I’ll admit it, I was proper worried about today when I went to bed last night.  What with the pain, the pills, the swaying, the sleepiness…it’s hardly surprising, right?  By now I know I can cycle for hours, and I know I can cycle up hills, albeit very slowly.  What was worrying me was that my body was going to let me down.  That I wouldn’t be able to do what I know I should be able to do.  Even so, I slept mostly ok, with the usual pre-sportive nightmares, and having gone to bed reasonably early, I’d had a fairly respectable 6 hours or so of sleep when the alarm went off at 4:45am.  As I faffed, still swaying from time to time, I wasn’t feeling too bad, and I was too busy getting ready to have much time for serious focussed worrying.  Besides which, I wasn’t really awake!  I kitted up, got the bike down to the lobby to be loaded into the van, and then went back upstairs for pills and more microwave porridge.  It’s all part of the superstitious routine, the arcane ritual.  It went down better than it did the night before too, which was nice.  I meant to grab coffee downstairs but when I got down there, all otherwise ready to go, I realised I’d left my breakfast token upstairs and I really couldn’t be bothered to go back up to get it again – the coffee just wasn’t good enough to warrant that.  Breakfast isn’t usually a token affair there (ha ha), but apparently a lot of the gendarmes, outriders, etc., base themselves at the hotel for the day and there’s no such thing as a free breakfast ;).

Anyway.  Just for once everyone did what they were told, and we were all ready to go before 6:00am.  I guess we were all quite motivated, and it wasn’t raining, which is always a good start.  I was feeling properly nervous, all pre-exam butterflies multiplying in my guts.  The sort of bubbling that make you think that further eating might be a properly bad idea.  But this is actually good thing.  It’s all part of it.  I know that.  Hey, if you’re not nervous about facing a big challenge, it’s either not a challenge or you don’t care, in which case why are you doing it?  So we were all pretty quiet on the way down to Sabiñánigo – off in our own thoughts.  One of the advantages of doing this as part of a well-run package is that you don’t have to worry.  They know when to leave, where to park, how it all works.  It takes a whole level of potential stress out of the equation.  The vans parked up on the industrial estate, and discharged us and our bikes on to the roadside, ready to ride to the start line.  Apparently they’ve moved it all around a bit this year but, what with this being my first time, it made no odds to me.  Together, we rode around the outside of town, past the pens where the pros, the known to be fast, and special people like Jonathan get to be, to join the rapidly building queue of riders stretched out down the high street.  It was nice to have a group to be hanging out with – the Maratona puts girls in a different pen, ahead of the groups. and waiting on my own wasn’t a lot of fun last year.  Not that there was much actually going on as we stood around; some photo ops, and a steady stream of people disappearing behind bushes, buildings & cars to make sure they were as light as possible for the ride ahead – but companionable silence can be nice.

The remaining time passed faster than I’d expected and, although it was pretty chilly hanging around, the forecast was good and the skies were clearing all the time.  At 7:30pm a big firework went off over the town, announcing the start of the race.  This didn’t make a blind bit of difference to us, stood miles back, but it was nice to know things were finally officially underway.  Eventually the advancing wave of movement swept us up, and we were all cautiously picking our way along the road, pushing not pedalling, muscles cramping up, getting closer and closer.  We were turned around to the right, all the time carefully and slowly spreading out, trying to avoid any domino effects.  The distinctive sound of clicking cleats rang out, we swung around to the left, and all of a sudden we were going down the straight, under the arches, and, beep beep beep, we were over the start line and on our way.

Ok then.  This was it.  *gulp*.  I’d done a bit of swatting up beforehand.  Not a lot, but I’d looked at the route.  I’d watched Michael Cotty ride it on the Cyclefilm preview DVD.  Three times.  Even he made the Marie-Blanque look like hard work…  But we weren’t there yet.  We were on the first 15/20 km fairly flat and therefore fast section out to Jaca.  Big groups formed and split and rushed past as we went down the blissfully closed main road.  Chris and the other lads in our group left me for dust without a backwards glance, which came as no surprise to anyone.  I think I even left a few behind myself.  But I was well aware, after last week’s Great Western sportive, that hurtling off in a group in haste would only result in repenting at leisure later, so I was happy just to go along at my own pace.  It was however the first time I became aware that cycling with girls is not something the Spanish cycling male likes to do.  Neither behind nor in front.  Any hint of such would result in sudden turns of pace, or the need for a toilet stop, or oh look we must grab that passing group.  Poor little male egos ;).  Still to be fair, I’m happier to ride on my own when there are this many others around, there’s less chance of other riders’ stupidity causing me problems or worse.  More, much more than this, later…ooh, the suspense.

 

As we reached Jaca, we joined up with the route we’d done as part of the trial ride the day before.  A degree of familiarity was quite nice, as at least I knew that some of today’s climbing was within my abilities.  It was time for the 28km climb that is the Col de Somport.  Ooh goody.  At least the weather today was nicer.  Low sunlight casting long shadows all over the road, which would be a problem with your average UK road surface, but not on lovely smooth foreign roads.  How do they do that?!  I was able to concentrate on what I was doing; looking after myself, taking photos, and enjoying the view.  The river flowing down the valley we were riding up was still in full flood, there was snow on the mountains ahead of us, and it was all very pretty.  It’s a long climb, but not a very steep one, which is probably why we’d been warned to take it easy and pace ourselves.  Like I can do anything else.  I just engaged crawler gear, plodded along…and hit new territory soon enough.  The climb went on and on and on, and so did I.  In fact I was actually finding it relatively easy, as these things go.  It was still pretty chilly though, I only warmed up enough to get the arm warmers rolled down and the odd zip undone, nowt more.  I don’t like to be too hot, and I ride better if I’m not.  I guess it was only somewhere around 10:00am when I reached the 1632 m top.  I know a lot of people don’t stop at the first stop here, but I was keen to make sure I always had enough fluid on board.  My diddy Cinelli frame only allows for 1 large and 1 small bottle, which means less liquid to hand and that one has to be decanted into the other rather than just swopped over…it’s all a bit of a palaver.  One of the most important things about today was going to be keeping hydrated and getting enough fuel in – and we all know how rubbish I can be at that!  So I stopped to top up.  My bike, my elbows and I made it to near enough the front of the chaos to get hold of a couple of water bottles.  Bottles full, Nuun tablets added, time to get going again.

 

I gather they were handing out newspapers at the top somewhere but I missed that.  Stuffing them down my jersey would only have made me look fat, right? ;).  I did make sure everything was zipped up again, and my arm warmers rolled back down, but even so, OMG I was SO cold on the way down.  It wasn’t massively technical, it was fast, and flying, it was frequently in the shade, and it was absolutely FREEZING.  All the way down from 16oom to the valley floor at 300m with nothing else to do but hold on, take the line, and concentrate on not getting in the way of anyone else’s line.  My jaw started to hurt from being clenched together so tightly.  My core temperature dropped so far that I was shaking and my wobbling legs made pedalling hard, on the rare occasions I got the chance to try that.  Luckily my overgloves and toe covers helped keep me in touch with my extremities.  It’s nice to be able to feel to brake!  It seems churlish to complain about such a lovely descent but…well, I came close!  After what seemed like, and may quite well actually have been, hours – I was spat out into an opening up valley, for a few miles of flat hurtling along in the sunshine, slowly warming up.  One of our group, Rick, went past and chatted to me briefly, before being sucked away by the group he’d been chasing down.  A group ahead of the wheel is worth more than two that might come along from behind later ;).  After a while I seem to recall there was a funny little detour through a small town, which involved a stretch of some less than pleasantly surfaced road.  It didn’t last too long though, which was just as well, and like it or not, we were getting closer to the next, possibly the biggest, challenge of the day.  Oh yes, here we are, at the right turn for the Col de Marie-Blanque, marked by hundreds of scattered newspapers.  I pulled up a little way along the road, on the right.  I might not have had a newspaper to throw away, but it was time for a gel, something to drink, and to stash as many layers as possible away.  Mock my size of a planet saddle bag if you will, but it serves its purpose extremely well, and swallowed all up as requested.

Right.  On to the Col that Eddie Merckx rated as one of the hardest he ever had to climb.  Which is a tad daunting!  The road is narrow and tree lined, very English country lane, and it’s a ride of two halves.  It starts with around 5km of slow gradual climbing.  You could feel everyone holding back and taking it easy, knowing what was to come.  I’m glad I knew, or it would have come as a nasty shock.  Because the next 4 or 5 km were at 10% or more, each one handily marked as ever by those little signs.  I like them.  I like knowing what I have to face, and how much further I have to fight to get to the top.  Being down at the slower end of the field, the narrow road was full of riders walking.  Service vehicles – ambulances and outriders – were trying to get up the hill.  Spectators were lurking.  At one point one of them had even managed to park or break down on the side of the road somehow.  It was chaos.  My biggest concern was not the 13% I was currently grinding up, but staying on the bike as I dodged riders giving up, zigzagging, trying to get through…  If I’d have had to stop I’d have been really cross, and I came so close.  Minimum maintainable momentum…just!  When I cleared that bottleneck I found a surprising burst of energy and kicked away from them to find some clear road.  Anger is still an energy it would appear ;).  It’s a hard climb for several reasons, but partially because it’s not that attractive.  It’s hidden amongst trees, the views are lacking, and it’s too busy for you to be looking at them if they were there anyway.  And it was getting hotter…  But it’s not that long, even if it maybe sometimes feels like it.  And the top is a little bit anti-climactic too, though I was very proud of myself for making it up without walking so had a big grin on my face anyway.  I couldn’t get near the sign to get my photo taken with it, but hey, I know I was there :).

 

I contemplated putting everything back on again for the descent to come, but decided just to put the gilet on, which turned out to be sufficient as by now it was warmer and this down was also a lot shorter.  I do like downs, did I mention that before?  I’m fairly sure I enjoyed this one.  Where wiggles were really an issue, there were always marshals waving red flags, which was very helpful.  The Cinelli corners like a dream, and I don’t think I got in anyone’s way as a result, so it was fairly relaxed by my standards.  After enjoying all of that, I think this was where Sean, who thanks to a nasty puncture on the Somport was having a bad day at the office, went past me, again chatting briefly.  It was nice to break up the resolutely Spanish silence a bit.  This really is a local ride, I reckon 95% of the riders are natives, and oddly enough that’s kind of nice.  They’re all pretty good riders, as rank amateurs don’t do an event like this, and I guess they’re used to riding together, they seem to have the same kind of riding style?  They certainly don’t talk to outsiders much though.  Unlike the supporters, who were out in numbers along the route all day and who loved shouting encouragement to everyone.  Venga, vamos, valientes, championes!  And just for us girls, guapa, chica…oh yes, they like to cheer on girls.  Apparently I have a lovely smile too :).  Novelty value probably, what with us being so in the minority, but being specifically cheered on always made me produce that smile and gave me a bit of a boost, so I’m not going to knock their motivation!

 

There wasn’t really much of a break between the going down and the going back up again.  We only had one more really big climb to do, the Col de Portalet, with 120km already in the legs.  At some point we went through a town called Eaux Chaudes…were we all about to be in hot water?  Well it made me giggle *grin*.  It’s a very long climb – 29 kilometers, informatively counted down one by one again.  It’s probably heresy to say it, but I actually got a bit bored early on.  Kilometres of not much gradient at all with not much to look at.  Let’s get on with it!  Luckily that changed, since as we climbed the scenery improved, opened out, grew even.

 

There was a dam with paw prints up it.  Rivers, waterfalls, snow, mountains, blue skies.  I chatted briefly to a Dublin Wheeler which perked me up a bit and kicked me out of bored more.  I bumped into another Chris from our group at a food stop somewhere too – making a total of four conversations for the day.  Every little helps.  Actually I stopped at most of the stops along the way.  Never to eat, always to drink, which saved me from too much fighting through crowds to get what I needed.  There were no toilet facilities, so there were some interesting side of the road stops along the way but hey, needs must and all that.  The need of such is proof that you’re hydrated, which is a good thing.  At the last couple of stops I also discovered the wonders of full fat coke, which was a new one on me.

 

By now it was verging on too hot occasionally, so I did a bit of shade hunting where possible and there was also enough of a breeze that appeared just as you were wondering what to do about the heat, to take the edge off.  Every time we went past a waterfall there was a cloud of cooler air around it to ride through.  Where tunnels were built over the road to make sure the water flow went over the road not down it, there was dark and coolth.  It was turning out to be long, but doable, and scenically it was a lot like the Galibier, or the Giau, just less challenging when it comes to gradient.  Maybe that’s because it doesn’t begin with a G?  As you can see, I look pretty happy to have made it to the top – many thanks to the rider who offered to take my photo :).

 

It’s very hard to share the downhills with you, at least photographically, what with the whole holding on, potential need to brake, having too much fun to stop thing going on.  And I was enjoying it.  Oh yes.  It’s even easier to have a blast when you know the worst is behind you.  Well, ok, that was almost true.  There’s one last stinger in the tail – a detour for the Hoz de Jaca climb.  I’m not sure why this is necessary.  It’s certainly gratuitous.  Sure, the views of the reservoir are nice, and riding over a dam on the way down at the end is novel, but other than that it’s very narrow, and on roads with dodgy surfaces that anyone would lose time on.  The actual climbing section wasn’t quite as steep as I had it in my head that it was going to be – I think the worst km was only at 9%, not the 11 or 13% that I was expecting, which probably helped mentally.  So I just got on with it.  I pottered my way up and enjoyed those views.  And hey, with that done and having gone up, I could now kick off and enjoy the fruits of my labour.  A down.  One more descent, and about a 20km flat run in to the end.  And I knew, unless my fuel ran out, I’d made it.  Talk about motivational :D.

After some very technical down, which came complete with padded corners (I kid you not) the roads opened out again, and the sense of anticipation growing around me was almost palpable.  Everyone was head down, focussed on the end.  Now, not being immodest because it’s nothing to do with any skill on my behalf, it’s size and aerodynamics, I am pretty darn good downhill.  If it ain’t too technical I will probably go past you, and I won’t start pedalling again until well after you have.  Amusingly, this did not go down well with some.  I was amused, they weren’t.  As I flew down, various riders tried to keep up, to get back past me.  Nah, not going to happen, not on my watch *grin*.  A large group of sorts was coalescing ahead, and I quite fancied joining them.  But they were going just that bit too slow and the idea of braking all the time to keep with them and losing my hard earned momentum…?  Well I tried to be restrained, honest, but I got bored.  I wanted to have my fun.  So I went for it.  Straight down, straight past the second star to the right, on into the inevitable heading for home headwind.  Very happy to be doing what I do best.  About 10 minutes later the group arrived, huffing and puffing, behind me, led by one of those old foreign cyclists (in a white WC jersey?) who were clearly born in the saddle and have never left it.  He made some comment to me which I think, with my rusty language skills, went something along the lines of dropping them all like that was a tad on the rude side and that catching me hadn’t been easy.  I just grinned at him.  Makes me *grin* even thinking about it now actually.  So onwards we headed as a group.  I took a turn, he took a turn, a couple of others also joined in.  The majority sat behind us, as a silent mass, and let us get on with it.  I took quite a few turns at the front, because I could keep it up and they couldn’t.  Fast downhill also equals less problems in a headwind.  But as we got nearer the end, I was informed that I’d done enough and they’d be getting on with it now.  Ooh, there goes the ego again, do you not want leading into the finish by a girl then?  Funny as…!  They led off and tried to drop me, but you can guess how well that went.  Eventually I let the more obviously grumpy about it of them get a bit ahead, just to avoid what was possibly going to be agro otherwise.  Effectively we did a 20km time trial to get to the end, and I bl**dy loved it :).  I rolled over the finish line with a mahoosive grin on my face, and was both surprised and chuffed to find Chris there waiting for me.  It was so nice to see a friendly face, to share my buzz with.  I’ve finished my last two foreign rides on my own, this made a lovely change.  He’d been in for like two hours!  He was also very relieved to see me smiling – apparently he’d got two appropriate reactions prepared just in case! *grin*.

 

Looking back behind me at the finish line, the official clock, which started when the first rider rolled over the start line such a long time before, was reading something like 10:08.  Knock twenty minutes off that to get our start time, and not only was my ride time of 9:12 ish properly under the 10 hour mark – my secret unofficial target – so was my official time.  Cue even bigger grin :).  Chris tolerantly let me bibble away in debrief stylee as we headed for the event village.  Let’s face it, I needed my free beer.  Or two.  Or three ;).  We found John, who having gotten his Gold was hanging around collecting strays, and were joined one by one with the last few of our group.  After a while sat drinking that beer, I collected my official certificate and my SILVER medal.  Silver!!!  Happy dance time! 🙂 To say I was pleased would be a serious understatement.  And yes, us old women only have low standards to aim for, but I don’t care.  SILVER!!! :D.

Cycling time: 9:16 hrs.
Distance: 124.2 miles.
Climbing: 6,700m.
Avs: 13.4 mph.
ODO: 2638.4 miles

It’s not about the time really.  That’s just the icing on the cake.  I was, and am, just so relieved and pleased to have made it when I had seriously doubted that it was possible 12 hours before.  I’d taken the pills, and made a point of eating regularly – bars for the first few hours, then a mix of gel/bar towards the end – even when I didn’t want to.  Two bars and 5 or 6 gels I think.  I stayed hydrated.  I rode within myself and didn’t blow it.  Maybe I could have done some of it faster, or pushed harder, as my legs on Marie-Blanque suggested.  But then maybe I wouldn’t have made it round?  I did my best, even if my best is slow compared to a great many.  It probably sounds weird, but I actually didn’t find it quite as hard as I was expecting to.  And I still had enough left in me to kick Spanish ar*e on the way home, which I enjoyed way more than I should have done.  I can’t tell you how much fun that was :).  Quebrantahuesos 2013 – done!

While I was sailing across the Bay of Biscay, spending an evening laughing at the worst, unintentionally hilarious, cabaret ever, and watching dolphins in the morning, the weather gods were doing their best to wash the Pyrenees away.  Extensive flooding devastated villages, washed away roads, closed the Tourmalet and Lourdes, and sadly took a few lives with it.  Like riding 200km and 4500m+ of mountains in one day wasn’t worrying enough by itself ;).

But the weather gods missed.  Four hours after the customs guy picked our heavily laden car to cursorily check over upon debarkment, Chris and I arrived in Jaca, which turned out to be still there.  Incidentally you should check it out sometime – it’s a nice place.  Comes complete with a Romanesque Cathedral and a Citadel and everything.  Still, we weren’t there to sightsee, not really.  Checking out such things was just an incidental benefit, a side dish for the main event.  Yep, it was finally time to see if the Quebrantahuesos would be sucking the marrow from my bones…

But not just yet…  After all, right now it’s only Wednesday night.  One thing at a time.  Starting with checking into the Hotel Oroel, which is clearly very used to being invaded by cyclists.  Not long after we arrived, the Train in Spain airport shuttle arrived and discharged the rest of our party, having been collected from Zaragoza airport.  All the bikes disappearing up to rooms in the two very small lifts didn’t even make the receptionist blink.  Our rooms were fortuitously on the seventh floor, also known as the top floor, which seems to give you an advantage on getting a lift though…handy!  Mine was a nice large room, with velux windows, mountain views and wonder of unexpected wonders, a small kitchen area complete with fridge, sink and microwave!  It couldn’t have been more perfect for me if it had tried :).  And then when you throw in a bar on the street opposite that stays open late, has friendly staff, and serves really nice cold Spanish white wine for 1,50E a glass…oh me, oh my.  Welcome to Spain! ;).

Night time comes around too soon…followed by the inevitable early morning.  My buffet breakfast wasn’t sitting well, carefully chosen from the generous and varied offerings though it was, and I felt like I was swaying.  I guess twenty four hours on a ferry had installed sea legs, and forgotten to take ’em away again afterwards.  And, after a few pain/pill free days, that was making itself felt, so I was in catch up mode again.  I’d almost rather have had the hangover I’d probably earnt!   After breakfast, the planned morning group ride was postponed to the afternoon, due to the weather forecast.  We spent a while re-assembling bikes instead, which essentially means I let Chris do what he does best.  And, thanks to some form of obscure bike related OCD, I ended up with an immaculately clean cassette, and (re-oiled afterwards) chain!  Well, he seemed to be enjoying himself, it would be rude to stop him, right? ;).

Faffing done, Mr Train in Spain, John Fegan gathered us all together in bonding fashion, and gave us all a thorough riding briefing.  Lots of scarily fit looking guys sitting around and looking serious.  At least I wasn’t the only girl, this time there were two of us, which made a pleasant change.  It was very informative but you know ignorance can be bliss right?  Apparently not.  Instead why don’t you tell me precisely how hard it’s going to be and what to worry about?  A couple of ratchet clicks to wind up my background panic level ;).  I suppose forewarned is forearmed?  Everyone likes to prepare differently though.  Which also applies to pre-event rides.  After a bit of a wander around a very quiet town, and a tuna salad in a little bar somewhere, the weather duly improved.  Time to see what cycling around here was going to feel like, as the group headed for the top of the first QBH climb – the Col de Somport.  Now if you’re me, which apparently I am, you prefer not to know too much about what you’re letting yourself in for on the big day, so I was a little reluctant about the whole thing.  However I did need to test out the bike and myself, and not doing any exercise for that many days was kinda doing my head in.  Reassuringly John had made it very clear that it was up to us what we did, that we shouldn’t feel the need to keep up, or even to ride if we didn’t want to.  So I duly did it my way.  We set off as a group, but as the testosterone cut in and the majority headed off into the distance, I sat back and did my own thing at my own speed until I’d had enough, kindly accompanied by he who eats fig rolls.  45 minutes in, somewhere before Canfranc, I decided I’d done enough, did a u-turn, left Chris to hurtle upwards to re-join the TMT posse, and enjoyed gravity demonstrating that I’d gone up a lot more than I thought I had by going “wheeeeeeeeeeeee” all the way back to Jaca.  Fun…apart from all the big lorries likewise hurtling down, and past me with very little space to spare….  There’s a reason closed roads are good!  After a while I did think maybe I was lost, but since the road only really goes one way, eventually I arrived back where I’d started.  Test ride done, fairly successfully.  I got back to the hotel, squeezed the bike into the lift once more to take us both back to our room, grabbed a shower, and since I still wasn’t feeling great, opted for a fairly substantial recovery siesta.  Sleep is very often a good thing, and it’s a shame to waste a talent, right? :).

At some point the group had reached the top, and come home via coffee.  Each to their own.  I needed my sleep, they needed the ride.  And after all of that, we all needed dinner.  John led us into town and, when presented with a couple of dining options, the group split up.  One lot somewhere else, one lot to a Spanish restaurant that allegedly does good steak where we all ended up having the mixed grill menu.  I swear I’ve never seen so much grilled protein on a platter before.  Hey, each platter it came with half a potato, a bit of grilled red pepper, and then there was some iceberg lettuce to share.  Balanced diet, right?  I couldn’t eat it all – lamb. pork, black pudding, steak, chicken and more…blimey!  Still, at least protein is safe, and the included white wine wasn’t horrible either ;).  A contingent of both groups ended up back at the friendly bar, and spent a while exchanging cycling tall tales, comparing the size of their…gears, and generally being typical cyclists. Well, we still had 48 hours to go, sobriety could wait, we were on holiday ;).

And now it’s Friday morning.  It’s been raining all night, and it hasn’t stopped.  Sleeping had happened, but maybe not enough.  And I was still swaying.  Maybe I was hungover?  I decided to stint on the hotel breakfast and opt for my own supplies  instead, it being safer that way.  So it was gluten free cereal and lactofree milk for me before I even got downstairs.  I added the usual strong, slightly too bitter, Spanish coffee once there, but little else, and thanks to the weather, all plans for further riding went out of the window.  Hey, the bike is white, I didn’t want to get it dirty before the big day, right? 😉  To be honest I was feeling weirdly ropey…and I pretty much spent the whole morning on the bed, half dozing, half asleep, half just not quite with it.  Three halves don’t add up, but then I didn’t feel like I added up either.  Sometime around the middle of the day, Chris knocked on the door, waking me up from a patch of actual sleep but probably saving me from myself, and suggested we hit the town.  Which translated to walking around it in that very irritating not very heavy but actually extremely wet rain.  We checked out the citadel, bought supplies, visited the odd shop, and explored the city walls…well, what’s left of them.  They got bored with them around 1916 and knocked most of them down to allow for city expansion, which seems a tad harsh.  Can’t stop progress right? ;).  Getting wet was losing its appeal so we went and had some food in the Pilgrim Cafe, which was a slightly surreal place.  Yet another tuna salad for me, high on the iceberg level, low on the appealing front but hey, safe and needs must.  Shame wine was out, the countdown having begun, maybe that would have made it more appetising.  But hey, a girl has to eat to ride.  So I ate.  And then I went and had another siesta, as thanks to the pills I was in space cadet mode, and the world was still moving under my feet.

Now although we didn’t have to, as John was able to collect everything for us, we had the option to go down to registration at 4.00pm.  Since there was nothing else to do, the weather had improved, and it’s all part of the experience, we pretty much all went down there, in two mini buses.  Finding somewhere to park up in Sabiñánigo, the start town, was chaotic, but in a fairly aimable way as everyone was doing the same thing for the same reasons.  There were hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of bikes, on the back or top of cars, just left parked up everywhere.  Talk about bike porn.  Put it this way, I could have left mine out unguarded and unlocked in the street for days, and compared to all that around, it would have been as safe as houses.  Plus mine would have been way too small for anyone there, even if they’d taken a fancy to it ;).

It felt like the whole town had gone cycling mad.  We walked back to the start village, which was much the same as they always are…but I think because this is my third such trip I may have gotten a little blasé about them.  It’s the first time you realise how big the event is.  And considering that 10,000 riders do the main event alone, without counting those doing the shorter ride, I’m actually surprised it wasn’t a lot more insane.  There were lots of people milling around in the sun, stands full of cheap kit, special offers, promotions for trips, shiny bikes and high tech geek fodder.  I bought some QBH mitts and socks to match the free jersey that I knew we were due to get.  John collected and handed out all our rider packs, saving us from the queue, and we walked through the little checking tent just to make sure our chips were working.  That done, there wasn’t really much else to do.  We did a couple more circuits, Chris drank various assorted colourful free energy drinks which I decided t’were best to avoid, and we were all back at the van to return to Jaca by 6:00pm.

Time was passing.  Running out.  The bike was ready, the kit laid out, supplies ready to be stashed…  Time for the last supper, for which John had booked us all into a local Italian to make sure we could eat  as by now Jaca was overflowing with hungry cyclists.   The day before an event like this, even when I’m feeling good (which I wasn’t), I get a little weird.  I’m stressed, nervous, distracted… I don’t want to talk about it any more.  Not the arrangements, the route, the kit options, nothing.  I am just counting down, marking time.  I want to eat, sleep, and most of all, I just want to get on with it, to be out there doing it.  And there’s where I mentally was as we sat at our two tables, debating the menu, and ordering what clearly turned out to be pretty nice pasta, pizza, and the carbohydrate like.   There were actually some “recommended for coeliac” options, but the chances are that wasn’t going to include lactose free, before you even start on no garlic/onion/etc…  Man, my IBS sucks!  I hate putting people out, and explaining myself – it’s so embarrassing.  I thought maybe the tuna lasagne would be the lesser of the many possible evils but was informed that as it was cooked from scratch, I’d be looking at at least a 30 minute wait.  No thank you.  I didn’t want to be hanging around any longer than necessary.  So, if you’ve been paying attention, this is your time to shine, by guessing what I ended up having for dinner.  Well?  Your time is up…but points to you if you guessed at an unappetising tuna salad though *grin*.  I did my best to eat it, but it wasn’t really cutting it.  My appetite had gone walkabout, I’d had enough, and I couldn’t banter anymore, I just needed to be somewhere else.

So I left them all to extra orders of bread and pizza, and to not having to worry about me which, to give them credit, they were, being keen that I should also be fed properly.  I’m sure we were all happier all ’round.  I went back to my hotel room, for my microwave golden syrup porridge with added banana and sultanas.  In other words, my standard, follow the ritual, pre-sportive nighttime meal :).  OK, so I had to force it down, but such things are important for mental preparation as well as physical.  If you believe it works, you’re half way there.  Placebo porridge?  To be honest, I was pretty worried about what was to come.  After a day of being oddly dopey, sleeping, pain, swaying…my PMA was on a ferry back to the UK.  But I guess I was as ready and prepared as I could be…and it was way too late to do anything about it even if I wasn’t.  Alarm set for 4:45, time to Enter Sandman.

 

Next weekend is the QBH.  The Quebrantahuesos.  Yes, it is a tad tricky to pronounce – hence the abbreviation.  I’d rather not call it the “Bonecrusher” which is one of the translations that applies – not good for the PMA!  Unfortunately I have been a tad busy, and tad otherwise occupied, of late, so it’s fair to say I’m not entirely ready.  Logistically speaking at least.  Possibly on the training front too?  Even after a quick run to Sweets and back with Chris yesterday to talk it through, I’m not sorted.  Well, talking it through does not clean the bike or pack my bags!  Which reminds me, I should be cleaning the summer bike right now, ready to box up – oops!

Now, however daft it sounds, I haven’t done a sportive in a while.  OK, yes, I know, it’s only been two weeks, but it feels like it’s been a while!  With the QBH looming, even if tapering is what normal people do, I kinda felt like I needed to do one to remind myself that I could.  Besides which, normal people don’t do what we do anyway.  Tapering is a bit like Thursdays, I’ve never gotten the hang of it ;).  And besides which, what is normal?

I did the Great Western Sportive last year.  I quite enjoyed it, it’s a part of the world I like, and it’s not massively hilly.  I re-read last year’s blog entry just to make sure it wasn’t the daftest idea in the world…  And having decided it wasn’t, Martin, the organiser, sorted me a place earlier this week, Twitter provided me with a ride partner, and just like that, I was set.  As the forecast got worse and worse, and I realised my complete lack of spare time for packing for QBH, I did have some second thoughts.  But the forecast was clearing, it’s only weather, and having committed to doing it, I really didn’t feel I could bail.  I hate to bail!

Would you like to read a catalogue, nay a litany, of the things I did wrong today?  Just for fun, maybe I’ll highlight them in blue (to match everything) as I go through.  Let’s start with having had a really bad pain week, during which I probably didn’t eat properly, followed by one blissful day of normality, and too much rosé.  Sadly, after some fairly extensive research of late, it would appear that rosé and I do not see eye to eye, which is a great shame.  Yesterday’s hangover headache was quite impressive, coming accompanied as it did by the return of the pain, and a seriously weird tummy.  And some of the side effects lasted all day…damm you IBS!  After the morning coffee run failed to clear it, I took it pretty easy for the rest of the day.  I even got a reasonably early night…and then typically failed to sleep much.  Well, apart from that bit where you finally fall asleep near the end of the night, down to that very deep place from whence the alarm has to drag you to consciousness kicking and screaming…

…nonetheless, dragged I was, and awake I was.  My insides were still less than happy, though I made sure to eat the requisite porridge, and drink coffee, and do my best to appease them.  Faffing had mostly been done the night before, driven by the forecast and the need to not wear too much that I might also need for QBH, though being lycra, it all washes easily and dries almost instantly, and since I don’t have duplicates of everything, some of that is going to be inevitable.  Due to the weather forecast, I’d decided to ride the Cube, since although the Cinelli may need a degree of prep and washing down pre QBH, I didn’t really want it to be totally covered in mud etc.  Plus the Cube has tyres better suited to inclement weather.  It seemed like a good idea at the time…and the Cube and I were off down the motorway as planned, at 6:00am.

 

HQ was at, appropriately enough, Nationwide HQ, in Swindon.  Lots of lovely free parking, with but a short trek to registration and the start.  I met up with Rob in the car park, who faffed more than enough for both of us, and we took the short ride to registration as I prefer not to trek.  I was number 460, the quoting of which got me my bike number and timing chip, before I went and signed the usual disclaimer/insurance list.  HQ had café facilities, a Torq stand, and Performance Cycles doing last minute mechanical stuff for those in need.  They were also to be seen out on the course later, in their shiny cars, helping the stricken.  There were quite a few toilets too, two of which were nominated for the ladies, a suggestion that was in fact being heeded by the gents, which makes a change ;).  It’s always nice to see men queuing for the loos for a change ;).

Time to get to the start, and start doing what we were here for!  Martin gave us a bit of a briefing before letting us all go on our way, a bit after 8:00am.  Off into the chilly grey Wiltshire morning…  There’s a nasty hill that starts steep and then keeps on going, all of three miles in, which would have come as a nasty shock to the legs if I hadn’t known it was there, and even so it wasn’t much fun!  Neither was the wind…  The wiggly descent from Broad Town, which is where we had climbed to, kind of made up for it though :).  This was followed by about 15 miles of fast and flat, of time spent in random groups, going faster than I ought to have been, because it was fun and because I (mostly) could.  It did occur to me that I might pay for it later…and I did.  Too fast too soon! And usually I’m so good at pacing!  I blame Rob – he’s far too good at all of this, and made it look easy, and I didn’t want to look like a girly wuss.  Anyone would think I had testosterone ;).

Time to start climbing again, as we hit the A4 at Cherhill, and left our latest slightly rag taggle group to head off into the distance.  Not everyone can ride in groups, and there was the odd liability out there :/.  Thanks to it not being sunny, the A4 was relatively quiet, and the long slow drag past the hill, the monument, and the white horse, was not unpleasant.  I seem to have ridden along here quite a few times this year – and it’s called “Labour in Vain Hill”!  Isn’t that a lovely name? :).

Well our labours were not in vain, and soon enough we were in Avebury, which let me down.  Yes, the stones and the tourists were there, as ever, but there was nary a Druid to be seen…and it’s usually so reliable!  Maybe they prefer sunshine too?  I shall have to make a trip to Glastonbury soon and remedy the lack ;).

Leaving Avebury behind, it was time to head for the next big hill of the day.  No rush mind.  It might have been undulating and fast, but I knew what was coming, and I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.  Energy conservation and intake of fluid and food were far more important.  Besides which, there were enough of us along here, and enough traffic, that we were all winding each other up, and it was best to keep a low profile and let everyone else get on with it!

Which hill?  Why Hackpen Hill, of course.  With, somewhat predicably, a white horse on it.  And hairpins and everything.  I pootled up it in bottom gear, as if I had a choice.  And it was the usual variety of hard work…but to be honest, I had been expecting to find it a little easier than that.  It would appear my legs weren’t really in the mood for hills today – there was just nothing in them.  At all.  On a couple of occasions the hills were long enough for me to settle in a rhythm, which was slightly more successful, but mostly?  Any sort of incline saw me dropping off the back and left to my own devices until I finally caught up again.  Not good.

It’s just as well there was a food stop at the top so that I could catch my breath, and eat the usual half a banana.  No toilets though…as with all the food stops today…and you know how much that annoys me ;).  Luckily thanks to my insides malfunctioning, today’s tendency was more towards dehydrated…so it was less of an issue than usual!  Rob thought he might have a slow puncture in his rear tyre so he used the mechanic’s track pump to check it…more for reassurance purposes than anything else.  Well, that’s what the mechanical assistance is there for, right?  It turns out that it was fine, but at least that meant we could both enjoy the truly lovely descent towards Marlborough without worrying about it.  It’s one of my favourite Downs ;).

Have we established by now that I wasn’t feeling the love today?  It never really warmed up, there was a nasty headwind (surprise, surprise), my legs were empty…  Thanks to riding a slightly unfamiliar bike, my left knee kicked off, my lower back seized up, my arms hurt…shall I go on?  I also ate and drank as usual, but today that wasn’t working.  Maybe I hadn’t eaten enough this week?  Today?  Either way the tank was empty, verging on wobbly.  Now normally I’d have hung in there and done the whole 100 mile thing.  That’s what I do.  I’d have made it.  But with QBH ahead, I really didn’t want to ruin my knee.  OK, so I had the wherewithals to stop it (and everything else) hurting, which mostly worked, but just because it wasn’t hurting didn’t mean I wasn’t still damaging it.  It would appear that there’s just enough difference between the two bikes – set up, crank length, etc – to make a big difference!  I needed to look at the bigger picture…

We’d already discussed it as a theoretical possiblity, but I have to admit my mind was made up well before we reached the final route split.  Given a choice between 15/20 miles to the end, or more like 50, it was a bit of a no-brainer.  Especially with rain ooming on the horizon…  Boding even.  Discretion is sometimes the better part of valour.  Having made that choice, with a degree of weight off my shoulders, I suggested Rob do the sprinting for the end thing that he’d talked about earlier.  Not only would this mean he got a bit more out of the ride, having been nice enough to join me in bailing on the long route, but it would also save me from feeling the pressure to keep up with him.  Win, win, I do believe :).

So he hurtled off, having been assured that wasn’t going to be at all offended if he did so, and I did my slightly slower thing.  I took a gel somewhere along the route…and more banana at the final food stop.  I needed a couple of minutes break there, as I was feeling like I’d overdone it a bit, which I think it helped give the gel time to settle in.  I definitely felt better after a while, and also the closer I got to the end, even if those 27km were not flat!

The rain that had been threatening came in.  First a little, and then just…more.  Not heavy rain.  Just more of it.  Not pleasant.  It was windy again, and I got wet and then cold, but actually not too miserable as I knew the end of the sportive was nigh.  Possibly just as well I didn’t realise quite how wet I was until after I’d finished, and I’m very glad I didn’t do the original route as planned – an extra 30 miles in the rain would have led to a complete sense of humour failure!

I crossed the finish line, and owned up to the distance I’d done, fun though it might have been to pretend to be really fast.  Even so, my official 4:40 time meant that, being an old bird with less expected of me now, I got a GOLD by two minutes!  How awesome is that?!  Rob, who’d been in a little while, had done the same, which cheered both of us up as we’d been feeling a bit flat until we worked that out.  OK, so it’s not important, but still, I nearly never, ever, get a gold :).  I think it’s only my third ever!  We all huddled together under the marquees drinking our free tea/coffee and clutching our rather nice free t-shirts – the Southern Sportive team (who organise this amongst others) do good t-shirts, I should know, I have at least four now.  It wasn’t nice enough for much apres-ride though, we were both cooling down to chilly rapidly, so after a toilet stop (finally!) we headed for the car park.  I hid in the back of my car, stripped off my very cold and wet kit and replaced it with nice warm Skins, and layers, instead :).  Time to go home, said Zebedee.

Cycling time: 4:30 hrs.
Distance: 72.8 miles.
Avs: 16.2 mph.
ODO: 2492.40 miles.

 

A sportive with a sunny blue skies forecast?  Surely not.  After last week’s Tour of Wessex, all I wanted was to spend a few hours in the sun on my bike, on my own, without any pressure.  The Severn Bridge Sportive proved to be just what the doctor ordered.  I know, I know, he’d probably actually have told me I should be resting up and taking it easy.  Mind you, he knows me, so he probably wouldn’t waste his breath! *grin*

HQ was at Castle Combe which is, should you be unfamiliar, is a motor racing circuit.  Courtesy of t’other half, and his family’s motorracing genes, I am not unfamiliar with it, though it’s been a while since I’ve been there.  So when the marshals parked us all up, one by one, in of the many car parks, I knew that the walk to HQ to register and back was no small trek, and so getting sorted before heading over was the way to go.  Being an “official” venue, there was even a very clean and presentable toilet block in the car park, which made faffing a more pleasant experience than usual.  Not that there was much to do.  For the first time this year, I exposed my legs to the sportive world.  Not that anyone noticed, but hey, I was impressed.  I didn’t even stash precautionary legwarmers.  I did however, since it was still a tad nippy, don my armwarmers and gilet.  Layers, right?  All Cyclosport kitted up, I headed for registration.

Once I’d signed in, I was presented with my bike number (345), a map of the two possible routes (100 miles or 100km), and my timing chip for sticking to the LHS of my helmet – which remains my favourite timing method.  The sportive is part of a whole Castle Combe Cycling Festival, which was slowly springing up all around the place.   Looking at the timing figures, which were out the following day, there were only around 340 riders altogether, which would explain why the place wasn’t too crowded, and there was very little queuing for registration.  In fact, even with a trip to the matching HQ toilet block, I was queued up right by the start as the minutes ticked by.

 

There was a bit of confusion going on for a while as riders arriving at the start were entering the venue over the start line (as we has all done) and then having to go through all the queuing riders to get to registration.  Tricky.  But as 8:30am approached they started to be routed another way, allowing us to all gather ’round, bunch by bunch, get our safety briefing, and be on our way.  I was in the second group away – sooner started, sooner finished as ever!

The way out of the circuit involved riding around a bit of it, which was kinda fun.  I wonder it’s like to race around there?  I’m reliably informed that it’s always windy – and it was then and it was later too – so maybe it’s less fun than I think it might be?  Time to stop having that kind of fun, and move on to sportive fun.  This is called the Severn Bridge Sportive for a reason…you get to go across the Severn Bridge!  In fact, if you’re on the shorter route, you loop out, over the bridge, grab a bite to eat, and then loop back again.  If you’re on the longer route, you get to add a 40 mile Welsh loop in before doing the same.

This means the first 30 miles or so of the ride were pretty flat.  There’s the odd little lump, but nothing to get too stressed about.  As a result the going was pretty fast.  I tagged on to the back of various groups for as long as they’d tolerate my presence without accelerating, and generally enjoyed flying along quiet country lanes in the sunshine.  What I was really doing was looking forward to the bridge, and it didn’t disappoint.  Isn’t it pretty?  You can’t, and neither should you, fly across.  The surface is a tad dodgy, with ramps and lumps and bumps, and besides which you should be enjoying the experience..and the views! :).

 

It doesn’t last long enough…and then you’re spat out into the housing estates of Chepstow, where the food stop was lurking in a community hall.  A hall which doubled up as both the first and second food stop – neat trick!  There were toilets, plenty of food, and three types of drink outside – water and 2 types of energy drink.  Inside you could also get tea or coffee or squash to go with the goodies on offer, including teacakes as well as the usual and, second time around, cheese and ham rolls.  Someone’s daughter was doing a great job of restocking and helping out, though she looked a tad scared by all the lycra clad freaks clunking around on the wooden floor.  Sorry, we don’t mean to be scarey, though we probably are a little weird! 😉

 

Bottles topped up, banana eaten, boxes ticked, so it was time to be going.  Now, bearing in mind the fact that last weekend was a fairly heavy duty one, I had been thinking of doing the shorter 100k route.  But we were 30ish miles in, and it had only taken a bit over an hour and a half to get there.  If it was going to be the same kind of ride on the way back, then that would mean like only a 3.5 hour ish ride.  It would have seemed a bit daft to have gotten out of bed early just for that, and the sun was shining, and I was feeling good and…who am I kidding?  I was never going to do the 100k.  But it was nice having that as an option, to help with the PMA.  So I didn’t take the SHORT ROUTE left turn and head back over the bridge.  I went LONG ROUTE on my ass, and went straight on :).

Talking of signs, and here is as good a place as any, this was one of the best signed routes I’ve been on in a very long time.  One sign before the turning, two on the turning, one after it.  Caution signs and repeaters too!  There was one hiccup, which I’ll come to when I get to it, but really – you’d have to have been going some to get lost.  Even when later on, on the long route where there weren’t that many riders and I hadn’t seen one for ages, I could be sure I was on the right path.  And with a good GPS route downloaded too I never got that “am I lost” feeling.

Right, off into the Welsh wilds.  No sooner were we out of Chepstow than we hit a climb, through the Wentwood Forest reserve.  Wales has the kind of climbs that just keep on giving.  Go up and up, “peak” to go round a corner and…yep, up and up again.  This one went on for about 3 miles I think.  Fairly steadily though.  With scenery, and trees, and bluebells.  As you’ll have gathered, I do love bluebells.  There’s a brief break, when you think it’s all over, half way up…presumably there just so you can admire the Wentwood Reservoir.  Well, it was pretty, and very green :).  It was my kind of climbing though, and if I recall correctly the descent afterwards was pretty enjoyable too :).

There were quite a few like that.  Not many – it’s not a very hilly route – but a few.  Long climbs and long downs.  Nicely broken up by flat valley sections.  Mind you, the weather in Wales was a little less pleasant, it clouded over a bit.  Spot the Chippenham Wheeler rider?  There were loads of them.  I think, due to its locality, it was pretty much a club ride!  There were also a fair few Westbury Wheelers too.  Maybe we should be the Axbridge Wheelers…I’m feeling left out! 😉

 

I pootled my way around the entire ride on my own.  And before you take pity, that’s exactly how I wanted it.  I stopped when I wanted to, I took photos, decanted bottles, ate gels, stashed layers, watched the world go by, and mentally meandered about things.   I was going to say that the Welsh are weird but I’m going to rephrase that as that’s a tad generalising and quite possibly racist.  However there are some weird people in Wales.  Like the guy in Usk that has painted his house like a cow.  Well, apparently it’s more of a dalmatian thing.  It’s massive!  That’s not all.  How about the house called “Panty Vista”. Or the blue saloon car covered in varying sizes of pink polka dots?  Or the one with a little pink silhouette of Tinkerbell on the rear?  Sounds tame?  Well this was not just any Tinkerbell…oh no, this was Tinkerbell having a fag!  Really, no word of a lie.  Amazing what you see when you’re left to take it all in as you go round :D.

 

There was the odd extra hill, and one final one on the way back towards Chepstow.  Somewhere at the top there was a junction where we had to turn right.  There were a couple of cars coming up the road, both indicating to turn left down the road we’d just come up.  I looked left – clear.  Looked right, the first of the two of them was going left and it looked like the second was following, so I pulled out.

Ah.  Well, she wasn’t.  She went straight on, I pulled out.  There was some swerving on both parts, some form of impact…  I think some part of her car hit my front wheel in a glancing fashion….  Which all happened in that “oh sh*t” slow motion that cuts in…  And then she was past and stopped just up the road and, somehow, I’d managed to stay upright and other than being a bit shakey seemed to be fine.  As did, more importantly, the bike.  Rather than just head off I did go over and have a chat…she was terribly apologetic, reckoned she’d been so concerned with the cars in front that when they’d indicated left she did too. (doh!)..and was ever so concerned that I be ok and, to her credit, not at all concerned about what she called “just a chunk of metal”.  All’s well that ends well.  No point getting all shouty, I was too relieved for that :).

Time to get back on with riding, whilst thanking my lucky stars.  Which, after a most lovely descent for a very long time, and a bit of up, brought me back detouring through the housing estate to hit the foodstop again.  Yep – bottles and banana for me :).  It was much quieter now, probably because both routes shared the stop first time around.  There were only 72 riders on the long route to use it second time around.  Once again I left, and once again I reached a route split.  Only this time it was the same split.  Following LONG ROUTE would have meant doing the 40 mile loop again and, pleasant thought it was, that didn’t appeal….so 4 of us did a U-turn and took the short route option to head for the bridge.  That’s the only route sign bit that could have been made clearer though.  Before joining the cycle path to the bridge there was a sign for CASTLE COMBE which at least reassured that we really were heading in the right direction – though the bridge might have given that away! ;).

From here on in it was pretty much just me.  Not just me riding on my own, I mean me not seeing other riders for miles and miles and miles.  Today’s flat spot came at around 80 miles or so, because I was on my own, there wasn’t much to be looking at on the endless green country lanes, and I wasn’t familiar with where I was.  There was plenty of rural idyll and a fair few picture postcard thatched cottages and the like from time to time though.

After a while I could see a monument on the horizon.  Now I’ve done enough sportives to know that if I’m on a sportive, and there’s a monument on the top of a hill somewhere, that I am going to be made to ride up the hill to get there.  Mama didn’t raise no fool!  And this was no exception.  I’d been warned there was a big hill near the end and, thankyou Mr Westbury Wheeler, he wasn’t wrong, so at least I was sort of expecting what turned out to be quite a long steep slog up to what turned out to be the Somerset Monument.  Told you so! :P.

 

All that left was another 12 miles or so of more flat, quiet, warm country lanes.  As the billed 102 miles passed by, I was starting to wonder if I had actually managed to get lost, but finally at around 103 I was back on the circuit and doing a final curve around it back to the start, threading my way through the children and families enjoying it as past of the Festival and then going back over the now slightly relocated Finish Line, to be met by two cheerful ladies and a goody bag.  The Festival was in full swing – demonstrations, exhibitions, obstacle courses, music, bikes on display…looked like fun.  I sat under a tree and caught my breath for a bit, checked in with home in diplomatic fashion.  Since the free pasta meal, though no doubt lovely, was unlikely to be of much use to me, and having my mind’s eye firmly fixed on a cold pint of the only lager I know I can drink, back at my local, I decided it was time to head back.  I did a loop of the circuit on the way back to the car because, let’s be honest, I missed the turning for the car park.  I’m still tempted to see what that would be like if you were pushing it…even if it was still mighty windy out there!  I finally found my exit, and the car park wasn’t as empty as it could have been, the toilet block was just as presentable, and the rubbish bin was conveniently next to my car.  Un-faffing to go home couldn’t have been easier :).

Cycling time: 6:27 hrs.
Distance: 103.4 miles.
Avs: 16.0 mph.
ODO: 2319.00 miles.

There were only 72 riders on the long route, of which I was 37th. I was first out of the 6 women though – ‘Rah! :D. There were 270 riders on the shorter route, of which 38 were women.  Since the usual turnout for women is around 5%, this event was doing pretty well!  I had a lovely day out, and it’d be a great ride for someone’s first 100 miler…a few hills to challenge, some great scenery, well organised, and of course…the bridge! :).