(Warning, this is long, but does have some pictures)
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Pictures |
This weekend I got on my bike and tried to ride the first two stages of the 2014 Tour de France back to back.
That's more than 350km, with 6,000 metres of climbing, in two days. I was in no way ready.
The
weather was cold and showers were forecast on and off all day, I found myself envying Pez’s knee warmers and wishing
I’d packed a softshell.
But even that couldn't dampen the enthusiasm on the morning of Day 1 -
exactly a week before Yorkshire hosts the Grand Depart - I got my gear
together, packed my pockets with gels and headed to the pre-ride
briefing.
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Safety briefing + professional riders |
There was a real buzz
at the start, three members of the Wiggle Honda team were riding with us
and Yorkshire had thoroughly bought into the Tour's visit: The streets,
homes, businesses and public spaces were
en fete - bunting and decorations everywhere, strings of knitted
polka-dot, green and yellow jerseys, roadside decorations,
yellow-painted bikes everywhere and signs welcoming the Tour to every
village and town the route passed through. It was hard not to
be infected by the mood.
And off we rolled.
The Grand Depart - Leeds to Harrogate
Our route cut out the neutralised start from Leeds, leaving from
Harrogate instead, and joined the ride when the racing proper starts -
the total distance covered was pretty identical to the official ride.
Stage 1 is meant to be a sprinter's stage. "Flat" as the official guide has it. It's not. Well, not to me anyway.
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Not flat |
I started well, not
quite as well as Pez, who found a quick group and pushed ahead of me. I
spent 20kms chasing him, and them, down.
Just as I succeeded, passing him on a small descent, my GoPro escaped. I
was trying out the camera - fitted to my handle bars - to capture some
of the scenery while riding and some footage if possible.
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Chasing Pez, moments before the camera escaped |
The plan
failed when the clip on the bike mount broke and
it skittered away across the road. I stopped to reclaim it and lost
Pez, and the group, again.
After
the GoPro had been stuffed into my back pocket (a real shame, I was looking forward to getting some footage of the climbs, descents and scenery while riding - and it was working well, as shown above), I re-started -
catching up with Paul Adams. I'd never met him before, but in a pleasing
symmetry he had No.1 on his bike and I had No.2. "Do you mind me asking
your name?" I said riding up next to him, my
best guess on how I got such an illustrious number was my
alphabetically friendly surname.
We got on, and merrily tapped away together with one of his friends at
an average speed a little above 25kph, catching up with Pez (who joined
our mini-group)
reminiscing about the London Revolution and
last year's Etape which he rode as well.
Pulling into the first, picturesque, break stop 65kms in all was well
with the world. I grabbed some food, said hello to the llamas in the
field next door (ah, local wildlife) and got ready to leave.
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The stunning break stop |
The first categorised climb was coming - the Cat 3 Cote de Cray - in a
few kms and I wanted to be ready. Pez and I rode out (Paul and his
friend left ahead of us) and I blew up. I'd blown up with 120kms still
to ride.
How badly? Really badly. Really, really badly. The first minor incline
saw Pez drop me, and me get dropped by everyone else on the road.
Paul provides a nice comparison point at this point. We hit that first
break stop together, with all four of us helping out on the front of our
mini-group on the ride over and me - in Pez's words - being the hardest
to follow when on the front.
Paul beat me by one hour 18 minutes on stage one.
The next break stop wasn't for another 60 kilometres, over the top of
two categorised climbs, and I just couldn't climb - all the power was
gone from my legs. I tried eating a lot of gels and drinking plenty too,
with no effect.
I cycled along on my own, chatting occasionally with other riders (two
groups other than ours were riding the Grand Depart that day, some
planning to keep riding the route a week ahead of the pros until the
very end of the race). I used the time to marvel at
the truly stunning scenery.
Seriously, if you
haven't been, go. As beautiful as any part of the country I've visited.
And take your bike – a lot of the roads have been resurfaced for the
Tour and there are some great and challenging hills
if you fancy it.
Hills on the ‘flat’ stage
The subject of hills
brings me to the second categorised climb of the day - Cote de
Buttertubs. It's listed as 4.5km at 6.8%. If only it was.
Because that might be the average, but the gradient is far more
punishing. It starts with a 17% ramp, flattens, then ramps to 13% again,
then is big-ring flat, throws in another 20% ramp, flattens, up to 20%
for a bit again, and then it really punishes you.
About the fourth or fifth time this happens, you hit an evil corner on
the back of a non-flat section, curving up and around to the left
ramping to 18% for the last bit of the climb and just in front of a
cattle grid. The man in front of me got off his bike
- punished once too often - I followed him. It was only 50m of walking,
but my legs - already in a horrid state - said "no more".
It's a perfect hill for a breakaway to form on. Especially as it's
followed by a 2km, 9% descent. Seriously, I averaged 54km/h on this
(peaking above 65km/h), and I was on non-closed roads and taking things
pretty cautiously. The pros will be flying.
Eventually I made it to the break stop on the other side. Pez had
already been there 15 minutes. I crammed more food into me, re-stocked
on gels and we set off together again. He dropped me the first time the
road even inched up.
There was another Cat 3
hill along the way - the magnificently named Cote de Grint on Moor -
but by this stage my brain had switched off so all I can tell you is I
got over it. I didn't walk again, I remember
that much.
But, while I'd settled into my non-functioning state, there was hope to
come. 40kms from the end a nice man in Wiggle kit and a Very Expensive
Bike (Carbon, Zipp wheels, electronic groupset etc etc) let me latch on
to a group. After explaining the concept of
"drafting" to the other riders, and learning and then using everyone's
first name a lot in a slightly middle-manager-after-a-training-day manner, we rode on... slowly.
Misery loves company, as the saying goes, and while none of my fellow
slow coaches were riding day two, riding with them made me feel a lot
better. It wasn't fast, but it was social, and while I was dropped on
the hills by everyone even in this slowest of groups,
we finished - crossing the line together and posing for a picture.
It took me 9:33:24 in
total time with 8:38:59 of that riding - on a sprinter's stage I'd
averaged just 22.4kp/h. Pez beat me by another 15 minutes, after once
again setting out from the break stop together.
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Yorkshire businesses bought into the Tour |
Recovery
One of the draws of
this ride for me was the idea that I'd be riding supported for
back-to-back stages, making the experience closer to that of a real Tour
de France rider.
There was a Team Wiggle
Honda mechanic on hand - who took a look at my creaking bike (the hope
was that a worn bottom bracket was holding me back on the hills,
grinding under pressure, rather than terrible form.
He checked the bike and proscribed "lack of chain lube" as the actual
problem - which, to be fair, had my drive train running silky smooth the
next day).
I bolted down a plate
full of carbs (lasagne, plus rice, plus potato salad, plus a bread roll)
and headed for a massage - anything to try and get me through the next
day and a remarkably relaxing experience.
I showered, ate another big meal in the evening, had a single beer and hit the hay early. It was the best I could manage.
To try and increase my chances I was trialling beetroot shots - loading
up for two days before the race and then one on the morning of Day 1.
There's increasingly large amounts of research that say they could help,
nothing says they hurt and top athletes (including
Mark Cavendish) use them.
But they're vile things. Horrible tasting and nasty to drink. I
looked at my beetroot shot for today with disgust. I put it back in my bag,
unopened. If they help, they clearly didn't help enough on Saturday and I
just couldn't face drinking it.
At this point I
honestly didn't know how I was going to get back on my bike for the ride
to the safety briefing - let alone finish what has been described as
the third hardest stage of the race this year.
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Day 2 briefing |
Day 2: York-Sheffield
Oddly, once on the bike
I was feeling better than I was the day before - more comfortable than
the end of the ride on Saturday - or perhaps just more accustomed to my
pain.
Once again, we altered
the route a little for Day 2. Ditching the pan-flat opening 30kms down a
major road and picking the ride up just north of Harrogate ahead of the
climbing starting.
And there was a lot of
climbing. Nine categorised climbs (we missed the final one in the city
centre), 3,600m+ up - more climbing than last year's Etape - and
effectively no flat. None.
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Much climbing |
It should make for a
great stage, which is calling out for a breakaway as forming a train to
chase one down will be all but impossible. A good day for a hilly
classics specialist to win - possibly even Simon
Yates - a bloody awful one for me.
But I had a plan. We formed "Team Tortoise"*.
Pez was struggling
towards the end of Saturday too, and had found a couple of other riders
to finish with: Rich-who-is-actually-from-Yorkshire and Nick from near us.
I got together with
them early on, and we stuck together with the express purpose of getting
each other to the end, no matter how long it took. It took a really long
time.
Along the road another
rider joined us - Tim - and it was him and Pez competing for who was
climbing best of our groupetto, who came next was anyone's guess.
Nick had a metal plate
in his right leg, with pain shooting along the length of it when putting
stress through - think climbs above 10%. His biggest cog on the back
was a 25, not nearly enough. But he was the
heart and soul of the group, keeping spirits up, chatting away and
happy to take really long pulls on the front on the flat and pacing us up shallow
hills.
Rich had a dodgy right knee, meaning he simply couldn't climb the
steep stuff after the first couple of hours.
He was also fun, funny and good company.
But patched up, injured
and exhausted riders, forming an autobus to beat the clock and finish
the stage is as much a tradition of the Tour as polka dots, bunch
sprints and breakaways.
We endured. We supported. We survived.
So much climbing
And there was a lot to
endure - 20k in was Cote de Blubberhouses, cat 4, with a descent leading
straight into a 24% ramp leading onto another long drag up. I made it
up out of the saddle. The views from the top
were spectacular and there was the reward of a long descent.
36k in was another climb - uncategorised - followed by the longest flat section of the day (for us) - it was only 10km.
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Stunning, lots of climbing though |
The scenery was
spectacular throughout - bridges over rivers leading to rolling
woodland, farmland with stone-walled fields - frequently filled with
sheep, cows and horses (we only saw llamas once).
In fact, "what about
sheep on the descents?" was a serious question in the safety briefing.
That said, the baa-ing at one point was almost musical.
The roads on day two
were frequently beautiful too - the smoothest I've ever ridden on. In
fact, I've never loved a road surface so much while hating the road
itself so fiercely.
There was a lot of
hating on Sunday. While the first climb (Blubberhouses) was mostly fine,
the others weren't. Oxenhope Moor (cat 3) hurt, Cragg Vale (the longest
climb in Britain at 8km+) was relentless if
uncomplicated and allowing me to burst at the end to try and bridge to
Pez and Tim - and at least there was a long descent after. Ripponden
(Cat 3) hurt - lots – starting with a really high gradient, then
dropping to a mere 10% for the remaining kilometre.
Two kilometres after you crest it you're onto the Cat 3 Cote de Greetland - and this is the one that broke me.
You see, I had attached a route profile to my top tube - but it was
lies. After Ripponden it was meant to be flat, downy, a bit uppy, then
big downy.
What it actually was
was a 6km climb - the Cote de Greetland – when I was expecting a
descent. Every time I rounded a corner and saw more climbing a little
bit more of my spirit broke.
According to my top
tube, the descent started about 95km in and there was no more climbing.
In fact, it didn't start until almost 100 and came after an entire, Cat
3, unmarked, climb.
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Top tube of lies |
I lost the rest of Team
Tortoise (after being first to Ripponden), I trudged on. Slower. And
slower. And Slower. I rounded a corner to see even more climbing, I'd
been climbing for seemingly ever, I looked once
more at my Garmin (100km registered) and my top tube (meant to have
been descending 4km ago) and got off my bike.
Fuck it. Fuck the
climbing. Fuck the lying route profile. I was promised a descent, I
deserve a descent. I'm absolutely not climbing any effing more. I looked
up, saw the scenery and took a photo (above). I trudged on.
There was only 60km
left, according to the lying route profile, I could walk that. Probably.
Maybe I should get back on the bike, the next break stop wasn't for
another 20km+, after the Cat 2 Holme Moss.
I got on, rounded a corner, and saw Nick and Pez waiting for me at the summit. I finally got my descent.
Back together
We were still a long
way from home, but I was back with the groupetto. Back chatting, back
riding and with a Cat 2 (my first) to come.
I'm not saying it
wasn't brutal, but it was expected this time. The gradient sat at 11%
and stayed there, for about 5kms, you just ground through it.
I unzipped my gilet to
my waist. My jersey then got unzipped to my sternum. My cadence dropped
to 40, then 35. It was as hard a climb as the early part of Semnoz, if
not as long in total. I clicked up a couple
of gears and went out of the saddle for a bit, sat down and clicked
down again, I ground and ground and ground and this time I knew when it
was ending. This time I had road markers telling me how much further
there was, letting me know how far I'd come, with
700m left I sprinted.
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Top of Holme Moss plus Derbyshire |
Still not done - and losing my bottle
I'd passed the highest
bit of the course now, with a final break stop mid-way down the descent -
I crammed my face with anything I could lay my hands on like a
four-year-old on Halloween - but this particularly
nasty stage wasn't done yet.
Three more categorised
climbs and a few uncategorised ones in a brutal final 40km awaited.
There was simply no flat. You were going up, or down, with what felt
like a lot more up (although wasn't).
"I can see Sheffield. It's downhill! Why am I climbing?" as one of the other riders put it.
The top tube profile
(which inexplicably I still trusted) at least warned me it was going to
be tough, we pushed on. We ran out of water. Eventually a support car
came by - we hadn't seen another rider or support
car for hours - and filled up on water and food, although Pez missed
out initially (he was a little ahead of us on the road, when we met him
we shared our water with him) he caught up with the van later.
A little later I threw
the new water away - literally - near the back of the autobus I reached
for a drink, Tim braked in front of me and I was caught with one hand
full of bottle and another on the top of my
bars and almost no time to react. I hurled the bidon into a bush (a
present for the fans) and hit the brakes. Pez, the only man behind me,
burst out laughing.
Lantern Rouge
We were officially the last people on the road and still riding at this point.
We kept going. Kept
riding. Kept together except when Nick and Rich's knees forced them to
walk up some of the steepest parts. The others waited at the top.
Inexplicably, I was
first up the final climb - beasting the descent, almost missing the
double-left turn into a seriously steep Stephen lane (1.6km at 10%
average and starting harder) - and then we were done.
Done, done and done. Well, almost, there were a few ks of descending
left. But this time it really was all descending.
Team Tortoise rolled to
the finish, lined up ahead of the timing mat and crossed together -
all five of us – Tim, Pez and I recording times within a second of each
other and Nick and Rich a minute slower thanks
to a slightly later start time.
Once the day before times were included I finished last.
But that sentence
doesn't quite read right. It has one word too many. Because despite
blowing up badly on day one, breaking mentally on day two and taking
longer than anyone else to complete it, I rode the first
two stages of the Tour de France back to back. I finished. With a
little help from my friends.
*this is my name, other members of Team Tortoise might not appreciate the analogy. But, slow and steady seemed the way to go.