Dartmoor Classic 2009
4.45am on a Sunday morning is too early for breakfast. Much
too early, yet on Sunday 28th June that’s exactly what I was doing,
eating enough muesli, bananas and toast to feed two people hoping to get enough
calories in me to get through the third edition of the Dartmoor Classic
Cyclo-Sportive, a 105 mile road ride across the moors.
5.45am and my lift arrives. Ian isn’t as confident as he had
been the day before when we’d registered. Saturday had been sunny and warm,
Sunday was overcast and almost chilly with the threat of rain later. Usual faff
with getting bikes on a bike rack and we’re off to get Chris, who opens his
front door in his pants, not an M&S advertisement, he is more ‘Notting
Hill’ in style. Not what you want to see anytime never mind that early in the
day.
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| Looking nervous at the start of a 100+ Dartmoor mile ride. |
Find the car park easily, the marshals there are in good
spirits, probably because they don’t have to ride. Faff in the car park,
unloading and checking the bikes, Ian and I grab our coats to Chris’s
amusement. He hadn’t seen the change in the forecast and left his at home...
oops. Handfuls of ‘embrocation’ are applied to delicate areas, food stuffed in
rear pockets, helmets adjusted, gloves pulled on, a quick photo taken and off
to the start at the local sports ground.
Bikes and riders everywhere, 2,000 people are scheduled to
start the two courses that morning, the 100mile men and women off first in
groups of 100 at 5 minute intervals from 7.15. Remember to set the bike
computer to zero. We get away at 7.35, the first three riders at the front of
our group of 100. Having seen the last rider in the previous group fall on the
wet grassy slope up to the road we’re careful not to do the same and it’s with
a sense of relief that my wheels touch tarmac. 104.9 miles to go and I’m sat
behind Chris trying to look professional, I look back and see no one tucked in
behind me … are we lost already? Then our first yellow sign and other cyclists
ahead, the tail end of the previous group. Panic over. I’m then swamped by a
chain gang of lean fit riders, forming their own ‘peloton’, Chris grabs their
wheel to get the benefit of a tow and is gone, too fast for me already. Ian
zips past just off their pace but makes the gap happy to benefit from the 30%
or so less effort required to follow. I have a chat with someone going at my
pace. 5 miles in and that’s the last time I see Chris on a bike today, powering
up the first real climb. Ian following him. I’m feeling sick, too much
breakfast. I want to get off but resist.
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| Near the start on Holne Hill, max 25% |
The next 7 hours 19 minutes and 48 seconds pass relatively
quickly. I see Ian ahead of me on the second or third climb when we get to a
tight right hand bend on the open moor, his blue top past the bend 50m or so
ahead of me. I’d caught up on the previous descent, benefiting from my pie and
pasty based training regime. Gravity is my friend on a downhill but she’s a
cruel mistress on the other side. The 50m turns to 100m then more as he climbs
then he’s off over the brow of the hill.
I see someone I ‘know’ from a cycling forum, we missed each
other at the start but on Holne hill we meet briefly, “Slayer?” “Bagpuss?”.
He’s struggling with the gradient but getting there. He’ll finish in under 9
hours and describe it as ‘Hell’ before signing up for next year. Into Two
Bridges and I see the Devil, I blink and he’s still there then realise he’s a
Devon version of the man who follows the Tour De France every year, encouraging
riders with his trident at the side of the road.
Princetown and a chance to re-fuel, F1 in lycra for some, a
slower more considered approach from others who begin to realise what they’ve
let themselves in for, 33 miles completed, 75 to go. I see Ian briefly, he’s
going back out as I go in. No rain so far. Mindful of the cramp that dominated
the end of my ride the previous year I fill my water bottles with foul tasting
isotonic liquid, drink that then re-fill with something more palatable, a quick
stretch and a banana and off for the next 40 miles.
Riding with Mark from Brighton, a fairly serious cyclist on
his own turf, he was thinking of a fast time until he saw the course for real,
now he wants a silver medal, less than 7 hours and 5 minutes. He hadn’t
anticipated the brutal climbs and descents on tight twisty lanes. We chat then
separate on the next climb when he pulls ahead, caught again on the descent,
sharing a tow into the wind, swapping around then parting again. Repeating for
40 miles through some of the best scenery in the SW out past Tavistock where
families and friends cheer cyclists on, around the back of Brentor Church
towards Cornwall. It rains on a climb, a heavy shower and I cool down fast so
pull over under a tree with another cyclist and get my coat wondering if Chris
is far enough ahead to have missed the rain.
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| With Brighton Mark |
Then the bit many have been dreading, the climb back onto
the moor, split into three with the middle section known as ‘Pork Hill’. I know
I’ll be slow, straight into the wind for miles of steady climbing, my sickness
has passed and my average speed is going up. Smaller riders struggle with the
wind, it makes little difference if you’re heavy, 5 or 6 mph for ages, looking
down for another gear but that’s it, none left. 7 mph! Passed by a few fitter
cyclists. 70 miles in my legs before this bit and now it hurts. Then a flat
bit, stronger wind really hurting the climbers, I pass some and they tuck in
behind, cheating the wind behind me then encouraging me as I slow on the next
climb to Princetown. And there is Ian waving as he rides away from the feed
station. He looks fine, I feel ‘OK’, my legs reminding me exactly how far I’ve
ridden.
A slower re-fuel here, there are more people here now as
this is the half way point for the 65 mile riders that started after us. First
time in Princetown it was full of lycra, titanium and carbon fibre road bikes
and men who look like they have a negative BMI. Now there is a cross section of
the cycling world, shopper bikes, mountain bikes, even someone on a full
suspension bike from a supermarket, “chapeau” to him for finishing on something
that weighed a tonne or more and bobbed like a waterbed with every pedal
stroke. More bananas and liquid for me, 30 odd miles left, two major climbs to
go. I’ve not seen Brighton Mark since the start of Pork Hill but he’s at the
water station, leaning against the wall he looks tired, he’s had to stop to eat
more food so he can continue.
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| With Mark again, north of Postbridge |
Off again, out onto the highest part of the moor for this
ride, past Two Bridges and there is the Devil again, still there shouting
encouragement. Hi-5 with him after overtaking loads who didn’t know the road
kicked up steeply after the bridge and get caught with the wrong gear. Through
Postbridge and more climbing, the road dead straight ahead of me, two broken
lines of cyclists heading up, the fitter ones on the right passing those that
struggle. People walking on the grass, people resting. Massive view at the top
looking out over North Devon, sun shining, gears clicking up through the
cassette and onto the big chain ring at the front, climb again, short and
powerful, Mark beside me beginning to recover after following me from
Princetown. Past the Warren House Inn, isolated on the moor but with families
outside cheering mums and dads. I can smell a barbeque and I’ve never wanted a
burger so badly in my life. The highest part of the ride reached, and down we
go, minding the sheep and slower riders.
Slow down for a village, a car pulls out then slams on his
brakes, I avoid him and hear others point out his stupidity. Clear road again,
top gear and spin fast, getting the lactic acid out of my muscles, Mark is
taking turns at the front and we are flying. Until Docombe hill. Mark’s off up
the road keeping a high cadence, I’m in bottom gear hurting again, bend after
bend then a false summit and after an age, the top.
Forget how far the end is, don’t want to look at distance on
my computer. Hook up with Mark again, working well together. I’m on the front
upping the pace, passing other riders and looking at my computer clock and I
start to wonder if I can get there in less than 7 hours 5 minutes for a silver
medal? Head down, more aero position on the bike, 100% effort, riding as hard
as I can, look back, no sign of Mark but a long line of riders behind me,
getting a tow. Suggest that they share the work but they look to one side,
pretending not understand. Catch a rider from the Yogi cycling club in his
distinctive black and white cow print kit. I vaguely recognise him and say
‘Hi’, he joins the back of the queue then realises what is happening and works
his way to the front, relief as I take his wheel, we work together until 7’05”
ticks past on my computer screen. I’m done and sit up thanking the Yogi, he
does the same and 15 riders stream past us, not one word from them. We reach
the only traffic lights on the route, 3 ½ miles from the end. Red. 15 riders
ahead of us and we laugh. Minutes tick by. Green. Yogi sprints past them,
rested and confident of his ‘silver’, I ride back at my own pace knowing I’ve
got an easy ‘bronze’, 14 minutes outside silver. Cross the line with Mark who’s
exhausted and just missed his silver by 4 minutes having started 10 minutes
behind me. I’m 35 minutes faster than last year on a course that’s 5 miles
longer. Too tired to be happy.
Ian finds me in the queue for returning return timing chips.
I’m like a lycra clad zombie. He gets me a burger and coke, sugar free! I could
marry him. He punctured on the course, costing him around 10 minutes but still
made his ‘silver’ with 4 minutes to spare in 7 hours and 1 minute. Both of us
hurting and saying ‘never again’, sharing our rides with those around us, see
the Yogi again and chat. More cyclists than I could count. Eventually find
Chris, 6 hours 52 minutes and ‘silver’, he didn’t need his coat.
Monday – start to think about next year …