It felt like I’d been punched in the head. A sudden impact, followed by a throbbing pain. It took a few seconds to register what had happened, which ordinarily, would have been ok but at this particular moment, I was travelling downhill at over 35 miles an hour.
A bee sting, just what I need when I’m suffering like a dog on the hardest single day I’ve ever had on the bike. Why did I sign up for this ridiculous event where the organisers are determined to break people? I’m on the 107 mile route of the Northern Rock Cyclone sportive and as you can probably make out by now, it’s not a nice place to be.
It all seemed like a good idea at first. I got an invite from my friend Lee, for a reunion of the London 2 Paris 2010 group. The format was perfect. We were to arrive at Lee’s on Friday, watch the evening criterium races, do the sportive on the Saturday and then catch some of the National Championships on the Sunday. I’ve done a fair few miles this year already and was looking forward to notching up my first century of 2011.
Saturday began wet, with a constant fine drizzle on the three mile ride to the sportive that had us soaked before we even arrived at the starting line. Never a promising start to a century ride but not as bad as the poor soul who hit a traffic island after immediately exiting the car park and was promptly collected by the St John’s Ambulance crew.
The first 20 or so miles flew by. I got into a group and was travelling at a fair pace before I saw sense and eased off a little. This was going to be a long day after all. Soon, we were in the quieter lanes but the damp conditions made for some cautious riders which only added to the difficult conditions. Once again, I was disappointed by the standard of riding I saw. It was as if some people had never ridden in a group before and I would witness several crashes over the course of the day as tired riders weaved across the road.
As the route progressed, the hills came thick and fast as we crossed several valleys and onto the moors, close to military ranges. The distant gunfire adding to my own personal battle. The roads dried but by 60 miles I was really suffering and was greeted by a long single track road that snaked into the distance as far as the eye could see. Did I mention the head wind? I was now at a pitifully 8mph crawl, wishing I’d opted for the shorter route, cursing the organisers for their sadistic ways.
Mile after mile stumbled by as faster riders continually passed me. My only saving grace was that I tackled every climb and refused to walk as some others around me resorted to pushing their bikes up the hill. Compact gears were my saviour.
I created games in by head to pass the time and promised myself jelly babies as I reached milestone markers but it was a struggle to stay motivated. If someone had offered me a ride home at 70 miles, I’d have bitten their hand off.
The century mark came and went and it was a final drag for home. My thighs started to cramp. I hadn’t consumed enough fluids but I was so close, I just had to push on. I’d speed up on the flat and tear away, only to be passed again as soon as the road went skywards when the pain in my thighs became too unbearable.
The finish line arrived and for me, it couldn’t be soon enough. It was done and I carried on back to Lee’s house where the unanimous verdict of “a day in hell” was agreed.
Would I do the ride again? Probably.
Stats for the day (lap 2 for the sportive):
Northern Rock Cyclone
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