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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.