What a difference a day makes – Exmoor Beast 2012
Driving north to Minehead on
Saturday couldn’t have been nicer, a chilly but sunny autumn day, the drive
made better by the trees lining the road once we’d left the M5, showing all the
colours of the season. Ian Sutton and
Richard Earl were with me heading to do the ‘easy’ short route of the season
closing Exmoor Beast cyclo sportive, a nominal 100km across Exmoor. Neither one
of us fancied the 100mile version this late in the year on a course that is
regarded as particularly tough, the hills and seasonal weather combining to
make it a significant challenge, even for the ‘easy’ route. Rich has done this
twice before, for Ian and myself this is a new area to ride.
Registration was in Butlins,
hundreds of cyclists mingling with the half term holidaymakers in the site, it
should have been chaos but it was obvious from the start that the staff there
and the organisers of the beast had done this before and we were directed to a
parking space and then into the registration area, in a bar then into the
massive permanent tent on the site for coffee and weirdly a talking bear show,
we didn’t stay.
Campsite sorted out nearby
then off to a pub in Dunster for a very relaxing evening, walk back to the van
looking at the stars knowing that the forecast for the next day was pretty
poor. Sadly the Met Office got it wrong, it wasn’t poor, it was dreadful. Woken
by rain pinging off the roof of the van at 4 am, very glad I’d put the mud
guards on the best bike at the last minute, they look awful but work well. Maximum
faff before we leave, grab some breakfast, decide what might be the best
clothing to wear for what looks like a very wet day, rolling up Ian and Rich’s
tents and off to the start. Get there as the first group of 100 roll out, again
the organisers have got things spot on, park off site in the overflow car park
and watch the next 100 go. I’m impatient to start but the others need more time
to sort stuff before rolling into the start area. There are 200 waiting in front of us. Then
100 and then our briefing from the event staff; it’s wet, be careful.
07.35 and we’re off.
07.36 and we’re climbing.
It’s going to be a long day.
Sit in with a group. Find the
other riders with guards on and tuck in behind them, sense someone tuck in
behind me. Slow progress but still faster than a lot, two lines of riders
forming already on a nice wide road, plenty of space for everyone, riders and
the few cars out at that time on a wet Sunday morning. Assume Ian is ahead
somewhere, he’s clad in fluoro yellow, like 60% of the riders in this group,
Rich somewhere behind in white, like 30% of the others. Hidden in plain sight.
Turn left to Dunkery Beacon,
road narrows to a lane, muddy strip down the middle with riders either side,
good natured banter from groups of mates, polite passing and a group acceptance
that this is where the real work starts, 17% for a long way, a hill rated as
10/10 in the 100 best climbs book. Oh.
We were warned about two
obstacles on this climb, a cattle grid on a slope and a ford, see the grid up
ahead, wonder what the fuss is as it’s no different to dozens on Dartmoor, as I
get to it three riders fall off on it. Stop dead and tip toe past them, too
steep to restart here so have to walk 50m or so, feel my new cleats on the
tarmac, grumble a bit then get going along with a bunch of others, all feeling
the same. Roadies don’t like to walk, the shoes don’t help. Get to the ford,
chaos as people walk across, ride straight through wondering what the problem
is then get baulked by a walker the other side, stop, hold my tongue and start
again. Hear raised voices behind and glance back, someone in the water, smirk.
And climb.
12.4 miles in and yet another
man in yellow slowly rides past me on a retro De Rosa, just like Ian’s. Ian?
Ian the mountain goat who climbs for fun. Ian who is over 20 kilos lighter than
me, behind me for 12 miles of climbing… what a day! He gives me words of
encouragement and then pulls away, I spend several minutes wondering how I can
lose over 20 kg, come to the conclusion that at 1.94m tall I’d look daft at 70
kilos and grab some food from my back pocket.
Still climbing but at a
better gradient for me, start to catch Ian and nearly join him but then it
kicks up again and he’s off.
Rain eases for a bit and we
all notice the wind, high above the coast in the national park, exposed to the
full force of the wind from the sea. It would be a heck of a view, as it is we
see glimpses of it between low lying cloud, I guess it is more dramatic this way.
It’s also a bit miserable.
At 20 miles I’m passed by a
group of 7 or 8 who are really shifting, Sprint and catch their wheels, and
hang on. Working together right at my limit, glad I turned off the heart rate
alarm for this ride as it would be going nuts. Make sure I recover when I can,
HR drops a little. They accelerate up a rise and I hang on, the rider at the
back looks over his shoulder, nods and smiles. Riding ‘Tempo’.
I feel like a cyclist.
Inches from a wheel at 20+
mph on an undulating road passing tens, maybe hundreds of riders, shoulder to
shoulder with riders faster than me but using their speed to keep the pace,
working where I can, shouting warning for pot holes, riders, sheep. Pass Ian,
shout to him to join on but he’s not got the legs for this. We cover 5 miles in
no time at all then the plunge into Lynmouth for the feed station. Game over as
the group split to refuel. Ian gets there minutes later, pauses then carries on
as I fill water bottles and eat.
Where the descent into Lynmouth
was not for the feint hearted the climb out is not for the feint legged,
Unaware that Ian is ahead I plug on, passed by tens if not hundreds of riders
and wonder if I’ve suddenly gone the wrong way and am now with the 100 mile
riders. Ask and I’m not, the whippet I talk to states it’s a ‘power climb’ then
changes up a gear and accelerates. The feeling of being a cyclist passes so
quickly, it’s a cruel sport.
Reach the top and back to
normal. 96 kilos fares better in the wind and rain than 70 odd and I’m
overtaking again, must be the weather as there are loads of people to work
with, taking turns on the front until they get tired, I’m cycling again no
longer winching myself up a hill. A familiar looking form ahead, the same blue
bike and fluro top, slow to say hi to my lightweight buddy, wonder where he
passed me and learn of his splash and dash at the feed station. He’s suffering
a little now, the cold and wet getting to him, I silently wonder if that’s due
to a lack of natural insulation. 33 miles done and we’re over half way around,
he’s talking of abandoning, reassure him that he’s done the worst of it and
pull in front of him to give him a tow, realise a minute or so later he’s not
there. Carry on, it’s a cruel sport.
40 miles and another steep
hill, twinge of cramp in my right leg, drop as many gears as I can and hope I
can spin it out, gradient soon prevents spinning and I’m back to winching
again, carefully judging each pedal stroke looking after my leg. Half way up
and the familiar silhouette of a steel De Rosa passes me. Asked if I’m OK, one
word reply “Cramp”. He carries on out of sight over the top of the hill. What
was that about cruelty?
10 miles of soft pedalling
and the cramp fades, not enough to go flat out but enough to finish, stop for food
and a stretch before carrying on, sprinting past riders that are struggling
after 50 miles in the wet, hit and run at the last feed station, offered a salt
tablet by a stranger to help with my cramp, he noticed that I’m limping off the
bike, protecting my right leg. Camaraderie born from the conditions. Know there
are less than 10 miles to go, I will miss my target of the ‘A’ standard time of
4 hours 45 mins but I suspected that from half way, still hope I can get back
in under 5 hours. Ride through Dunster then turn left for the last hill of the
day, rider in front stops, both legs cramped solid, nothing can be done until
he can move them and stretch so carry on, joined by two others for the last
descent but they’re braver than me and I drop off their wheels. Into Minehead
and towards Butlins again, car driver gives way to me at a roundabout, his
children waving out of the car windows, their encouragement really appreciated this
near the end. Get there and again the organisers have it spot on, straight into
the grounds then inside to the finish, ride into the bar. Beer token and ½ pint
jug thrust into my hand as my name is announced over the PA system. 4 hours 58
minutes 43 seconds. 7 minutes behind Ian who’s impressed with my ride, he rode
non-stop around the entire course. Chapeau. Great post ride buzz in the room.
Not such a cruel sport at the end.
Rich rolled in an hour and a
bit later having broken a spoke in his rear wheel and getting a puncture. Cruelty
expressed in the form of mechanical failure.
Chris Jones.
Expressing a healthy interest
in cycling since 1989.