Kestevan
Last of the Summer Winos
- Location
- Holmfirth.
"How do you fancy a go at this then"? asked the email from Mat?
"This" being the White Rose Challenge sportive in a couple of months.
Now, I'd only just got my first road bike since I was 15, and the furthest I'd ridden was a relatively flat 60 mile charity event the previous summer, and to be honest I wasn’t really sure exactly what a sportive was….. As an aside Mat is 15 years younger than me, goes fell running and competes in iron man triathlons for fun…. this, in any normal sensible person should have started alarm bells ringing, but no…….
"Err, OK the 80 mile distance sounds OK" after all, it's only 20 miles further than the Manchester-Blackpool run and that wasn't too hard. So I signed up. In retrospect I should probably have checked the proposed route, and the route profile before signing up….I hadn't realised quite how "crinkly" the Yorkshire Dales can be. But hey, it was still only 80 miles - how hard could it be?
The next email was from Mat saying he'd got his dates wrong and he'd actually be running a marathon on that weekend, so I was on my own… Cheers..
The day of the event quickly scrolls round, and I rock up at some ungodly hour at a leisure centre in Skipton. The previous weeks weather has been a belter, but this morning there's a low mist and everything feels damp and cold. The carpark is full of impossibly skinny men, unloading incredibly expensive carbon fibre bikes from the back of cars. Sucking in the beer-gut, I unload my more modest steed and try to pretend I'm not crapping myself. I present myself at the registration desk, and in exchange for my name I'm handed a timing card on a ribbon and a route map (which I promptly stuff in my jersey pocket and forget all about, until much, much later).
Wobble off over the bridge to the start, dib in the timing card, and in the early morning mist set off reasonably slowly, as racing whippets flash past me at improbable speeds. Still I'm here, and I'm rolling along following the little blue arrows. I manage to hang on to the back of a small group, and the first 3 or 4 miles go past nicely… Then comes the first hill. Good grief, this is a bit steep; and it’s getting steeper; there's no way anyone can ride up this. This is despite the evidence of every single other rider cruising serenly past me, as I get off the bike and try to stop my lungs escaping through my mouth.
Right, back on and up the hill. Thank god that's over. Can't be that many more like that one…… Not till the next one anyway. This one can be seen coming. The road infront simply bends backwards at what looks to be at least 90 degrees and keeps on going up until it disappears into the fog. This time I manage to get 3/4 of the way up the hill before my lungs decide they want to see the view for themselves. I disconsolately push the bike past the photographer crouching at the brow of the hill, fortunately he sees my humiliation and points his camera at someone else, someone actually riding their bike rather than pushing it.
The top of the moor is shrouded in thick fog. Visibility is limited to about 3 bike lengths. I attach myself to a passing group and we blast through the mist in convoy. Slowly I begin to realise I'm no longer at the back of the group. Others have come along, and I'm now in the middle of a group of 20+ riders all rushing headlong into a grey soup. The road heads downwards, very downwards. I have absolutely no idea where we are, or more importantly where the road goes. The lunatic behind me is 10cm from my back wheel so braking is pretty much a no-no. I decide to just hang on, and hope that in the likely event of a crash the bodies of the guys in front will be softer than the stone walls.
Suddenly we burst from the fog, into bright sunlight. Everyone cheers, more I suspect from relief at not being dead than anything else. A few minutes later the first food stop hoves into view and I pull in for a water refil and a banana. That’s the first 35 miles done, I'm not feeling too bad, Theres one more major climb on the route before the second feedstation, and then it's reasonably flat till the last climb at Langbar. I figure I should just about survive intact.
Leaving the feedstation with a group we blast off up the valley following the river. Now at this point my enthusiasm, got the better of me. The route was flatish and the group I was with were moving fairly quickly. Probably too quickly for me but I hung on regardless. Looking back, I vaguely remember seeing the little blue arrow pointing to the left, but the group all went right, and I went with em… this was a mistake.
Shortly after the road took a decidely up-hill direction and I and a couple of other hangers on were unceremoniously dropped from the group. By now the sun was out with a vengeance, and it was starting to get hot, heat haze on the road, buckets of sweat on the back kind of hot. My drink bottle was rapidly emptied and the road was still heading more up than down.
It was about this time I realised the "sportive rule": when you come to any junction where there is a choice of climbing or descending, it's a sure fire bet you'll be heading heavenwards. The legs were rapidly turning to jelly, and I was watching the computer looking for the final feedstation and a bit of a rest.
I can only blame the onset of exhaustion and dehydration for completely missing the arrow pointing to the rest-stop, but in my defence I wasn't the only one.. The extra 5 miles in the wrong direction only added insult to injury, especially as 3 of them were down hill.
Finally I rolled into Hawes… Hang on, Hawes? Hawes? The feedstation should be at Malham. Why am I at bloody Hawes? The sweat soaked rag that was originally the route map was duly extracted from the jersey pocket, assorted bits of banana pulp and gel wrappers were wiped off and I finaly got to see the importance of the little blue leftward arrow I'd cheerfully ignored 25 miles ago. Oh, Bugger. Rather than the 80miles I'd intended I was now on the 115 mile full route. A quick mental calculation and I decided it would be longer to turn round and go back, than to soldier on.
I refilled the bottle, grabbed a couple of gels and some cake and set off on the hardest ride of my life. I'd geared myself up for only having another 25 miles after the halt, and most of those being flat. The fact that it was now over 60 and most of them were going to be over what can best be described as "Challenging" terrain was weighing heavily on my mind.
And on my legs. The first warning signs came with small cramp twinges in my ankles on the frequent short steep climbs. Before long the cramps had spread to my calf and I was having to push the bike up anything even a little bit steep.
The Coal Road climb nearly killed me. I'd managed to ride to the station when the cramps really hit. I couldn’t even get off the bike. my leg simply spasmed and I hit the deck in absolute agony. I managed to unclip and drag myself to the side of the road, where I eventually managed to straighten my leg. Passing riders were stopping to make sure I was still breathing, unfortunatly I was.
I didn’t even try to get back on the bike. I simply gave up and pushed. Walking helped the knots in my legs and eventually I made it to the summit. Now normaly I'd have loved the descent into Ribblesdale, but it was agony to sit on the bike, if I tried to pedal my thighs cramped up, and if I freewheeled without turning the cranks my calves went into spasm.
Still the view was stunning. I'll always remember that first ride up to and under the Ribblehead viaduct, despite the pain, the sight of dozens of riders swooping down the hill in the sunlight towards those iconic arches was still stunning.
The rest of the ride past pen-y-ghent to Malham is pretty much a pain filled blur. I vaguely remember having to stop every mile or so in order to unkink my legs. My hands were also starting to cramp up, and changing gear was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The water bottle was long since drained, and the sweat had begun to leave a scratchy, salty residue over my increasing hagard features. On the whole I really, really wasn't enjoying myself.
I finally limped into the Malham feedstation, and collapsed on the grass. There was still 30 miles to go, but they were mainly flat, only the last climb over Langbar would be a challenge (or so I kept telling myself). There were one or two other walking wounded wandering around the feedstation and after filling bottles and wiping ourselves down we set off in convoy.
The three of us were all in the same boat. A mixture of encouragement and downright bullying drove us all allong past the daytrippers leaving Fountains Abbey. God knows what we looked like at this point. I know I felt terrible but was absolutley determined not to give in.
At the bottom of Langbar temptation reared it’s ugly head. One of the other, fitter riders took one look at us and helpfully pointed out that we could take the main road round the back and avoid the climb altogether. However, some twisted evil genius had decided to place the last timing checkpoint on the summit. There was no way on earth I'd put myself through this without completing the course. Trouble was I could no more ride the bike up the hill than I could have flown up. Slowly, ever so slowly I pushed a bike which I swear now weighed more than a small car up the side of a cliff. By the top I'm not sure if I was pushing it, or using it as a crutch. As I dibbed the timing card into the box I looked at the marshal and said "For F*£$s sake, please tell me it’s all downhill from here?".
It was.
I pulled into the finish almost 11 hours after starting. Miraculously I wasn’t the last one in. I can honestly say I've never been so tired. Even sitting down was agony. Somehow though the certificate for completion of the 120 mile course made things feel a lot better - as did the beer
Looking back, I can't say why it was enjoyable, but in some sick twisted way it was. It certainly got me hooked on the sportive scene, and I've since ridden many others. None quite so painful as the first, but none quite so satisfying either……
"This" being the White Rose Challenge sportive in a couple of months.
Now, I'd only just got my first road bike since I was 15, and the furthest I'd ridden was a relatively flat 60 mile charity event the previous summer, and to be honest I wasn’t really sure exactly what a sportive was….. As an aside Mat is 15 years younger than me, goes fell running and competes in iron man triathlons for fun…. this, in any normal sensible person should have started alarm bells ringing, but no…….
"Err, OK the 80 mile distance sounds OK" after all, it's only 20 miles further than the Manchester-Blackpool run and that wasn't too hard. So I signed up. In retrospect I should probably have checked the proposed route, and the route profile before signing up….I hadn't realised quite how "crinkly" the Yorkshire Dales can be. But hey, it was still only 80 miles - how hard could it be?
The next email was from Mat saying he'd got his dates wrong and he'd actually be running a marathon on that weekend, so I was on my own… Cheers..
The day of the event quickly scrolls round, and I rock up at some ungodly hour at a leisure centre in Skipton. The previous weeks weather has been a belter, but this morning there's a low mist and everything feels damp and cold. The carpark is full of impossibly skinny men, unloading incredibly expensive carbon fibre bikes from the back of cars. Sucking in the beer-gut, I unload my more modest steed and try to pretend I'm not crapping myself. I present myself at the registration desk, and in exchange for my name I'm handed a timing card on a ribbon and a route map (which I promptly stuff in my jersey pocket and forget all about, until much, much later).
Wobble off over the bridge to the start, dib in the timing card, and in the early morning mist set off reasonably slowly, as racing whippets flash past me at improbable speeds. Still I'm here, and I'm rolling along following the little blue arrows. I manage to hang on to the back of a small group, and the first 3 or 4 miles go past nicely… Then comes the first hill. Good grief, this is a bit steep; and it’s getting steeper; there's no way anyone can ride up this. This is despite the evidence of every single other rider cruising serenly past me, as I get off the bike and try to stop my lungs escaping through my mouth.
Right, back on and up the hill. Thank god that's over. Can't be that many more like that one…… Not till the next one anyway. This one can be seen coming. The road infront simply bends backwards at what looks to be at least 90 degrees and keeps on going up until it disappears into the fog. This time I manage to get 3/4 of the way up the hill before my lungs decide they want to see the view for themselves. I disconsolately push the bike past the photographer crouching at the brow of the hill, fortunately he sees my humiliation and points his camera at someone else, someone actually riding their bike rather than pushing it.
The top of the moor is shrouded in thick fog. Visibility is limited to about 3 bike lengths. I attach myself to a passing group and we blast through the mist in convoy. Slowly I begin to realise I'm no longer at the back of the group. Others have come along, and I'm now in the middle of a group of 20+ riders all rushing headlong into a grey soup. The road heads downwards, very downwards. I have absolutely no idea where we are, or more importantly where the road goes. The lunatic behind me is 10cm from my back wheel so braking is pretty much a no-no. I decide to just hang on, and hope that in the likely event of a crash the bodies of the guys in front will be softer than the stone walls.
Suddenly we burst from the fog, into bright sunlight. Everyone cheers, more I suspect from relief at not being dead than anything else. A few minutes later the first food stop hoves into view and I pull in for a water refil and a banana. That’s the first 35 miles done, I'm not feeling too bad, Theres one more major climb on the route before the second feedstation, and then it's reasonably flat till the last climb at Langbar. I figure I should just about survive intact.
Leaving the feedstation with a group we blast off up the valley following the river. Now at this point my enthusiasm, got the better of me. The route was flatish and the group I was with were moving fairly quickly. Probably too quickly for me but I hung on regardless. Looking back, I vaguely remember seeing the little blue arrow pointing to the left, but the group all went right, and I went with em… this was a mistake.
Shortly after the road took a decidely up-hill direction and I and a couple of other hangers on were unceremoniously dropped from the group. By now the sun was out with a vengeance, and it was starting to get hot, heat haze on the road, buckets of sweat on the back kind of hot. My drink bottle was rapidly emptied and the road was still heading more up than down.
It was about this time I realised the "sportive rule": when you come to any junction where there is a choice of climbing or descending, it's a sure fire bet you'll be heading heavenwards. The legs were rapidly turning to jelly, and I was watching the computer looking for the final feedstation and a bit of a rest.
I can only blame the onset of exhaustion and dehydration for completely missing the arrow pointing to the rest-stop, but in my defence I wasn't the only one.. The extra 5 miles in the wrong direction only added insult to injury, especially as 3 of them were down hill.
Finally I rolled into Hawes… Hang on, Hawes? Hawes? The feedstation should be at Malham. Why am I at bloody Hawes? The sweat soaked rag that was originally the route map was duly extracted from the jersey pocket, assorted bits of banana pulp and gel wrappers were wiped off and I finaly got to see the importance of the little blue leftward arrow I'd cheerfully ignored 25 miles ago. Oh, Bugger. Rather than the 80miles I'd intended I was now on the 115 mile full route. A quick mental calculation and I decided it would be longer to turn round and go back, than to soldier on.
I refilled the bottle, grabbed a couple of gels and some cake and set off on the hardest ride of my life. I'd geared myself up for only having another 25 miles after the halt, and most of those being flat. The fact that it was now over 60 and most of them were going to be over what can best be described as "Challenging" terrain was weighing heavily on my mind.
And on my legs. The first warning signs came with small cramp twinges in my ankles on the frequent short steep climbs. Before long the cramps had spread to my calf and I was having to push the bike up anything even a little bit steep.
The Coal Road climb nearly killed me. I'd managed to ride to the station when the cramps really hit. I couldn’t even get off the bike. my leg simply spasmed and I hit the deck in absolute agony. I managed to unclip and drag myself to the side of the road, where I eventually managed to straighten my leg. Passing riders were stopping to make sure I was still breathing, unfortunatly I was.
I didn’t even try to get back on the bike. I simply gave up and pushed. Walking helped the knots in my legs and eventually I made it to the summit. Now normaly I'd have loved the descent into Ribblesdale, but it was agony to sit on the bike, if I tried to pedal my thighs cramped up, and if I freewheeled without turning the cranks my calves went into spasm.
Still the view was stunning. I'll always remember that first ride up to and under the Ribblehead viaduct, despite the pain, the sight of dozens of riders swooping down the hill in the sunlight towards those iconic arches was still stunning.
The rest of the ride past pen-y-ghent to Malham is pretty much a pain filled blur. I vaguely remember having to stop every mile or so in order to unkink my legs. My hands were also starting to cramp up, and changing gear was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The water bottle was long since drained, and the sweat had begun to leave a scratchy, salty residue over my increasing hagard features. On the whole I really, really wasn't enjoying myself.
I finally limped into the Malham feedstation, and collapsed on the grass. There was still 30 miles to go, but they were mainly flat, only the last climb over Langbar would be a challenge (or so I kept telling myself). There were one or two other walking wounded wandering around the feedstation and after filling bottles and wiping ourselves down we set off in convoy.
The three of us were all in the same boat. A mixture of encouragement and downright bullying drove us all allong past the daytrippers leaving Fountains Abbey. God knows what we looked like at this point. I know I felt terrible but was absolutley determined not to give in.
At the bottom of Langbar temptation reared it’s ugly head. One of the other, fitter riders took one look at us and helpfully pointed out that we could take the main road round the back and avoid the climb altogether. However, some twisted evil genius had decided to place the last timing checkpoint on the summit. There was no way on earth I'd put myself through this without completing the course. Trouble was I could no more ride the bike up the hill than I could have flown up. Slowly, ever so slowly I pushed a bike which I swear now weighed more than a small car up the side of a cliff. By the top I'm not sure if I was pushing it, or using it as a crutch. As I dibbed the timing card into the box I looked at the marshal and said "For F*£$s sake, please tell me it’s all downhill from here?".
It was.
I pulled into the finish almost 11 hours after starting. Miraculously I wasn’t the last one in. I can honestly say I've never been so tired. Even sitting down was agony. Somehow though the certificate for completion of the 120 mile course made things feel a lot better - as did the beer
Looking back, I can't say why it was enjoyable, but in some sick twisted way it was. It certainly got me hooked on the sportive scene, and I've since ridden many others. None quite so painful as the first, but none quite so satisfying either……
) and going much further than you had ever done before !
