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!?
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