a feed and then back down the same way, instead of following the original route.

Some thought going up a col just to come back down the same way was pointless. Most of us just went up it because it was there. When did climbing up these hills have to have a point?!

The café at the bottom was good though.


But from the cafe there was the small matter of the climb up to finish at the Crêt de Chatillon 1699m up. Oh well, one last effort, and then lunch. It did feel a long way up.


But as seemed inevitable, lunch was great. I will miss eating like this.


 
So we had done it, crested our Cent Cols, ridden our 2,000km, climbed our 40,000m.

22 of the 35 starters rode all the stages, the other 13 may have had to take shorted routes, or been injured and had to spend days off the road. But no-one just caved in. Everyone thought it was an extraordinary way to spend ten days. Some are ready to sign up for next year.

Some of us want to see how long it takes to recover, before we put our bodies through this again. Maybe it will have been a once in a lifetime experience. But that's fine. I am so glad I did it. The memories will last.

You should try it!

Nick Millar
 
 
 

Comments:

Click here to add your comment.
 
tim smith
well its seems fantastic wish i could do it but after having my disc renewed i am only just back into running.3 x 10k`s so far including a fell race.glad all is well with you all .we are still at woodland call in for a cuppa if your round our way.
 
ralph
great write up. Respect for anyone who can ride 146miles on day 7 then the equivalent of the Marmotte the day after ! I need to catch up with my buddy Nick A to see if he made it round............
 
dave Noble
Loved the story - fair play to you. Dave
 
david e
Great to read this Nick, dark horse! Great photos, where you found the time / motivation is a mystery
 
Dave Robinson
Hey well done Nick, well impressed, been good reading your blog. Maybe have to give it a go myself.
 

Cent Cols Day 9 - Somewhere in the mountains to Montmellier

26/09/2009
 

Cent Cols Challenge
Day 9 Somewhere in the mountains to Montmellier

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/14400982

128 miles; 8hr 57 min on the bike; 4200m climbing.

Have I mentioned Landis before? He cracked one day in yellow and lost nine minutes on his adversaries. His tour was over. He apparently drank a couple of Jack Daniels went to bed, and next morning he rode the legs off everyone else, and was back in the race.

They say he was on something. Someone else's blood or testosterone. How else could there be such a turnaround? They stripped him of his title.

Today, I was on something. Pasta, and 1664. It was as if someone had:

-- Transplanted a new pair of legs onto my trunk

-- Given me an infusion of energy.

-- Filled my tubes with helium, and put me on a crash diet.

The day didn't start auspiciously though. I decided I would get off promptly with a decent size group. I needed all the help I could get.
But on the first descent I hit a stone at about 35 mph. The impending hair pin was, well, slightly more hairy than usual as the thwack thwack of a flattened front tyre made cornering a tad messy.

When I stopped to change the tube I heard an ominous hissing. The stone had managed to pop the valve on my back wheel too. Great!

Luckily, my angel of mercy from team solid as a rock, appeared at just the right time. Not for the first time, he was on hand to help when I needed it. I had one spare tube with me, he had another, and in 10 minutes we were off again.

The mechanic's van (aka Broomwagon!) pulled past us 5 minutes later, and 400m further up the road he was ready with replacement spare tubes for the rock and me. Rock stowed his tube in his pocket, and rode off. I stopped, popped mine in my saddlebag and took advantage of the track pump to get my tyres up to pressure.

Back of the field again. Fantastic.

Now it is perhaps worth explaining that some of the riders were taking slightly shorter routes each day, perhaps cutting out a climb or two, or shaving 20 or 30 miles off the day. They had all bypassed the descent, where I had punctured, and approached the first col of the day from above. I would approach it from 800m below.

So I was well and truly at the back.

But it was strange. I felt fine. No lack of energy, kind of normal again. Not a crawling heavy lump. This was OK. I thought I was climbing reasonable well. But it is hard to tell on your own, and I was very much on my own, as I climbed the Col de Machine.

But who cared - what a road.

 

From there it was down to the feed stop, where some of the riders were enjoying the usual banter around the fruit and nuts and pastries and tomatoes and cheese. Most had moved on by the time I was refuelled, but I was happy just to take things at my pace.
Then came the biggest climb of the day, 10k of switchbacks rising 700m or so, then into the woods to climb another 350m on a heavy road which although rarely steep rattled your bones and required a gear less than usual.

This climb was bliss. Souplesse was back. I was light and smooth. I was also riding past people. Rock and I started the climb together, and I turned to him saying, "there seem to be a lot of tired legs out there today". And so it seemed. Either they had all burned out on yesterday's Ventoux stage, or I was going faster; a lot faster, than yesterday.

This was making up for all yesterday's lifeless dragging away. Thanks goodness I was at least finishing with a good day. And I was going to enjoy it.

At lunch I meet a rather surprised looking Philip Deeker, "Hello, you seem to have been working your way up through the field a bit!" And so I was, although perhaps my morale would have boosted even more if there had been just a little less surprise in Phil's voice. But then he had seen me grinding and groaning my way through yesterday.

Lunch - best of the trip. Phil had found an auberge, where Madame, her husband and son, rolled out bowl after bowl of sweet little cheese filled ravioli, topped off with grated gruyere, and accompanied by salade Nicoise. Coke and coffee washed it down, as we boosted out caffeine levels, and enjoyed the warm sun.

Sadly after lunch we did have some of the worst riding of the trip. Unusually we had to cover about 30 miles on flat busy roads. Only one thing for it, we got into groups, singled out, worked together and got it out of the way.

In the middle of this phase there was one small climb on the main road. It was only about 380m climbing. Um that kind of puts this event in perspective. 380m back at home is quite a climb. It's like going over the Buttertubs. Ok, these roads aren't as steep, but you do get you body up and down some big lumps. Every now and again I remind myself that two consecutive 4000m days is like climbing Everest from sea level.

Once the flat roads were all over things definitely pointed up hill, I just carried on turning my little legs, and somehow I just rode away from my companions. On the flat, I was uncomfortable. It was hard. It felt somehow unnatural after all the climbing and descending we had been doing. But now back on a climb and feeling good, all seemed as it should be.

The scenery had changed now, and after the dry south, we were coming back into the green alpine meadows again, as we rode up to Col de Cluses.


 
Then just Granier to go and it would be a 1000m dive down to the hotel. 

I have never felt as good on a bike, and after all the effort to get this far I suddenly became emotional. Flipping heck Millar, dry your eyes. It is hard enough to fly down a twisting forest road without getting all choked up. Concentrate. Go off the road now and you'll be sorry. But I was in cycling heaven, flicking the bike this way and that, through the bends.

Then I was down, and although the hotel was still several miles away, a warm tailwind swished me home, to finish a perfect riding day.

These days don't come along very often. But this was one I will always relish. If only I could work out how to replicate it!

Tomorrow is only a half day. We finish on a mountain top for lunch before we roll down to Annecy and it will all be over.
 
 
 

Comments:

Click here to add your comment.
 

 

Cent Cols Challenge
Day 8 Bedoin to somewhere far too far away and high in the mountains.

128 miles; 10hr 28 min on the bike; 5100m climbing.

Most sensible riders, who tackle Ventoux, treat it as good ride out. Up in the morning from Bedoin, roll back down to Malaucene for a good lunch. Then wind back round the warm Provencal roads in time for a nice coffee and patisserie before a soak and dinner.

For us it was the appetiser on what even Philip Deeker said would be a "hard day". For me it was the precursor to the hardest day's riding I have ever done.

Funny, how you can tell within 5 minutes of starting to ride up hill, whether you have, what they call the legs, or not. This was a day of "not". Yesterday's miles, and lack of pasta left me feeling heavy, and lethargic.

But Ventoux is a Mecca for cyclists and I had better make the most of it. I had blooming well appreciate the privilege of riding in the tyre tracks of the greats. The road was bedecked with slogans cheering on this year's tour contenders, Frank, Andy, Alberto, Lance, Bradley.


But I am not sure I was going up the right road. When I sat watching them on TV with my cycling pals, that Saturday, the tour riders must have been going up a different way. It seemed to take them about 20 minutes to get through the pine forest, and their road was really quite flat. I seemed to be on an unending ramp, which was just too steep to get into any rhythm. In the saddle one minute trying to spin a little gear, then realising someone had stolen my 27 sprocket over night, and having to haul myself out the saddle to get some momentum again.

The tour podium hunters flew past Chalet Renard, and onto the moonscape of the top 6k, like one flowing train. I emerged out the woods into the sunlight like an escapee from a week in the cooler  - panting, drooling and with bloodshot eyes.

It seemed to get better when I saw the top. Only problem was it didn't get closer. The masts look like you can touch them, but they are a mirage, always shifting, always drifting away into the blue again.


 
I felt like Tommy Simpson, who in a blur of amphetamines, brandy, and exhaustion veered off the road, only to demand, "Put me back on the bike". But, I was wailing, "Take me off the bike."

Oh, I am being pathetic. It was a beautiful morning, and I was on top of the beast before 10am. It was a stunning place to be.
 

And so to every climber's reward. The descent.  And what a descent it is off the back of Ventoux. Very fast, very safe, very long. There are some 50mph bits - or as most of the riders insisted on saying, 80 kph.

I know we were riding on the continent, but I go at miles per hour, not kilometres per hour!

It was what I call a 2 pop descent. Every vertical 500 meters or so, the pressure builds up in my ears, and I have to do that thing where you hold your nose, blow, equalise the pressure, pop your ears, and hear again.

It was also a two layer strip off dive. Start at 6000 ft with water/windproof, plus Gilet, and thick gloves; down half way, and the outer layer comes off, then at the bottom you are cooking in your gilet. It is going to be hot today.

2 hours up 20 mins down. Cycling is not fair. But the banshee dive to the foot isn't bad compensation for the weary ascent.

Right that's done. I am in Malaucene, and ready for lunch. Only problem is, lunch is about 50 miles away over 3 cols, and food stop was about an hour's draggy riding away. I reconcile myself to the fact that, although I have been over the Giant of Provence, I still have the equivalent of a big UK Sportive ahead of me. 100 miles and well over 3000m of climbing by dinner time.

The day was too long and hot. I was too slow, and hot. Lunch was too quick.....but sublime. As we sat in the courtyard of the auberge we were presented with a plat chaud - some sort of Provencal hot bead with tapenade, and egg and grilled chevre and salade. This was a place and a lunch that deserved French respect. It needed time.

But I had to move, I was losing time, by the mile, and was delayed further by a shredded tyre requiring a change. The broom wagon beckoned. So, to the road, and more tired pedalling.

They have a word for smooth, easy, fluid pedalling. In France they call it "souplesse". Today it was more "leglesse". Uneven, laboured, heavy. And so on over the next couple of cols. In the saddle, out the saddle, up the block, down the block, hunting vainly for the right gear.  


I thought the last Col was the Col de Pennes, incorrectly annotated by the sign writer, it should have read "Pains". But it ought to be an easy run home now. And so it was - at least down into the valley.

I had vaguely remembered something about a 20k climb to finish the day, but I didn't really take it in at the briefing last night. I had been dozing off as usual on a full stomach after the day's exertion. It couldn't have been right, 20k climb after all we'd done so far- stupid.

I wish I had paid attention.

This was going to be very long 20k as I, and the elder statesman of the group, a determined, and exceptionally strong 62 year old, started to drag and cajole each other.

The road led up to a valley, which seemed to close in on us. Sheer walls rose up on all sides and we just could not see a way out. The light was fading, and the place took on an eerie feel. It was like travelling into a lost land; a mythical place of ogres, or trolls. I don't know if you can fall asleep, and dream, whilst riding uphill into a head wind, but I was in a dark low nightmare place. A cold frail delirium sucked at me.

"My Garmin! The mapping will show me where the road goes." So I switched to the map screen, and saw something which bore a striking resemblance to a small intestine. A twisted, contorted trail wound off through the woods and up to the cliffs. But how would we get out. There seemed no end to the meanderings.

We just climbed and wandered, and ground away, in grim silence. And then there it was. A tunnel. An escape tunnel. We're out. We're saved.

Just as we reached the tunnel the broom wagon drew up behind us. We were sharing the day's lantern rouge, but with 10k to go on the flat or down hill, we wouldn't be swept up. Instead we were towed home, slip-streaming the van through the mist.

It had been a very long day for everyone, but mercifully the food was there on time. It was plentiful, simple and hot. Three 1664's and several bowls of pasta and chicken and I started to feel human. A very tired human, but human.

Feeling like this again tomorrow will be no fun. The endless hours on the bike have started to take the pleasure out of this trip. No time to enjoy the beauty, I just have to keep moving. Then it's eat, sleep, and be up at 6'ish to start it all over again.

 
 
 
 

Comments:

Click here to add your comment.
 

Expand the whole blog.