3 Peaks cyclocross 2022

Up at 5am. Van loaded drove up noting all the places we should have booked to stay when I realised I couldn't face the faff of camping. Had a relaxing start to the day though - once we'd arrived. I don't want to face the pre-race travel anxiety again.

It was relaxing until I went to check my tyre Pressure & all the air came out when the tubeless valve unscrewed. Then I couldn't get it to inflate until I gave it a spin. It popped off the rim in the meantime. I hurriedly blasted it up to 50psi. Thank god I brought the blast pump.

I joined the crowd of people at a random point in the field There was hunting for Helen Jackson, number 30, who had forgotten her dibber. There was a briefing I couldn't hear.

• • •

For 15 minutes I dicked about on the start line with Rich and Tom and heckled my parents and then we were jostling for position through the road junction. Most people went around me. I didn't panic except to stay in contention with the wheels to avoid being in the breeze on my own. I had a chat with a first timer seeking old timer advice, then she rode away too. I was a little concerned that I was last, coming over the final hill climb but then I saw the familiar jersey of Brian Renshaw ahead of me. I actually checked my watch for the first cut-offs and started to sprint but once I'd turned off the road I relaxed, assuming the cut-off to beat the gate. I'd never had to worry about * this one before.

Off the road, I rolled over the cattle grid and my rear rim smacked against the bars. I could see it bulging under my weight. After asking Brian what we were doing back here, I hopped off the bike to start pumping up my tyre. Lots of people, including the commissaire, offered help but no one had a decent pump so I persevered, putting in as much pressure as I could fathom (about 50psi) then set off gingerly - hardly daring to ride the rocks or jump on.

With more air in my tyres, I soon started to catch up but not until I had been heckled by 3 5ths of the Thackaray family for my traditional slow start.

I caught up to Brian & we decided that as near-OAPS we were allowed to spend 2 hours warming up. Back in my comfort zone on Simon Fell, I set about overtaking a steady stream of people and at the top, lept effortlessly over the stile. Thanks to my running training. The next bit tested my tyres enough for me to start to trust them, though they were so solid I spent quite a lot of time sliding sideways on the grass and the limestone. They didn't seem to be losing pressure and that was the main thing. I jogged over the summit to dib then interchanged between walking/chatting to Rachel Mellor and riding my bike, finally. The descents didn't seem nearly so far compared to Scotland and I hardly noticed it except for a few squeaky moments of thinking the back end was going to overtake the front end (sideways). I might have set a pb. I'd decided I probably had enough food on board for a no-stop approach so I rattled past my family at the bottom, onto the road where I ate - and rode - like a lunatic, intent on racing those time limits. I even managed to inhale food and almost cause a traffic jam at the road junction as I spluttered through.

Ian was in his usual spot. The spectators deckchairs and blankets at Chapel Le Dale looked tempting. The road up to the farm was taken at leisure for its climbing, knowing that I'd be taking a nice walk up the hillside, snacks in hand, munching away.

By the third cereal bar I was already feeling bloated an sick of cereal bars then my friend Sue Thackaray (4th 5th) appeared in amongst the hikers wielding a... no THE tin of flapjack. Sue's flapjack is the best. Tasty and the fellside-setting only compliments it.  

The things I would do for Sue's flapjack. I took 2 pieces, stuffing one into my jersey pocket, pretty sure I was near the back still and there were plenty left.

She told me to keep going steady.  Au contraire, I was racing like mad to meet the cut-offs and would worry about Pen Y Ghent when I got there.

I caught 2 male riders up & we compared notes. What's next, number of completions, how ride able to the summit? We moved into the cloud. Substantially wetter air that condensed on helmets, dripping.

At the fence I lifted my bike over politely scattering 3 walkers gathered for lunch then walked around to grab my bike off the guy who helpfully passed it to me with a smile saying, "there you go! Just like new".

The jolly marshalls hiding on the ley side of the wall from the Northerly wind were all smiley and jolly. I resolved to continue the descent without my coat on yet, in the hope that we'd get out of the cloud soon enough and it would get warmer with altitude.

I looked on whist fully as a hiker sheltering from the wind poured tea from a flask. All I wanted from then on was a hot drink.

• • •

I was looking forward to the descent. While I still didn't really trust my tyres, I've grown a bit of a mountain bikers brain over the last 2 years. Unfortunately I missed the good steep lines and tyres and shoes faltered on the limestone.

When I had to walk on rocks carrying my bike the outside of my right shin and the muscles on the outside of my ankle got painfully tight. A new kind of agony from insufficient hiking in cycling shoes, I guess. Oh how I wished it had been boots weather.

I ran across the tussocks + grass instead then rejoined the limestone slabs when I could, the bloke behind passing me when he got his confidence back. I still nursed the tyres down the gravel a little - I knew I needed to finish. The sight of the ambulance slowed me down on the wide track and I stopped to put my coat on as it began to rain full-on. and I moved over to let the Ambulance pass. My friend Ann B cheered me on from underneath her hood, out on a hill walk.

Embarrasingly I then had to harass the ambulance until it stopped to get out of my way before hauling across the river while I took the easy way across the footbridge. No, I have no shame and I was also slightly sorry I didn't get to watch the off-road ambulance cross the 3ft boulders in the river bed as he banged and scraped his way across.  The casualty in the back must've had quite a ride!

There were so many well wishers on the run down to the viaduct it was special to get there and I chatted to the person recovering the Ambulance riders' bike. I chickened out of most of the Ribblehead drop-off and met my family who, to my disappointment, had drunk all the coffee. My hot drink would have to wait. Off I went into the weather. The legs felt relatively good. The little steep climb on the road was ridden, unlike some years where I've had to get off and walk.  I had 20 minutes to do a very short section of easy road and no head-wind, maybe even a tail wind.

None of my support came past me which justified me not relying on them for my feed stops. My run vest had everything in it that I needed and I did a quick reshuffle of the right hand pocket into the left. A salted caramel cereal bar went down a treat in the absence of a pack of crisps which was what I really wanted. The snickers bar was a brilliant boost.

Horton in Ribblesdale was eerily quiet. Usually there are people lining the streets cheering but my lateness, combined with the steady drizzle meant most people had either gone or were tucked up in their homes and holiday cottages. I was kind of relieved to see the race organisation appear at the bottom of the hill, though hardly anyone noticed me as they all had their backs to me watching riders over 1 hour ahead coming down the hill.

Suddenly all the noise was back, the core body of spectators was there. "Dutch" corner where my team mates cheered, clad in Euskatel-orange jerseys. Cyclocross rider.com Cheered frenetically in my ear. Then I got off and walked THE BIG STEP, satisfied that I had still ridden quite far up the lane without my legs failing me before the big, rocky lump. I lay my bike down to remove my coat one more time, realising I was boiling in it and as wet on the inside as out. Through the fatigue I realised I could keep it in my pocket and, later, wear it over my running vest to save me taking the vest off again.

I had company on the climb as I caught up and passed tired blokes and consumed chocolate. I also had cheers with Hannah Saville, Stu Taylor, Darrell Bradbury, Rich (concerned for Tom) then Tom.

Sorry Rick, I told-on-you for being ahead.

By the time I reached the end of the rocky climb the hill cloud was in full force and we were walking in the blast of Northerly winds so I paused at a cairn (the only place with any shelter) to put my coat on before trudging up the purgatory staircase to the summit. It stopped the shivers and I hoped it might stop the cramp which was just tickling the edges of my conscious and my thighs but not quite materialising. I often suffer cramp on the way up PenY Ghent but was pleased it held off as long as it did. I often have to growl and have a word with my legs.

I dibbed quickly & got on my way back - a bit of a grassy loop to rejoin the main path further down. For a moment the cloud broke to allow a sliver of golden sunlight to illuminate the old route back to Whernside and the Gunnerside fells beyond. I took a moment, just a moment, to enjoy it before embarking on the downhill.

• • •

The guys who had been trailing me suddenly found legs on the downhills. My appetite for steep descents was sated so I walked the worst of it. I wanted to get home in 1 piece & still ride the BB 200 in 2 weeks A bothy bag deployed by MRT on the grassy bank was my first trigger to slow down. When I reached the Ambulance at the bottom of the steep rocky section, I had to ask, "are you just parked here to remind me I don't like this bit and I really should walk it". They said they were there to remind me I'm awesome-which was nice but being slow is nothing special - it's one hard ride. Training to be any good - that's the definition of awesome.

I was on the bike then for the rest of the descent though I think I might have walked the big step as my legs were shot.

As I thundered down the track I checked on a spectator rider sitting in the grass with his wheel off.

He just managed to ask if I had a spare tube before I was out of earshot. I stopped 50m later. Emptied a tube out of my tool bag and carried on "I'll get a tube to you," he said, asking my number. I told him not to worry, remembering I found a tenner in the park 6 weeks ago. I told him to pay it forward one day. He insisted but rather than give him my race number (hidden under my jerseys I gave him number 30 instead. I knew Something was wrong with that but couldn't think what!  I later had to message Helen Jackson on facebook and tell her some stranger would probably message her offering to post her an inner tube.

There were still a few people coming up hill for a while but eventually they stopped. I was disappointed that the woman I had been with on the road ride out did not seem to have made it, unless she'd been on the summit loop just behind me.

The joy of descending Pen Y Ghent lane with a clear line makes it almost worth being at the back. The only people to dodge are the straggling supporters making their way off the hill and they'll cheer for you and get out of your way.

• • •

I rounded the corner to the final drop to find my dad, wheels in hand, heading up the Lane "just in case". I tapped him on the arm as I passed then dropped down to where TSK, mum and Po, Sinead and Nicky were all cheering while bemused ramblers learned my name, shouted across the road by my support... and they wonder where I get my loud mouth from?

The hard bit was yet to come.

TSK followed me in on his bike which meant he got to witness the glory of my final mile cramps. I thought I'd got away with it as the flat road sections did not seem to bother me. Then I suddenly realised that my drinking tube, compressed under my coat, had been gradually weeing on my left leg all the way down the hill and my legs and shorts pad were soaked.

I lost the end off the tube trying to stop the leak and just emptied the water all over the road which was better than down my quads.

As soon as I hit the road climb the familiar cramp kicked in but I have known it worse and despite the yowling, slapping, growling and free-wheeling half way up a climb, I made it to the top and the fun descent to the finish line. The happy tone of a race marshal whistle to let people know a rider is coming home.

All day people had been telling me I was "still smiling "still doing it". I was honest with myself. I knew it wouldn't be a fast year, I just wanted to get around. My "training has had to be more about fixing the bike up and resting enough than actually riding my bike so I was relying on residual strength and endurance from the long stuff I've been doing. 

With every peak ticked off, every trickle of hope I'd make the cut offs and every positive experience (not getting cramp at all climbing Penny Ghent was a huge win), I felt pleased that I could drag my body out of the fat and lazy shell it crawled into during Covid and menopause and actually make it do crazy things again and not feel too bad afterwards. 

I kept my "run" of 3 Peaks races in tact - another one to chalk up on the "done" board.  Despite the lack of glorious scenery, I just had the' best' time, out in nature with mates. It was a year that I needed mother nature to smile on me, not slow me down and she did and for that I am truly grateful. Cyclocross is here and I'm looking forward to the rest of the season.

(c) Laura and Gary Jackson

3 Peaks cyclo-cross 2022 preamble

Have you ever had an event that is in your heritage, that defines your whole year?

The 3 Peaks cyclo-cross is mine. It started in 1961 (give or take a few early attempts). 

I was 6 months in the womb for my first attendance in 1973 and 9 months old when I first attended in 1973 as an individual babe in arms, to watch my dad run ride and stumble across the bogs of North Yorkshire. In those days it really was a hard race that earned it the title of 'the hardest bike race in the world', before thousands of footfalls warranted the surfacing of the most popular routes up "the Peaks".

My best childhood memories are of playing in the river before the start, waiting at dry stone walls for my dad to pass and sometimes getting icecream on the way. Other times sheltering from the storms. The first year that my mum didn't come, I was put in the car with Theressa, my dad's friend's partner.  It was a real treat.  Theresa smoked, took pride in her appearance and was large as life.  She was also an accomplished bike mechanic.  It was a good weather year and we parked up in a pub and sat outside to wait for the riders to come.  I had a lemonade and she had a G&T.  The riders never came and it took us a while to realise we were at the wrong pub and both my dad and Neil had completed most of the race without any support.

A few years later (at the right pub), Theressa told me that building wheels was one of the most cathartic things you can do.  I didn't know what cathartic meant but eventually I found out that she was right and every wheel I build has a little bit of her soul in it.

At the age of 14, I supported my dad by riding the support route on my own bike.  These were still the days when supporters could share the road bits of the route with the riders because there were still only 50-or-so entrants.  Everyone was impressed with my endurance, I started to dream that one day I'd do the route.

In 1995 at the age of 22 I was on the startline of my first.  I don't know why I didn't enter in my 21st year but that was also the year my grandfather died and I might have been in France.  Who knows?  I'd love to say every year is memorable, but increasingly, they all roll into one.  There have been highlights and lowlights.  The year we all went super fast and no one is quite sure if it's a records or timing error?  The year it was boiling hot.  The torrential years or those where the wind blew so hard it was almost impossible to stand on the summit of Whernside.  In my second year at University when I gave myself food poisoning the week before the event and I couldn't get the calories back in fast enough.  I got cramp after Whernside so bad that I just waited for my mate to come by in the car and pick me up.  Two years later when I knew I could finish - I was in good form but running slow due to the weather and got cut off at PenYGhent.  I cried solidly for two hours.

Racing with my dad, being beaten by him two years later, the last few years where I'd finish up to an hour before him and spend a nervous hour on the finish line waiting for him (and my car) to finish the course with my husband at the wheel playing patient mechanic.  The year dad DNF'd because his rear quick release broke and no-one had a quick release to lend him before he got cut off at PenYGhent.  The year he accidentally did the whole thing without insoles in his shoes.  The podiums for the daddy/daughter prize.

The first year of racing with my husband in the field, climbing Simon Fell together.

Friends jumping out at me from places where I least expect them: my Sheffield mate Emma and her girlfriend replacing my dad's old friend Ian in the driveway to the quarry half way along the road section; Ian Fitz showing up at Rawnsley's leap - the stile over the wall on top of Ingleborough.  Then there's Ruth Gamwell, my arch nemesis, holding the record for female completions (I'm second).  This is a woman who schedules her pregnancies around the race, I'm sure of it... and didn't miss three editions in order to go to Canada for three years.  It's down to which one of us survives the menopause best!

Anyway, I probably write the same old nostalgic  bullshit every year. 

Every year before the race I look at myself and wonder if it will be a good year.  This year I am expecting nothing of myself.  I am desperately hoping to finish.  It's one of those years where I know I haven't worked hard for it - I've done little specifically for it except in the last few weeks when I've deployed my usual approach of cramming like a teenager working for their A-levels.

The 3 Peaks somewhat sneaked up on me as a surprise this year. Back in January I was suffering the lethargy that is the Menopause, suspected I was dying of something obscene and didn't know if I'd even ride the Highland Trail. I seemed to have done no real training for anything and had ceased my camp outs.

With the Highland Trail going Ok in the end, I was hopeful Andrew had done my 3 Peaks entry for me while I was away (1st June) but also unsure if I wanted to contemplate training for another event. After all, I generally spend the last 3 days of the Highland Trail fantasizing about selling all my bikes and buying a puppy.

Entries didn't open until July so in the end I had to make my own mind up. Not entering felt like letting the entire family down, including myself, so I entered. It took me a while to know that I really was going to ride.  In fact I started training, then backed off, then came back to it so I only really committed the last 3 weeks to it, in amongst trying to get my bike ready.  Weirdly, it's my bike that's really pulled this year together for me.  

I was dreading my first ride on it. I anticipated it being harsh and uncomfortable and that all of my muscle memory for cyclo-cross would be gone.  Could I still jump on?  Would the lump on my shoulder support my bike frame any more?  Would I cripple my back?

Our first outing was on road slicks and it was weird and narrow for a while - not just my tyres but the handlebars.  At the end of the ride, my old lady bingo-wings ached.. We did an exhausting, flat 50km ride to the East of Sheffield and I was really worried. 

A day later I put knobbly tyres on and went for a proper ride. First off I needed to negotiate a rocky descent in my local park surrounded by Saturday on-lookers, which I did successfully - only dabbing once I got into the trees.  

My first 'cross "hurdle" is 500m from home - a wooden box at 8" above ground level designed to pass Horses onto the bridleway but prevent motorcycles. The dismount was cool, I've been jumping of mountain bikes for 3 years but could I get back on? I ran, held my breath, lept. It wasn't pretty but I managed it.  More to the point, I realised my saddle is much lower down than on the mountain bike.

Over the next few weeks the bike set up improved as I threw some money at it for the first time since I've had it. There's still more to do but hopefully that will come through this week.

My breakthrough ride came yesterday. Sure, I set out to do a big-ish ride. It was supposed to be relaxed with essential coffee and cake breaks but I didn't carry much of a lock and only a few nuts and chocolate in my new run vest which doubles up as a hydration pack and was out for its first test run. I forgot that joining the trails from the bottom of the valley was a real chore but then recognised the opportunity to properly test out my bike running/carrying with the backpack on. Much to my surprise and joy, I effectively bunny hopped the kerb and rode the first steep section before a short, flat recovery and then the climb-proper starts.

As I'd promised myself, I had a quick jog-ette which seemed to stick quite nicely so I kept it going as long as I could. I was all smiles when I jumped back on & rode past an astonished family. The remainder of the climb to Coldwell Lane was tackled "direct" and the byway descended at fun-speed. Time for pre-lunch cake at the Apple Shak to remind myself I that this wasn't supposed to be a race-effort.

To make some progress towards different and inspiring terrain I made a bee-line for Houndkirk and Longshaw. This Bee-line includes the "easygoing trail" for horses which is actually a scrabbly 16% slope of gravel. I managed to ride 1/3 of it until my wheel span out, then I enjoyed the run to the top, jumped back on the bike and rode through the park to bypass Lodge Moor then tanked across the road to Houndkirk.

• • •

The cafe at Longshaw was packed so I continued to Curbar.  Instead of riding around the cyclist's climb, I hopped off, shouldered the bike and scrambled up to the top layer of crag, hopping from rock to rock.  Of course, I acquired quite an audience for the final big step and was relieved, to say the least, when my knee didn't let go at the sight of the 24 inch high rock.  Instead I just smacked myself in the forehead with my handlebars as the front wheel pinged off the gritstone.  

The cafe at Curbar gap mean sitting in a carpark (as I was too hungry to takeaway) but the food was filling and I stuffed 3/4 of a cookie into my jersey pocket. I concluded that the descent from Eaglestone was about as close as I'd get to PenYGhent steep-and-loose but nevertheless I enjoyed it and stayed in control.

Given the choice of the main road to Chatsworth on the bank holiday weekend of Queen Elizabeth's funeral or the A623 road to Calver, I decided Calver was the better option.  I got distracted by a turn off to the village which led me past pretty stone cottages then up a bloody steep hill which brought me out exactly where I wanted to be - at the beginning (end) of a bridleway I rode last year on my Birthday with Landslide and Reg. I had no idea where it went because I was too hungry to remember the day after my birthday - but I'd figure it out (and I had a map).

I rode as far as I could up the lane which was another stupidly steep strip of concrete pock-marked with the imprint of the stone chip that was once scattered over its moist sticky surface but was now splayed unceremoniously over the entire road surface without being attached to anything. It's hard to say whether my lungs or traction were the limiting factor.

At the top I debated sometime over my route. I was looking for a highland cow which just wasn't there this time.

After turning back at a junction of footpaths I finally found the bridleway and, eventually, the cow.

I skirted the quarry which I vaguely remembered from last time then materialised in a pleasant little valley at a junction of 4 bridleways. Where I was fairly sure we had come from straight ahead last time and looked left and right to the tune of "No thank you mate!", I turned right. It went straight up again but I was getting tired and so I'd decided to get going toward home instead of getting carried away and doing too much the week before a race. (I suspect it was already too late). I headed for Eyam.

The climb gave me cause to actually think about my relation­ship with this bike and cyclo-cross as a medium of racing and transport. While rough-stuff and cyclo-cross racing have been rivals in the past, let's face it, there's some impressive overlap carrying relatively light drop bar bikes over challenging terrain to get away from it all, go exciting places - go further (credit Cammile Macmillan), or even faster. This bike and I toured BC together as well as completing editions of the 3 peaks Cyclo­cross and countless national trophies and Yorkshire races. I loved the ease with which she slings over my shoulder. (accepting I have No weight on the bike at the moment!)  I wondered why I've been riding my mountain bike so much and then remembered there's no way I'd suffer the HT on a cross bike.

• • •

At the top of the Climb I took time to pause.  Two kestrels in full autumn copper-colour were hunting over the field. I stopped to play the game of "Red kite or kestrel" but they were kestrel. I got my camera out to photograph Eyam across the valley while listening to a buzzard mewling in the field on my left. Creatures ran for cover in the undergrowth by my feet.

The descent was almost as challenging as the climb. I'd just been musing about how confident I am on this bike. I feel like I'm taking her for a ride-not the other way around. We'd been in control all day.

As I rolled past the last of the quarries, some knocked down fencing and thoughts of bike packing entered my head. Before I had time to register it, my route diverted steeply through some trees. I ducked, steered, feathered the brakes then pulled them full-on but kept moving. By pure luck and a lot of hanging-on we stayed up right. So much for staying in control.  Thankfully there was a run out before I poured out onto the Via Galia and heavy traffic in both directions.

The road climb into Eyam was unexpected. For obvious reasons (exit onto a major trunk road) I've never been this way before. For a moment I contemp­lated more cake in the village but decided it was too soon. My intention to go via the Monsal trail to Great Hucklow was forgotten and I rode to Grindleford on the broken road instead which still left me with a choice of Froggat or the road to Hathersage and home that way. I plumped for Hathersage - at least I could pay penance for the road by doing the Causeway.

When that last little road kicker into Grindleford came I realised I was in a bad way. A MAMIL on a road bike empathised as we both hauled ass into the village. He carried on towards surprise view. I slumped into a heap on the benches outside the toilets and got my phone out to let Andrew know I was having a bit of a rest before I climbed the final hill.

I was getting quite into people-watching fuelled by the 3/4 cookie I found in the pocket with my phone.

Funnily enough, the nuts in my rucsac didn't get a look in. I rested so well I decided it would be fun to ride up the Dale. Unperturbed by an American hiker who, 1/3 of my way up, exclaimed, "Wow, you have a challenge ahead of you", I turned off at the bridleway and took the direct route offroad, enjoying clambering through the heather, bike on my shoulder, batting the flies and midges away on a warm autumn afternoon. At the top I took the ultimate pleasure in lifting my little light bike over the kissing gate without any effort whatsoever. Rolling down to the Norfolk arms I made the last adjustments to my front derailleur which would hopefully stop my chain coming off at the front once and for all. I had the rest of Lodge Moor to test it out on.

Sadly after Lodge Moor, I found that my newly built rear wheel had bounced hard somewhere, de-tensioned and picked up a wobble that was touching the tyre on the frame. I pumped it up hard and skewed the wheel in the frame, making a mental note to remember to pack myself a spoke key in the toolbag on the bike. I'd say it was a slow and careful ride home but after dealing with dozy middle class SUV driving clonts who can't be arsed to turn their heads enough to see cyclists approaching a downhill crossroads, it was a pretty adrenaline fuelled ride home. Still, it wasn't going to ruin a beautiful day. Nor was the niggling thought that possibly I'd peaked too early, using all of my race form up today, doing pointless A-level cramming.

If it were a mock exam I'd mark myself harshly. Race distance. More than its fair share of elevation. Not quite the same steeps (I'm convinced there's nothing like Simon Fell anywhere in the world - not in a bike race anyway). I rode for 4hrs50 minutes (cake stops not included). All I need to do now is try and deliver it all in one shot, no sitting around staring at the butterflies. What I will enjoy though is not doing it with a 25kg mountain bike on my back.

What I realise is that although I've done a few of these with the Torino Nice Rally or the Transatlantic Way "races" in my legs, I haven't ever specifically done long, local rides in prep for the 3 Peaks.  In that respect, this year is a first and so we will see... just how strong a drug endorphins really are!?