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!?

3 Peaks Cyclo-cross 2017

The 3 Peaks this year passed by in a blur of: thinking I was doing better, not knowing how I was doing, puncturing, being average, ending with a time gain of 5 minutes over last year.

It was satisfying but a little disappointing, confounded by my dad not finishing due to a frustrating mechanical.  The official refused continuation 12 minutes outside cut off on a glorious sunny day. He worked really hard this year to get back to fitness after illness... not easy when you're 67.

Another one under my belt but no daddy daughter prize this year and no sub-5 hour for me proving that I will have to train specifically for it instead of pricking about with triathlon and mountain biking.  The legs felt slushy this morning. There's no other reason than I am knackered!

It was a beautiful sunny day. My friend Sue fed me flapjack on Whernside and I had great fun throwing stuff into people's cars (with their permission).

I wore old shoes which messed up my downhill running confidence and anyway I haven't done nearly enough of that recently anyway. Sub 5 hours is definitely possible but dedicating August to fine tuning may be required.

With my head in my next project already, it doesn't bother me too much that I didn't break any of my old records today. It matters more what I do tomorrow... or perhaps on Wednesday.

(c) Sue Thackray

Pre 3 Peaks Cyclo-cross

As I prepare for another year somewhere near the mid- to back-of-field listening to one-time bucketlisters moan about the "attrocious" weather and "infuriatingly difficult hills", I ponder that if I was a betting woman and there weren't a massive conflict of interest, I'd put money on myself this weekend... on me finally going sub-5 hours at the 3 Peaks again... after 20 years.

It's a distant wouldn't-it-be-nice which didn't really hold much muster.  More of a pipe dream than a possibility until last year when I got 5h19m after hanging around with my dad for the first road ride out to Ingleborough.  Nothing else went particularly badly to make me believe that it would have been easier to make 5hrs stick but despite finishing with the usual cramp in the last mile - I felt like the day was over too soon last year and I could have done more.

There are a few reasons I shouldn't get a sub-5-hour time.  I haven't run in 3 weeks... 

until this evening when a jog across the valley to retrieve a key went surprisingly easy as I bounced up the 20%hill across the road from us.  I've not done much running but 14 days ago I was probably pushing a (heavily loaded mountain-)bike over the Col de Peas at 2600m.  At that point I swore that it'd be all taper until today... and it pretty much was.

My race bike is filthy.  The last thing I did with it was rode it 564 miles across British Columbia to race it.  Now that we've done two cyclo-cross seasons and bonded over 7 days on the road together she is sufficiently worn in to justify her 3 Peaks Cyclo-cross debut so for the first time ever I will be riding this race on a bike that fits me.  When I was growing up they didn't make race bikes for girls and big bikes then just became what I was used to.  30 years on and my musculoskeletal system can't cope with excessive stretching so all of my limbs will be doing this year's race in the correct position.

I tentatively tugged at my new tubular wheels which might also help me towards sub-5-hour glory.  I thought the glue might, just might, have lasted long enough for this weekend but sadly it was not to be.  I was almost glad they were obviously no good, rather than being maybe good enough to risk.  SO I'm on 3-4 seasons-old tyres, hoping they won't pinch puncture and relying on my old steel steed as backup (yes the big one).  

That's two bikes I have to service tomorrow morning.

On the plus side, in the last 7 weeks I have worked 10 days and spent most of the rest either on my feet, on my bike or recovering from racing/training.  As I have said many times in the last few years, I'll either be exhausted or kick ass.  I can never tell anymore.  After hauling EmVee around the Alps, stepping onto Simon Fell with my cyclo-cross bike is going to be like splashing in the shallows after wrestling with the Kraken.

Whilst the body is heavily protesting with a stiff hip and plenty of impromptu cramps, the mind is at least willing.  And, wouldn't it be lovely to repeat a sub-5-hour finish 20 years since I last did it?

3 Peaks Cyclo Cross 2016 - No. 14

It doesn't feel like there is a lot to say about the 3 Peaks cyclo cross this year. In case you haven't seen my glowing smile since or read any of my Facebook posts from that time, it went incredibly well... but in exactly that way, there's so very little to say about it.

There are no dramas to write of. No punctures, falls or fails. I put my coat on for a rain shower that didn't last very long so I stopped to take it off again. It's hardly headline news.

The main headline is that I beat two véry important people, the 26 year old me and 35 year old me. Both of us had just come back off long tours abroad.  Appart from that, here's the bits of how it went.

The ride to Ingleborough 

Started with dad and Jo Jebb. Settled in to enjoy the day and a bloody pleasant ride with a mixture of chatting and drafting. 

Family friend Po is there to watch me and dad ride past together, waving.

Ingleborough 

A few people passed us and a few more when I stopped to take my coat off.

Fat men can't get into heaven

Having gotten us both on the hill I set about making up places and catching up dad. After which I  enjoyed the ride and jog to Simon Fell. 

Dad passing through the eye of the needle

The woman next to me grumbles about how hard it is (we haven't even got to the hard bit  yet) and I say, that the day just gets better.

'Not again, never, no. I say that every year but this time I mean it'

Please tell me you really do mean this. There are plenty more people who want to play and plenty of people who don't want to listen to you moan all the way through.

All concerns about my hill climbing strength were put to bed as the fell passed in no time.

'Is this for real?' 

Simon Fell

Wondering who enters a race like the 3 Peaks without seeing those' photos.

'I can't carry my bike'.

Hold it this way. Try the other side. Put your hand there.
Oh damn it, see you later.  Good luck but maybe do some research next time you enter a thing.

Over the top and retrieved my bike then set off with Jo Jebb again and sneaked past somewhere in a bog.

I had a small group of followers coming off the top of the hill who opted for the long vertical stagger as I went left for the easier approach only to find the slab of limestone that I always slither down - sometimes on my ass with my bike on my head.  Stayed upright this year.

Even the descent was shortlived. I lost my concentration trying to decide what to pick up to eat (if anything) and lost my line several times, with a swear. Then I was there, grabbed a banana and joined the road.

The road to Whernside

Got on a good wheel.  It started raining, threatened hailing so I opted for coat on instead of getting a wet body.  By the time I get to Ingleton I'm too hot so I climb up to the quarry where Ian Small always waits and have a chat to him whilst I take my coat off.  He says he wishes he was fit like me.  I admit I don't know who I am at the moment.  I pick up two ladies from Beacon Wheelers - Lisa Waistell and Lucy Donnelly - a man in green and a few others.  I don't have to fight to catch anyone up.  I just sort of ride up to them and they're going slower than me so I go past them.  Lucy and Lisa sit on my wheel and include me in their little group.  

I stop at Chapel le Dale to drop off banana skin rubbish.  There isn't a bag except for the one that clearly contains someone's lunch and I'm not sure what to do so I lay it carefully on the ground and a British Cycling commissaire comes and makes sarcastic comments.  The marshall is kinder and comes over to pack it up as I try to find words for the BC official... polite ones.  All I can find is, "but the man said..." whilst the marshal reassures me it's OK and takes my crap off me.

Soon back with Beacon girls and we ride up to my favourite aid station where Nicky Hartle and Sinead Burke are waiting to give me encouragement and water.  Then I get a cuddle from Sue Thackaray and a kiss from Rob because his dad isn't there to oblige and I set off on cloud 9.

Whernside

Whernside is step aerobics all the way to the top.  It starts easy then the steps get higher.  The National Trust have been out laying inappropriate stone and turning things into uncomfortable stairways instead of natural craggy paths.

I get sandwiched between Beacon ladies (they're calling me "orange lady") and form part of their conversation, making this all look very easy.

The top path is satisfyingly rideable this year.  A bit of a tail wind and I'm on great form.  Bouncing from one side of the path to the other to get the smoothest line.  I have a couple of walks - mostly around stiles and gates - and then check in and start the slither back down.  I forget to look over the wall at the view this year.

The descent is depressing for a while.  No-one wants to walk on limestone steps in the wet and it's not just us - none of the hikers are on the steps either!!

Finally we can ride for a while - there's a mixture of techniques for crossing drains, then shallow steps and then finally the limestone runs out and we're at the last drop off before the rideable trail but even the rideable trail has its hazards and I use a combination of caution and balls out to ride all the sharp rocks.  This time, thankfully, bouncing out without a single puncture.

I remain conservative across the rivers, keeping my feet dry.  I mean, I'm not racing for anything, might as well be comfortable.

The final descent by the viaduct is mostly rideable until I find a group of walkers coming towards me and stop to push my bike the last bit.

I don't really need anything from Andrew but he suggests something Torq and I accept.  He puts a massive handful of bars in my pocket that I couldn't possibly hope to eat and I just accept that I'll ditch them with Norton Wheelers in a bit.

The ride to Pen-Y-Ghent

I'm back with Beacon again and one of them offers me food assistance from the back of her car.  I'm OK and check what Andrew put in my pocket.  It's not bars, it's a bottle and so I down the lot.  Although I've still got stuff in my camelbak it's nice to have some sugary drink.  Beacon pass me back - this time me on the climb (4th peak) and then I catch up on the fast road section through Horton in Ribblesdale.  I miss my mum's cheers, she's at home in bed with a tummy bug.  

I don't even need to check my watch to see if I've made the cut-off point going up the hill.  I'm so far ahead of where I normally am.  

Pen-Y-Ghent

Pen Y Ghent lane is SO NOISY! I'm going through really fast so hardly identify anyone shouting my name.  I nearly pass Norton but then hear Dave Berresford's voice and Lynn asking if I need the sweets I gave her earlier.  No, but I ditch the empty bottle so I can carry my bike properly.

I see Hannah Saville, mid bunnyhop over a drainage ditch with the sun behind her and wish my eyes had a replay camera. 

Owen isn't far behind and in between, I've had to work hard to identify Ian Fitz, mostly because my brain isn't working much and because I actually so rarely see him in Norton colours.

On with riding and I realise I've never ridden this far up Pen-Y-Ghent lane before without needing to get off and walk.  There's a few times I get thrown off but I just get back on and start riding again.  My narrow handlebars are perfect for riders coming the other way two abreast and the line of spectators banked up on the left of the lane.  I ride as much of the steeps as I can then get back on all the way up to the gate and ride half way up the shallow climbs.  I'm still passing people at a steady walk up the hill where others have run out of steam.  

There are no crampy twinges on the steep climb across the grass and I'm on to the plateau before I know it.  There's a roaring wind up there and usually I'd put my coat on but I'm in such good form, I'm not getting that bloody mac out again so I just get on with it and head back down, waving to the Beacon ladies and Jo Jebb on my way.

There's nothing to note on the descent.  Dad is well and on his way up, having made the cut off in good time.   On the lane, I attempt to shove Kendal Mint Cake in my face to subdue the final road cramps but I know it's too late really. Then there I am, all spilled out onto the road.  Andrew shouts "5 hours 20 at me" and I look at my watch to check.  It's reading 5 hours but then I did start it late.  I have about 5 minutes to go.  

About 400m down the road the cramps start and I'm not even at that hill yet.  Leg goes straight to sort out the cramp but then every other muscle in the leg threatens to cramp in response.  This year I discover that beating the leg to get the blood flow going helps and I spend the next 4 minutes slapping my skin to get the legs to turn in between screaming with pain.  Three guys standing at the back of a van look concerned but then just laugh at me as the cramp eases and I manage to say, "this fucking hill... every fucking year!".

I hate the cramp and the worst thing is, it puts paid to any chance I have of making up a place or two on the road section and I inevitably lose three or four places.

It's OK after the second climb, it's all down hill to the finish line except that tiny hump-back bridge and the leg holds out that far.  

Finishing is an anti-climax when you're used to finishing so near last that they're half way through the prize presentation and you finish to rapturous applause (for someone else).  I go and flop in the tipi and enjoy my good result, comfy tent, cup of tea and bacon and beans before seeking out my podium place for finishing with my dad in second father/daughter category.  Hannah and Kev are first.

So 8 days riding in the Alps is great Three Peaks training.  What a brilliant excuse to do Torino Nice next year.

3 Peaks cyclo-cross 2015 - The Coming Back Year

It all started for me when we arrived at Helwith Bridge on Saturday. Having a chat with Mick at the campsite and setting up the tent whilst team support went off for a run up Pen-Y-Ghent and I caught up with team mates in the Norton Wheelers corral.  I didn't stay too long because I didn't want to infect them with the cold I picked up at work the week before.

We tried out our new stove and it worked!  While we would like to think that everyone was jealous at the camp site we were pretty damn warm all evening and I had to keep drinking to make sure I kept hydrated,  since most of my fluids were leaking out through my face and now, sitting next to a glowing steel wood burner, through my pores.

In the morning there was a thick layer of frost on the ground as I made my way to registration we got the stove going but were quickly outdone by the Hope balloon burning liquid hydrogen.

No need to worry about proving my kit at registration as I was registered by Alison Kinloch and we spoke at length of broken thumbs and wired joints and turbo training.  Back outside the tent the Hope balloon started to make it's mark on the frosty field much to the glee of spectators and riders.

I caught up with everyone before the start except my dad who I eventually found on the start line. As we chatted in the morning sunlight,  a heron flew over the head of the course.  The first sense of nature's blessing for what was to become my most enjoyable 3 Peaks experience ever.  I gave my husband a kiss then said see ya later to dad and wasn't to see again for some hours.

For the first time since I remember, I didn't struggle up that first hill out of the lane.  I found myself a strong lady wheel to sit on and stayed there past a few groups until I let her go to do the last few climbs at my own pace.

Off the road I remembered to close my mouth for the farmyard then started picking my way through slower riders and the obligatory bloke on his side at the first sign of limestone paving. I also heard the first mumblings of "oh god,  we're not going up that are we?" A beautiful line of colourful riders snaked up the vivid hillside and for once there was no need to avoid-wet-feet-as-long-as-possible because there were hardly any bogs and to be honest, feet were about to get pretty sweaty. I was also really excited to be able to see what looked like the start of the race, not only because the sky was clear but also because I was doing much better than usual.

It took me a while to get to the steepest part of Simon Fell but that's because by the time I noticed it, I was already half way up it. I tried stopping for a rest when I needed it but just started to peel backwards off the hill so I kept ploughing forwards,  zig zagging across the fell,  avoiding those stopping at the fence for a breather. I was happy to see Fitz at the stile helping with the bike haul over the wall.

I decided not to follow my team mate, Owen Hendrickson over a drop off as I know he's a demon bike handler but settled instead for taking the mick out of team mate, Jo Jebb for crashing in the bog on the long open meander across the flat. And then I noticed the temperature inversion,  filling the valley and Morecambe Bay with silver-white cloud in the morning sunlight. To the right was Whernside,  our next destination, beyond: the Howgills and  straight ahead, the Lakeland fells. I have never seen a day like it on the 3 Peaks. Not the warmest but, that cloud! Owen tried to distract me by saying, "ooh look at that view", but I was having none of it.

I left him to taking his moment and set off for the summit finale (pt 1). For once plenty of riders were around me as I dibbed and started force feeding myself descent-food (yes, that's "descent", not "decent").

I did manage not to drop my bike on my head on the way off the summit this time and also had a good run at the descent. I am sure I heard someone being advised to go slower to avoid falling off as much.  Good advice which seemed to work for them. For me unfortunately,  the tool bag I had hoped to get one more 3 Peaks out of spewed it's contents all over the trail. Thankfully I heard it go and scrabbled to recover as much as I could including compulsory emergency bivi. Unfortunately not including an inner tube which escaped from my attention.  I was relieved to have packed my camelback this year for the first time ever and stuffed everything in there, not my pockets.

5 minutes later I was with Andrew picking up food and drink and getting rid of warm clothes and the buff which I put on at 6am.

Again,  an easier-than-usual road section to Cold Coates. Water refused to flow from my camelback but I could sort it out on the hill.

I waved my annual hello to Ian Small,  cyclocross racing veteran of North West 70's fame and long-standing 3 Peaks rider of days gone by.  He waits in the same layby every year and I look forwards to seeing him on the long and lonely stretch of road.

 I avoided the farm which is now a tea shop (always wanted to stop there). When I was small and so was the 3 Peaks (with around 40 entrants) mum and I would park then walk to the farm to wait for dad. Sometimes I would sit on the wall and cheer.  Sometimes I would huddle in the arched carriage-sized doorway and watch the raindrops drip off the hood of my coat and wish I had normal parents.

Nowadays the race is so big, race support is not permitted in cars and only a few hardy pedestrians walk this way to cheer which makes the drinks station all the more welcome.

I was overjoyed to find team VCUK in residence and be served by Nicki Hartle, Sinead Burke and Neil Hendry. There was talk of jam butties and cake but they were keeping those under wraps.

For the first time ever I was vaguely tempted to ride the next section.  I know the rules so didn't but it gave me a massive confidence boost to know that I couldda.

The bloke next to me complained it was awful. I tried to explain to him that he was experiencing a 1 in 100 year weather event and he should be thankful but he wanted to know how many times I had done this. While he was calling me mad, I decided it was like a bad joke,  if you have to explain it it's not really beautiful anymore... but it was -very beautiful - so I suppose it was like a good joke.

The steps of Whernside,  in contrast to the road,  still hurt and as always,  left me wishing I had done more step aerobics (or just hill reps in general). At least my camelback started flowing again though with a high proportion of air entrained too. The summit path however - joy of joys- had a tailwind.  I was getting blown along so quick I hardly had time to look over the wall. That is an overstatement. I think I was concentrating as I constantly checked if I was in my lowest gear (like I'd be anywhere else).

Chats were limited to a brief interaction at the kissing gate / bike lift and the summit dibbers, their clothing giving away that it still wasn't the warmest day ever, although a female hiker in a vest said, "I can't believe WOMEN are doing this". Though she found it perfectly reasonable when I pointed out our lack of more sensitive areas to be beaten against rocks and an uncomfortable saddle.

The descent started with a warning from a rescuer that a rider was down, just the same place where my friend Beate had dislocated her shoulder 2 years ago. This rider was in the care of mountain rescue and wrapped in a sleeping bag.  I hope he is recovering well. My descent was initially easy going. My cautious approach to the limestone slabs a norm. Enjoying running on the grass where I could. I ran over the rocks at the start of the path where things suddenly stop being steep then started to let my hair down. As I picked up speed and my heart soared at my legs whipping through the reeds still feeling fresh,  I started to sing my usual downhill songs.

Clearly I angered the gods or forgot I was on my cross bike and just as it was too late to remember, I suffered a snakebite puncture for my sins. After 5 minutes of trying to cram my pump onto a stupid short valve stem I tried to repair the puncture but found my glue on its last legs, the hole on top of an existing patch and me on the wrong side of an adrenaline rush.

A friend of a friend offered me help  as did a few others including Jo who had suffered a similar fate, also enjoying herself too much on the downhill. I did help her pump her tyre up though my adrenaline stopped me doing too good a job and actually I should had left her the pump until she caught me up on my long slow hobble down the hill, running the steep and rocky bits and riding on a flat tube on the grass at the edge of the path where I could.

Some rambler ladies who saw me were very impressed and gave me a big cheer which went a long way to cheering me up. Then disaster struck and my cranks locked solid. I could freewheel but I couldn't propel myself.  It was just getting worse.  I found out later that my derailleur had taken a beating and the chain was locking between top gear and the frame but at the time I couldn't see it through all the adrenaline. I didn't have time to calm down!

I was so disappointed.  Things has been going so well and this path is part of the fun of the day.  Fast and dangerous in the dry - choking with dust or skittery and exciting in the wet. Its rollers and river crossings bringing misery or joy depending on your condition and its condition.

Just as I was recalling how far it is to my spare bike, a gentleman in tweed trousers and cotton shirt asked if I needed anything.  His halo appeared in the form of a rubber tube with a 60mm valve stem and he saved me and saved my day. We changed the tube,  he kept mine in exchange ( for what it was worth) and I gave him a kiss,  leaving him to offer flap jack and water to the remaining riders.
Jo had done her bit and Andrew was prepped at the check point with bike pump and tube.

Thankfully the wheel coming out of the frame had put the cranks back in order and I decided to risk sticking with my light bike on the way to Pen Y Ghent. A top up of energy drink and feed and I set off along the penultimate road section.

At this point last year I was walking. The blood thinners caused my body to rush through fuel like I was being chased across the moorland by a cheetah. By the time I reached the viaduct I had been ravenous and suffering incomparable cramps... or comparable only to 1995 when I dnf'd due to eating a bad pastie on my way to a cyclo cross race in Kent 1 week before the race.  Back then, 6 months living in Cambridge trying to establish my career probably didn't help either.

The difference last year was Ironman training which had given me two things: a reserve of endurance which seemed to out-last my illness and the knowledge that it takes a little time for that hastily eaten banana and Cliff bar to make it into the blood stream and while you're waiting you may as well walk.

No such trouble this year as I got going well with a small group of 2 ladies and 2 men. I sat on for a while then,  feeling good for all the places I had lost, did a turn on the front. They all passed me back on the first hill of course but I caught them as we were stopped by the police for recovery of a motorcycle which had crashed on the railway bridge. I apologised to my fellow competitors for getting them embroiled in my unlucky 13th race. They were forgiving since we were only stopped for a few minutes.

One of the men seemed to be doing all of the pacing on the front and checking we were still there. I asked if they knew him or if he was just a really nice man. Turns out he was just leading his wife around but we had a discussion about dads, and upgrading mine as a lead out man. By the time we reached Horton in Ribblesdale I left them to their domestic bliss to get the clear line through the railway bridges descent. Mum was cheering from the roadside as I was trying to persuade the bloke next to me to try the next peak and not just retire at 2. He was adamant though so I left him to his personal misery. You can't coach everyone.

For the first time since it has been of interest to me I passed through the Pen Y Ghent checkpoint with 20 minutes to spare.

The noise was amazing as usual. More so for me being earlier. The second person I saw coming back down the other way was my ex-team mate (now riding for CXMag) and wedding photographer,  Hannah Saville. Shortly followed by my nemesis and only woman to have done more 3 Peaks than me,  Ruth Gamwell. How was she an ENTIRE MOUNTAIN ahead of me? ? It was a brilliant ride. I cheered on Ted from CX Mag and the SheffRec rider I started with 4 hours earlier.  Phil Hinchcliffe passed, all on their way back down to the finish and then ran out of familiar faces and reverted to carefully picking my way over rocks,  finding my usual lines and soaking in the encouragements of spectators while bleating my own few words to strangers passing the other way,
"great ride, well done,  rip it up". As ever,  Norton Wheelers corner was like Dutch corner on Alpe d'Huez just without the beer but with all the Orange and the cheering.  For once I didn't stop to hoover up more food. I seem to have done a great job with food this year.

I finally had a short walk at the steepest rock band on the approach road. I have ridden 7 races faster than this year but have never paced myself so well to arrive at Pen Y Ghent so have never ridden that far up.

I was greeted by Alison Kinloch again, waving and offering me gels, water and anything else I could stomach - well, the gel was a struggle but once I'd got over the shock that it was cappuchino flavoured, not fruity, it did what it was supposed to and got me over that first lump.  From there, I rode through the gate past Chips Chippendale and Beate to enthusiastic shouts, applause and onto the slopes of Pen Y Ghent climb, which shoots upwards abruptly and you're back to walking, but not before I'd put the last of my riding legs into the first steep slope.

There were more descending riders to keep my mind off the plod up the hillside.  It felt slow but not as slow as years gone by.  It also felt progressive and in between wide-eyed people bouncing the other way on their bikes, I was still passing riders who had rolled past me whilst fixing the puncture on Whernside,.

A short-cut up the zig zag path and no need for the sneaky chat that I usually have to have with my legs when they start to cramp up here.  We stepped onto the path, me and Phoenix and had a little ride before the jagged rocks reduced us to walking once again.  That fence at the top of the footpath came too soon for my brain which was having a bloody nice time but it was too slow in coming for my legs who were looking forwards to the downhill rest.

Over the crest of the fence and you can see the top.  The plateau.  It still demands a walk for mere mortals.  Normally I put my coat on here, regardless of conditions, to keep me warm for the descent ahead.  This year, I didn't even have a coat with me.  I did a 180 and started heading back the way I had come, almost.  This time, riding out across the peaty hillsides, bog hopping from time to time but otherwise riding. until you fall off the hillside and onto the path and the rocks reduce you to one last walk before the bottom.  Off the hill, through the zig zags and onto the descent path where you get on as soon as you dare.  Given the steepness and anyone's ability to jump high enough to even reach the saddle above your bum at this point, that can take a while.

I spent most of the descent looking out for my dad on his way up, calling out encouragement to anyone else who would listen and, having found dad and exchanged shouts of "chuffing YES!!!" and "made it!" and other such pleasantries, I just concentrated on getting Phoenix off the hill without another flat tyre.

As I neared the bottom I made a decision to switch to Red, my spare bike, for the finish line just to make sure that Phoenix didn't do anything stupid like fall apart.  Andrew had however left Red in the back of the car and although he was in running distance (yes I made him), I then decided that I didn't want to wait for the wheel to be put in the frame so I just made a dash for it.

As soon as I left the mountain my legs started complaining about having to pedal again.  I can't get through this road stretch without cramp - don't think I ever have.  One woman zipped past me shouting, "At last, time for some real cycling!"  I laughed at her and said, "How did you get in with an attitude like that?"  Thankfully she saw the funny side without being able to see my smiling face as I watched her backside disappear down the road in front of me.

Two roadies pottered past me.  One seemed to be a competitor actually, the other was riding along side him.  I draughted them for a bit but then they dropped me on the first climb as the legs cramped for the first time and I started having a word which ended in something like, "Come the hell on it's only a little bit of road!"

By the second climb it had reduced to a primal scream which really wasn't any good for the cold I was harbouring and resulted in a rather sore throat some hours later but did the trick at getting another few pedal revs over the top of the hill and from there it's pretty much downhill all the way to the finish.

I swept into the finish with no great fanfare.  That feeling of, "you've got this" had been ever present.  I even had time to joke with the finish line marshals (Can I cut your dibber off? Will it hurt?).  I was hoping to go sub-6 hours this year and knew I would be overjoyed with 5:40, without even looking at my historical results.

5:32 hit me with a yelp of joy. Without even stopping to recover my composure (wipe my face) I set off back to the last corner to wait for my dad to come in.

It was a bit of a long wait.  We all knew he was coming, I'd seen him going up and after that point I knew I'd see him down again and over the line - with no more cut off points to meet.  There is generally a rush for the Pen Y Ghent cut off line followed by a group of people on the other side of the marshals drinking pop and eating sandwiches before they embark on the last mountain.  Well there is at our end of the field anyway.

I had the company of Richard Fenn to while away an hour of waiting.  Some of the North West riders stopped in for a chat.  I congratulated Ruth Gamwell on her excellent ride, looking classy with a can of post-race Stella and her children in tow.  Quite frankly, she deserves the comeback award.

John Dowell came in to the finish hand in hand with Liz Orr, his FV50 daughter.  Yes, John Dowell is 80 years old and was riding the race one last time in order to create a new age group record. He finished to respectful applause from the crowd, now assembled for the prize presentation.  But he's only done it 26 times (that's twice as many as me).

Then dad finally graced us with his presence.  After I had a few words with the commentator, dad also finished to respectful applause both from the assembled masses and me as well as a few friends who happened to be passing at the time.

We were dispatched directly to the prize presentation to await prizes that were imminent.  They weren't imminent and having waited for an hour in sweaty clothes, I was looking decidedly dishevelled and dad just wanted to sit down and get the weight off his sore feet (the only bit of his body actually hurting after six and a half hours of racing!).  Neither of us realised it but we had managed to snaffle the second place in the father and daughter prizes and there was much excitement about finally standing on a podium.  (last time we won it we stood in the field).  So that was that, half our entry fee back, just for being related.

There was a real glow to the end of the day.  It took us a good while to empty the tipi and disassemble it - largely because Andrew had to do it on his own as I kept getting distracted by Beate passing and my folks as dad wandered over to swap back the last of our kit and for dad to get his winnings.

The sun was setting on a perfect day when we left.  The farmer was happy because he found £20 in the field. I drove home.  All the way.  I didn't fall asleep at the wheel and even made it out of the car in Settle to get the chips I had been looking forwards to eating for about 3 months.

Next year's target?  Sub 5 hours? Better that my 7th fastest might seem more appropriate.  By then I'll be 42 and if I can improve on a race I've been doing since 21 by half then that would be satisfying.

One thing's for sure, it's time for a new tool bag.

Holes

I wasn't that excited about the 3 Peaks this year until I got there, until it was all going so well,  until it all went so well and now it is done and it was so perfect.  Then the imperfections in my day appear. I could have prepared better (not got a hole in my tool bag),  riden more conservatively over sharp rocks (not got a hole in my innwr tube), I might have missed the hold up where a motorcycle crashed (put a hole in my time).

At the end of the day,  I can't change those things. It is over for another year. I stand at the top of the stairs,  hands over my itching eyes, uncertain of whether it is fatigue or allergies making them itch and wonder if it's my cold or fatigue that's making my nose run. Either way,  I can't sleep. I have a hole in my life.

It's gone for another year. This time I can sense what can be achieved in a new world of free - flowing bloods.  Last year was just the beginning.  I was still taking blood thinners and ferrous sulphate which screwed with my digestion and I had no endurance base younger than 6 weeks.  

In full health and this year's conditions though, it's not the result that should matter. The day was a win for everyone racing. For nature,  for the event,  for the spectators and the organisation and volunteers.

I could spend hours (have already spent some hours) trawling hundreds of photos of the day but I still haven't found any that register the epic scene of the Lakeland fells emerging from a sea of cloud from the temperature inversion over Morecambe Bay or the clear view over the Howgills on the other side of Whernside. The heron that flew over the start line in clear blue skies.

I may need some recovery time before writing in a positive light about this beautiful 3 Peaks Cyclocross. I wasted time on prep, cut corners to save money and haemorrhaged time when I could have been up there achieving things I have only dreamt of (since 2004) and I feel I need to process that so I can do a great day justice.

I heard a lot of complaints about how hard it was on Sunday. I tried to put it out there that we were 1 in 20 years lucky. I wonder what those people thought they signed up for. What they would have said or done if it was wet or windy again?

As I sit on the sofa with my knees in the air, thinking self indulgent sorry thoughts, I am already looking forward to next year because this time I know that the best preparation for this race is getting out there and doing what I love most and that will get me somewhere,  even if it is just up there,  enjoying it with those people and dreading that moment when I realise it's all over for another year.

Struggling & the Wonder of Dad. My 2014 pre-Three Peaks Blog.

Two weeks ago today I dropped a pedal car on my head at 21 miles per hour on a tarmac race track.  It wasn't my best day.

Given that I am taking the blood thinning drug, Rivoroxaban, and the fact that I broke my helmet, I had to go to A&E for a CT scan on my head to make sure I didn't have any small internal bleeds.  Small bleeds which in a normal body would usually sort themselves out in no time but in someone on blood thinning juice, could potentially spiral out of control, especially whilst tent camping overnight in the company of a bunch of boy scouts.

Not surprisingly I didn't enjoy the day in A&E and I spent my time mentally kicking myself for being so stupidly competitive (racing a 12 year old boy) and forgetting that I'm supposed to be taking it easy (racing moderately *is* my idea of taking it easy).

I have been very busy at work since then... very busy.  I have also been sleeping a lot - making up for poor nights sleep (because of the pain) by sleeping late and my body is recovering from the shock, fighting the infection that has flared up in my knee and making me sleep for a long time.  As a consequence I've been finding it hard to get out on my bike.  Even when I do have some time to go out, there's an emotional resistance, one which says, "best stay at home, you might crash and end up in A&E again".  I don't like this.

On Tuesday I went to the gym to do weights and then got home and sat on the turbo for an hour and I made it out off road on Wednesday night with a great bunch of people from Sheffield Triathlon Club.  They did my ego the power of good as I was helping them to learn some cyclo-cross techninques.  I also rode very gingerley yet at times very bravely considering my condition - and I was considering it.  It was always at the back of my mind as I bounced my skinny 'cross wheels down Rivelin Valley trails usually reserved for my mountain bike.  

I haven't been out on my bike since.  I do miss it but I am still tired and I admit to still being a little scared.

So yesterday I sat down and set myself some targets to achieve in between now and my major races this 'cross season and also next year's tri season.  I hope these intermediary hits will help me progress and give me the excuse I need to stop working every day and go and get some exercise at a reasonable hour of day (so that I can sleep at night).

For now though, I am staring down the barrel of the 3 Peaks Cyclo-cross on (what feels like) very little appropriate training.  It's over 3 months since Celtman and my diagnosis so that's my endurance in the can and with 2 weeks off because of my pedal car crash, I think my dad will be hauling me around by the bib shorts braces, not the other way around.  

Dad's been training as only he knows how (long and steady) and I think he's a wonderful 65 year old.  In fact, he's not allowed to be 65!  Every week he listens to me whine about my condition.  Every week he is resolutely confident about his ability to finish this year's race.  At least I know where I get my optimism from.

So I am heading out this weekend to do two cyclo-crosses in two days.  That is my contribution to endurance and fitness combined. Regardless of what motivational state of mind I am in, there is one thing that makes it easy to look forwards to next weekend and it's this...

(though I'm hoping there won't be any snow next weekend)

3 Peaks 2013 (28th September) ride report

The night before the 3 Peaks is often one of my favourite camping trips of the year, not only is there a beautiful location but I am also surrounded (literally) by friends

This year was no exception as we arrived in the sunshine and I went out for a run whilst TSK thrashed his bike up and down the same road in the start of his furious Monsal Hill Climb training.

We eventually closed the doors on the corral campers at about 6:30 in favour of food and warmth over light conversation.

8 hours later we were awake for registration and porridge and last-minute faffing before the start and the start was its usual mix of chatting with friends, strangers and... turning around your front wheel.  We applauded those lost in their training for the 3 Peaks this year.  One man killed by a vehicle, another who fell whilst mountain biking in the Alps and away we went.  Andrew told me that dad had started right at the back so there was little point in me looking for him or waiting so I rushed off with everyone else, gradually slipping back through the ranks until we got to the bottom of Ingleborough.

There were still too many people around me though.  I slipped around behind slower riders when I normally would have ridden over obstacles in one go.  I felt tired as I started to walk and knew I wouldn't be on for a particularly fast time.  Still, the calf muscles felt OK going up Simon Fell.  There didn't seem to be many people around and I really couldn't figure out if it was a quiet year after last year' biblical weather; if I'd been extra slow on the bike or if I was ahead of the usual rush.  There didn't seem to be many behind me either though so I supposed I was just having a bad day.

At the top of Ingleborough I started to ride past slower riders with less bike handling experience, eventually settling in behind someone from Matlock who I knew would be OK.  Usual assistance provided to ladies travelling sideways on the top, using their bikes as a parachute rather than a sail.  At least the summit was rideable this year.

The descent felt kind of tough though and my legs started to cramp up on the way down.  I took on board large amounts of food and drink and headed on to Whernside, stuffing food in my face as I went.  I still hadn't had enough water and my leg cramps continued.  I stopped for a hug from Po before leaving the road then drank 3 cups of water at the bottom of the climb, explaining to the marshals that I was suffering from a chronic case of what we call, "Going out too fast".

The steep climb of Whernside was was long and hard but I just kept my head down and carried on going at the same speed all the way.

The wind got tougher and tougher and by the time I reached the ridge I could hardly stand, never mind ride my bike.  I tried and perfected riding along the edge of the footpath at around 20 degrees to vertical.  I leaned all my weight on the wind and prayed that it wouldn't drop and send me hurtling over the edge.  My prayers were answered until one extreme gust blew my front wheel (consider: with me still on it!) from underneath me.  Fortunately it only lifted a couple of inches before I managed to crash it back down to the ground - thankfully not onto a sharp rock.

When I had to get off to walk the steepest and rockiest sections I was fighting the wind every step.  My brain saying, "you shouldn't be working this hard just to stay upright".  I could feel the pain of exertion in my hips and in my ankles.  An extra hard gust blew me sideways again.  This time I struggled not to fall over my own feet and to make sure that my feet didn't land on or twist over any rocks.  I didn't dare hop from rock to rock for fear of being blown as far as Sellafield so I stumbled unceremoniously, stamping my feet down wherever there was clear space.

Deciding it was all a fucking joke, I chose to walk next to the stone wall - applying the engineering principles of boundary layer technology, in the ditch next to the path.  This ditch is around 8-10 inches deep and sometimes completely full of water.  Thankfully, given the summer we've had, it was empty and my feet stayed dry and relatively upright from thereon.  I later realised that not one single person had escaped being blown about on Ingleborough though I like to think that at 59kgs and 5'11" I had it harder than anyone.  I checked in at the top and started my tentative descent back down the hill - engaging my previous technique of riding sideways on the edge of the cliff.

I did the best I could to avoid both boulders and pedestrians - one of whom glared at me furiously as I was blown sideways towards him at 30 mph, clutching the brakes.  Thankfully we didn't engage anything more dangerous than an angry stare.

Maddie from Tod came hurtling past me, happy to be on the make after I'd caught her in the middle of two mechanical failures.  She promptly went over the handlebars and hit a rock.  Me and the chap alongside checked she was OK.  She seemed happy enough so we continued on, only later to find her at the fnish line, retired and in a sling.

The descent of Whernside was easy this year as the limestone steps were relatively dry and my mountain biking summer had given me a bit more enthusiasm for bridging drainage gaps.  When I did walk over one I got the heel cup of my shoe caught in it and my bike and I kept moving.  Thankfully the heel released before any Achilles related mishaps but it was a close-thing involving a lot of swearing and "Gah!!!". When I could I dived off the path and rode on the grass, doing battle with fell runners who were just as quick on foot.  When I asked if one was a fell runner he responded, "I'm not even sure if I'm human right now".

The bottom of the descent was as uneventful as it could be without any Alice in Wonderland mishaps (a few years ago I did fall down a rabbit hole - overstretching and cramping both calf muscles at once).

I reappeared with shaky panache at the bottom of Whernside feeling refreshed for the large liquid intake on the other side but restocking on Soya milk and the last energy bars to be sure.  I switched bikes, just to get the lower gears on Red because I knew I'd never make it up Nemesis hill (a short, sharp road climb) without a 30 tooth sprocket.  My ploy for riding a higher gear in races to build my strength did not apply to 5 hour long events.

I was surrounded by encouragement on the road section to Pen-Y-Ghent and two of us resorted to riding together - at least as far as nemesis hill.  All others passed me by with shouts of, "Come on, we've got to make the cut off".

I arrived at 1:50, with only 10 minutes to spare to cut off.  By the long corner, my legs had had it for riding and I got off and walked about 400m earlier than last time.  Far from being disappointing, this meant I could enjoy the encouragement from spectating Norton Wheelers and my team mates coming back down the hill, over an hour ahead of me.

I was surrounded by other walkers and gradually picked them off.  My marathon legs were clearly still managing something.

I checked with a descender to find out what the wind was like on the top.  "Not as bad as the others" he shouted over the roar.  "You're very kind" I said, not quite believing him but he was right and at least I was able to walk upright.

I checked in at the summit then stopped when I had turned around to add the windproof layer for the descent.  It's become a bit of a ritual for me.  By protecting the body from the cold, you protect the brain from the fuck up.  I picked my way across the hillside, open and grassy, way above where the walkers are taking the easiest line up through the rocks.

Somehow I managed to get myself very high up on a grassy bank and did have to make some quite impressive bike dumping manoeuvre to prevent myself from doing a 10 ft tumble head first but to be honest I can't remember the detail. No matter how inelegant, I just remember being chuffed I was still in one piece.

Gradually the riders coming up the hill became fewer and far between until there were no more.  My heart sank as I realised that my dad had DNF'd again.  I really didn't think he was that far behind me although I hadn't seen him all day either.  I was glad of the new surface on the path down Pen-Y-Ghent which rendered the descent 5 minutes faster than in previous years.  All the more frustrating that Pa hadn't made it onto the hill.

The crowds were still cheering when I came back down and TSK shouted, "your dad's quit" as I went past.  I didn't mind, I was too busy trying to shove an entire slab of Kendal Mint Cake into my mouth to get me up the last two climbs without cramping.

It didn't work and as I heard someone come up along side me I sprinted through cramp to try and make the pain be stop sooner, in favour of less pain for longer.  After that I pretty much resigned myself to free-wheeling the last 4 miles to the finish although thankfully the cramp released after half a mile and I was able to pedal again.  There was no racing for the finish line this year, just glad to be down alive.

When I got my result I wasn't very happy with it but then I realised later I managed 5:54 on a year where it was intensely windy.  My best result in 3 years and best result since I've been doing long events in Triathlon through the summer, or maybe I should quantify that with "since I have had a life-changing event every single summer for 3 years".

Detail:
Ingleborough: 1:15:44 - my second fastest ascent since timing chips were brought in. (see previous comments about going off too fast)
Cold Coates (descent & flat) 23:22
Whernside 1:27:11 - third fastest since timing chips introduced
Ribblehead descent: 42:26 Despite impressions on the day - pretty slow
Pen-Y-Ghent top: 1:29:20 Where things went pear-shaped
Finish: 35:50 Third fastest time - though given the 5 minutes this took off my time in the last two years, I suggest I need a lobotomy to be able to descend PYG at the speed of my golden days sub5.5hr PBs.

Looking forwards to the next one already.

Lessons learned:
Pacing to the end
Don't fall asleep on the descents and think they're surprisingly easy.