Today’s sportive was the Southern Sportive.   Whilst not a new event to me, I’ve only done it once, back in 2007 which is many years and a cycling lifetime away.  It starts from Petersfield, which is a non-motorway 2.5 hour drive from here, so I indulged in a night at the Premier Inn before hand so that the morning start wouldn’t be too hideous.  Just for once I let the bike sleep in the car, tucked up in its very own blankets, rather than fuss around getting it out, in and back out again.  After a pretty good night’s sleep myself, I woke up at 6:00am to a variable weather forecast, wet roads, and a distinct chill in the air once I was brave enough to open the window to check it out.  Hm.  Layers then.  Of course the downside to not being at home is that when you unpack your kit and realise you’ve forgotten your sports bra, there’s nothing you can do about it.  At least the one I had with me for the drive home after was fairly simple…and no bra is just not an option. D’oh!

HQ, at Churchers College, turned out to be all of 5 minutes drive away and since I was there a bit before 7:00am, I was one of the first there and so benefitted from parking on site right next to registration and all the facilities.  The early bird gets the worm right?  First things first – off to register.  No queue as they were still really just setting up, and the only real wait was for the lady behind my part of the desk to be briefed on what she had to do!  Find number 673, hand over the bike number and hub mounted timing chip, point me at the zip ties and the disclaimer form to sign, and that was it.  Easy.

Back to the car, and faffing.  The surrounding cyclists and I indulged in the usual what to wear considering the temperature and forecast rain discussion.  Having recently been tempted by an extra 10% off sale prices offer from Rapha, my lovely new rain jacket arrived on Friday.  I was hoping it would be magic and that having spent the money I would never have to use it – a bit like an insurance policy.  But since I had it, leaving it behind would have been both daft and also guaranteed rain!  So, Cyclosport jersey, arm warmers and gilet, Skins tights (can’t tell you how much I love these), toe covers, and new jacket in capacious saddle bag.  While I was faffing, other cars were filing in, and I could have sworn I saw Henry (of past Cyclosport fame) in one of them…and it turns out I did, I did, I did taw a Henry!  He came past on his way to registration, and it was nice to have a brief chat to a friendly face.  Albeit a young, skinny, very fit friendly face who was liable to do the whole thing in half my time and at twice my speed!

I had a bit of time to kill and considered buying myself a cup of coffee.  However the man behind the table was telling the guys in front of me that he didn’t yet have any change and I didn’t think my £10 note would go down well!  Instead I grabbed the bike and headed over to the vicinity of the start line to wait, use the toilets, and wait some more.  Riders were due to start in batches according to route length, though this was more advised than regulated.  Since I was down for the Full route, I wanted to get away as soon as possible, and long route riders were allowed to start first.  There was some discrepancy in the pre-ride paperwork as to when the start time was.  7:30am or 8:00am?  It depended what you’d read.  Well, due to what looked like some difficulties setting up the timing gear, it wasn’t just not 7:30am but a bit past 8:00am when we were finally called to the front line.  Then followed a rather long-winded welcome, and a rider briefing.  We were all standing there, getting colder all the time, just waiting to get going…patience is not my strong point it would appear! Ok, ok, so you all already knew that ;).  Kudos to the guy at the very front who had TT bars and a conehead TT hat too – clearly desperate to do it as fast as possible.  Admirable…or something.

Right.  Finally we were off.  I was with the first group away, heading out on damp roads, and glad of my layers.  There was precious little time for warming up though, well, not the legs anyway.  Warming up otherwise came shortly.  After a brief stretch of flat, past swans floating serenely on a misty pond, the first climbing started all of a couple of miles in.  No fair! But I had a pretty fixed mindset for today.  I’d looked at the route times, I’d looked at the distances and considered my form, or likely lack thereof.  The times I’d seen were for the Gauntlet route – which I’ll explain later – but even so I could see it was likely to be a long day.  It was Sunday, I was riding my bike, I had nowhere else to be and nothing better to be doing, so even if it took me ten hours and I suffered, why not?  So uphill I went.  Exceedingly slowly as usual, but without too much strain.  And with that attitude, and the fact that I was already feeling way better than last weekend, I was actually feeling fairly good.  Up hill, down a bit, up more hill…wet roads that suddenly seemed to be becoming wetter.  Drizzle turned into drippy rain, at which point Henry drew alongside for a bit before dropping back to be with his peloton again.  And then the rain turned into downpour and the donning of the rain jacket became unavoidable so I had to stop half way up one hill or another to do so, at which point I imagine they passed me and disappeared into the distance never to be seen again.  For the record, he was 2 hours and 7 minutes faster than me!

There’s a distinct lack of photos for today, because the by now infamous jacket came and went three times, and taking photos in the rain is neither easy nor advisable.  The wet also meant concentrating more, mostly on the road for obstacles, potholes, puddles…all things that tend to imply that keeping both hands on the handlebars might be a good idea 😉  Thanks to the weather today, there were sadly a great many riders with a great many punctures…I think the record may have been the rider who had six, but who wants to beat that kind of record?

A while later the sun came out again, starting today’s trend.  Rain, sun, clouds, wind, rain, sun…you get it right?  At least the wind warned you what was to come…and it went away again when the rain did.  There was lots of up, but mostly they felt like climbs, not hills, which may seem like splitting hairs, but I know what I mean.  The first food stop came around 24 miles in, at which point the weather was looking lovely, making all the waterproofs look a tad superfluous, and there was a lot of stripping off going on.  No toilets though – as with all the food stops – which you all know annoys me immensely!  Incidentally, note to self, if you wear a normal bra, and unzip your top for ventilation purposes, you should remember you have done so.  Cleavage at food stops seems to be a bit distracting ;).

I remember the hill from Duncton Mill to Duncton Quarry.  The names should have given it away really.  Mills are at the bottom where water flows down valleys, quarries are at the top where there’s plenty of space to dig big holes.  Still my kind of climb though.  After the second food stop, 49.6 miles in, I remember the long climb to Goodwood race course, which was the only memory I had of doing this first time around, and the connection kinda made me smile for some reason.  Hey I can go up hill – just slowly! I can tell from Strava that there was actually a lot of climbing overall, but there was also more flat than I was expecting.  And some of the views from the top, especially earlier on, were awesome.  All the way across the rolling green countryside to the sea beyond.  Or is it the Solent from there?  The views were good, but mostly the rolling scenery was pretty but unremarkable.  Lots of the same.  Seems churlish to complain and hey, in the the sun, it might have been a completely different story.  At least all those ups provided a fair few downs which I could enjoy during those patches when the roads were dry.  In fact at the bottom of one of them, coming into a village, I even managed to set off one of those you’re going too fast flashing signs, which may well be a first :D.

Ok, so there were no toilets.  Field stops then, not ideal but proof at least that I was hydrated.  The full/mid route split came quite early on, and I was surprised to see people taking it, since we were all supposed to be on the longer routes but then either they were wimping out, or so fast they’d started later and passed me already!  The writing on the split route signs was a bit small, and without a reminder that I was on the right route I did spend a while wondering if I’d gone the right way.  At least the orange reminder ribbons and signs reassured me that I was on a right route if not the right route.  I love repeater ribbons 🙂  But the miles ticked by and I didn’t reach the end, so I figured I must have gone the right way!  Various groups went past me, and quite a few of them actually said hello as they went past which was a)unusual and b)much appreciated.  Anything that makes you smile on a long ride goes a long way :).

On to the route options.  The original Southern Sportive was the usual 100 miles long.  T’aint broke, don’t fix it, so the Full route remains.  But to add a little challenge to life, they’ve added a Gauntlet option, which adds an extra 20 miles ish, all of 20km from the end.  I was considering doing it, and when I reached the third foodstop, presumably around 75 miles in, just before the 2pm cutoff, the marshall was walking around asking who was doing it, so that he could take numbers and keep track.  I’m thinking an extra timing mat here and there might have made keeping track of folk easier?  Anyway I said I might be possibly, to which he said if that was a definitely maybe, he’d note it.  I was the only one, and one of the other riders around me was heard to comment as to how that made me truly hardcore.  Funny!

But hey, nothing better to do right?  Good intentions and all that.  And at that point the rain jacket was still back in the bag, and I was feeling ok, so why not?  Time to head off again and see what happened.  Apparently there were two more climbs between me and the end on the 100 mile route, and I have to say that the climb to Butser Hill seemed to pass me by somehow, though it did amuse me to realise I’d been up the other way on the Wiggle Magnificat earlier this year.  At least I think it was that one, I have done a few sportives this year ;).

I spent most of the ride happily on my own, pottering along, and letting the mental cogs go around.  At some point, just before what was the start of the third, longer, rainy patch, I was joined by a very nice chap called Rupert, riding with his brother Humphrey, who had spotted the kit, realised who I was (ooh, the fame!), and had actually read some of my reviews.  Aw shucks, a fan 😉 *grin*.  We chatted for a bit, and then he kept me company for a while too, which was very nice.  He was so clearly faster than me though I started to feel bad about it, and also try to keep up, which is never good for me.  We parted company for a bit when we stopped to put rain jackets on as the rain returned…and then came the final route split and there they were, standing in the rain, trying to decide what to do.  Now quite a lot of me was leaning towards the 100 mile option but…with remarkably little arm twisting I found myself going left and manning up, as it were ;).  And I’m glad.  Sure, it was raining.  But a little bit of me wanted to do the whole thing, just to prove I could.  Although you’d think I’d be past proving anything to anyone by now!  We hung out again for a while, but soon it was just me, happy doing my own thing, going up and down hills in the rain.  The only other riders we had passed were going the other way…and we finally twigged that we were going to loop and then rejoin – they weren’t lost or finished already and heading home!   After a while pootling around on my own, wondering if there would ever actually be a final food stop, or if they’d packed it away already, it suddenly materialised in a wet wood, from where Rupert was just leaving.  Again with the nice to see a friendly face.  I had a chat with the food stop guy, who reckoned there might be all of two guys behind me if they hadn’t bailed thanks to the rain, but the idea of it being me as lanterne rouge oddly didn’t bother me.  Someone has to be right?

Right.  Twenty or so miles to go.  Nearly done, just me to please and nobody else.  So I did.  I climbed my way up a couple more hills before an essentially downhill ten miles back into town.  At some point, eating a bit of bar, something stung/cut the inside of my cheek, which was seriously painful but may well have distracted from the pain of the last few miles!  I felt a bit lost on the way back in, as I went past the same pond again…I was worried I was starting over!  Maybe I should have paid more attention to the map beforehand which would have explained it all…but some nice, slightly bewildered, lady pedestrian reassured me I was heading in the right direction and clearly I was as, around 9 hours after I set off, I rolled into a practically deserted HQ, over the line, and handed my chip in to a team busy packing up to go home.  I grabbed my free cup of coffee, passed on the free muffin, picked up my free orange t-shirt, and headed happily back to the car to sort my life out, where I found Rupert and Humphrey already there, packing up, drinking Costa coffee from the petrol station opposite, and doing sensible things like stretching. B*gger that for a game of monkeys ;).

Today’s sportive was all about Zen and the Art of Momentum Maintenance.  I don’t have a motorcycle, and everyone knows that bicycle and maintenance are not two words that go together if you’re me.  I’m pleased to report I actually wasn’t the last one over the line.  No red lamp for me – believe it or not there were a few even slower than I.  A very few 😉  But hey, you know what, as it turns out, I was the only girl to complete that route.  The Southern Sportive threw down the Gauntlet, I took it, and I won.  I even got a Bronze!  Turns out I am hardcore after all! 😉

Cycling time: 8:26 hrs.
Distance: 117.7 miles.
Avs: 14.0 mph.
ODO: 3709.4 miles.

Note to self – pack sports bra next time!  Whilst apparently comfortable enough on the ride, two days of bruised ribs from the underwire is less comfortable!  Oh, and my new rain jacket kicks ass :D.

So, just one week after standing on the top of a mountain, it was back to the siren 5:00am alarm call that summons the mad to early morning miles.  Before I get started, I’d like to point out that the Malvern Mad Hatter is a lovely event.  It’s really well organised, not very lumpy, very pretty, and the fact that I had a rubbish ride has absolutely nothing to do with the event.  Go do it next year, in fact come and join me doing it next year when I fully intend to do it better!

Right.  Where were we?  Ah yes, waking up at 5:00am.  Following a weekend of not a lot of sleep, not a lot of food, and quite a lot of white wine.  I think it’s safe to say my pre-ride preparation was somewhat lacking.  Add that to my post holiday lack of form, the pill/pain combo and so on…and this was never likely to be a good day at the office.  But that wasn’t going to stop me at least trying to do it since as you know, I hate bailing.  Besides, all I had to do was sit in GB‘s car, ride around in the sunshine, and sit in the car again.  When you put it like that it doesn’t sound too bad does it?

GB was prompt, as opposed to his usual early, and we were off up the M5, with the usual “service stations we have known and loved” stop on the way, in very chilly sunshine.  HQ was at the Three Counties Showground in Malvern, which is conveniently signposted from quite a long way out, making it easy to find, which is just as well as GB’s satnav is no longer working.  And hey, it’s not like anyone actually uses maps anymore.  We joined the inevitable queue of people in metal boxes doing exactly the same as us, and were slowly marshalled into the venue, where we all parked up in organised but self-policed fashion.  GB parked us right next to the toilet block as it turns out – result!

We walked over to the main block to register, and lined up in our respective alphabet organised queues, once again proving that T surnames trump B surnames when it comes to be waiting around.  Or not waiting around if you’re me :P.  There was my name in black and white, just waiting for my signature, and its corresponding timing to be peeled off and stuck on my helmet.  My bike number, tags, and pre-ride goody bag (gatorade pre-ride, recovery and bottle) were handed to me, and I grabbed the car keys from GB to go back and wait for him there.  Well, who knew how long he’d be? 😉  Other than removing my leg warmers there was surprisingly little pre-ride faffing to be done.  I must have gotten the hang of this by now or something.  In no time at all we were off to the start line, where group by group, riders were being briefed and sent on their way.  Since this ride is associated with Cycling Weekly and a certain Mr Chris Boardman, although run by ukcyclingevents, there was a large TV style camera being point at the front row of our group as I chatted to Martin (the one with the big sign) pre-briefing, so there’s no doubt footage of me talking rubbish and looking bad in lycra out there somewhere.  Marvellous.

Time to set off.  Out of the showground, left at the lights, at out into the countryside.  There are three routes on this event, petal like loops out from the central point.  The original plan had been to do the Epic 104 miles.  I already knew that was seriously unlikely, and that we were probably talking the Standard 74 miles instead.  Let’s face it, it’s not actually a massively lumpy course.  Flat, undulating, big lumpy Malvern Hill bit, and then more of the same.  Still, however essentially flat and rolling, it just wasn’t doing it for me.  I tried, but to be honest I was suffering!  Entirely my own fault.  It took me an hour or so to start to even feel semi-human, and also to start to pay attention to really very beautiful scenery, appreciate the sunshine, and come anywhere close to enjoying the ride.  I was kinda cheered up by the Boardman peloton saying good morning as it/he went past.  Followed by a group of riders with so much testosterone it was hilarious ;).  There were quite a few pelotons today.  That one was, though fast, well behaved.  Not to mention polite obviously.  The same can’t be said for some of the others.  I nearly got knocked off by a eejot in one of them, and actually had to swear at another rider which I’m not sure I’ve ever done before. Hold your line, say coming through, whatever it takes.  Just show a little respect for your fellow rider – is that too much to ask?  The last thing I needed to was to be knocked off on top of everything else!  GB got quite grumpy…;)

As we know, I have proper problems with hills these days on – as in they quite literally hurt – but GB wasn’t just having to wait for me at the top of anything with a gradient, but also frequently in between times too.  It wasn’t hard to get separated and spread out on the quiet yet quite narrow sometimes country lanes.  To say we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum right now would be an understatement.  He could ride forever, I could barely ride at all!

It was very pretty out there though.  Green, blue, pretty houses, oast houses, rolling fields, you get the chocolate box picture right?  The first food stop came around 25 miles in, and also came as somewhat of a relief – a proper excuse to stop for a while!  Having been dehydrated before we even started out (yes, yes, I know), I was playing catch up and the bottles needed topping up.  I ate half a banana, and walked past all the queuing Gents to use the Ladies, which always give me slight “smug face” as MaxiMe would put it.  Incidentally there seemed to be quite a few ladies on the ride today, which made a nice change.

We had a good look at the route map and evaluated my options.  It turns out there’s also a Short 46 mile route, which might sound like a cop out, but does include the big climbs that make up the loop of the Malvern Hill.  I figured as long as I’d done the climbing it wouldn’t have been a complete waste of everyone’s time.  And 46 miles is still longer than my usual training rides.  We didn’t make any decisions there and then, but it was good to know what the options were.  Standing around in the shade was getting a little chilly, so it was time to head for the Hill that had never been far from view all morning…

We set off again, but I still hadn’t really perked up, and was starting to feel a tad sorry for the long suffering GB.  Still, he was happy enough, and when it comes to hills, he gets to do them his way, and then wait for me at the top.  Well it took a long time to get to the top of the Malvern Hill.  There are two long climbs, both of which suit me.  The first, after some steeper hair pin bends at the bottom, settles down into my usual plod along style long slog.  On the corner at the left hand turn that marks the top sits a bench which looked ever so tempting…  There was some beautiful flying down to reward us afterwards, though since there was a lot of parked cars around lining the roads, I was a little paranoid about someone opening a car door without looking, and the speeds we were doing?  It would have been very messy…  At some point, I think between the two climbs, we went through the very genteel town of Malvern.  Or is it Great Malvern?  Not sure.  Very nice indeed though.  And no doubt very expensive!  The Rose Bank Gardens have an awesome sculpture too – check it out here.  I’d post the photo direct but copyright worries me.

And then there was the second climb.  I think it was in that order anyway.  It’s all the usual blur, but overall I remember lots of up.  I remember spectators, clapping, a cowbell, and lots of truly awesome views which, according to the blurb, stretch to the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains.  I don’t know about that, but they sho’ were pwerty ;).

By the time I’d finished going up, and up, and down, and up, and up, and then not down enough, I finally discovered GB waiting for me, as he had been for the last 7 minutes, on the left side of the road a little ahead of the first route split.  We stood, talked a bit, and I contemplated the very real possibility that I might faint.  We also debated what to do.  I was nearly up for heading for the middle route, especially what with all the climbing having been done and then now presumably behind us.  But that was almost the problem.  It was just going to be much more of the, admittedly quite lovely, same.  But considering how I was still feeling, GB tipped the scale in the right direction for me, by pointing out that I really wasn’t with it!  That and the fact that riding the bike is supposed to be fun, and overdoing it would not be.  We decided to take the left turn for HQ rather than the right turn to carry on, live to fight another day, and go find some lunch afterwards instead.

So, readers, that’s what we did.  We hurtled down the very enjoyable descent.  We had a daft but very enjoyable sprint down the long ensuing straight.  And in no time at all, we were back into the showground, rolling over the finishing line, and being handed our finishers’ medal by that same Mr Chris Boardman.  Well if he only did the short route, I didn’t feel so bad about my pathetic performance! :).  We even had a bit of a chat, before I got a photo of him doing his job.  We grabbed our finishers’ goodie bags – which varied in contents, from free locks, to Cycling Plus socks, to Cavendish DVDs…all a tad random.  We packed up, cleaned up, and then we went to Tewkesbury, where the car park didn’t flood (can you even be prone to occasional?), the Abbey looked gorgeous, and a bowl of chips with a pint of lager at the unusually untouched pub on the high street went down a treat.

All things considered, it’s a miracle I managed to ride.  Even more so that I even enjoyed some of it!  And on top of all that I got a brush with greatness.  I’ll cheerfully go back next year and try and do it properly, if they’ll have me.  Like I said – lovely event, just lousy me!

Cycling time: 3:12 hrs.
Distance: 46.7 miles.
Avs: 14.6 mph.
ODO: 3523.2 miles.

Another sunny Sunday, another sportive…superb!  Welcome to the fourth annual Great Weston Ride.  I know this to be true, as GB and I have done every single one!  It’s one of those tradition things now.  Which also indicates that it must be a good event, why else would we keep doing it? ;).  It’s been a long time since I’ve done a sportive in company, so I was really looking forward to it on many levels.

It’s also traditional for us to ride there.  To ride back home afterwards.  And for GB to never take us in to the start via the same route each year.  Well he’s the commuter, so therefore somewhat of an expert on routes from here to Bristol!  Clayton, Karl, and myself all met him at the end of his road at 6:30am, under disappointingly cloudy skies, for an uneventful and fairly easy ride to HQ at Long Ashton Park and Ride.  He led, we followed meekly along behind.  My retinal image is reinstated ;).  I was half hoping we might have time to tick the Ashton Park Gromit off my list, but there really wasn’t, and besides, it would be a weird thing to have done to the three others, and a tad unfair.

Cycling time: 1:14 hrs.
Distance: 19.8 miles.
Avs: 16.0 mph.
ODO: 3033.7 miles.

HQ is, as I said,  at Long Ashton Park and Ride, where there is unsurprisingly a lot of space for people to park and ride!  No buses today though, just cyclists.  Registration was easy – just join the relevant alphabetised queue, and get your number, cable ties, emergency details card, and free 9 bar (gluten, wheat & dairy free!) from the smiley encouraging lady behind the table.  There were plenty of official GWR jerseys around, as well as charity jerseys – particularly for Prostrate Cancer, one of which was being sported by Clayton – very fetching.  For those that needed it, mechanical support was available too.

The event gets busier every year, unsurprisingly, and I think the demand for the toilets is now outstripping supply.  There are , unusually, a lot of women that do this ride, and so there were queues on both sides, that were getting longer and longer as more people arrived…  I decided that I’d pass on that last minute “gotta go before you leave the house” visit, and we all headed for the start.  It wasn’t so much a queue as a coalescing group.  At some point the group decided, in that weird unspoken herd of sheep way, that it was time to move to the start line.  Probably because the official start time of 8:00am was approaching.  It was actually almost chilly out there, not helped by having ridden in and cooled down in clammy fashion, so I think we were all quite keen to be underway.  Only so much faffing you can do, right?

Ride organiser Darren gave each group a bit of a safety briefing, including a warning about the dangerous descent of the day, and then we were away, second batch of the day.  We retraced our steps back through Long Ashton, down the main road (if you’re me) or the very shiny smooth new adjacent cycle path (if you’re GB or Clayton).  Karl had disappeared already, even before we set out!  Presumably the use of cycle path was to make sure GB wasn’t totally going back on himself ;).  I was more worried about negotiating the change between road/path and messing that up in some ridiculously public and embarassing fashion, so slower nastier road suited me just fine!

Barrow Gurney is often a nightmare however you look at it, whatever you go through it on.  It’s narrow, windy, with speed bumps and traffic calming methods…and today, the additional obstacle of a long traffic light managed section.  Deep joy.  At least being very early in the morning by Bristolian standards, there wasn’t much traffic around to add to the negotiation challenge, and the speed bumps are easier on a bike than in a car!  Once out the other side, traffic lights ushered us on to a brief stretch of riding on the A38 before a left turn took us onto quieter and far more pleasant roads.

Knowing these roads as I do, I knew I was in for a nice fast essentially downhill stretch for a while where I could make up for the fact that I had been being crap at anything with anything even vaguely approaching a positive gradient.  All too soon our momentum was cruelly taken away from us, as we turned right at a spoilsport mini roundabout to head towards the ever scenic Chew Valley Lake.  Again, flat, fast, but straight, so the perfect opportunity to take a couple of photos, marking the only time when both GB and Clayton were behind me for any length of time ;).

The closer we got to the big climb of the day, the brighter the day became, and the sun was finally out when we reached the first food stop at the bottom of Burrington Combe.  It was signposted a bit before, but to say it was a tad low key when you got there would be an understatement.  Blink, or look in the wrong direction at the right time, and you’d have missed it.  An eagle eyed Clayton pointed out the drinks point, and once one rider was there, everyone knew where to go!  One of my bottles definitely needed topping up, so that’s what I did, before taking advantage of the public toilets that I knew were a little further up the road.  In previous years the bike shop there, Bad Ass Bikes, has been known to let riders in to use the facilities, but not so this year.  As various riders all milled around the toilets at the bottom of the Combe, and we were preparing to leave, a tractor thundered past us heading upwards, bravely followed by one drafting rider on a fixie – chapeau m’sieur!  We all clapped in appreciation of his efforts, before heading off ourselves in far less impressive fashion.

Burrington Combe may hold no real fear for me, it being actually quite a nice long climb that I’ve done a lot of times before, but every time is different.  I wasn’t feeling at my best (back to the art of understatement) and I was seriously considering asking GB to keep me company for a change…but luckily for him he managed to put enough (ever growing) distance between the two of us before I could ask him, that I never got the chance.  So I pootled up in my usual unimpressive style, only to be overtaken half way up by Gary who’d started fresh from HQ after us, and had some kind of gravity related incident which had b*ggered the rear derailleur and deprived him of seven gears.  Something like that anyway.  He was still kicking my a*se with the remaining gears, so I may have been a little lacking on the sympathy front ;).  GB was kindly waiting for me at the top, where I stopped briefly to have a drink and catch my breath, allowing Gary to go off Clayton hunting, and leaving just the usual two of us again.  I have to admit this came as somewhat of a relief.  The pressure of trying to keep up with Clayton wasn’t bothering GB, but was slightly doing my PMA in, and it was nice to be back to what I’m used to – me, GB, and that little red sign!

I love it on top of the Mendips.  Lovely views that you’ve earned, that top of the world feeling and, just for once, no killer wind.  Not no wind, do be serious, just no killer wind.  In fact the wind that there was was even behind us from time to time, which is always a good thing :).

We took a little wiggle to go through Priddy, presumably to show off the village to the tourists as the detour is slightly gratuitous otherwise, I’d just have turned right a little earlier on, but that’s what comes of cycling these roads all the time.  The back country road from Priddy to rejoin that one is all very pretty but it does have a 90 degree downhill left hand corner on it, where they’d conveniently positioned a photographer.  Good for images no doubt, but not so good for keeping riders paying attention to where they’re going…especially since there turned out to be gravel on the corner too.  One poor lass had come a cropper just before we got there and was washing the road out of her gravel rash as we passed.  Nasty…:(.

It was time for another quick break, this time for a gel, the next dose of nice shiny pills, and a photo op.  This was the descent we were warned about earlier, of Westbury Hill.  See the Caution sign?  Well it’s there for a reason.  Not only is it steep, bendy, shady and not well surfaced, it’s also well used.  As the large tractor equipped with weapons of mass cultivation on the front that came up as we were going down demonstrated.  Luckily we saw it in time to avoid it.  Luckily the eejot who came hooning past me regardless didn’t do that a little sooner, otherwise he’d have been a human kebab…!  A candidate for the Darwin awards? ;).

Eventually we all got held up by vehicular traffic towards the bottom of the hill which at least stopped anyone failing to stop for the junction with the A38.  This, as with several other dodgy junctions, was marshalled, which made getting across much easier and less stressful.  Probably less so for the cars that continued to be going the same way as us for quite some time.  Sorry!  Impressive driver patience for a change though…unlike some out there today.

Rider traffic got a bit annoying here, especially by refusing to single up and let the cars past.  Lack of rider experience rather than obstinacy…probably.  It’s a charity ride.  I’m being charitable.  Still, when it all cleared away we kicked off and put some space between us and them, on roads we know very well.  All the way to Wedmore, out t’other side to Blackford.  We overtook quite a few single male riders, who didn’t seem to like that much.  So they overtook us back.  And, well, you can guess how it goes…we then had to beat them into the second food stop at Hugh Sexey‘s School.  Sheepish juvenile grins were exchanged.  Such fun *grin*.

This ride is renowned for its superlative cake.  Which sadly, it now being a very hot and sunny day, was being a tad neglected in favour of topped up bottles and free squash.  Poor lovely cake.  Even I opted for a large glass of orange squash rather than my usual black coffee, though the caffeine kick might have come in useful later.  GB went for a bacon roll, and we took a little time to kick back in the sunshine and relax for a bit rather than hurtling instantly off again.  Whilst doing this, mini tri-athlete Ollie popped up unexpectedly, having dropped his fellow riders a while back, and we agreed to ride off together.  We couldn’t leave without a toilet stop though.  Well it’s a middle school, with suitably middle sized toilets, which always makes me giggle *grin*.  You could tell term had just ended; flowers in the sink, and an apple for teacher still on the table ;).

The three of us headed off down the mother-in-law road (it goes on and on ;)) to Mark and then on to Highbridge, at quite some speed.  We played rider elastic for a while, but somewhere along the way we dropped Ollie – sorry Ollie!  But it was getting on for that stage of the ride when all you want to do is get to where you’re going.  However there was no going anywhere fast once we got to Highbridge/Burnham on Sea.  In the middle of a heatwave, by the seaside, the traffic was even busier than ever, pouring in and out of town, with precious little chance therefore for irritable, hot and bothered car drivers to get past us, let alone past leisure cyclists happily minding their own business and getting caught up amongst us lot!  Less fun :(.

One of the mistakes I always make on this ride is not to treat is as a proper event, and also not to take into account the distance ridden in first thing.  To put it simply, I don’t eat enough.  Or at all.  I did try and eat some of my bar early on but it was virtually impossible to swallow, and I pretty much gave up.  I did however drink plenty, a saving grace no doubt.  Once out the other side of Burnham and marshalled across the road to head across the wiggly lanes going northwards, it was time for a second gel…as I realised I was feeling like falling asleep.  Never a good sign – and thank goodness for High5 gels!  I also got GB to slow down for a bit so I could gather my wits, as it were.

From here it was, not to put too fine a point on it, pretty easy going.  Hot though!  From Burnham to the end is around 10 or so miles, all flat barring the small rise to get over Uphill.  No hanging around then, time to put the heads down and push for the end, the gel having now cut in.  It was a bit unclear where the end actually was when it came to it, I’m sure there were some countdown markers in previous years, but we at least knew where we were going.  There was a clapping crowd waiting as we pulled off the main seafront road, through the banners and on to the lawn.  Always nice.  There was also a photographer.  Less nice ;).  I have another shiny medal for the collection too!

Last year they were handing out bottles of water when we crossed the line, when we didn’t really need them.  This time we did, but they weren’t in evidence, and I didn’t feel like asking.  I was really dying for a long cold fizzy drink, and if I’d been like Clayton, sitting on the lawn waiting for the missus to pick him up, I’d have been doing the same as him!  If I had however, I’d probably never have made it off the lawn and as we were due to ride home, I settled for a large diet coke from the bar, which was bloomin’ lovely.  As usual I didn’t opt for my free food, though that being laid on by “field and flower” looked lovely.  I don’t think I could have eaten even if I’d tried, and was able!  GB has a habit of not hanging around much after events but having discovered Clayton waiting there and been waved over to join him, we hung around and chillaxed a bit which was lovely.  Maybe I should have had one of the post ride massages on offer, but then I suppose I wasn’t properly post ride yet ;).  As we headed back to go we came across Gary who’d been there even longer, no surprise there.  That mechanical certainly didn’t hold him back!  There was no sign of Ollie, and as it turns out apparently he’d been all out of luck on the traffic light front, and then had an altercation with the back of the car.  No injuries, just a bike to be repaired before he could be on his way…sorry again Ollie!

This year’s ride turns out to have been a little slower than last year’s, though it felt harder.  Maybe the heat?  Mind you, you know how on Spinal Tap the dial goes up to 11?  Well these days my dial only seems to go up to 8 even if I’m pushing 10 through it.  However considering that I spent all day on Saturday being about as much use as a chocolate fireguard, and being literally incapable of doing anything, I should be less critical and just very pleased to have made it around at all.  Another very enjoyable Great Weston Ride done – in the best weather so far!  Definitely a good tradition – thanks to GB for putting up with me, as ever! 😀

  Cycling time: 3:17 hrs.
Distance: 56.0 miles.
Avs: 17.0 mph.
ODO: 3089.7 miles.

We cycled home in a slightly more leisurely fashion.  Not long into it I needed another gel and, as it turns out, so did GB, so I felt a little less pathetic ;).  It’s so nice to get home from an event at a reasonable and family friendly hour.  Early enough even for there to be time for me to have a shower and crash out for a while and still have enough of the day left to be up, about, and sociable afterwards.  It’s what I call a non-optional nap – I guess it’s the price you pay for the effort you put in from a tank that isn’t as full as it used to be.  One of the reasons driving home from a sportive has become a tad more hazardous!  And, duly revived, I finally got my hands on a pint of that cold wet alcoholic rehydration therapy that Clayton made look so attractive earlier.  Result. *grin*.

Cycling time: 0:38 hrs.
Distance: 9.8 miles.
Avs: 15.3 mph.
ODO: 3099.5 miles.

Last year’s Wiggle Magnificat didn’t go according to plan.  Read the blog, see for yourself, I won’t bore you with the details.  Well, to be fair, I probably will allude to them, but hey, it’s my blog.  So I had unfinished business, as it were.  Which is a ridiculous concept and a daft notion.  Like anyone cares whether or not I complete it.  It’s not like my DNF was my fault, unless you consider that my inability to fix a broken chain puts me at fault.  But it is what it is.  A thing I set out to do that I didn’t finish.  A little niggle lurking away in the recesses…

So I wanted to have a second crack of the whip.  Which is possibly appropriate, what with HQ being at Newbury Racecourse.  Having developed an inability to drive far without falling asleep, at fairly short notice I decided to find myself somewhere to stay the night before, if it wasn’t prohibitively expensive.  Which it wasn’t.  One family room at the Hilton Newbury Centre – £79.  They even rang me beforehand, due to demand, to check I was actually coming and would be using my room.  And since I was, would I mind swopping to a double room?  Which I did, having only booked the family one because it was the cheapest option.

Saturday was therefore a sort of leisurely broken up journey.  I went via The Mall at Cribbs Causeway, where I didn’t buy half of what I meant to but did end up with an outfit for a wedding I’m going to soon.  Result!  As was finding two more Gromits :D.  I then drove down the M4 to Newbury, in the sun, listening to very loud music which probably drowned out my singing, to the great relief of anyone in the near vicinity, but kept me happily awake all the way there.  By there, I mean HQ, as having printed out the pre-ride pdf, I’d registered that you could register the day before and I’m all for anything that makes a sportive morning easier.  I thought I knew where I was going, having been here last year (you got that right?) but as the event is under new management, there have been some changes.  The main one of which is the parking – which is now at the front of the racecourse, not the back, on grass and with plenty of space.  It’s still a bit of a trek to registration though – worth knowing for the real thing the next day.  You have to take your helmet with you – forgetting would be annoying, but there are plenty of signs to make sure you don’t.  I walked over, signed my life away in the usual fashion, got my timing stick stuck on my helmet, and got a High5 bottle full goodies to boot.  Good start – Hi5 gels are fructose free and the only ones I can tolerate.  In fact I even quite like them, especially the caffeine ones :).  And since they were going to be available at every food stop, I didn’t have to worry so much about how many to pack either.

OK, formalities done. I had a brief chat to Martin, one of the organising team, and headed back across the grass to my car.  As it turns out the Hilton was all of five minutes drive away.  Which, as it turns out, was possibly the only thing in its favour.  My room was fine but, like the whole of the hotel, devoid of air conditioning.  The window was ineffectively open, over an outdoor seating entry which was empty, as it’s only for use by those using the conference/event facilities.  So there was nowhere outside to sit anywhere.  Indoors the bar and lounge were all dark wood and mugginess, and although it’s not usual pre-event preparation, the only saving grace was the fact that the Stella was really cold!  I sat in the bar, reading Kindle books on my iPad, trying not to generate any more heat by moving around.  One ham omelette and chips (£12!) provided tolerable fuel.  I’d have like the healthy lemon and oregano marinaded chicken with steamed rice and grilled vegetables, but at £17, I think that was taking the p*ss…  Luckily a very good friend of mine, having discovered I was around via the wonders of Twitter, came over and kept me company for a bit which was very impromptu and very fabulous.  Hi Jo! :D.

I did try to get an early night.  We parted company at a reasonable hour and I headed back to my room, to discover that the function rooms were now hosting some form of celebration.  With a very loud disco full of people spilling out to outside, all right under my window.  Which then had to be closed, and proved as ineffective at keeping the noise out as it had been in cooling the room down.  Oh marvellous.  The festivities stopped around midnight, as they were supposed to, a fact I’d ascertained with a rather irritable phone call to reception, and I finally got to sleep.  I should have stuck to that family room – I bet those are further away from party central!  So, not an ideal start…but at least the alarm was set for 6:15am, not the much earlier hour that it would have been if I was at home.

Getting sorted in the morning was easy.  It was already too hot, I was riding for Cyclosport, voilà, kit choice done.  No need for any other layers of any sort, not even to stash just in case.  I packed up my stuff, and headed out to the car, by way of a Grumpy of Axbridge conversation with reception.  Five minutes later and I was in the slowly moving queue of cyclists in cars funneling into the racecourse and being marshalled into the car park and lined up in the sun.  Easy.  As was getting ready.  Put bike together, attach number, stash required food everywhere, and walk to the start.  Plenty of very respectable facilities, as you might expect, which I used, as you would also expect.  There are four routes – Epic, Standard, Short and Fun – all of which have a different ride start slot, which presumably helps spread out the load somewhat.  There was certainly no hanging around.  I rode across to the start, joined the group forming there, got a ride briefing from a not at all camera shy Martin, and was off at 7:25am.

Due to the hot weather forecast, I wasn’t entirely sure which route I was going to do.  I was down for the Epic, but decided that I’d see how I was feeling at the final route split, err on the side of caution if necessary.  I’d also decided that this was not a sportive.  It was an excuse to spend all day riding my bike in the countryside in the sun.  Nowhere else I needed to be, no-one at home waiting for me to get back (it’s a motor racing thing).  Just me, my bike, and I.  Which is not a bad attitude to be heading off with.

Having re-read last year’s blog, I thought I knew what to expect, but either my brain is faulty (distinctly possible) or they’ve significantly changed the route.  I was expecting a fair few hills early on, but after the first climb out of town, they didn’t materialise.  I guess the new management have changed things quite a lot, but not in a bad way.  The hills were my kind of hills, and all pretty spread out.  I think rolling is the best way to describe it, and I didn’t push it at all going up.  With the temperature rising all the time, I was very conscious of the need to not overdo it and pace myself over what could be going to be a very long day.  The signage was great, which considering I’d forgotten to download the gps file, was a good thing, and meant I could pootle around with worrying about getting lost.  Just as well, since mostly it was just me.  Occasional instances of APS, the same faces over and over again as we all played leapfrog, and the usual groups passing from time to time.  Oh look, I’ve been pelotoned.  It’s my new verb.  Is it a verb actually?  My English Language studies are a little rusty.  Whatever.  It is the verb to peloton, to be pelotoned.  You can do it, or have it done to you.  To pass as a part of, or be passed by, a large group of riders travelling at speed and slightly too close to other riders, resolutely not saying hello or warning anyone of their approaching presence.  Sound familiar? 😉

Having decided to opt for 2 500ml bottles today, so that they could be easily swopped over on the move rather than the usual decanting palaver, I was a bit concerned about keeping hydrated.  There were four official food stops, the first three were at around 25 & 50 & 73 miles in (ish).  There was then a big 40 mile gap until the fourth and final stop, which had me worried, and rationing my bottles…not ideal.  Thankfully the organisers had reacted and at very short notice, got a team and an extra food/fluid stop set up at around the 95 mile mark.  They also set the motorcycle outriders to checking that everyone had enough to drink and and dishing out water if they hadn’t.  All very responsive to conditions, very welcome and very wise!  I gather quite a lot of riders bailed on the Epic route precisely because they were over-heating.  Unsurprising when at some point in the middle here, my Garmin was showing 33C and the rest of the time it was 30+.  Blimey.  However the foodstops were all at proper venues, with toilets etc, where I resorted to my favourite method of cooling down – soaking my hair in cold water.  It works really well!  I also drank as much plain water as I needed too while topping up my bottles, and eating bananas and jelly beans.  There’s a lot to be said for stopping, the sweat pours out, and then evaporates away and cools you down as you get going again! :).

Hurricanes clearly hardly ever happen in Hampshire, as it turned out there are, blessedly, a great many shade creating trees.  Essential on a day like this.  In fact there was lots of green everywhere, interspersed by picture postcard villages, and chocolate box thatched cottages.  Way more than enough thatched cottages.  An elegant sufficiency perhaps.  It could also be called the Tour of Affluent Hampshire, demonstrating amply over and over again why I moved to Somerset and couldn’t afford to stay there.  The kind of houses it takes time to cycle past.  Properties that somehow aren’t NT owned which means there must be people out there rich enough to actually own and maintain them!  Beautiful gardens, full of flowers and floral scents; lavender, chamomile, honeysuckle, English roses.  If I was an English rose, I’d have to be a white one, not a red one, it’s an ancestry thing.  I’m arguably prickly enough to be one ;).  It was all very pretty, very nice, all day.  There were occasionally some very lovely views from the top of whichever rolling hill we’d climbed up, but for the most part, though scenic, it was sort of unremarkable.  More of the same.  Lots of England’s green and pleasant land, inhabited by the kind of people who sing that at the Last Night of the Proms, I imagine.  Put it this way, I saw at least four different Aston Martins.  I even got buzzed by one.  I should probably have been cross, but there’s always the chance that it’s Daniel Craig come to sweep me off my wheels and lay me down in a bed of roses right? Make the earth move, if not the sky fall? 😉  Besides which, I have a soft spot for sports cars, and the sound of a six litre V8 (or whatever) engine kicking arse always makes me *grin*…

Gradually the miles ticked away.  Broken up into eating intervals, food stops, time between food stops, miles to go, estimated time to go, all those mental coping games.  When the route split came, I wasn’t even tempted.   Because I wasn’t doing a sportive, I was riding my bike in the sun ;).  Being as I was making a point of trying to enjoy that, I had time to notice all the fantastic names for towns and places we went past along the way too.  Inkpen, Hell’s End Corner Farm, Craven Lodge, The Shoe, and Faccombe (sorry, very juvenile but it made me giggle)…  Even the hills along the way didn’t really bother me, though there seems to have been more climbing than it felt like to me.  Maybe I’m getting better at it?  Maybe it’s because whatever I was going up, it was neither as steep or as long as the Col de Marie-Blanque, and if I can do that, I knew I could do these.  Which is massively mentally helpful.  I do think they’ve made it the whole route bit easier, but I have no proof of that, I’m just sure I remember it being harder last year.  Towards the end, after that final and still welcome food stop, it flattened out, and I got faster, as usual.  Sprint finish time.  The Epic route had rejoined the Standard route now, and it was quite satisfying overtaking people knowing how much further I’d gone than them and that I was still going to beat them to the finish line.  Daft and petty I know :D.

As we got nearer the end, especially around Greenham Common, there was more traffic of both varieties, which was causing a degree of grief all ’round.  I let various cars past, including a silver Fiesta.  Having let it past, it turned out that she was such a cautious driver that she was holding everyone up trying to inch past cyclists…and eventually I was going faster than she was, having become stuck behind slower cyclists, and I had to overtake or, to be more precise, undertake her, overtake those slowcoaches and get on my way.  However when she eventually overtook me again, someone shouted obscenities at me out the window.  *sigh*.  Yes I’m a cyclist, and you’re a motorist, but to allude to roses again, and to Shakespeare and other very English things, how am I that different to you?  If you prick me do I not bleed?  So it’s ok for you to overtake me when I’m getting in your way, but not ok for me to do the same to you?  Same old, same old…the neverending conflict debate *yawn*.  I could easily have overtaken her several more times, but I held back a bit just to avoid the grief.  And hey, it’s not a race right? 😉

And then, 125 miles suddenly behind me, it was over.  I was dropping back down the hill into Newbury, back to the race course, and over the finish line.  I was given a medal and sample filled goody bag, as well as another gel for bringing my rubbish back with me and not dropping it on the course – which was a nice, and motivational, touch.  I didn’t see much rubbish out there on the road, so maybe it worked too!

My ride time was a little over 8 hours, which was better than I was expecting, and even with stops my official time got me a Silver.  FYI they only have three categories, regardless of age and gender – so it was a real bonafide Silver – not an old lady Silver!  Go me!  My unfinished business is now finished :D.

Cycling time: 8:05 hrs.
Distance: 125.2 miles.
Avs: 15.5 mph.
ODO: 2951.7 miles.

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! :).