Right, shall we sum up?…  Is it a good event?

Yes – mostly.  HQ has all the facilities you need – a range of toilets, food options, a small event village.  There’s camping for those that want it, also with the relevant facilities.   There’s a lot of photo opportunities en route – both for you and of you, thanks to sportivephoto.  The drummers, and the roadside supporters were great, and helped cheer us along.

There’s plenty of support on route too.  The cheery outriders are, and were, as lovely as ever.  I saw plenty of stricken riders being helped by them, and the various mechanics.  The food stations leave a little to be desired – they’re ok, but they did tend to be a bit chaotic, and stock levels weren’t reliable.  Plus there’s the lack of toilets to consider – us ladies object to that, and let’s not forget the queues.  I also wish there wasn’t a 6.00pm timing cut off.  Ok, so I’m not a great cyclist, but I’m not the worst, and I shouldn’t have to struggle to get back in time.   Even making it 7.00pm would have sorted that.

Mind you, maybe I shouldn’t worry about the timing.  For whatever reason, though I appear to have done the timed hill climbs on all three days, I only officially finished on Day 1.  I’m down as a DNF on Days 2 and 3, which I’m quite annoyed about.  Maybe it’s those flimsy timing chips?  Whatever the reason, if I’d paid £105 to enter the whole event, and put in all that work, I’d be really disappointed not to get an official finishing time.  As you can see, and for the record, I mostly certainly did finish every day – so there!

Moving on…the routes were mostly well marked – although a couple of signs were easy to miss and one was missing altogether.  There weren’t much by way of caution/warning signs though, and there were a few places they might have been wise.  However the routes themselves, all three days, are scenic and varied, and challenging.  And where else can you get the chance to challenge yourself in the same way?  You can’t.

But…it’s a small thing and probably sounds stupid…I just wish it all came with more of a sense of event, of being a happening.  As “the biggest Multi stage cyclosportive in the World” I kinda expect bells and whistles.  Briefings, tannoy, music, organisers everywhere making sure everything is going smoothly.  And however late I am in, I’d like to be welcomed home and told how well I did – however sycophantic that would be.  Especially on the final day.

There, that concludes my review of the Tour of Wessex 2013.

I always wanted to do it, wondered what it would feel like, wondered if I could do it.

And now I have, you know how it felt, and yes, I could.  Isn’t it amazing?  What the body and mind can do?  I did it.  I DID IT!!!

Well very much more to the point, WE did it.  Maybe I could have done it on my own, but I wouldn’t have. And I’m very glad I didn’t have to.

I am very very proud of us, and I can’t thank GB enough for sticking with me for three days – he deserves a medal just for that!  Just for once, I don’t have the words.

Would I do it again?  No!  That box is well and truly ticked.  Let’s face it, it just takes such a bl**dy long time! *grin*.

Cycling time: 23:23 hrs.
Distance: 335.7 miles.
Avs: 14.4 mph.
Climbing: 6533 m

Ok, another night of letting MadForm chill me to the bone after a bath, and having the Skins compress my muscles back to where they’re supposed to be.  No pasta – but risotto.  Still twice though, and followed by the usual pre-bed porridge.  Another early night, a better night’s sleep…and the alarm goes off to bring me, and you, to Day 3.  And this is the day that had been worrying me.  112 miles, so marginally shorter than Day 2 but…with 50% more climbing!  After two sportives already done.  Blimey!  On top of that, the weather forecast was not good which, let’s be honest, was predictable, because there’s no way the whole three days were going to be blessed with sunshine, now was there?

We were at the start line a bit ahead of time this time around.  There was no-one to meet, just ourselves to sort, and unsurprisingly by now we were pretty practiced at getting ready to go.  We were both wearing more layers today as although the sun was still out, the wind was blowing and it wasn’t even close to warm.  I opted for my new long tights too – as since my legs hadn’t made it out from under my leg warmers for the two previous days, there wasn’t a chance in hell of them needing to come out today!  Good thing I’d tested them out beforehand then – wearing new kit for 100 miles can be a risky thing.  Opting for longs was to prove to have been a good choice, as was swopping my light weight jersey for a slightly heavier one.  You can guess which gilet I wore though.  Well if it ain’t broke…? ;).

We lined up in the start pen, without the chaos of the previous days.  We were earlier, and there were also less riders it seemed.  I was actually feeling nervous.  Real butterflies in the tummy nervous.  Which although not that pleasant, I know can be a good thing.  It’s just not a feeling I get very often these days.  But if it wasn’t a big thing that I really wanted to do, that would make me nervous as a result, then why would I be putting myself through it?  Precisely.  So, nervous I was.  The timing guy was doing his jovial thing again as we advanced forward, which broke the tension a bit.  And we also didn’t have to wait around as long as in previous days, so I didn’t have time to fret too much anyway.

So, off we went.  Day 3 was underway.  Just one more day to get through.  It’s just a day, right?  After an initial leg sapping and GB dropping drag out of Somerton, there wasn’t much to worry about for the first twenty miles or so.  Well, not on the gradient front anyway.  We ended up fighting the rather more challenging wind with an ever changing range of little groups, and making reasonable time across the Levels.  GB was not feeling the love at all so, even with groups, we were often best left to get on with it our way rather than trying to keep up with anyone, or in fact having to make conversation with anyone.  I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing and be nice to complete strangers at the same time.  Small talk might have had its place on Day 1, by Day 3, it really didn’t, not for me anyway.  Yes, I’m an anti-social cow – everyone knows that!

In order to get to our real goal for the day – the hills of the Quantocks, and Exmoor – we had to first negotiate Bridgwater.   This is frequently not a good place for cyclists to be, but apparently the inhabitants wake late there, and there weren’t enough of them up and about to provide any hindrance, which came as somewhat of a relief.  Well kinda, but not, in that I knew that meant we weren’t far from having to go up in the world, and I really wasn’t sure how my legs were going to react to that.  OK, so I was feeling pretty good.  Very upbeat, positive, quite good all ’round…but hey, massive hills are a whole different thing, right?  And when we reached it, it was a doozer.  I could give you the stats….but let’s just say it went on for a very long time, in consistently steep fashion, with false finishes, twists..the works!  And I could do it!  OK, so I wasn’t going to be winning any fancy jerseys for my performance, but I made it up.   GB was a little behind me and the group I was currently in, having taken a break before the climb started.  I could tell when he’d caught up though – I recognise the tone of his cough by now ;).  Even with a head start and feeling crap, he still caught up…!  But I was pleased – the first of the day’s big climbs done, without my legs buckling from under me…see, I even look happy :D.

We were happily riding across the Quantock Common, cussing the wind and exposed nature of the place somewhat, in fairly good humoured fashion, when one of the riders behind me locked his gears up somehow and went crashing down on his right side.  How he didn’t take anyone else done with him I’ll never know…  We stopped to sort him out, one of the group going ahead to the food stop to inform “them”.  We gingerly picked him off the road, got him sat by the side of the road, and called the organisers to get someone to pick him up.  Explaining where we were seemed harder than it should have been – apparently “we’re on the common after the first timed climb” wasn’t quite clear enough, so I had to do quite a bit of explaining myself, and last I heard they were sending someone out.  A friend of his turned up, and they headed off to try and find somewhere a little exposed to wait, before he added hypothermia to his list of possible injuries.  He was tempted to carry on….he may have done, even if he probably shouldn’t have.  I know I’d find it hard to stop if that was me on Day 3 and I wasn’t actually physically incapacitated…bit like me, my chipped shoulder bone, and the last day of the L2P!  Mind you, I wouldn’t have wanted to have an accident like that and then have to be able to stop on the next descent….which was Crowcombe Hill!  Wow – that’s steep.  And hard and fast…and the speed a few went past me at?  I’m glad nothing came the other way!  Brave…but stupid, if you ask me.

Anyway we left him there, looked after and catered for, and made our way down and up to the first food stop at Crowcombe Village Hall.  There were no toilets, officially, but one of the young lads there was very kindly taking pity on the ladies around and letting them into the disabled toilet – via keypad – one at a time.  Thank you – it was very much appreciated!  There was no sign of the other riders we’d been with who’d gone ahead so, as ever, when we left, then there were two…

We came down from the Quantocks at Washford to the joys of a long stretch on the A39 – all the way past Dunster, through Minehead, and out to Porlock.  I’m pretty familiar with this road, and it’s a busy one.  Luckily the traffic were, surprisingly considering the number of cyclists around, being fairly tolerant.  There’s a long climb out of Minehead, but a lovely long flying bit to get to Porlock, which I’ve always wanted to do fast, so I left GB behind for a bit to enjoy it – he wasn’t enjoying himself as much as I was at the time.   We had a bit of a stop at the bottom of the toll road, which was about 48 miles in, to take on gels, and refreshment, and see if we couldn’t sort out GB’s PMA and/or killer headache.  Well…we tried anyway.  I was feeling good, positive, like we could do it.  He was feeling seriously rough, but was determined to carry on.  So carry on we did…

So on to one of my favourite climbs – Porlock Toll Road.  I’ve said that before, and everyone’s always gone, ooh, bet you won’t say that on Day 3 of the Tour of Wessex.  Well I’m sorry, I still loved it.  It’s long, slow, gradual, and scenic.  It was also sheltered from the growing yet worse wind and the deteriorating weather.  The road surface is lovely, there are precious few cars, I get to see the sea, and there are even hairpins!  What more does a girl want? 😉

I pootled my way up taking photos, letting GB do things his way.  The higher up we got, the worse the weather got.  We became more and more exposed, and that wind just gusted away, knocking me sideways from time to time.  The Cinelli hates side winds – it’s proper skittish.  GB got into a rhythm and ended up back in his customary place – ahead of me.  I stuck to just taking it easy – he’s not very good at doing that!  Eventually we ran out of Toll road, and hit Exmoor proper.  I was trying not to smother GB with my maternal tendancy to make sure everyone is ok and see if there’s anything I can do, so did my best to button it as we headed across to Exford.  I went past him at one point, as he was feeling sicker than ever.  Apparently he actually was, and then after that he felt much better.  TMI? Sorry! :P.  Whatever works, right?  He certainly kicked my arse on the lethal steep climb that comes after the descent in the middle there somewhere .  Those training rides in Exmoor paid off – as I’m really glad I knew it was there (as did the photographer!) otherwise I’d most certainly have lost my chain trying to get into the right gear.  Which was the lowest possible gear, and even then I nearly didn’t make it, as my legs suddenly did the lactic acid heavy losing it thing.  All I could do was keep asking them to go ’round and hope that they would listen to me.  It was a close run thing…

It was horrible up there.  See – even the cows were windswept!  15 miles or so of slogging into that headwind on bleak exposed moor land would be bad enough…and then it rained.  Oh marvellous.  So I got to get wet and then freezing cold as well.  GB was well into perked up by now and was drawing away on a regular basis.  He’s just inherently a lot stronger than I am – I don’t know how he does it!  We had a brief period of respite at the lunch stop, 57 miles in, which happened to have public toilets nearby, always good.  We ate, drank, I took yet another gel.  I wasn’t massively chatty.  Everyone was looking a bit shell shocked, and there were not a lot of shiny happy people around.  At least they still had bananas this time.  I’d have loved a cup of coffee, but then hanging around to drink one would probably have been a bad idea.  We were trying to get away from the bad weather, not travel along with it!

Off we went again.  I don’t remember the details.  Just a lot of riding.  A lot of climbing.  I remember being very cold.  Miserable.  Beyond flat.  Even a tad weepy.  Not like I couldn’t make it…because come hell or high water I was going to make it.  It just felt like it was going to take a very long and unenjoyable forever to do so.   GB was back to his usual self now, and I spent quite a lot of this bit on my own, which I have to say wasn’t helping cheer me up much either, though he did wait for me in between times.  And I never want to hear anything about Wimbleball Lake ever again.  I’m not so keen on lakes that I need to slog my way up gratuitous hills just to see one!

The final food stop was at the gatehouse of Cedar Falls, which contained one inside loo, thus causing a certain amount of queuing.  This probably wasn’t helped by the fact that it was warm and toasty in there and so hard to leave…  ;).  Riders were making tea and coffee in the kitchen, which all seemed oddly domestic and surreal at the time.  I forced myself to eat more – a banana, a gel – as I figured I needed to fuel myself back.  The last thing I needed to do was wipe out as well, and that had threatened to happen several times already.  It’s a good thing I know the signs these days, it means I can deal with it asap.  Still, we couldn’t hang around, we had places to be.  But man, I was so cold as we left…

It may have only been 25 odd miles from the end, but at some of the speed we’d been doing, that didn’t feel as much of a relief as it sometimes does, especially with a 6pm timing cut off every day (which seems a bit harsh if you ask me).  However daft it is, we both kinda wanted to make it in before that, and I have to say I didn’t think it was likely.  But GB did, so I let him lead the way.  I made him stop from time to time so I could take the next gel, and then I just followed him in.  I even took my turn at the front occasionally.  But it was pretty much a head down push for home and don’t talk much job.  I guess having a goal is good sometimes!  Knowing the route, he knew where the flat was, where to make the most of shelter, etc….forewarned and forearmed.  As we went along, I gradually dried out a bit, warmed up a bit, and possibly even perked up a bit.

We came back into Langport, having been passed by the last of the motorcycle outriders, leaving nothing but the mechanics and the broom wagon (and actually quite a few other riders!) behind us.  The Tour of Wessex was closing up…  And we kept on.  There were a couple of final drags on the way back to Somerton that I would love to have burned it up, but I just couldn’t…it wasn’t in my legs.  But I got up them in my own slow sweet way, caught up with GB after the tops, and we made it down the last fast flying descent to turn right into HQ, negotiate the leaving traffic, and make it over the finish line at 17:58…  There, by the skin of our teeth.  The mat was still there, even if the inflatable arch wasn’t, something beeped…and we’d made it.  Of course being so late in the day, everything was being packed away.  No welcoming committee, no audience…nothing.  A very anti-climactic way to end such a day.

But I was so happy we’d made it.  GB would probably have liked to head straight for home, but instead, true to our negotiated settlement the day before, we packed up, and went and got our medals, a cup of coffee, and some food before heading for home.  He felt crap, I felt great – it was over!  Day 3 done!  I had to do something, not just leave.  Besides which, I’d earnt that medal!  They were dismantling the tent around us as we sat and I ate my roll free bacon roll – also known as just bacon.  GB was talking, I was listening…just really proud of us both for having done such an amazing thing.  To have survived in fact. Day 3 is a sportive that would be hard at the best of times, on a good day, on its own.  On a day like that, as Day 3 of an event with two days already in the legs?  Just awesome.

Cycling time: 8:34 hrs.
Distance: 112.38 miles.
Avs: 13.1 mph.
Climbing: 2791 m
ODO: 2193.00 miles.

So…  After Day 1 I went home and ate pasta.  I had a bath.  Applied some MadForm double recovery cream which smells like wintergreen, or Vicks, or mouthwash.  It goes on warm and then goes freezing cold and it froze me to the bone for half an hour…even under the Skins which were back on, a fleece, and a blanket.  Very bizarre and not very pleasant…but hey, if it works?  Talk about suffering for your art!  I also washed my kit.  Then I ate more pasta.  I put the wet kit on the radiator, and prepared all the rest of my kit and food again.  And before bed, porridge with banana and sultanas.  A bed which I headed to considerably earlier than usual, still wearing my Skins.  Rest and recovery right?

Sleeping in Skins is a bit boil in the bag.   Get too hot.  Get sweaty.  Kick off duvet.  Get cold.  And clammy.  Retrieve duvet.  And repeat…  But hey, as with the cream, if there was any chance of it working, I was willing to put up with it.  Every little helps!  Even with all that, I slept pretty well, which would not have been the case had I been in a tent on a sports field overnight…

The alarm went off.  The Skins came off, and went in the bag for later.  The kit went on.  And more porridge went in.  How was I feeling?  Well, just like I normally do before a sportive really.  As my knee had been a bit ouchy the day before, I took the precaution of strapping it up.  And also of applying the usual Riemann P20 just in case the sun brought my legs out to play for the first time this year.  Better safe than sorry right?  But all in all…I was feeling…ok!  Hm…

GB was still a little early, and was even less perky than usual.  Not feeling ok, I think it’s safe to say.  The problem with this being his third Tour was a complete lack of novelty value, and he, unlike I, knew what was in store.  Ignorance is sometimes a good thing!  He put up with my usual morning babbling in his usual stoic fashion, and once again got us to where we had to be when we had to be there.  It was just as busy as the day before, but this time I insisted we have coffee.  As I’ve said before, Claud the Butler makes the best americano going, and I didn’t want to not have at least one!  I made GB have one too, which he did eventually agree was a good idea.  Coffee is always a good idea!  Gary was riding Day 2 with us.  Or more to the point, he was riding the same Day 2 as us.  He was parked up behind us as we all got sorted, a little faster today, as the kit was the same, and the dilemma the same…with the solution being the same too!  It felt a bit warmer but still – Maratona gilet…

We all lined up at the start, with the same queuing and shuffling as the day before.  As everyone barged for position, tried to find their mates, get their teams together, we all got a bit spread out so GB dropped back to find me.  This time a timing guy was on a loudhailer at the start line talking to us all and having a laugh as he sent off us in batches, which was more fun.  However Gary got away in the batch before us and was never to be seen again.  Back to just GB and I then.  And off we went.  With a certain sense of trepidation…how would the legs feel when actually asked to make wheels go around again?  Well, not too bad…  The first hour always feels crap, which I kept reminding myself.  As we took the long slow climb out of Somerton my legs indicated that they were less than thrilled to be going up in any way, but that’s nothing new.  GB was suffering rather more, and fell backwards on the first few such, which wasn’t helping his PMA one iota!

I’ve done Day 2 twice before – in 2007 and 2008.  I think it’s safe to say that it, and I, have changed somewhat.  I didn’t recognise much of the first section at all.  It was another gorgeous day though.  Groups hurtled past and we let them.  I found myself surreptitiously checking out their numbers to see what variety of rider they were – 3 day long, 3 day medium, 1 day long, 1 day medium – in the hopes that they were lightweights and reassure me that they were entitled to their get up and go…not fellow Day 2 riders going away entirely too fast for my liking!

There were a few little lumps, but it was pretty uneventful until the first food stop on the road by the Cerne Abbas giant.  Guess what?  Yep, no toilets.  The opening on the opposite side of the road was unofficially designated the “ladies”, whilst the men did the usual lining the road and watering the flowers thing.  Nice.  The food stop was as chaotic as ever – I managed to top up, find a banana, but couldn’t find any jelly babies which was a shame as I really fancied some.  Ah well, I’m sure they’re not good for me anyway.  I captured the giant for you.  He clearly doesn’t need to over compensate with flashy carbon… 😉

As we left, we bumped into (not literally!) a Mendip CC rider and chatted for a while.  He was a little bemused as to how I knew so much about them until I pointed out it was a Facebook thing, and I’d commented on the post all about the ride…which probably reassured him that I wasn’t actually some bizarre sort of stalker.  This was when the ride became more familiar, and I remembered there was a big climb coming up.  Which there was.  A nice long steady steep one.  It may have a name, something to do with Piddle maybe?  Either way, it was quite a tester, and the drummers at the top were a lovely sight – they cropped up throughout the ride and if they were there, you’d reached the top of whichever climb it is you were on – always nice to know! 🙂  They were also, without exception, always friendly and cheerful.  I was pretty pleased with how the hill went too.  No speed, but the usual crawler gear seemed to be working, and GB seemed to have his legs back too.

Both of the last times I’ve done this ride, it has quite liberally and literally rained on my parade.  At which time, cycling past Puddletown seemed painfully ironic.  Today was a different story, and believe me, it’s a much nicer ride in the dry!  We were heading south, to the seaside, and a climb I was really looking forward to.  I’d forgotten about going through Lulworth first…  The descent there was lovely, but the climb back out again?  Much less so!  At least there was a tank to take photos of at the top – that I did remember…when I finally got there that is.  I’ve discovered that me taking photos on rides, going along, amuses other riders.  They also think I make the climb look easy – well it must be if I have time to take photos, right?  That I like.  We’ll go with that.  Very motivational ;).

So, on to my climb.  The Lulworth Ranges climb.  Which climbs up and up from the floor, past the mangled rusty tanks that are now targets for their newer shinier replacements, past the numbers those other tanks use to practice targetting, as the world opens up in front of and behind you, and the further you go, the more you see.  And it goes on and on and the sun was shining, and sometimes I could see the sea, and yes, it was hard, but not as hard as it used to be, and there was no walking, just grinning at and chatting with the inevitable photographer near the top.  I loved it 🙂  Having become separated from GB at the bottom – I had a brief stop for a gel and pills, he was in search of other forms of comfort break, I found him waiting at the top trying not to be bitten by the plentiful horseflies but smiling nonetheless.  And the grin on my face was pretty big too :D.

I stayed happy and buzzy for quite some time as we carried on along the coast ridge, waving at all the classic cars passing the other way.  Relentlessly cheerful to everyone as ever – to the riders that we passed, to every pedestrian, and now to them.  They liked it so much most of them waved back, and one of them even hooted at us in retro fashion – great fun, and also very good for our PMA.  I was so pleased to have enjoyed it like I wanted to – it felt like a big box ticked :).  I think this may have been my favourite patch of the whole three days, especially as it ended with Corfe Castle, which suddenly looms up at you and is stunning.  Clearly a lot of people wanted to visit it on a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday as the road coming in, luckily the opposite direction to us leaving, was jammed solid, with car drivers bored enough to wave at or clap at us to relieve the tedium!

Time for a well earned lunch methinks, which was in the ground of a school at the 62 mile point.  Lots of room, portable toilets, but still queues for the food.  GB chose to queue, and was going to get me a banana but there weren’t any.  I topped the bottles up though – I was making a real effort to keep properly hydrated.  Having queued for food, we took time for him to eat it, and to catch a break a bit.  The seagulls were having a ball hoovering up all the crumbs and leftovers.  We were over half way through for the day…which meant we were also over half way through the whole thing.  I like to know these things, it gives me something to focus on when the going gets tough.

I found the next section of the ride really boring.  Miles of long straight unremarkable through Bovington Camp.  OK, maybe I have a low boredom threshold…  GB seemed to be flagging a bit after a while, and the long steep climb through and out of Milton Abbas pretty much did him in.  Well it must have done – I had to wait for him for a change.  Not that I mind – any excuse for a break or to take it easy – you know me!

Milton Abbas was busy being very sociable.  Village hall teas.  Classic car drivers having their lunch in pub gardens and cheering us on as we went past.  All very expensive rural idyll type stuff.  And those pub gardens sure looked tempting…  Again, the miles started to blur, there were after all, so many of them done and yet to do!  It’s that part of the ride that is always hard.  I had a flat patch around 70 miles somewhere.  There were more climbs.  More green, yellow, blue.  I tried to distract myself with the scenery, the views, yet more bluebells.  And looking out for GB.  We’re a team, and being jollied along by me may be irritating but it’s probably better than not being jollied along at all?  Maybe… 😉

The final food stop came at 86 miles, which was still 30 miles from the end, but those 30 miles were due, if the elevation graph I’d seen beforehand was anything to go by, to be fairly flat.  Luckily the town hall turned out to have toilets, and water, but it was looking a bit sparse on the supplies front.  Must learn to go faster, right? 😉

I sat down for a bit, on the stone chip floor, to fill up my bottles and eat.  It was hard to walk on with cleats but surprisingly not that uncomfortable to sit on.  Which probably means my bum was numb ;).  Getting up again, with all that already in my legs, was NOT easy.  It’s not like we had much choice though.  So up we got.  And off we went.  I can do flat.  So I did.  I sat on the front, and we pushed our way all the way back, with the odd inevitable break for gels, drinks, contact lens bits, etc.  It was just a question of eating up the miles.  Not being familiar with the roads made it hard to judge where we were in relation to where we were going…and it was a relief when I started to recognise things from when I last did it, although not necessarily from the same direction as back then!

About two miles from the end, with GB almost restored to himself, my get up and go went AWOL – as the pain cut in and the last gel wore off.  Still we were nearly there, I knew where I was, and I just pottered in from there as GB drew away.  Once more we rolled back over the start line.  Or the finish line.  GB and I had negotiated…and agreed that there would be no hanging around afterwards today, in return for a bit on Day 3, so it was back to the car, back on with the Skins and off home again asap.  Day 2 done!  116 miles takes a very long time doesn’t it?  But actually, I felt ok.  A bit tired and achey, but then I’m always that way after a sportive.  It didn’t feel like it felt noticeably worse because it was the second such in a row.  Which was interesting.  And weird.  I’ve never done two sportives back to back – so I was kinda chuffed about that, whatever came next.  Two thirds done…only one more day to go!

Cycling time: 7:38 hrs.
Distance: 116.2 miles.
Avs: 15.2 mph.
Climbing: 1911 m
ODO: 2080.62 miles.

So this was it.  The Tour of Wessex.  It’s on my doorstep, so to speak, so I’ve been hearing about it for years.  Apparently “The Tour of Wessex is the biggest Multi stage cyclosportive in the World”.  Effectively it’s three sportives in a row.  Three hilly sportives in a row.  I know people who’ve done it.  I’ve admired them for doing it, in a kind of awestruck way.  I’ve also always thought they were mad!  And all the time, in a small corner of the shrivelled walnut that is my brain, a tiny little bit of me wondered what it would be like, and if, just maybe, I could do it.  Man, I have to learn to shut that bl**dy voice up – it gets me into all sorts of trouble!

It would appear the universe listens to that voice too…since Cyclosport were after someone to review it.  If that wasn’t enough, Nick, Mr Pendragon himself, offered me a place to do it.  And GB seemed glad of an excuse to do it again (for the third time!) and promised to keep me company all the way ’round.  Talk about the fates conspiring…!  I spent last week trying to eat as much proper food as I could (not easy when you’re me), sleeping when I needed to, taking it relatively easy, and panicking at irregular intervals.  And it wasn’t a good week either, with a lot of pain and copious tramadol consumption, so I had possibly even greater cause to stress about what was ahead of me than was strictly necessary.

Nonethless, at 6:45am on Saturday am, 15 minutes early as expected, my faithful chauffeur GB was once again at the door, and the time had come…*gulp*.  GB is not a morning person.  I kind of am.  And I’m even more perky and irritating when I’m excited and caffeinated!  You see I’d managed to convince myself that I didn’t need to be nervous about Day 1.  Well, it’s just a sportive right?  And I think it’s fair to say I’ve done a few of them.  So I was up, and ready, and cheerful…  It’s the following days that were worrying me….but let’s not get ahead of ourselves shall we?

A 45 minute drive across the sunny, tho chilly, Levels brought us to HQ at Somerton for the first time, and we were marshalled on to the playing field, past the tents of those choosing that accommodation option for the three days, to park up.  Brave indeed…there was no way I’d have even been attempting this without the thought of my own bed and bath every night!  We opted for the register then faff option – and registration couldn’t have been more low key.  Turn up – tell them who you are, get your entry pack…and that was it!

A quick trip to the posh Silver Street toilets and it was time for faffing proper.  We were joined by Steve (doing the Medium route) and Mark, aka the Pixie (doing just that day).  I may be known as the Queen of Faff but there isn’t actually that much to it.  Generally I have it all pretty much worked out in advance.  My only real decision was which gilet to wear…and I went for the heavier option as it was a tad chilly and breezy.  Besides Nick, who I saw briefly at the start, was wearing his Maratona cap, so the Maratona gilet seemed to be the apposite choice.  Mind you, I hate this kind of timing chip.  It’s supposed to be mounted like this, but facing backwards…which would be where my saddle bag lives and, being little, there is no space on my seat post for anything else!  I did this…GB stuck his on his saddle bag…mine ended up wrapped round to the right at some point, so whether or not it worked or not remains to be seen.  The car park was full of people similarly moaning about them…so it’s not just me. People also do not like sticking things to their precious paintwork, even if there is room!

By the time we were all sorted, the queue for the start had already grown well beyond the railings and riders were squeezing in from the back, the side, every which way really, which was a tad chaotic.  Riders were let off from 8:30 onwards, and we slowly crept towards the front and our turn.  And suddenly we were on our way.  No briefing, no announcement, no fanfare…just packs of riders heading off towards Somerton and the day’s riding ahead.

After a first, warming climb, we were heading out across the Somerset countryside, in flat and rolling fashion.  Everyone was in fairly cheerful mode.  Fairly fast too, with a fair few groups flying past.  Tempting though it was to hurtle off, I knew I had a long day (s!) ahead and that’s no way to survive.  It being fast and flat, there wasn’t much to break riders up either.  On the narrow roads past Glastonbury to Wedmore, where some of the road surfaces leave quite a lot to be desired, there was a fair amount of jostling going on.  It’s hard to avoid the potholes and the riders pushing past you on the outside, without warning, at the same time.  It was a little bit hairy and after a few miles of that, by the time we got to the main road to go over Mudgley Hill I was a tad grumpy and also relieved to be hitting slightly larger roads.  As hills go, bearing in mind what was ahead, it probably doesn’t count.  It certainly didn’t seem to count to Sarah Godwin (yes you!), who went past us cheerily with her mates as if we were standing still…  Hey, it happens to me a lot, I’m used to it ;).

Right, on to the big, nay iconic, climb of the day – Cheddar Gorge.  At that time of the morning, it was relatively grockle free, but the stream of colourful riders winding their way up the wiggly road were attracting quite a lot of attention and support from those who were there, including the staff from the Caves who were all wearing blue disco wigs…no, don’t ask me why, I have no idea!

The first section of the Gorge is the worst, culminating in one last very steep left hand wiggle where you will always find me in the middle of the road, and no, I won’t be moving for you, be you cyclist or motorist, until I’ve got past the worst bit!  After that it gradually flattens out mile by mile, until eventually it feels almost flat by comparison, even if it actually isn’t.  We didn’t climb together – that’s not how climbing works – but regrouped somewhere before heading along the road across the top of the Mendips towards Priddy and the first food stop.   Again, it’s a road I quite like to fly along, but I was consciously reining it in a bit, and no-one seemed to object to that as I led the way there.

The first food stop was, not to put too fine a point on it, chaos.  One lay by, not big enough to contain all the riders milling around trying to get food and drink.  The actual food table was like a scrum, or possibly like a horde of locusts descending…  It was a bit disconcerting.  I managed to grab some jelly babies and a banana.  All I really wanted to do was go to the toilet…and there weren’t any!  There was also nowhere for us “ladies”, of which there were quite a few, to go and decently hide.  Grrr….  This meant an impromptu stop shortly afterwards, where the Pixie kindly waited for me, eyes averted, because there was no way I was going down Old Bristol Hill thus distracted.

As we flew down Old Bristol Hill, a little carefully as it’s wiggly and the surface ain’t great, we passed George and Ben cycling up the other way, and we all yelled hello at each other, which quite put a smile on my face – thanks guys! 🙂  In fact, this supportive trend was to continue…  We made our way into Wells, past an unfortunate rider who had come a cropper at the A39 crossing and was being treated by flashing blues – and there, on the side of the road, was a cheering Chris (aka Figgy)!  How lovely is that?!  I stopped shortly afterwards to take a photo of the Cathedral safely, and whilst doing so Pixie had to explain to a curious old gentleman what we were all doing.  Proof that he can indeed be sociable which is apparently not usually true and thus worthy of note 😉

The next section, around Bruton and the like, is less familiar to me, and also rather lumpy.  There was some amusing chaos around the Royal Bath & West Showground which was preparing for the Bath & West Show by having a large escorted wide load arrive….  Stationary traffic as far as the eye could see in all directions.  One of those days when your ability to negotiate such things p*sses off the motorist immensely!  Tee hee…  Evercreech had a very pretty church, with a little lane next to it labelled “Church View – formerly known as Twaddle Alley”.   Which, I think we all agree, was a way cooler name!  Maybe that’s just because I talk a lot of twaddle? 😉  As we went along, and up, and down, our little group splintered and reformed from time to time, but it was all fairly pleasant.  After all, G stands for Group.  We came to the route split, where the more sensible Steve was going right, and chatted to the two lovely spectators there, as we regrouped one last time to say our farewells.  Then we headed off towards the dreaded King Alfred’s Tower…*gulp*.  I’ve been up it before.  I know I can do it.  Well at least I knew I could do it then…could I do it now?  It was a timed climb, which always makes me giggle…like that’s ever going to be remotely relevant to me!  You can see the tower from a long away away, inexorably getting closer…  And the climb is still a killer.  Max 18%?  More than that I reckon!  And in this instance local knowledge is a good thing – I knew what was coming, and how it goes…  No rushing to get there for me – the climb real doesn’t start for quite a long time.  One very fit younger lady went steaming past us, pushing us out of the way, so keen was she to hand me my arse on a plate.  Ooooh, I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to plod past her, stopped by the side, on the steeper section which I knew was coming…  Hey, I’m petty, so shoot me ;).  And she wasn’t the only one walking.  And yes, I made it all the way up again.  Without walking.  ‘Rah!  It did take me a little while to get myself back together again afterwards though, which meant I had time to take in, and take photos of, the very pretty bluebells thereabouts.

The second stop, also known as lunch, came at 53 miles in, and was at a village hall.  There was a long, slow moving, queue for the savoury rolls that were being made and handed out for lunch.  It almost made me glad that I can’t eat those – or the other pasties, pies etc that were on offer.  I travel equipped, so I stuck to topping up the bottles and using the toilet instead.  The water was running very low so I’m glad I didn’t get there any later…because no water would have been a bad thing.  We kicked back in the sun for a little while before setting off on our way again.  No rush, right?

As a sportive day goes on, the miles and the scenery tend to blur…what happened where, when?  I know there was more climbing, inevitably, and a stretch of cycling across the top of the world that was glorious.  It was lovely out there…sunny, not too warm, scenic…  It’s a beautiful part of the world, especially when you know the hill you’ve been dreading is behind you!

The route also goes through and around the Stourhead estate, which came as a bit of a shock to the slow moving NT members ambling down the road oblivious to the trickle of cyclists descending towards and through them at considerable speed.  Their ignorance is no excuse for yelling rude things at them though.  Shame on you whoever you were, it’s things like that that give us cyclists a bad name, so don’t do it again, there’s a good chap.  I was expecting the tourists though, having been there before, and I needed a stop for photos and so on anyway, so was happy to take it easy and enjoy the view.  It’s not a race!

We came back to the route split, took the left indicated, and shortly afterwards came to the final foodstop, at 85 miles in, which left only 22 fairly flat miles to do.  Fairly familiar too, which does help on the pacing front.  After topping up once more, at a much quieter though rather understocked stop – the up and down sides of being a slow rider – we were ready to get Day 1 done!  We headed back through the country lanes at a reasonable, but not too fast, lick.  Pixie let us set the pace, so as to not make us go too fast, since he was only doing the one day.  There was a great sign for “Cider etc….in one mile”.  We debated as to what the etc was.  The rider we were passing said he’d quite like a pint of etc roundabout then *grin*.   That kind of cider probably isn’t conducive to continued riding though! 😉  Pixie took the lead towards the end, until the last flying descent to wards Somerton, which I love, and had to make the most of.  Sadly it was followed by the last kick of a climb back up to Somerton itself which takes it right out of your legs.  Still, at that point, we were nearly there, we just had to go through a very pretty Somerton to return to HQ, and go back over the start line.

We were clearly not fast, judging by the emptiness of the car park, but that’s never a surprise to me these days.  We didn’t hang around for any apres ride stuff either.  On went my Skins compression kit, as recommended and advised, and we packed everything up and headed for home, eating as we went.  Day 1 was done.  107 miles of mostly quiet scenic roads, with fairly polite traffic, lovely roadside supporters, rather too much dust for my contact lenses, and too many bugs in my helmet…but that’s what you get when the sun shines :).  One third of the Tour of Wessex under our belts.  Or something.

Cycling time: 7:11 hrs.
Distance: 107.2 miles.
Avs: 15.0 mph.
Climbing: 1831 m
ODO: 1964.50 miles.

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head…  Well it would have gone something like that, except it went got up, got out of bed, and yelped!  I have no idea how, or why, but somehow I managed to do my lower back in between the last time pre-sportive nerves woke me up twixt night and day to go to the loo, and actually getting up.  Maybe the cat slept on it?  I know she was around at some point, as she’s particularly good at burrowing beneath the covers and then happily squelching with her claws on bits of your anatomy that were not designed for such things.  Since none of my body is designed for such things, and her claws are predatorily sharp, it tends to wake you up, at least far enough to discourage her!  And she does like sitting on my back while I sleep…

I woke up with the alarm. It was 5:10am, and walking was tricky. Getting dressed, usually such a carefree thing, was done sitting on the floor as I couldn’t stand up to do it.  Marvellous.  I even resorted to doing the Cat stretch to try and loosen things up which did actually help a bit.  But it turns out there’s an upside to my other ailments.  Having had a pill free week – go me! – that happy state of affairs came to an end on Friday night, so I had been back on the shiny green and yellow pills ever since.  My back was not the only thing hurting that morning.  So I took the pills, ate porridge, drank coffee – same old, same old – just with more pain for the pills to deal with!  Having posted on Facebook as to my predicament, since clearly I can’t live my life without telling the world about it, I loaded up the car, and headed off.

HQ for the Forest of Dean Spring Classic is the Monmouth Showground near, unsurprisingly, Monmouth.  This means a drive of around 1.5 hours from here, including a brief stop off at Portishead Services.  I’m considering compiling a list, possibly a pamphlet, maybe even a small book, entitled “Service stations I have known and loved”.  Or not loved, since some of them are weird, and some of them time has completely forgotten…   Anyway, it was a fairly pleasant drive, barring my brain’s wish to go back to sleep again. I love going across the Severn Bridges – either of them – and since last week’s sportive meant using the new one, it was quite nice that this one used the old one.  It’s an equitable life, ‘n all that.  Not only do you get many rivers to cross on your way to where you’re going, you also get to enjoy the lovely, empty, wiggly road along the Wye Valley, and past Tintern Abbey which is still gorgeous.  The Abbey that is, not the ability to take the racing line around all the corners.  Though that was fun too ;).

HQ neared, according to the GPS, though I might have twigged anyway, thanks to the other cars that were quite clearly going to the same place I was and then, closer still, by the black arrows on green background that were pointing in the direction of Hill 15 that I was going to be climbing later. They also pointed me to HQ and parking which was more useful. I have to say I’d expected bigger things from a Showground. It’s a large field, with parking, one permanent structure, and then the marquees and portable loos of the event. Still, what more do you need?

So I parked. It being a short trek to HQ I decided to get sorted and walk over there with the bike, rather than to-ing and fro-ing, and wasting energy that I was sure to need on the bike later.  I’d opted not to bring too many kit options with me – in fact the only real decision to be made was which gilet?  In my usual fashion, here’s the outfit choice for the day: new shoes, toe covers, leg warmers, shorts, heavier s/s Italian Rapha jersey (which I love), arm warmers and…hm, ah, hm…Maratona gilet.  Which is a heavier weight than my Cyclosport one and also has three lovely pockets in the back. So there you go, decision made, time to head off and register. There were lots of brightly coloured cyclists buzzing around the tents as I arrived. You hang your bike up on the rack for the time slot you’d like to start in, in my case 8:20-8:30 as the other earlier slots were full, and are then free to do what has to be done. There’s a lot to be said for organised bike parking!

Sadly they had no record of me on the registration lists, unlike the other 600 or so other riders, but I explained my presence, filled in a form for insurance purposes, and was duly given a number, complete with integral timing chip, and two ties. Come to think of it, that’s probably why I didn’t get any pre-event emails…

That was registration done. I met Jeannie, and then Mark, the ACG tri-athlete contingent, whilst faffing, and also using the portable loos. I think there were more loos in the building, but since the queues for the two sets of the outdoor variety were fairly short, I didn’t trek over there.  No need!  Jeannie and Mark were planning on riding together, and there ain’t no way I can keep up with her, so that was out!  Faffing complete, I was sorted, and the start line was fairly empty, so I set off in that direction earlier than scheduled, and was on my merry way, tout seule, at 8:10am or thereabouts.  Well, once we’d ridden over the field and then a nasty gravelly track to get to the road that is…I hope no-one punctured on that, because I know how cross I’d be!

I may steer clear of Wales from hereonin.  Or possibly get “ARAF” tattooed somewhere.  It’s hilly over there!  There were 18 named climbs on the route – marked and counted down in reverse. This is not to say there are only 18 hills – ha ha – it just means the rest of them are nameless.  Although I spent quite a lot of time, as you do when going up such things, trying mentally to convince myself that what I was going up wasn’t an up at all because if it didn’t have a name it couldn’t be, right? Which presumably makes it a hillock, an incline, a positive gradient, maybe even a climb…but definitely not a hill. Oh no, not a hill.  Talking of hills, as we clearly are, the first one, Lydart, is long, slow and a real slog because it comes only 2 miles in, well before you’ve warmed up.  To be honest, it would be a slog whenever you met it, and at least we were all definitely much warmer by the time we reached the top that we had been at the bottom!

The first 30 miles passed relatively pleasantly. Lots of climbing up roads lined by trees.  Apparently it’s not called a Forest for nothing. There wasn’t a great deal to distinguish one climb from another, other than the counting downs of signs in between.  Frequent was the “surely this is one of the hills?” comment amongst passing riders…only to discover that no, this one is, that last one you were just imagining ;).  The weather was changeable.  Some wind, though nowhere near as much as last weekend.  In fact on one of the hills it was hard to decide whether it was annoying because it was a headwind, or nice because it was cooling you down!  It was a case of clouds with sunny breaks in between.  You’d get almost too warm going up whichever big hill it was and be just starting to contemplate layer removal, having unzipped as far as is prudent, before descending and having to pull all those zips back up again.

The first food stop came at a village hall around 30 miles in, and it was once again equipped with bike racks, making that whole “where do I put my bike” thing that much easier.  There were the usual cake and banana options, Clif drink and water, and Clif bars on demand, to save the greedy stashing them one presumes – seems like a good idea to me.  The Ladies was blocked off, leading to some amusing use of the Gents as unisex…not entirely pleasant, and possibly a tad unnerving for the gents I disturbed on my exit.  I promise I kept my eyes averted!

Here was where I met Mark again, him having sadly been dropped by the powerhouse that is Jeannie. I think this worked out quite well for both of us though, as we hung together for the rest of the ride, which took the edge off somewhat.  Plus he was as patient as Chris was last week when it comes to my having to stop for whatever reason – bit in contact lens (ow!), pills to take, bottle decanting, gel taking, layer stashing, etc.  I am quite possibly a nightmare to ride with!

(if you sit behind me without taking your turn or joining in our erudite and stimulating, do my ears look big in this helmet, conversation, I will take your photo!  The guy in front of us was eavesdropping and thought we were hilarious…as he informed us when we finally passed him 😉 ).

I’ve decided 90 miles is a good length for a sportive. It makes breaking it into chunks easier. 30 miles – stop – 30 miles – stop – 30 miles – Finish!  I also like the counting down the hills bit and, for the most part, they were my kind of hills.  Still, life clouded over for the middle section. Not just did the weather do that, but there was about 20 miles or so that were on roads that, although smoother, were altogether more main and far too busy, full of Bank Holiday weekend folk not wishing to share the roads with cyclists, and getting infuriated by having to queue behind them and then taking stupid risks to get past. You know the drill, you’ve all been there.

The second food stop, 60 miles in, was once again at a village hall, and came as quite a relief from that. We parked up on the grassy slope and took a moment to eat bananas and Clif bars (respectively me and him), having topped up the bottles.  Well it was getting sunnier, the hills were taking a toll, my back and other parts were waiting for the second dose of pills to cut in, and Mark was having a lack of PMA moment.  At least I didn’t have to share the loo this time – proper subdivision was in place, and order restored ;).  Whilst sitting outside I was engaged in conversation by a nice gentlemen who, having spotted the Maratona gilet, wished to talk to me about it and him doing it this year.  Since he did the Marmotte this year, I think he’ll be just fine!  As for his plan to do the Marmotte again the week after the Maratona…I don’t care if he is celebrating a big birthday, he must be mad! Good luck if that was you! :).

That left one more section to do, which mentally I was feeling pretty good about.  3o miles just sounded doable, even with the hills, and the looming final hurdle of the day – Symonds Yat.  As we set off again, at 13:10 – which I know because someone in the group behind me asked if anyone knew what the time was, the weather was improving all the time.  Various bits of kit vanished away as we went, until yes, madly, my arms actually saw the light of day for the first time this year!  Not my legs – you’re not ready for that yet – but hey, it’s a start!

I’ve lost track of the hills. Mostly they were long slow slogs with occasional steeper bits. Bulls Hill Climb was particularly tough and long, and Broadwell was just as long, we went up Ruardean Hill from two sides (gratuitous!), and Soudely Hill A and B. We reckon it’s like Hinckley Point, and that Soudely Hill C is probably under construction as we speak ;).  (I may have spelt all of these wrong!).  The penultimate hill, English Bicknor, was proper steep and came after a lovely descent so it killed the thighs. Well, mine anyway. Mark was having calf problems instead.  But by now it was sunny, and green, and we were getting the views we were earning, and it all felt much nicer. And quieter, and with some patches of truly ‘orrid road surface, but that’s the trade off isn’t it? It had turned into a much better day at the office, that’s for sure :).

To be fair the signage was very good throughout – not just the arrows marking out the route, but also big red warning triangle signs marked accordingly for descents, hairpins, gravel etc as well as smaller signs for potholes, so at least we were forewarned, and we didn’t get lost either!  I had been dreading this ride somewhat, after suffering during last week’s Tour of Pembrokeshire. It may be 18 miles shorter but it has nearly the same amount of climbing – ie a lot!. Whereas the ToP seemed to always be going up, or down, and felt like a slog, today there was a lot more flat/rolling than I was expecting, and some truly enjoyable long and not technical descent – bloomin’ lovely they were. Man I love downhill and, not wishing to be immodest but…if it’s not too technical, I’m quite good at it :).  Amazing how much difference the lack of a 30mph headwind makes to your mood too! Talking of blooming, sadly due to this year’s awful spring weather, the bluebells that usually carpet the Forest for this event were sadly missing – they’re late this year.  There were a few patches early on, and one later, and very pretty they were too.  Shame though, because when I did this in 2009 – my first ride in Cycling Mayor kit – they were truly beautiful.  Shall I demand a refund? ;).

Right, English Bicknor was now behind us.  That just left Symonds Yat, which apparently is 25%. Well it’s definitely steep. In some respects the worst bit is negotiating the traffic that is trying to negotiate it – it’s a single lane with passing points, quite a lot of cars, ramblers, and then of course cyclists. I think by then they were resigned to our presence so it was all a fairly polite affair, which is just as well as losing momentum by stopping was the last thing I wanted to do! The last section is the steepest, and I ground my way up there, zig zagging a little, and then there it was, the bridge over the top, and it was done.  Even though I’d been up it before, I was kind of expecting more, or worse.  So yes, probably the steepest hill of the day, but in some respects not the hardest.  Maybe that’s just me though.  In fact the most annoying bit was the fact that the up continued for a while afterwards, and even then there were a couple of not hills before we reached the final glorious fly downhill to the end few miles of the course.  Practically a sprint finish…right up until the cyclocross section to take us back over the start line again that is ;).

Jeannie had been there for hours, and was waiting for us in the sun, looking fresh as a daisy. Sickening really 😉  We parked the bikes on the racks again and headed off for refreshment. The advertised free meal afterwards, the “famous Bean Goulash”, was nowhere to be seen and it turned out to be more of a help yourself to nibbles thing – peanuts, pretzels, cakes, bits of pasty and pork pie etc, the latter of which seemed to be just the right thing even if it’s not great for me.  Maybe they’d run out by the time we got in?  There was also free tea, coffee, and water, and a cup of coffee was just what we were after. As for the “generous goody bags”, well there were free water bottles with Clif recovery shots in, if that’s what they meant. I’m not sure that qualifies, and I didn’t bother grabbing one. There were also supposed to be timing certificates, but I didn’t see any sign of those. I get the feeling the ride description on the website was a cut and paste job and that no-one had actually checked to see if they were doing what it said, but I could be wrong. What they did have was a team of Nuflex massage folk doing massages for donations and just for once, I did. Jeannie and Mark headed for home, and I went and let some nice man work all the knots out of my shoulders as best he could – sports bras do not aid and abet such things and I sure as hell wasn’t taking it off in public!  He did a good job too – usually across the top there is numb for days after a ride and, though it’s still a bit ouchy, it’s all there today :).

Time to call it a day, and head back to the car to de-faff in the sunshine. The nice gentleman in the car next door and I exchanged pleasantries whilst doing so – mostly because the sheep in the field behind us wouldn’t shut up and it was quite funny.  As he was leaving, in a waste not want not sense, he offered me a celebratory cup cake. Again, I shouldn’t, and I mostly didn’t, but it would have been rude to refuse such a lovely offer, and besides which, the icing tasted nice :D.

In conclusion…  It was a good event, that didn’t quite live up to its advertising when it came to the trimmings.  However I would do it again; it’s not stupidly long, and it’s a good route, with a nice balance of challenge to fun, and some of the scenery is lovely.  It might have been different on a different day, given wind, rain whatever, but on a fairly nice spring day, with the addition of bluebells, it’s a pretty good way to spend a Sunday.

Cycling time: 7:05 hrs.
Official time: 7:40 hrs.
Distance: 90.9 miles.
Avs: 12.8 mph.
ODO: 1648.66 miles.

So why did today feel so much better? Weather? Lack of wind? More sleep? I’d like to say I was good and ate more on the ride…and to be fair I did make an effort to eat more this week in the run up to the event. But as for the ride itself, well I’d tell you what I ate, but you’ll only tell me off, so I won’t.  For whatever reason it all worked, and I feel ok today too. Funny ole world, ain’t it?  According to the Facebook replies that were waiting for me on my return, from those more sensible than I, I should have bailed, gone back to bed, taken it easy and looked after myself.  B*gger that for a game of monkeys, right? :D.

T’was the night before a sportive, and all ’round the (5 star luxury) house, the wind was howling like a bleedin’ banshee and I was not sleeping. They say it’s important to get your excuses in early, so here are a few of mine. I didn’t sleep well the night before. I didn’t eat well the week before. I didn’t eat well the night before – the downside of being away from home for a sportive – so my pre-sportive routine was all off. And I was on the tramadol which cannot be said to be performance enhancing because if it was it would be on the UCI/WADA banned list and I’ve checked and it isn’t. How am I doing for excuses so far? When thinking about doing this event again last week, I did joke, looking back at last year’s blog, that as a goal, I should take that time, and add an hour on to it. Ah, many a true word is spoken in jest…

So, there you go, foundations for the Tour of Pembrokeshire 2013 could possibly be said to be a little bit shakey. Think King Vortigern and his constantly falling down castle. That involved a red Welsh dragon too didn’t it? And Pembrokeshire is in Wales. Sort of.

Right. Ok…here we go.

When the alarm went off at 6:00am on Sunday morning, I’d finally managed to be asleep for a while, so it wasn’t exactly welcome, though it didn’t exactly come as a shock either. I got my act together, and dressed for the wet and windy gale that was still blowing up a storm outside.  I somewhat perturbed the nice hotel people by not letting them cook anything for me, and just using their microwave to make my porridge, which I duly ate and washed down with essential black coffee – determined that at least one part of my routine would continue as normal. My ride partner for the day, and chauffeur for the weekend, was the indomitable Chris, aka Figgy, who turned up complete with car and bike at 7:00am as planned. We drove the short few miles to the start, passing the first few riders already heading off into the wind and, at the time, rain. None of them looked happy. Well who would? It wasn’t exactly inspiring PMA…

There was plenty of free parking at Oriel y Parc, where we faffed and assembled the bikes. The rain got properly nasty for a bit so Chris insisted we take refuge in the car for a while rather than getting gratuitously soaked before we’d even started. He had a point and, since that was the last we saw of the rain for the day, it was a very good call. It’s just as well we didn’t set off any earlier isn’t it?

As we hadn’t been able to get down to St David’s until late Friday night, Peter Walker, the organiser, had very kindly registered the pair of us and handed over our numbers and lanyard chips from Sportident the night before, so we didn’t have to register on the day – removing one step from the usual pre-ride prep. Instead we headed straight for the start line, a short walk away, but long enough for Chris to discover his back mudguard was rubbing – something to do with new tyres, bigger profile I think, I wasn’t really paying attention ;). After a period of fiddling, he managed to get the darn thing off and stash it in a bush to collect it on our return. This of course gave me time to go to the loo – and this year they’d opened up extra toilets at the venue so there was none of last year’s queuing – result!

Heading off was a low key affair. Various marshalls were at the start line to scan our chips, and then off we went. Ready for what was always going to be a long day in the saddle, even on a good day. I didn’t regret a single one of my garment choices, as we headed off into the 25mph freezing cold NE wind, sometime around 7:30am ish. Due to the state of some of the roads, the route had been altered a bit from last year, and the first hour or so definitely seemed easier as a result. Not easy, just easier. None of this ride is easy. There’s precious little flat, and an awful lot of climbing – around 9,500 feet apparently. That may not sound like a lot to you, but it does to me!

The first food stop came around 20 miles in, at Fishguard, at the Pendre Inn. After a couple of hours cycling in the sunshine fighting the wind, stopping seemed like a good idea. Well, how do I review the food stations if I don’t stop at them? (Can you spot another excuse for my sloth – there were five food stations and we stopped at every one!). I grabbed the usual half of banana, Chris started his marathon eating session, and I used the toilets because hey, I review them too ;). At this point I was still feeling pretty good. Positive. A bit disappointed with the average speed that was happening, but at that point that was pretty much down to the headwind I think. One fifth of the way through (ish) and time to be on our way again.

With the wind blowing like billy-o the weather changed all the time. When there was sun, the temperature struggled up into the nearly pleasant, when it clouded over it dropped into the distinctly nippy. Going up the long hills warmed you up, sometimes too far, and then the descents chilled you right through. Nice. Not. But beautiful. The scenery over there is just stunning. As usual, my photos are going to fail to do justice to it.

Some of the long slow hills I actually found easier than before. Not that my stats show that, but that’s not the point. I actually quite like long slow sloggy hills (sshh, don’t tell anyone I said that). I even made it up the steep nasty ones, like the wicked bendy one that came just after the 75 & 100 mile routes split off from the 50 mile route. I’m glad I knew it was coming, or I’d have been in the wrong gear for sure. Last year the route split wasn’t well signed, this year the signs were great, and there were several very vocal marshalls making sure you went the way you thought you wanted to go.  In fact signage throughout was pretty good. There was the odd junction where it would have been nice to see the arrow a little earlier, but other than that it was really good. There were plenty of Caution signs, and for the traffic, Slow Cyclists signs. Which I took to taking offense at, after I’d seen enough of them! Actually it did sometimes confuse me – am I supposed to be going Slow for some reason, or is that aimed at the cars?  A lot of the junctions were marshalled too, as well as the splits, with friendly faces cheering you on – which always helps :).

Between the first two food stations came my favourite part of this ride. I think it’s the main reason I did it again. Somewhere amidst the endless climbing into the sky, comes a down to the coast, where the view is simply awesome, you can hear the waves crashing on the rocks, and if it doesn’t make you smile, maybe you shouldn’t be there. We smiled. And stopped. And took photos :). There were quite a lot of photo stops today (yep, more excuses).

The next food stop was at Poppit Sands, which, as the name implies, was down at the beach. A nice down too. The first of the timing splits came just before, lurking marshalls jumping out to swipe our chips, before we headed for the lifeboat station and more supplies. I wasn’t yet feeling in need of rescue, though I’d possibly have liked to call them out later in the day! Yes, time for more banana, and a quick chat to Rob who happened to be there and who spotted me as I passed by him on my way back from the toilets.

After a brief period of respite, cycling along the riverside and admiring the boats, the route climbed again. Surprise, surprise. Up and up and up, following a rather attractive stream, with waterfalls, hints of babbling brook, dappled shade, all very picturesque. At the top I stashed my gilet in the saddle bag, where the over gloves were already hiding, before we headed off into the hills again. I must have been concentrating for the next section, as the camera seems to have remained resolutely in my bar bag until the third foodstop at a pub at Boncath. We spent a bit longer here, enjoying the sun, eating bananas, and, if you’re him, welsh cakes and more. They even had cold potatoes, so I had one. I think there were pasties and other goodies too, but being gluten free, such things tend to pass me by. I did stash my head Buff in the bag too, as I was getting a bit overheated on climbs at this point, and it was about the only thing left to easily take off!  The stop had a blackboard which very handily had the route map on it, amongst other things, showing the obstacles to be overcome between you and the next food stop, which in this case included the biggest climb of the day, to the highest point. I’m sure it has a name, but it temporarily escapes me.  Besides, it was one of three such lumps ahead of us, and that was all that really concerned me.

Chris commented that it would appear that Pembrokeshire is where they hid the leftover hills when they were designing our isle. On that basis, if Slartibartfast made fjords, then I reckon there’s a mouse somewhere called Slartibartslow who’s rather proud of his landscape folding ability. Somewhat bizarrely this discussion came at around the 42 mile mark…which amused me when I looked down at Bella and saw that.

I was getting a bit tireder now. I definitely had lactic legs, or tramadol legs, or both. And the pills weren’t entirely working but I couldn’t take anymore for a while, so it was just a case of hanging in there until I could. I’m still amazed that Chris hung with me the entire way round which, considering he could have done it in half the time, is very generous of him, and seriously appreciated. I don’t know if I’d have made it around otherwise, and there could well have been some sobbing by the roadside moments! However hard I was finding it, I was still enjoying myself in an odd way. I love the route, the scenery lifts you, there’s plenty to admire as you’re climbing those massive hills at glacial speed, and the other riders, such as we saw, were mostly chatty and friendly. Well by this point all the race snakes have finished, so it’s just other people all in the same slowly sinking boat as you. It’s odd, for hours you ride along practically having the roads to yourself – there was precious little traffic – and then you get to the next food stop and suddenly there are cyclists everywhere!

And oh, was I glad to see the fourth foodstop. Mostly because, as well as fodder and faggots and portable loos, they had tea and coffee!  I’d been dreaming of a coffee for ages…anything that wasn’t sweet to be fair…and a cup of coffee was just what I wanted. Those three lumps had taken a long time, and taken quite a toll too. There was quite a festival atmosphere to the place, a little sun trap of a refuge tucked down on the side of a valley, away from the headwind that should have turned into a tailwind half way round and somehow never did, with music playing and brightly coloured cyclists flocked around. It was not the easiest place to leave, that’s for sure.  But the only way is up, she said, and after a stretch along the valley (aka wind tunnel), it was time for yet another vicious climb. Again, one I knew was coming, and that I knew I could do, which always helps massively mentally. Slow but steady, as ever.

My new plan is to take gels as I near the end of a ride, and the time had come. I took one, which helped, in a kind of paper over the cracks sense. I ended up taking another one later, another reason it was good Chris was around as I didn’t have many with me and one of those turned out to have fructose in it, which I can’t do. Luckily he had plenty. He pootled along next to me as I moaned my way ’round (he says I moan, I swear I’m just making conversation), getting nearer to the end. I knew the last stretch is a lot flatter, so I was just counting the miles (and hills!) down until we got to the last food stop from whence it would all be downhill, metaphorically speaking.  By now my chain was squeaking away, and apparently the application of oil would have been a good idea, but I didn’t have any and neither did the foodstop. The fifth and final stop was once again at a pub, full of normal people drinking away a sunny Saturday afternoon, and probably laughing themselves silly at the stream of lycra clad eejots traipsing through their midst to the toilet and back! Father Christmas, as you can see, was in mufti this year…

So, 13/14 miles to go, according to the foodstation guys. 18 according to me. And I’m always right. It beats me how we managed to spend so many miles heading into a headwind and still get around and back to the start again though!

The last stretch is, as these things go, a lot flatter, with just a couple of draggy hills in it to take the last out of you. I was starting to feel a bit weird, wobbly and like falling asleep on the bike, and though I tried to ignore it, I realised that would be foolish in the long run, and had to stop, take another gel, and get it together for a bit. Poor Chris!  After a little while of spinning along and letting the gel cut in, my legs woke up again, aided and abetted by the fact that they could sense the end was nigh, and see St David’s in the distance, and the final few miles into the slowly setting sun weren’t too bad. As the well hidden cathedral finally hove into view, we were marshalled through its grounds and up one final hill to get us across the Finish Line, many many hours after we started.

Talk about slow! Just under 9 hours riding – pretty much exactly an hour more than last year. And with stops, our time was 10:11. That may have been the final straw…it was certainly a tad depressing. We stashed the bikes back in the car, threw on some civvie layers, and headed a little glumly back to the cafe for our free meal. There was soup or stew on offer I think, but I went for cake. Gluten & dairy free cake, which they let me have in lieu of stew. Which rhymes. It seemed like a good idea, and very nice it was too. I think I’d gone one step beyond though – I was a bit zoned out and also freezing cold, which Chris didn’t believe until I placed a hand on his arm, which apparently felt a lot like the hand of death! 🙂  I was then made to wear his very fetching hat which I’m fairly sure did absolutely nothing for me but may have helped warm me up a bit. After checking in with Peter to say hi and see how it had gone, it was time to call it a day and head back to the hotel for a shower, food, and sleep, which I actually managed to do in that order.

Over the course of what little remained of the day, we did the usual post ride dissection. Chris had eaten more on a sportive than ever before – a litany that included fig rolls (of course!), ham wraps, welsh cakes, and much much more. I on the other hand did 108 miles on one flapjack, 1.5 bananas, and three gels, though I did drink more than usual. Hm, I’m thinking that’s possibly not very clever.  I used to be able to get away with that, but now that I don’t really eat properly the rest of the time and there’s less of me than there once was, I just don’t seem to have the reserves for that anymore. Which would probably explain why I spent the following day with a killer dehydration headache, feeling like a piece of limp spaghetti, incapable of much by way of coherent thought!  The big issue really was the wind…I think I can still hear it now!  For all that I suffered, I’d go back and do it again, just for the scenery and the challenge…but I think maybe the 75 mile route next time! 🙂

Cycling time: 8:55 hrs.
Distance: 107.6 miles.
Avs: 12.1 mph.
ODO: 1498.15 miles.

Official Cyclosport review.

Another Sunday, another sportive. I like my life predictable :). Today’s was the White Horse Challenge, an event I’ve done once before, in 2008. Blimey, was it that long ago? Apparently so….doesn’t time fly? Etc. etc. This one is one of GB‘s favourites and there had initially been a plan for an ACG posse to draft him around and help him beat his previous time. However not all plans come together, and this one was abandoned a little while ago. Which is good since there was no way I was ever going to be able to keep up and I would have been left behind, all demoralised like. This way I stood a chance of some company to ride with :).

The ACG team car, aka Martyn’s Picnic (still a very stoopid name for a car), arrived here at 5:45am, and collected both I and Gary, as the skies brightened and the pink clouds cleared. An uneventful and cautious drive down the motorway (well, there were three expensive bikes on the back!) got us to HQ at Shrivenham around 7:30am as planned, and we were marshalled on to the field to park. Not really a field, more of a wooded glade off to one side of the venue. GB, having arrived exceedingly early, was parked in the small car park actually next to the building, and a little down our row from us Figgy was already parked up. And then there were five. Before getting ready, we walked across the pitch, past people queuing for the four portable toilets outside, and into the hall to register. After a brief wait at the table designated for my number range, a lady appeared from somewhere, checked I’d signed by my name and number, gave me my number, and an electronic ankle tag. She instructed me topick up cable ties and map on the way out, and to enjoy the ride. Oh, and by the way, the toilets are inside on the right. Which they were.  Way better than outdoor loos, and you gotta love being a girl – no queuing at all!

Now the forecast was for dry until late afternoon, fairly mild but not hot, a little breezy…ooh, the layering options were bewildering! And with three of us faffing around one car, it was like faffing squared. Or cubed!  Poor GB was left kicking his cleated heels in the sunshine, waiting for us, for some considerable time. Taking advice from a hardy northerner as to what to wear is probably a bit daft, and Martyn doesn’t like to be cold. Rock/hard place. So, should you be interested, here’s what I went with, and which worked. Winter socks, shoes, bib longs, long sleeve base layer, winter jacket/jersey thing, mitts and overgloves, birthday Buff on head. Voila. Done. At some point the overgloves came off, but the rest of the ride was catered for by the frequent use of zips, and pulling my sleeves up and down occasionally.

Eventually we all assembled at HQ, after a few trips to and fro the car for forgotten things. We were joined by Martyn’s tri-athlete friends Mark and Jeannie. The plan was to be two groups. A fast, race ’round group (Martyn, Gary, Figgy, Jeannie), and the keep me company slow group (Me, Guy, Mark).  Departure was an informal affair, just a case of heading off over the timing mat when you were ready to go, so off we went. We set off in the sunshine as a larger group, which didn’t last long as there was a draggy hill about two miles in which came as a nasty shock! My legs felt like achey lead (can lead ache?), and it was ‘orrible! The sort of horrible that makes you wonder if turning around and going home might’nt be a good idea. As the group spread out, with riders finding their own level like water, I was pleased to discover that the next 15/20 miles or so were fairly flat, which allowed me to warm up and get into my ride properly, and shake off that I feel like death slightly warmed up feeling. The fast lot rapidly disappeared off into the distance, never to be seen again, leaving us three behind to get on with it our way.

It was a lovely day to be out riding. If it had been a bit warmer and a bit less windy it would have been a lot perfect. Even so, there are definitely worse ways to be spending a Sunday morning than riding along quiet country lanes in chilly Spring sunshine, with gorgeous views, stunning scenery, and wide open skies.

And it’s a lovely route. There’s plenty of flat and fast, and some lovely long climbs, with equally lovely downs. There was in fact a deceptive amount of climbing, which is not to say that it’s a very hilly route, more that you climb more than you realise, almost without noticing. There were enough hills to be challenging with enough space between them to recover in time for the next one. Apparently one of those hills was 17%, as indicated by a road sign which I missed, which is probably just as well from a motivational point of view. I did make it up all of the climbs, however slowly, and I have to admit to taking a certain pleasure in riding past walking riders…  Hey, I’ve walked up enough hills in my time, I’ve paid my dues, I feel I’ve earned it ;).

It’s not called the White Horse Challenge for nothing. Yes, there’s Challenge, but there are also White Horses. Four of them, though I didn’t seen the last and oldest one at Uffington. Apparently it’s not actually visible from the final killer climb that takes you over the hill on which it resides.  It’s a big hill, and they were playing King of the Mountain timing games up there, so I was too busy concentrating on getting up the hill to be looking around for it too much anyway. As the last big climb of the day, it was quite enough for tiring legs to deal with, but it was at least followed by a fair few miles of flying home, which were great!

Today’s ride gets points for food stations with a range of goodies, and toilets. In fact the second stop proved that, contrary to what some believe, it is possible to have a portable loo stationed on public land somewhere…and it was clean, and still stocked, which was pretty impressive!

It’s a lovely friendly event – at least when it comes to the organisers, helpers, and marshalls. Most of the riders out there were friendly enough as we said hello in passing too. GB and I form what I call the “Relentlessly Cheerful Brigade” on sportives. This means saying hello to every rider you pass, and politely greeting every pedestrian or horse rider we encounter. This amuses us, and possibly takes the edge off the behaviour of the odd stupid peloton, such as the large one that decided that they had right of way at the roundabout in Wootton Bassett and would just hold up the traffic while they did what they wanted. We made a point of stopping, stopping others, and allowing the quite rightly irritated lady driver go where she was perfectly entitled to have been going in the first place. Honestly, sometimes us cyclists don’t do ourselves any favours – and I bet those same cyclists complain the next time a motorist goes off on one about the behaviour of cyclists too!

There was a bit of a shortage, ok a lot, of people saying “Clear” at junctions, pointing out obstacles, warning of approaching cars etc., something I’m noticing more and more on sportives, which is a bit of a shame. Luckily the roads were for the most part, unlike the A4 stretch past Cherhill, pretty quiet. The road quality varied a bit, from the lovely to the quite a lot of potholes but since there wasn’t much traffic, it wasn’t too hard to avoid those. The signage was pretty clear, as you can see, though the GPS route must have been a bit join up the dots with straight lines because Bella peeped off and on course all the time, which was minorly irritating.

We rolled over the timing mat a bit over 6 hours after we left, to join lots of happy looking riders chilling out in the sunshine. The fast group had been there a while, unsurprisingly, and were full of tales of how fast they’d pushed it, and couldn’t have done any more, and if it hadn’t been for those darn traffic lights maybe…etc.  We all printed our times out, an ability I always like, which included standards and KOM times. They may have gotten around fast – and they did – but I still beat Martyn up the hill.  And Figgy – though we reckon he stopped for a picnic half way up ;).  I’m planning on not letting Martyn live it down for a while…as he’s well aware ;).

We sat around in the sun for a bit, drinking our free coffee, and wearing our well earned medals. There was a range of drinks, rolls, and cakes to buy, and the cakes in particular looked awesome. I’d probably earnt one of those too, if cake was my thing, which it isn’t :).

Overall, we all agreed it was a really good event. The company was good, it was well organised, the route was nice, and the scenery was lovely, aided and abetted by the sunshine no doubt. It’s a lovely part of the world to ride around. I felt pretty good the entire way around too, and even afterwards. It was my longest ride so far – 90 miles – but it only took the same amount of time as the previous rides – 70 odd – which is amusing, but that’s because it was considerably less lumpy. My kind of sportive I think :).

Official time: 6:09 hrs.
Distance: 89.8 miles.
Avs: 15.6 mph.
ODO: 1363.95 miles.

It’s Sunday. We all have our own belief systems. As I cycled through Stoke Fleming sometime around 9:00am this morning, melodious church bells were calling the faithful to prayer. At 5:00am my alarm bell called me from the depths so that I could go ride my bike somewhere new again. You take care of your soul your way, and I’ll look after mine in mine.

Incidentally the sign for Stoke Fleming was partially obscured by foliage, and my brain desperately wanted it to say “Stroke Lemming”…  Your brain goes some very odd places on a sportive, especially when you’re doing it on your own.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, which has to be a first for today. Today was the Hammer Sportive, starting from Kingsbridge in Devon, a very boring 1 1/2 drive away down a virtually empty motorway – not conducive to continued wakefulness.  I’d plugged the postcode of HQ, at Kingsbridge Community College, into the GPS, aka Tim, who got me 99% of the way there, but fell foul at the last moment by bringing me to somewhere where I could see it but not actually get to it.  Go Tim!  I made a rough guess, used my brain such as it is first thing in the morning, and managed to end up in the right place without too much difficulty. Sadly HQ had but limited parking which was now full, and I had to go back down a hill and park on a nearby industrial estate.  I was not best pleased, because it meant getting everything sorted before going up to registration, and also cycling up a hill that, both pre-sportive and as the final gasp at the end, was steeper and longer than I wanted!

This particular sportive came at fairly short notice. “Work” wanted someone to cover it, and it turned out I could, with a little juggling. However last night was the Mayor’s Banquet (which was a little boring sober let me tell you), and I’ve got a lot going on, so when sticking my hand up in the air and volunteering, I did it with the proviso that I did the Claw Hammer route (100 km) rather than the Sledge Hammer route (100 miles).  They still signed me up for the 100 mile route, but I explained myself at registration, and it wasn’t a problem.  Let’s face it, even without all that, with the route and the totally dismal weather forecast; barely mild, rain, 20+mph winds with 40mph gusts, I don’t think 100 miles would ever have been on the cards!

I duly signed in, they gave me my ties (long enough), number (355), timing chip (for the ankle), route map, and an Operation Smile goodie bag with a t-shirt in, which I asked them to put somewhere for me, otherwise I was going to have to ride back down to the car, put it in the boot and ride back up again – and gratuitous hills are really not my thing! 😉 I’m not sure stashing such things was originally in their plan, but the Cyclosport gilet may have swung things in my favour, as they knew who I was and that I would be writing about it ;). More of the bag malarkey later…

On riding up to HQ I had discovered my back brake was sticking on. I was kinda hoping “they” would have some WD40 or similar that I could judiciously apply, but it was not to be. I’m not sure if there was any mechanical support at HQ as I couldn’t find it, and though I asked Andrew at registration, the cupboard was bare.  There was a motorcycle outrider and support car on the course though, so maybe support was more of an en route thing?  I decided, like I had a choice, to see how I got on, and hope damp roads and use would loosen it up, which luckily turned out to be the case. It’s not like I need anything extra slowing me down after all!  It was time to go to the loo, faff a little more, and get ready to go.  The first few batches of riders were being sent away with a lead out car for the first few miles and I was advised to get going if I didn’t want to miss that so I headed for the start line, caught the tail end of the briefing (though I couldn’t hear it) and was off, just like that.  I was right at the back of my group, so didn’t really get the benefit of the car, but it was kinda nice to be escorted through town in semi-pro fashion.

And then we were off, left to our own devices to get on with it.  I say we, which implies plurality and company, but today it was just me.  This was not entirely a bad thing. I knew today was going to be a challenge.  Grey, dismal, very windy, and very hilly.  Sometime it’s better not to have anyone to keep up with, to feel left behind by.  Better for the PMA.  I had loaded the mp3 in preparation, with songs I’ve not heard in a while and actually fancied listening to.  I had everything I needed. I was, in fact, self sufficient.  Although company might have been nice, and would certainly have been useful when the killer wind became a killer head wind, I think it worked out quite well.  Apart from at the end when it would have been nice to sit, drink coffee or free beer, and debrief a bit.  That’s kinda awkward on your own.

Right.  Back to the ride again.  The first section was very scenic and the wind was kinda favourable. Lots of river, cute little nestling villages, inlets, coves, coast.  The sound of waves crashing on beaches, which automatically adds points to a sportive if you ask me.  However once that was done, it was on to rolling Devon countryside.  Ha!  Rolling my ar*e.  Devon is definitely not heaven, because although my heaven would quite probably involve a bike, it would most certainly have a lot less hills!  Big steep grinding hills.  Going up takes forever, going down takes no time at all, with precious little relief from flat to be found anywhere, just the odd section over the top and near the end.  A ride that was always either going up hill or into that lethal headwind or, if you were really lucky, both!  The kind of wind that was strong and gusty and constantly in your face…at least you thought it was until you went past a gap in the hedge and discovered yourself suddenly riding on a completely different piece of road.  It’s just as well I took the winter bike, the Cinelli is proper skittish with side winds, and even the Cube, that bit heavier, had some interesting handling issues from time to time.

There was every kind of weather but warm.  Drizzle, shower, heavy shower that verged on hail.  The only advantage of that wind is that whatever weather you were currently experiencing wasn’t going to hang around for long, and my particular time window through it came out a lot better than I’d expected – ie I wasn’t soaked to the skin and freezing!  Mostly it was just chilly, grey and overcast.  A few of the roads were a bit dodgy but the majority of them were dry, and most of the road surfaces were pretty good too – always nice when you’re slogging your guts out going up yet another hill.  Two of today’s hills made my front wheel consider losing contact with the ground, but I kept it planted, and plodded my way up.  I even overtook the odd walking person, which is always good for the ego ;).  There was also a timed “Hammer Hill” challenge before the last food stop which was frankly laughable if you’re me. I’d love to be able to race up hills…but I can’t on a good day, let alone 10 miles from the end of a tiring sportive.  I’m just happy to have made it up – it was a bit of a killer!

There were three food stops today, two of which had toilets (‘rah!), and all of which provided the distraction of a brief break.  The last food stop was the best supplied and the most friendly – staffed by a little team of ladies, all smiley and chatty and helpful, with the radio on.  As I availed myself of the facilities, and fought through the layers, it played Shania Twain’s “Man! I feel like a woman“, which was amusingly appropriate.  I had half a banana at the first stop, and could also have had crisps since they were gluten free, but somehow they didn’t appeal.  They didn’t appeal at the second one either though I did grab some water, and at the third I’d decided it was time for a gel.  I think a lot of my performance issues could well stem from my lack of fuelling, so I’m going to try more such things towards the end of a ride. I think my gel may have been a little out of date as it tasted weird so I could only bring myself to take half of it.  Mind you, they frequently taste horrible, so maybe it was just that. I think it helped for the last section. As did the fact that there were only 10 miles to go, even if they continued to be hilly miles!

Today’s route was supposed to be about 64 miles.  However thanks to a confused marshal at one crossroads, who wasn’t sure what the Claw and Sledge were, and if you weren’t doing the long route you must be tired so must be sent that way (some sort of “short” cut)…I ended up taking a 3 mile trip detour to Harbertonford before deciding that the Garmin was right, he was wrong, there were no signs, I hadn’t seen another cyclist and I should retrace my steps.  Well the signage had been pretty good up until then – black directional arrows on green background, warning signs etc, and green arrows sprayed on the road – so their lack spoke volumes.  6 miles added to the trip took the total to 70, and, predictably, added some climbing too. I could, prior to that Hammer Hill challenge, have opted to do the longer route but, at the speed and suffering I was doing, I’d probably still be out there!  If you’re interested, you can see what I did do here.

So there I was, 10 miles to go.  For a change there was some flat, and some lovely downs…but also one of the worse hills.  Not only was it long, but it was on a more main road, it was steep, and it had three lanes – two for those going up past you – so that the traffic passing you was frequently two abreast, one overtaking the other, neither paying attention to you, and doing up to 60 mph.  Scarey, and actually dangerous to my mind, and even more so for those who’d resorted to walking, thus taking up more road space. Having been indulging in my kind of soul therapy all day, on a couple of occasions it looked like I was going to get to meet my maker and explain myself rather earlier than planned!  Other than that the roads were pretty quiet today, although there was one particular climb that seemed very popular with cars desperate to be somewhere.  You can sit behind me revving your engine and crawling along all you like, it’s not going to make me go up any faster ;).  To be fair, there was a lot of fairly cheerful give and take going on from both them and us generally, and I don’t think we p*ssed off the locals too much.

The final miles ticked down. Back into Kingsbridge, round the urban roads, and back up that hill again, to cross the timing mat and be relieved it was over and done with. My tag was collected, I parked up, and headed inside to get my time printed out, which is also a nice touch.  Of course I then had to go find the timing people and point out that hey, a gold time for the Sledge Hammer would be great, but to be honest, no-one would ever believe me, so it was probably best to be honest and own up to only having done the Claw Hammer.  I’m a stickler for accuracy ;).  Besides which it’s really annoying when you look at the times post an event, having done the 100 mile route, and know for nearly certain that several of the fastest times recorded for your route are from riders who have cheated in exactly that way!  I then went in search of my goodie bag which had sadly vanished, even with boxes of numbered bags for all of us who’d clearly had the same idea at the start.  Andrew found replacement t-shirts for me and another lady who was likewise afflicted, so that was nice.  All done.  As I said, there didn’t seem much point hanging around for long by myself, so me and my t-shirt went back down the hill to the car.  Rather than wear sweaty kit home, I actually donned the t-shirt for the return journey – it seemed appropriate :).

Overall it went better than I thought it would, and I feel ok now too.  Yes, it was hard work, but pushing the watts at the gym is getting me up those big hills that I would otherwise have walked up, which is gratifying.  Riding up hills should make me better at riding up hills right?  I managed to avoid the mental doldrums, even when I got lost, by opening myself up to enjoying the ride, looking at the view, and trying to do that be in the moment thing.  So I’m not hammered.  Though I may be shortly 😉 *grin*.

Official time: 6:09 hrs.
Distance: 70.2 miles.
Avs: 12.2 mph.
ODO: 16386.99 miles.

UPDATE: results are up here. Madly, out of the 171 riders, I was 87th/171 doing the Hammer Hill challenge, but I was only 139/171 overall for the whole route.  And I’m crap up hill!  There were 10 women on the route, I was 3rd in my category and 5th woman overall, but 3rd woman overall up the hill.  But then there’s my whole 6 mile detour.  Hm.  Too complicated for me… and mental!

This year has not gotten off to a stormingly good start, what with the crappy weather, illness, and one thing and another. So I have to admit to not having given this weekend’s Joker much thought, just in case it didn’t happen.  Due to the squashed nature of my immune system I managed to develop an infected nasal abscess at the end of last week (too much information?), so I really wasn’t sure I was going to make it, and it was a question of hoping the antibiotics would cut it in time for me to be able to ride.  Well I made it. Just. And I’m paying for it now – doing a sportive with that, glands so sore that doing your helmet up hurts, and medicated, apparently takes it out of you!  Although thanks to some clever acupuncture kinesiology tape stuff I was able to ride without being on the painkillers, so hey, it wasn’t all bad.  BTW, first person to see me and call me Rudolph will be ex-communicated…

So, here we go…with a 6:00am start. Which was, unusually, shared by the rest of the clan who were off to do something involving fast four wheels not two slow ones. At least I didn’t have to worry about waking anyone up, and the company made a pleasant change.  I headed off into the rising sun, over the Mendips, trying not to fall asleep and made it to Salisbury Racecourse about 1 1/2 hours later, pretty much as planned.

This is not my first Joker. It’s my second. And it’s only the second Joker full stop. Last time around I had a mechanical, so I felt like I had unfinished business with it. Which makes no sense at all but hey, that’s the way it works sometimes. And who said getting up at o’crack sparrow to go cycling somewhere was sensible anyway?  However it does mean that I knew vaguely where I was going, and that sense of familiarity made the whole getting there, parking, etc thing that bit easier. Not that it was tricky. Marshals guided me into the car park, and the next car to park up was that of the Pixie, aka Mark.  As we faffed the line of cars behind us got started, and who should park directly behind me than GB?  Well I never! Serendipitous or what?

You see this time last week I was doing the Joker on my own. Whilst I’m perfectly capable of, and used to, riding events on my own, it is much nicer if I don’t have to, so I put a call for company out on Twitter and ended up with these two jokers for company – result! 😉

It having been mighty cold of late, forecasts of slightly warmer temperatures and sunshine had us all in full on layer debate mode. I’m happy to report that I pretty much got it right. Winter socks, toe covers, overshoes (I hate to have cold feet). Bib longs, base layer, l/s jersey, l/s winter jacket., Cyclosport gilet. Neck scarf, head buff as given to me for my birthday and now part of my cycling superstition/tradition. Topped off with winter gloves. By the end of the ride the neck scarf and the gilet had been stowed away, the gloves swopped for mitts (which make photographing way easier), and the zips of all my layers had gone up and down a lot…but it pretty much worked. Had the sun come out in force, it might have been a different story, but it didn’t and it wasn’t, and now the washing machine is full again.

Right, time to register, grab a cup of coffee, and use the outside toilet block. There are also toilets inside, a fact which we didn’t discover until after the ride, which are even more salubrious. I was given my number, axle timing chip, two cable ties, and a waterproofed map. As usual the cable ties were too short, but as a sportive veteran I tend to carry my own these days, complete with spares (wasted by the Pixie who got it all wrong) and scissors to trim them with (or cut them off when you’ve got it all wrong). I signed the disclaimer list, and headed back to faff some more. Eventually we were ready, and joined the queue for the start, where I bumped into Nick, of Pendragon, Tour of Wessex fame, and had a chat on the basis that at the speed he goes at that was the only time I was likely to see him all day. I wasn’t wrong.

The rider briefing told us all to behave ourselves, explained the signs etc, and then sent us on our way over the timing mat. I love the sound of beeping mixed with people trying to clip in – makes me giggle for some reason. There were only around 350 riders out there, which meant there weren’t a lot of groups and any we did see were going pretty fast, and usually going past us pretty fast too.  As we set off, the first stretch proved how chilly it was out there, as the tips of my fingers disappeared for a while until I’d warmed up properly.

The Joker differs from other sportives in that it has optional extras. Or minuses. There are 4 extra “Jokers” you can choose to do – which invariably add miles and hills – and two shortcuts or “Fools” – which cut corners and miss hills/miles, but at a cost…being dodgy roads, cyclocross antics, and the like. Being well ‘ard, and having only been able to do one of them last year, we did all four, and have the souvenir Joker cards to prove it. Well, not much point getting out of bed otherwise, was there?  So that’s Straight Up, Gold Hill, Zig Zag Hill, and the Last Laugh. One by one we did them all.  Straight up was, unsurprisingly, a big hill. It went straight up, I just went up, slowly…;), and picked up my first Joker cards shortly afterwards.  The addition of a little plastic bag to stash the cards in was a distinct improvement on last year, as the one I did get was looking proper tatty and damp by the time I got back – this year they were all pristine.

On to Gold Hill which was all Hovis advert and cobbles. I was having a massive mental block about this one beforehand. At some point before it started the boys were waiting for me (something that happened a lot) and I caught up, caught my breath, and headed off to the big hill before them. They were kind enough to not catch me and to let me get on with doing it by myself, which often works better for me mentally. And I made it up. No idea how!  The front wheel lifted a couple of times, there was the odd wobbly moment, but somehow I made it, hunched over the bars, to the top without falling over or failing to uncleat in front of the photographer or the waiting audience sat in the suntrap at the café at the top. ‘Rah! Never again…I know better than to push my luck that far! ;).

The Zig Zag Hill Joker added an extra loop to go back up Zig Zag Hill, which we’d descended earlier in the ride, so I knew what to expect. It’s quite a nice wiggly climb really, but the last long drag back to the food station across the top, into the wind, did me in though, and GB dropped back and towed me along until I made it – which I was seriously grateful for. Ah the wind. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that yet. Well there was wind. More than enough of it, and it was cold!

After the food stop, there were many many miles, including a long tedious mainish road section, heading straight into that wind and even with three of us taking turns, it was pretty sapping. It might have been better if the Jokers were spaced out a little more, as it sort of felt like all the “fun” was pretty much done with, and these miles were just to get you back home. I also knew there were a couple more hills ahead which I wasn’t looking forward to – it was all feeling a bit like hard work by now – but then I always have a flat mental spot, and this one came at around the 53 miles mark and hung around for a while. Still, it passed, as it always does. Which doesn’t mean it got any easier, it just means the the end got nearer and I perked up a little. Unlike GB, who thanks to man flu, was proper suffering by now. Unlike the Pixie who was still doing a grand job, as ever :).

The Last Laugh means going up a long hill, along a bit and then back again…ie, going up a hill just for the hell of it, at the very end of the ride. Hilarious. We could have missed it out, but we were in for the long haul, so we didn’t. What, and lose face in front of each other? I think not!  From there it was just a couple more miles back to the start, though my Garmin having thrown a wobbly and stopped for no reason, I had to rely on others to tell me that.

What can I tell you about the rest of the ride? Well it was definitely lumpy. According to the Pixie, with a better behaved gadget, there was around 6800ft of climbing, and it felt like it! The worst hill, Fontmell I think, was not an optional extra and it went on and on and on at speeds that would have meant walking was faster. The sign for the car park near the top urged those stopping there to “Enjoy your walk” which gave rise to an ironic smile. But I didn’t walk. I’m stubborn like that. The scenery was pretty enough, though by the end I had a slight case of “if I never see another thatched cottage it’ll be too soon”, and there were some gorgeous views from the top of what GB says is an escarpment that basically we went up and down all day. However a lot of the road surfaces were pretty atrocious, and ok, so unlike many we saw, I didn’t get a puncture, but that’s not the point. Gingerly picking your way along narrow barely surfaced roads, dodging potholes, avoiding gravel on bends, etc etc, does not make you pick up any of the time you’ve lost climbing. Pixie reckons it’s a good thing I haven’t treated myself to shiny new fast wheels yet, as apparently they’d not have enjoyed it all. Not that that stopped some people – there was some seriously expensive kit being shown the sun out there!

The signage was mostly pretty good apart from a couple of places where they weren’t clear until you got right to where the decision was to be made, and there was also a lethal right turn at the bottom of a long descent somewhere which luckily GB knew about. More warning would have been nice. It would also have helped it the Joker options were sign-posted in a different colour – red maybe – to distinguish them from the main route option. And finally, I’m a girl. Yes, I am. Why is this important? Because there was one food stop, used twice, and with no toilet facilities. It was very cold, windy, and exposed, and I was wearing bib shorts. You do the math. Not going to happen. Luckily the café at the top of Gold Hill, which co-incidentally does Mokarabia coffee (they’re one of my clients) let me use their facilities.

In conclusion, it was a hard day’s work!  And slow. The car park was 3/4 empty by the time we finally rocked up back at the start, and they’d run out of Medium sized t-shirts. Just as well I’m a small then – sorry GB! We stashed the bikes, grabbed our free cup of coffees and stretched out a bit before folding back into cars and heading off to wherever it was we were going. I’m not complaining about the time though. It is what it is, I am what I am, and both of those are slow! 😉 I’m very glad of the company I had, it would have been a very different, and far more miserable, story without them. They didn’t exactly nurse me round, but they did hang around – thanks guys! :).

Basically there is no point in comparing me this year with me last year. I haven’t done the miles, my health has “issues”, and I don’t/can’t eat properly. Plus I was still recovering from my birthday week, and then there’s the Rudolph thing. So essentially I’m happy to have gone out, to have ridden, and to have gotten round. My unfinished business is now well and truly finished! :D.

Official time: 6:24 (including a great many stops)
Distance: 70.4 miles
Avs: 12.2 mph.
ODO: 1274.19 miles

Official Cyclosport review is up here. I’ve looked at the results and I was as rubbish as I thought.  On the other hand, there were only 2 women who did the full distance and all the Jokers, and I beat the other one by five minutes, so on that basis I’m a winner! ;).

Me, suffering up Gold Hill, courtesy of official photographer Bruce Chappell.