Coast 2 Coasting with Arran

Enthusiasm for leaving the van was in short supply in Whitehaven, waves crashed on to the sea defences, the air was heavy with sea spray and in all directions; grey. A hundred shades of British maritime grey colouring the sea, the harbour, the houses and the hills. 

Instagrams snapped and we were off towards the town centre through the thick mizzle. Soon we were eastbound on narrow roads, impatient Saturday morning traffic backed up behind and pace pushed beyond sensible. The greenways toward Cleator Moor were a haven of tranquility by comparison and we were soon well on our way towards Whinlatter Forest. We enjoyed lunch at Whinlatter trail centre with a dessert of smooth road descent into Keswick. The old railway line to Threlkeld from Keswick had unfortunately been terminated by bridges washed out in the storms of 2016 so we retraced our tyre tracks back toward Keswick and climbed up to Castlerigg Stone Circle. From here we stuck to the road and became progressively wetter and colder until we were forced to find a cafe in Penrith, somewhere to coax dangerously cold digits back to mobility. Arran sat on my back wheel along gently meandering lanes for the last 15 miles to Kings Meaburn. Day 1 was done.

We both slept the sleep of the dead before rising for a cooked breakfast and a tail wind assisted spin to Kirby Stephen on quiet back lanes. The climb to the head of Swaledale tested Arran but was worth it for the miles of undulating tarmac that followed, threading down the valley towards Muker. An off road diversion had our G-One tyres fighting for grip as we climbing on saturated close cropped grass. From Muker we struck gravel bike gold, a limestone coloured ribbon of fast, winding trail following the River Swale to Reeth. Smiles all round.

Lunch at The Dales Bike Centre refuelled energy reserves for the road climb to Richmond and subsequent meander towards Northallerton. We followed the river Swale intermittently, skirting deep gravel pits, fighting our way across muddy fields with fully laden bikes. Komoot had come up with some great trails and lanes for this section (excepting the section after Northallerton where we were routed through a graveyard and in to an unrideable quagmire). Late afternoon sun lit up autumn leaves in a fiesta of red, orange and yellow as we cruised towards Osmotherley. Arran agreed, definitely a better day than yesterday. 

The Osmotherley Youth Hostel was quiet and had a drying room; result! We enjoyed dry boots and socks the following morning. Coupled with blue sky and quiet trails our final day was shaping up pretty well. We opted to avoid some of the lanes and head up over the moors instead, navigation app Komoot suggested a good trail but it never materialised. After a steep climb we threaded our way between thick tussocks of grass and heather under a canopy of contorted trees. A woody twig of heather caught in Arran’s rear mech and the mech was ripped round the cassette. The mech hanger snapped in half. I knew exactly where the spare hanger was; on my desk at work. DOH!!

We eventually persuaded the chain and cassette into working singlespeed but the gear wasn’t ideal for the steep sided valleys of the North York Moors so we swapped bikes and headed down to the Helmsley road to find lunch. From Helmsley I span my singlespeed along the back road to Thornton-le-Dale where we dropped in to Pace cycles to check out their 853 framed singlespeed frames. I begged some chain lube to ease the cacophony from the back end of the Slate and we were on our way to Dalby Forest. 


We climbed the blue trail from the car park at Dalby. Unsurprisingly we were the only gravel bikes with luggage on the climb and we soon diverted west to follow the ‘Moor to Sea’ route towards Scarborough. After several miles of forest track we dropped out of the forest to pick up the road into Scarborough where we headed straight down to the sea for photos before dusk. It was just after 5pm and somehow we had arrived ahead of schedule leaving us plenty of time to reflect on Arran’s first C2C whilst watching the sky turn from red and yellow to purple and eventually night. 

Crossduro Pennines #XDP17

The Pennines were in characteristically brusque mood on the 7th October, unwilling to give up  their finest views to the riders who’d travelled from far and wide to pit themselves against the rugged gritstone of the southern Pennines. Low cloud laden with fine Atlantic rain soaked all who were brave enough to take on the elements.  This was looking like a 'type 2 fun' kind of day, one to feel good about later in the pub, or reclined on the sofa in front of deadeye. 

    

It was good to see a bunch of riders including some familiar faces already assembled down at St Georges Square as I rolled in at 7.30am. Some sat astride gravel bikes but quite a few were on mountain bikes, these fat tyre riders were mainly locals who knew the terrain and had opted for comfort and puncture avoidance. As the hands of the station clock eased past 8 I thanked those assembled for turning out and offered some route advice.  A couple of photos later (thanks to Stephen Smith for these) and we free-wheeled off past the outdoor market, across the ringroad and onto the canal towpath. I led the riders westward out of town, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to see a string of riders stretched out along the canal path behind me.  

#XDP-1

Marsden was the start of the first Strava timed segment (#XDP-1). I pulled over and let the riders get on with the segment, I wanted to sit back and watch today as they climbed towards the cloud. Wessenden Head was cloaked in mist, moorland grass heavy with fat droplets of water and the dying bracken adding a melancholic shade of rust to the view up the valley. The old cart track down to Digley reservoir had many cursing the old stone slabs which were grooved deep from the thousands of iron shod cart wheels which had rolled this way in centuries past. The descent also claimed the day’s first victim, a rear mech terminally twisted out of shape. A trail-side singlespeed conversion got the bike mobile but that rider was homeward bound. 

another cobbled climb

The summit of Holme Moss was wild, heavy mist from the west soaked us whilst the wind grabbed wheels and pushed unwary riders toward the roadside ditches. This was no place to hang around and we soon dived down toward Longdendale playing a high stakes game of ‘who’s going to touch their brake first’, you can hit 60mph down here on a calm day.

I was now riding with a couple of local riders; Mick Collins and Pete Horne - both on mountain bikes and both well used to this terrain and weather. Pete will celebrate his 70th birthday next year and yet is not afraid of a a fast rocky descent or a slippery technical climb. An inspiration to all of us and a reminder that if age is your excuse, you need to find a better one. 

After the rocky and occasionally technical track of the Pennine Bridleway came Chew Valley Reservoir climb, a traffic free but tough and pointless climb to a dead end atop the Pennines. This was another wild summit and few hung around, most eager to return to the comparative calm of the valley bottom. We rode on towards Diggle on narrow roads and ancient tracks. In Delph Pete opted to carry on whilst Mick and I stopped for lunch and a coffee break in the back room of a cafe in Delph.

After making up time on the road from Delph we turned left to follow the now familiar Pennine bridleway signs. This time we were bound for Hollingworth Lake, once more on old packhorse trails. I was glad of some suspension on the descents, Mick and I flew past riders on gravel bikes, impervious to the drainage channels and rocks lining the trail, focused only on getting down as fast as we could without puncturing. A shove up a steep rubble strewn chute and we were on our bikes again, contorted in the search for rear wheel traction on the saturated grassy climb that followed. Mick’s relief at completing the climb was tempered by the realisation that his freewheel was going bad, only engaging every few turns of his cranks. He nursed his Van Nicholas down to Hollingworth Lake where we decided to see whether together we could get him back home to Sowerby Bridge 10 miles away. An occasional shove from me and some frantic spinning from Mick saw him home within an hour. I was now some way off route and it was late afternoon, I needed to get to the finish at the Magic Rock Brewery Tap.

I met up with a few finishers down at the Magic Rock who agreed; it had been tough but they'd enjoyed the challenges of the route. Some riders had retired around the 50 mile mark and a few had suffered mechanical problems but plenty had completed despite the challenging conditions. It had been a pleasure to share some local trails with riders from further afield, one which I hope to repeat next year.

Torino - Nice Rally 2017

Fiat Pandas¹ and Rapha man²: two things that you are nearly guaranteed to find on a Alpine col.

I felt right at home 2000 metres up an alpine col surrounded by men (and women) in full colour coordinated Rapha strip. Sitting on the short grass in groups, gazing out over the valley discussing the merits of various obscure cycle frames, I had found Rapha man's mountain habitat.

In truth, we were all grateful for a break from the seemingly unrelenting loose gravel climb of the Colle Colombardo: 6 miles of climbing at an average gradient of 8.7% interrupted only by an oncoming Fiat Panda with a bale of hay strapped to its roof. This was a tough start to the second Torino-Nice Rally.

The night before most riders had met in the centre of Turin (or Torino in Italian) for pizza, beer and bike spotting. The Piazza Giambattista Bodoni was littered with gravel bikes, cross bikes, classic steel tourers, full sussers, hardtail mountain bikes and all the weirdness that lies in between. We talked route options and swapped tales of similar events until the beer tokens ran out.  A late night tour of Turin's cycle lanes ensued, dodging tramlines and relaxed revellers.

Back at the Piazza for the start of the rally the next morning, the atmosphere was laid back and we didn't leave the square until nearly half an hour after the planned 9am start. Rolling out of the city towards the distant mountains under a clear blue sky, I remembered why I loved riding in Italy. Hectic city streets gave way to fields of golden corn punctuated by traditional villages, each with their church, tricolor flag and troughs of colourful flowers. A section of ancient cobbled roman road was our first encounter with the rough stuff; a good opportunity to see how our fully laden bikes felt off road. My Cannondale Slate felt fine on the flat but the 10kg of luggage I had strapped to it made its presence felt as I started the 1000 plus metre climb to the Col de Colombardo.  I started to doubt whether my standard 52/36 and 11-32 gearing would be suitable. I stopped at a roadside fountain for respite from the midday heat; a welcome chance to refill my backpack with water and cool my head in the chilly mountain water. Little by little, I inched up the loose gravel of the Colombardo to be rewarded by increasingly spectacular views with each gravel switchback. Nearer the col the gradient eased, before I plunged down into the next valley round blind hairpins to the sound of overheated brakes and G-One tyres skating over tarmac .

I was riding the rally with Mick, another rider from Yorkshire who I'd run into the night before. He was also excited by the massive descents and like me had no itinerary for the event; eat - sleep - ride should do it. That night we found a good bivvy spot next to a water fountain several hundred metres up the Col de Finestre.

climbing into the night in search of a bivvy spot

What we didn't realise was that French rider Benedicte (one of several woman riding the rally) was trying to take a shower in the fountain as we showed up with our torches blazing. Torches were swiftly turned off in the interests of international harmony.
The next morning we were at the Col de Finestre by 9am for a breakfast of sheep’s yoghurt, cappuccino and fried eggs.

gravel switchbacks on the Col de Finestre climb

Just what we needed before the famous Strada Assietta3 which snaked along the side of the mountain ridge before climbing to the Col de Assietta at 2474m. Motorbikes and 4x4s kicked up clouds of dust as they squeezed past on the Assietta, unsurprisingly we weren't the only ones to seek the cols and abandoned forts along this old road. At one dusty col three Italian old boys on electric bikes inspected my Cannondale Slate and asked questions about the bike, the single-sided fork proving particularly perplexing.

The descent from the Assietta was a riot of scattered stones, vague lines, dust trails and the occasional crack as rocks hit my downtube. Unfortunately it was too much for my front wheel which gave up a spoke to the descent, the rest of the wheel relaxed and bends became more than a tad unpredictable. Mick tweaked the remaining spokes and I restrained my descending to make it to Briançon where a independent bike shop fixed the wheel for an amazing five euros whilst we had coffee.

Progress so far had felt slow, the Strada Bianca4 were more fun than tarmac roads but progress on them in the mountains seemed pedestrian. The smooth tarmac of the 2360m Col d’Izoard was a welcome change, we enjoyed the views switchback by switchback until we made the col just in time to see the sun retiring behind a ridge far above us. The scenery on the far side of the col was more dramatic; razor sharp ridges, limestone pinnacles and scree dominated our view, it was difficult to take in whilst repeatedly gunning for hairpin apexes on the fast, smooth hairpins of the descent. The next morning we climbed the Col Agnel, an idyllic meander up a lush valley to reach the eleven percent ramps of the final kilometres.

climb to the Col Agnel

the border stone at the Col Agnel 

The col was already busy with motorbikes and cars so we soon dived down the Italian side overtaking a BMW motorbike on the descent. Near the base of the climb we stopped for a plate of penne pasta and cappuccinos in a traditional village. The elation of the descent was soon dampened by news of a road closure ahead followed by a puncture on my Slate which took forty minutes to sort out. Whilst some rally riders obeyed the road closure for cycles we rode through it  and onto the Colle di Sampeyre climb, granted the road was rough in places but no worse than most of the roads back in Yorkshire.

The narrow road was quiet but dark clouds closed in overhead and we saw our first rain of the rally so we didn’t hang about at the top. The famous Death Road beckoned far below and we were looking forward to riding it. We could soon see why this stretch of tarmac, gravel and landslides had become notorious. A ribbon of narrow tarmac clung precariously to the side of a steep ravine, diving under rocky overhangs and burrowing through rocky outcrops leaving rough stone arches which were generally damp, potholed and pitch black inside.  A rusty steel rail served inadequately as crash barrier, in some places it had been ripped through by unlucky cars leaving the ironwork flailing in the breeze.  We stopped to peer down a hundred metres to the final resting place of the road’s victims on the rocks below.

Just one more climb, one more climb; one more climb to the Rifugio Ristretta where we were promised beds for the night. Unfortunately that one climb was around 1500m, initially along the valley bottom and past a couple of villages to open ground. Once past the villages I gazed up at the spruce trees clinging precariously to the steep mountain sides that surrounded us but I could not see where the road went. We knew though that it must climb up there for us to reach the hidden gem known as 'Little Peru". Following the road round tight hairpins it kicked up and had both of us out of the saddle wrestling handlebars through the hairpins to make the crest of the climb. Meanwhile the clouds closed in again and thunder rumbled in the distance; dusk beckoned. I wondered whether we had stumbled into  a horror film where we would be the unwitting victims.





The tarmac road ended at the Colle del Preit but we kept moving up a gravel track following signposts for the distant rifugio, we did not know how far but we had to be there for 7.30pm or we'd be going hungry tonight. Finally a flag was glimpsed and we rounded a corner to see a collection of old stone buildings with bright red painted doors and window frames, most importantly we’d made it in time to eat.

sunrise in 'Little Peru'

The next morning I was up early to wander over frosty grass under a deep blue sky before breakfast, the feeling of tranquility up here away from roads and villages was sublime. After breakfast we rolled off after through the breathtaking beauty of Little Peru along the old military road. Limestone pinnacles punctuated the skyline and far below cows grazed golden meadows between steep scree laden slopes, it was a dramatic landscape. So dramatic that we were soon retracing our tyre marks after a missed turn. A steep shove up to the highest point of the track at over 2500 metres revealed a panorama of peaks stretching far into the distance.

cows grazing in 'Little Peru'

We would have hung around longer but the descent looked like fun and it didn’t disappoint, the track continued to the tarmac road head where we could have turned off to the Pantani memorial at the Col dei Morti however we were keen to press on so we'd be in Nice the following day. The descent into Demonte seemed endless, we passed shepherds, a cafe and a group of Lada Rivas on the rollercoaster of a road. It twisted and turned through blind gravel strewn bends until we ran out of gradient in Demonte. A quick stop at a bakery for focaccia and pizza fueled us for the next two minor cols but the big one was coming up at the border. The  Col de Tende, although tarmac on the way up would be more of a challenge. There is an unwritten rule though that before leaving Italy via the Col de Tende you must buy gelato and fortunately we found the best gelati in Piemont-Limonte. The lemon sorbet and fruits of the forest ice cream that we indulged in were out of this world, bursting with crisp natural flavour and just what we needed after a thousand metres of climbing in the midday heat.

Col de Tende

The Col de Tende was fortunately well graded, it was the old road over the border until a 4km tunnel was built far below us through the base of the mountain. We spun cranks to the col where the road ended, the French had long since stopped maintaining their side of the pass and it had deteriorated to loose gravel with drainage berms every few hundred metres which made for interesting descending at speed on fully laden bikes.

It was now late afternoon and we had no plan for where we’d stay or how we’d get to Nice the next day. We bumped into French rider Benedicte once again and decided to ride together as far as we could make it that night. Following a pizza at a nearby bar we set off up a remote valley towards the biggest dirt climb of the rally - more than 1500m to the top. The pace was relaxed but intent as dusk fell and we turned left onto a forest road that zigzagged up through the trees above us. The track climbed slowly to a ridge by which time it was pitch black apart from a blood red moon rising in the distance. Spinning our way along the ridge we could see valleys far below filled with mist in the moonlight whilst distant streetlights to the south reminded us that we weren’t far from our destination. Nights like this reminded me why it’s so good to get out and ride at night or in the early morning, it was a different world up here in the darkness high above the civilisation of the valleys. The three of us continued up into the cloud and towards the ruins of the Fort de la Forca. Winter gloves and leg warmers were hastily found and wrestled on to numb limbs at the summit just after midnight. It was too cold to bivvy up here so we descended quickly past the Col de Turini to find milder air at 800m. After a few hours sleep by the side of the road we free-wheeled round the remaining tight bends of the Col Turini and along the base of a spectacular limestone ravine towards Nice.

descending the Col Turini

The last few miles into Nice were something of a shock after days in the mountains; trams, traffic lights and the noise of the city all serving as reminders that we were on our way back to normality. Reflecting on our journey at the Cafe du Cycliste I felt privileged to have ridden to the places we’d been in the company of like-minded individuals. James Olsen was absolutely right in his event briefing, it’s a rally not a race; a dram to be savoured, not a shot to be downed. Find out for yourself next September.

¹Fiat Panda- small Italian car which doubles as tractor, shepherds dog and spare bedroom.
²Rapha man - Discerning 30 or 40 something male who prefers a garment hand crafted by artisan seamstresses. Seeks adventure
³Strada Assietta - 34km military road dating from the 1800s connecting Sestriere with Pian dell’Alpe, used in the 2015 Trans-Continental Race. Most of the road is at an altitude of more than 2000m
⁴Strada Bianca - Gravel roads

Gear

Cannondale Slate Ultegra with Hunt Wheels
Apidura bags (Specialized handlebar roll)
Navigation by Komoot on iPhone
OMM Sleeping bags and waterproofs
MSR Shelter

Thanks to James Olsen for the route, Jen@Velofondista for bike prep and Mick for laughs along the way