An Overgrown Hill

Did you ever ride up a really tough climb? You know the one, where you were hanging over your bars chewing tape watching your front wheel come to a near standstill at the top of every crank stroke. Meanwhile you felt like you were drowning due to the amount of sweat in your eyes and the lack of oxygen reaching your lungs (is this a bit like waterboarding?).

Yep, you don’t forget those ones so easily. In my case it was the last time I climbed Hardknott Pass in the Lake District, 90 miles into the Fred Whitton Challenge. I remember my head hanging over the bars, mouth wide open gasping for air whilst my legs burned, occasionally glancing upwards to the top of the pass to be reminded that I was nowhere near. I wasn’t moving much faster that those who attempted to walk up pushing their bikes, road cleats skating south with every step. 

That memory was not going to fade for decades and whenever Hardknott came up in conversation I had no hesitation in saying “done it once, never again!”. Is that fear? It festered, I don’t like to fear. 

The Fred Whitton memory mutated, the hill became Alpine in dimensions, it had taken hours to climb, there was no way I could ride it again. 

With time though I realised that it wasn’t that I’d had a bad time climbing it, it was just hard. And hard isn’t bad, it’s good. 

It’s going to hurt, isn’t it. 

I plan the ride.

This time I decide to pad out the excitement of ‘that climb’ with a 100 mile ride in, and a 100 mile back making the challenge to ride it without going so hard that I’m unable to get home. A good forecast, a Thursday off work and a new 931 steel frame to test warrants a 4.30AM alarm. Quiet roads weave between meadows of freshly cut hay out through the Trough of Bowland. I’m delayed by sheep moving fields near Lancaster and then I skirt Morecambe Bay to reach the eastern Lakes, the air now thick with cut grass and new bracken growth. Through Broughton in Furness to a 25% climb over Birks Fell and I’m on with it. There’s a group of junior school kids walking up the road at the bottom of Hardknott. One boy looks at me with a confused expression, the teacher reminds me that the worst is further up, despite this section's 33% rippled tarmac hairpins. But, I’m talking, and I’m still seated. The lower gear on this bike has transformed this from an ordeal to a steep climb with fantastic views. Straight over the top, overtake a motorbike on the descent and I’m buzzing.

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

Crossduro Oxford #XDO17

Inflated entry fees, prizes from the bargain bin, crowds and habitual nihilism. Just a few of the reasons why I don't enter many races. That's not to say that I don't like a challenge though, which is why the Racing Collective's web site caught my eye one dark winter evening. Their events looked like a real challenge whilst remaining low key. It seemed obvious, set a route, let Strava handle the timing and tracking, publicise through a Strava club and enjoy. No sponsors, no permissions and no paperwork. This is proper amateur racing; push on and enjoy but accept that none of us are getting called up by Team GB any time soon. Post race craic over a beer or two and ride home. 

I had pencilled in the Racing Collective's Trans Wales event in the spring but as the weekend approached I couldn't sort out logistics or justify another weekend away on the bike. A couple of months later in June XDO17 (Crossduro Oxford) looked feasible if I rode there and at least some of the way back. This was why I found myself in my garage staring at a pile of kit more suited to a polar expedition than a summer weekend in England. I pared it down to the point where everything including a change of clothes for eating out fitted in a couple of Apidura bags. I wasn't very keen on carting it all round the event but decided that a dose of #bemoremike* was probably required.

 

Friday dawned sunny and my route south through the Peak District was hilly but rewarding. Riding the Strines I chased the scent of sausages cooked by workmen on a roadside barbecue. At Tideswell bunting was out for the traditional well dressings and between bright limestone walls at Miller's Dale I picked up signs for that most traditional of cycle events; L'Eroica. Up the hill I found the Tissington Trail and began a thirteen mile descent into Ashbourne on smooth dazzling white limestone gravel. It was easy to imagine trains steaming down here as I cruised under narrow stone bridges between deep cuttings. I rolled along high embankments enjoying the panoramic views of the White Peak's steep sided dales and vales. 

BANG. 

Crumple. 

What the?!? 

On the floor and confused, I lie there for a few seconds trying to work out what just happened, I push myself up using the arm that doesn't hurt and check the bike. Both wheels are ok and the freehub is turning which confuses me because I was stopped dead by something.

Later in the day I decide I must have struck a pedal on a small curb in the shade under the trees. I'm bleeding so I stop in Ashbourne and get cleaned up in the Leisure Centre. 

From Ashbourne leafy meandering lanes make their way south towards my destination. The roads are quiet save for brief excursions onto the A50 and A5 and my old friend the Fosse Way is soon found. Eventually I reach Banbury and the final twenty or so mile in to Oxford. Reminding myself to conserve effort for the next day I roll into Oxford in plenty of time to find a good Italian meal and take a wander round Oxford's sights. 

 

After an interrupted night's sleep at the YHA (I have to put in earplugs at 2AM to block out my snoring bunkmate), I enjoy breakfast with a bunch of French school teachers. Slipping through Oxford's finest architecture on my bike just before 8am is magical, there's very little traffic and the morning light is bouncing off windows to illuminate ornate stonework. Our meeting point and start is the most ornate of buildings, the Radcliffe Camera. It's a relief to see other riders already there and introductions and photos soon follow. 

The Crossduro format is more social than many races in that only five short sections are timed, the rest of the ride can be more social. Our group of ten or so ride out together along the riverside greenways to the first segment. And... GO! Well that's not quite what happened. I set off up the first hill at a reserved pace, I'm running Strava on my phone to follow the route and as this is a starred segment it changes from route finding mode to "red mist" mode telling me how far off the fastest rider I am. This is great except the map has disappeared and there's a fork in the trail. I take the wrong fork and everyone behind follows. Not a great start, or a very clever way to make new friends.

Back on course we regroup at the top of the climb and ride on at social pace, leafy hedgerows and ripe fields of maize line the quiet lanes we ride between quaint villages. Idyllic road riding and plenty of time to get to know my fellow racers. Soon we reach the next segment, up from the flat chalk plains on to the Ridgeway where we enjoy commanding panoramic views of Didcot and Oxford. Very different to the Pennine terrain I know at home, its rewarding to know that I've pedalled all the way here. 

There are five segments in total and I blow two of them by taking wrong turns and puncturing on the sharp flint of the Ridgeway. I take a hard tumble on a third by over estimating the frictional quotient of dry chalk and getting very cross rutted. Blood looks good on chalk and my injuries are  fortunately superficial. The sun reaches its zenith and everyone is running low on water, a stop in the pretty Thameside town of Goring allows everyone a chance to rehydrate and enjoy cake. A love of cake and bikes definitely unites all of us today. The social pace between segments lets my thoughts wander to reflect on how fortunate we are to be here today. Many of us were strangers at 8am this morning and yet a common love of the freedom of bicycles and the outdoors are enough to bring us together in shared enjoyment of this experience.

After our our cafe stop comes the #bemoremike* segment, a mile long corridor of mech clogging grass overhung my brambles and choked by nettles that grab arms and clothing as we pass. I emerge bleeding from both elbows with legs tingling from the nettle stings. A souvenir of today's adventure. We finish together at the Isis public house down on the river Thames, friendly bar staff offer to take photos and then it's time for me to leave if I'm to make it to Rugeley tonight. Hunched forward on TT bars for the next few hours there is plenty of time to mourn the cold pint I turned down at the Isis. 

*#bemoremike - a reference to toughing it out in the spirit of adventure racer Mike Hall who was sadly killed whilst racing earlier this year

Huddersfield - Brighton Marathon

"Making the unattainable attainable", isn't that the point of training? You get plenty of time to ponder the point of the anti-social endeavour that is endurance riding on a ride to Brighton from Yorkshire.

That ride from Huddersfield to Brighton was pencilled in several months ago when Holmfirth Harriers Cogs and Rosie signed up to run Brighton marathon with my wife Jen, I wanted to go and support but didn't fancy sitting in a car for hours to get there. I've always preferred point to point rides anyway and riding due south through England until the road runs out appealed. I've planned a few big rides for 2017 so getting a big training ride done in April could only be beneficial. Bike preparation was going well the week before, I fixed my dynamo and replaced all the on bike wiring, the drivechain was swapped out, brakes tweaked and tri-bars fitted by Velofondista. Unfortunately the day before I was due to set off my crankset fell apart forcing a re-plan; I dragged my neglected summer bike from the back of the shed. Those tri-bars and a large saddle bag were fitted, tyres pumped up and there was time to point some lube at the chain before I fell asleep.

I woke before my 4.30am alarm on Saturday morning, kit was already out and a breakfast of muesli and yoghurt was followed by sourdough toast and fresh coffee; foundations for a good day in the saddle. Free-wheeling down the hill to the Milnsbridge traffic lights the cold night air stung my face, I was wearing everything I was taking on this ride - gloves over mitts, gilet and a full set of limb warmers were still not enough for the freezing temperature. Fortunately the air above the valley bottom was a few degrees warmer making the climb out of the Holme Valley past Hepworth more pleasant than usual. Over the top to a quiet Fox Valley and I was in Sheffield in no time, the twisted steeple of Chesterfield was my next landmark soon followed by quiet lanes through the east Peaks into the centre of Derby.

On the Fosse Way, roads
don't come much older than this

Oxford University

From Derby I eventually joined the Fosse Way to reach Banbury and the centre of Oxford. Riding through these ancient towns and cities was great for seeing the sights of Olde Englande. Unsurprisingly Oxford was full of tourists unlike my next landmark; Reading, which I crossed as quickly as possible on the A33 trying to stay in front of wheelsucking white van man. I was now 180 miles in and in need of some proper food, the best I could find was a MuckDonalds where large fries and coke were consumed in an attempt to restore blood sugar levels. 

The route from Reading through the Surrey hills was scenic and quiet, very enjoyable but I had one eye on the time as I tried to beat the sunset. Sixty miles remaining from Reading meant no chance. Lights and limb warmers were dragged out for the final twenty miles into Littlehampton via the town of ancient Arundel. My destination the Travellodge for a cold Peroni and big sleep.

HHAC runner Damo
coming in to finish

Reflecting the next day over a few beers with the marathon runners from Holmfirth Harriers we try and agree on "why", that is "why do we do this?". This turns out to be a very personal question with different answers from everyone, but having a personally valid answer to that question is essential if we are each to get up and out the door, to do what we do. Some are happy to run on a treadmill all winter to achieve their personal goals whilst for others simply getting out on the local moors is the the goal. Some need to to measure and analyse every variable whilst others are happy to have the wind in their hair and cold rain on their face.

I'm happy exploring the world one map tile at a time inspired by legendary riders like Mike Hall who tragically died racing the Indian Pacific Wheel Race this year, he will be sorely missed by many.  RIP Mike, we're all trying to #bemoremike in our own way.

Gear Used

Cannondale CAAD10 with Q rings

Large Ortlieb saddlebag

Exposure lights
Komoot navigation app on iPhone