The Wessex 100 – Bath – Sunday, 12th September 2010
Subtitle: What a great day!
Wonderful weather:
Wall-to-wall sunshine, and in September in England too! I couldn’t really believe it but here I was sitting on my bike ready to start the Wessex 100 mile charity ride.
07:00 hrs, the sun had just risen and the sky was that promising early morning steel-grey. We couldn’t have bought better weather for our long hours in the saddle. We needed good weather, the 100 mile ride, from Bath to Salisbury and back again would be the longest distance I’d ridden in one go in over 13 years.
Cycling in the UK:
I had arrived in England a week earlier for my younger brother’s wedding (an excellent and boozy affair), and had extended my trip especially to ride the Wessex. As it happens my older brother, Tim’s mansion, (I kid you not, it is a mansion), is near Salisbury, a mere stone’s throw away from the Wessex route so the ride was more-or-less on his doorstep.
Now, I need to remind you here, that the last time I’d cycled in the UK was back in 2003. I’ve now lived permanently in France since January 2007 and cycling there had spoiled me for the rigours of pedalling the roads in the UK. I was dreading the traffic!
Jan and I arrived at Tim’s place on Wednesday afternoon, just in time to see him return from a hard two-hour ride. He hadn’t bothered to wait for me and made the pitiful excuse that he had to pick up his kids from school. I reckoned he just wanted to get some extra miles in and psyche me out before the Wessex. Fat chance! The Donovans are like that though, a tad competitive (to say the least!).
Not to be outdone, I helped Jan unload the car (magnanimous of me wasn’t it?), rebuilt Yvette (my bike), and went directly out on a 35 miler. Being a stranger I followed Tim’s directions to get me off the main roads on onto the relatively quieter roads of the New Forrest.
Wow! I chose absolutely the wrong time – evening rush hour! The first 8 miles or so had me on a main drag south out of Salisbury. I nearly got creamed a couple of times by vehicles passing too close, before I was able to turn on to beautiful roads of the New Forrest. This was a real treat, but there were still more cars about than I am used to in glorious Brittany. The evening weather was good though and I had a pretty enjoyable ride despite the traffic; I’d not been on the bike for about a week and I had been feeling restless for the previous couple of days.
The following day Tim, his mate Neil, who would be joining us for the Wessex 100, and I went out for a shakedown ride. This was the first time I’d been out cycling with Tim since our childhood and of course, sibling rivalry being what it is, we had to test each other out.
Poor Neil, who was, shall we say, less cycle-fit than the brothers Donovan, was left struggling to keep up, especially on the hills. At one stage I think I heard him say something about Tim and me “measuring each other’s Dicks,” but I’m not sure.
Suffice it to say, Tim was not about to let his brother get the better of him and drove hard up all the hills. I let him take the lead a couple of times, just to make him feel good you understand; he was the route leader after all.
Did I let him get away from me? Did I heck as like; not blooming likely! I actually rode alongside him a lot of the time, just to show him that I could. You know how it is; the younger brother always has an inferiority complex.
Race tactics:
Those of you who have been reading my pitiful blogging efforts will be aware that I have competed, not always successfully, in a number of cycle races in Brittany this year. I felt that I was probably more cycle-ready Tim and Neil who had only accrued about 800 training miles each this year until that point.
To that point I had clocked up over 8,500 miles, (the benefits of having grown-up children and living in France), and so was definitely the most cycle-fit. Tim, on the other hand, always keeps himself in very good shape, and apart from the potential for saddle sores I knew he would make a very good fist of the ride. Neil, on the other hand, was an unknown factor. He was keen and determined, but not as fit as he’d like to have been (his words, not mine).
After just seeing the difficulty Neil was having trying to keep up with us on the hills we all agreed to that we would take the Wessex as a team and help Neil to the finish. However, once we’d reached the foot of the infamous Brassknocker Hill (98 miles into the race and only about 2 miles from the finish), all bets were off. Then, it would be ‘every man for himself’!
Brassknocker Hill would be where the battling Donovan brothers would be let off the leash and allowed to fight it out to the death. You think I jest?
The Wessex ‘race’:
Sunday morning. We made our way to the venue without incident. We registered and unpacked our bikes but missed our 7 o’clock start time due to a cock-up on the saddle adjustment front. A couple of dozen riders left before us but it wasn’t real problem. The organisers had arranged for a staggered start time (07:00 to 09:00) to reduce the chance of a large peloton-sized group forming on the busy and dangerous roads of England. We simply fell next in line and were on our way at 07:15 hrs; the three of us and a few other like-minded souls.
I was itching to get on with it, but, as arranged, we took it easy until we reached the outskirts of Bath and found ourselves on surprisingly quiet and steeply undulating country roads. Well, it was 07:30 on a Sunday morning and even English drivers need to sleep sometime.
As expected, Tim and I dropped Neil on the first stiff climb (about 8 miles), and had to take it easy for the next couple of miles to allow him time to catch up. He did so by sucking onto the back of a small group that passed us at about 10 miles.
Throughout the day, every time a group of cyclist passed us (thankfully there weren’t all that many), I was desperate to jump on their wheels and make a race of it. I did however manage to reign myself in and stick with Tim and Neil, (most of the time anyway). To reinforce my determination not to race, Neil, who could sense my twitchiness, kept reminding me of our tactics; I needed to take it easy and not chase. Grrrrrr!
Tim, a quiet man (compared with yours truly at least), didn’t say a lot during the day. I guess he was concentrating hard on the task in hand; he’d call it staying in the ‘zone’.
The longer we were out on the road, the more cyclists we managed to sweep up. We soon passed an unfortunate cyclist wearing a number ‘1’ on his back. I couldn’t resist making a daft comment and immediately regretted it, typical of me really.
The ride settled down for a while and the sun came up to bring cheer and warmth. The terrain flattened out and the countryside became more and more beautiful with rolling fields with tree spattered hedgerows. Were it not for the dreadful state of the roads (pothole after pothole) we could easily have been riding in my beautiful Morbihan; the French would be too embarrassed to allow their infrastructure to become so dilapidated. We managed to increase our speed a little.
After about 30 miles swept up a chap named Martin and encouraged him to latch on and join us. He stayed with us until about 75 mile in, but more of Martin later. A couple of others tried to keep with us but were soon dropped along the wayside. I didn’t think we were working very hard, but it was obviously too hard for most of the entrants.
During the run in to Salisbury both Neil and Martin took turns on the front, but the majority of the work was done by Tim and me. Neil did his best though, bless him.
The outward bound leg was relatively flat once we’d left the immediate vicinity of Bath and we made pretty good time considering and averaged around 18 mph. As we closed in on Salisbury the route became familiar to Tim and Neil. We were actually travelling on one of their training routes so it held no fears for them and we could enjoy that part of the day. The sun, higher in the sky now warmed us and all felt good.
Neil, on familiar ground, was riding really well at this stage with a big smile on his face. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I thought we were riding with a tailwind and the return leg promised to be much tougher. I left him happy in his ignorance. See how kind I am?
A chase:
About 3 miles outside Salisbury, (46 mile in), I spotted a small group of riders in the distance and, knowing there was an enforced rest stop at half way (more later), I really wanted to chase. Then I thought I heard Neil behind me saying “Go for it, Kerry!” He knew we’d have to stop in a few miles, and was happy to blast it for a short way. I took that as the green light to have a bit of a go and let rip.
It took about half a mile to catch the other riders and I was pleased to see, when I could finally spare the time look around, that Tim and Neil had kept with me. A reasonably tight-looking group formed and we all rode together towards the mandatory 30 minute rest-stop.
We reached the half way staging post in a time of about 2 hours and 44 minutes; a reasonable average speed of around 18 mph. Neil had slowed us up a little, but not much. The run for home would probably be more challenging and tell the true picture.
Half way rest stop:
Again, I kid you not, the race organisers had put in a Health & Safety inspired mandatory rest stop at half way point. It was probably related to their insurance as race licenses are not required for Sportifs in the UK. Bloody ridiculous if you ask me!
Fortunately the sun was out and the September temperature was high (I’d guess about 18 degrees), so my legs didn’t stiffen up too much while we sat for a drink and to devour a very tasty cheese roll, (thanks again Tim).
After about 10 minutes of this purgatory we’d had enough and broke the shackles.
The ‘back 9’, (sorry, slipped into golfing parlance there for a second):
Once on the bikes again and it was as I had feared. Not only had our legs stiffened up, but we found ourselves riding into the teeth of a 15 mph headwind. Typical! I knew it would be in our faces all the way back to Bath, but there was nothing to do but grin and bear it! So I swore for a bit and nearly spit my dummy out of the pram!
We took it relatively easy for about 5 miles and I made sure that Tim knew we needed to take shorter turns in front. Neil was excused lead duties in deference to his lack of fitness. Martin, who was still with us at this stage complained of the dreaded ‘bonk’, (cyclists’ exhaustion), at about 60 miles, and tucked in behind Neil.
A couple of miles outside of Salisbury we hooked up with Eric, mid-fifties, who was out for a training ride. Eric was really nice chap and came in very handy for the next 30 miles or so, taking his turn in front and shepherding Neil up the hills when needed. Eric eventually left us at about 85 miles, I think he’d reached the end of his energy reserves, but he will always be remembered with fondness, especially by a visibly flagging Neil.
Martin eventually recovered a little, took a couple of turns on the front, and then took off with a small passing group, much to Neil’s chagrin; he’d been sucking our wheels for much of the previous 50 miles. We later passed him again at the 75 mile refuelling stop. Apparently he’d taken a ‘lift’ with the faster pack to the fuel stop to avoid holding us up as he needed another pee! (We learned this at the end when Martin sought us out and offered us his thanks and an explanation for his disappearance.) All was eventually forgiven, but we didn’t stop to wait for him this time; we were all really keen to get the ride over with. Brassknocker Hill hung over us like the proverbial Sword of Damocles and the closer we got to it the more ominous the feeling became.
The run in to home:
I took most of the lead on the way home, but Tim kept his end up gamely until we closed in on the finish. He became more and more quiet, I think he was suffering a bit, but he wouldn’t let on. Neil, on the other hand, was really starting to struggle and kept asking us to slow down on the hills. His voice grew more and more plaintiff as the kept saying things like, “Don’t drop me now or I won’t be able to finish!”
On the increasingly rare occasions that we were passed, Neil would instantly tell me not to be tempted and to take it easy. I have to say, that I felt really good all the way around the course and could have worked a lot harder, but I was playing by the rules we’d set ourselves. We’d keep the team together until Brassknocker Hill and then we’d see what would happen.
I had to take more and more of the lead as Tim and Neil began to feel the strain. By mile 80 my legs had started to feel a little tired, but there were no real hills and I didn’t feel too bad. The real problem came from the stiff headwind which battered us all the way home.
By this stage, each time I pulled out to allow Tim to take a spell at the front, he took a little longer to respond; his lack of cycle training was beginning to tell. Our pace dropped to below 16 mph, but the miles were being eaten up and we were closing in on the finish.
At 85-odd miles in we reached a wide open area of land that reminded me of Salisbury Plain. It was beautiful, but the roads were in a dreadful state. Big potholes had to be avoided and the wind whipped across the fields into our faces and made any work at the front much more demanding that it could have been.
I drove doggedly on and Tim took his turn at the front when he could; I started to really need the rests his turns allowed me. At 10 miles from home, we finally lost the help of Eric, he disappeared into a small village and we never saw him again. I missed his occasional turns up front.
The organisers had ‘helpfully’ erected mile posts which counted down the distance to the finish from the 10 mile mark. 10, 9, 8 and so on; you get the picture. To be completely honest I could have done without them. I much prefer the French way which is to put out a 5 kms to go banner and leave it at that. To me the mile markers actually seemed to be taunting us; “Only 8, 7, 6 miles to go before Brassknocker, tee hee!”
I learned at the end that Tim and Neil both felt the same way. Interesting!
Brassknocker Hill:
With about two miles to go we swept down a long, steep and twisting descent; a final respite from the driving wind before the last-gasp climb up Brassknocker Hill. We sped down the hill and before we knew it we were confronted with the foot on the monster. Our momentum quickly disappeared up the steep incline and I soon reached for the gear-change levers.
It was steeper than I remembered from the drive in that morning. Gasping for air before climbing 100 yards, I dropped quickly down to the small chain-ring (for the first time that day), and slid the derailleur across until I reached my largest sprocket; a ratio of 39:27. This was my lowest gear; I had nothing left in the bag.
I dug in but the hill just got steeper and steeper. Neil had dropped back almost as soon as the hill had begun, but I could still ‘feel’ Tim behind me, probably already using his ‘granny’ ring (a 30).
By heck it was tough!
I ground it out, standing on the pedals and pulling hard on the handlebars. At one stage it was so steep that as I pulled up on the bars, I lifted the front wheel off the road and almost lost my balance.
Still I climbed.
Let me take a minute here to try and describe the hill to you. Think of a steep slope hill and then make it steeper (I guess it was no more that 40 degrees, but it certainly seemed steeper). Many blokes of my age would have struggled to walk up the bloody thing! Yet here I was trying to ride up the monster on a bike that didn’t have a ‘granny’ ring.
The first part of the hill was steep and straight but I knew that after about half a mile or so the road turned sharply left and then levelled out a tad. I knew that if I could make it to the turn I’d romp home the rest of the way.
Still I climbed.
About half way up the straight, I passed a couple of spectators who were sitting on a sty that allowed access through a beautiful stone wall on my side of the road. They cheered me on even though I must have looked like I was almost standing still.
I was near the end of my strength by this stage, but still managed to pass a couple of stragglers from the shorter rides. I started to feel a little lightheaded by this stage and I knew I was hyperventilating. I tried to calm my breathing rate and sat back down on the saddle relying on leg power only and not my bodyweight. It seemed to work for a while, but my thighs soon started to burn and I had to stand up again.
Still I climbed.
All that week I had been suffering from a cricked neck which made it difficult for me to turn my head and look behind me. It was even more difficult now since I was pulling so hard on the handlebars, but I was desperate to see where Tim was. As I passed the spectators on the sty I managed turn in the saddle enough to see him, still behind me but only by a few yards. Was he gaining on me?
His presence behind me was enough to stop me from getting off and walking; it was really a matter of personal pride. A glance at the trip meter showed that I was climbing at a mere 4.5 mph, only just above a fast walking pace. I’m sure I could have jogged it faster.
It would have been easier if I could have flattened the hill by zigzagging up it but oncoming traffic put paid to that idea so I had to take it directly, head-on. This was so tough.
The pre-race advertising bumph and had described the Wessex 100 as a ride with a ‘sting in its tail’ and they weren’t kidding. I had never climbed a hill as steep as this one before, not on a bike at least!
I knew that if I could make it to the left-hand turn no more than 400 yards ahead by now, I would be OK. So I ground it out some more. Either Tim was closing on me or his breathing was so becoming so loud that it seemed that way, but that sound spurred me onwards.
If Tim hadn’t been behind me, or if he’d passed me on the climb it would have felt like a body blow and I’d probably have given up and walked, but I drove doggedly onwards. Something made me keep going even though I had an ‘out’. Tim, after all, was using a ‘granny’ ring and I was in the 39. That alone would have enabled me to save face, but I was damned if I was going to stop after all those hours in the saddle. It wasn’t as if I’d work particularly hard that day, was it?
The blessed finish:
Somehow I managed to make the turn and, true enough, the hill, though still precipitous, levelled off a little. I was soon able to drop down into my next sprocket, a 24; then into the 21. I was over the worst and my speed started to climb once more; to the heady heights of 8 mph.
I finally and ever-so-gratefully reached the roundabout top of the climb. I whooped in huge volumes of air as I tried to pay back the oxygen debt that the hill owed me.
Once at the roundabout I contemplated driving hard to the finish but I thought that would be a little churlish so I waited for my brother. I didn’t have to wait very long though as Tim was hot on my heels. I hadn’t taken more than a few yards off him all the bloody way up! I knew he was strong but was still surprised at how well he’d managed the climb.
We came alongside each other and shook hands. He had a wide beam of satisfaction and relief on his face; I imagine that I looked the same way, I certainly felt it. We took it easy into the finish and crossed the line side-by-side.
I bet you think we immediately collapsed off our bikes in a big heap! Not likely. We still had a mate out there on the road. Like the Marines, we couldn’t leave a mate to finish on his own now could we?
We retraced our steps back to the roundabout (and no further); neither of us wanted to descend any part of that hill only to have to climb back up it again! We only had to circle the roundabout a couple of times before Neil appeared with the same silly smile of satisfaction and relief that Tim and I still had on our sweaty faces.
That’s it, done:
We returned with Neil to the finish and had a passing guy take the photo below as proof of life and proof of our finish. Apologies for the poor picture quality, it was taken with Neil’s camera-phone.
Tim (centre), and I completed the ride in a time of 6 hours and 7 minutes; Neil only lost about 5 minutes to us on Brassknocker.
And finally:
It was a bloody good day and we had a well-earned drink in a pub on the way home too. By the end of the session we had all pledged to continue our training and go hard for a time next year. I’d like to think that a sub 5-hour ride wouldn’t be beyond us; without the headwind, of course!
I think that’s it for the race reports this year. I might write a couple of blogs as the winter progresses, just to keep my hand in as it were.
Tra, and keep turning the pedals, K
