Sportive and Audax ride reports 2010.

 La Cyclo Manche, 4 Sept 2010.

2nd world war memorial, Sainte Mére Eglise.

O.K., first the history lesson – the allied invasion took place on the 6 June 1944 on the five Normandy beaches, code named: Omaha, Utah, Sword, Juno and Gold.

The first town to be liberated was the small town of Sainte-Mère Eglise, the site of this inaugural sportive on the Cherbourg peninsula, so where better to stay than the Hotel 6 June (how quaint).

This was a massive 400 yards from the start but, as it transpired, an even less massive 50 yards from the finish – my kind of ride out (and back)!

I had worked out that the gold standards were very tight and talking to several cyclists at dinner the previous night, it was clear that everyone shared the same opinion.

However, nothing ventured, as General Whoever said.

Mind you I did my homework and recce’d the final 2 miles on the morning before, whilst having a loosener to Utah beach. In essence, pan flat with a tail wind – although this meant a head wind for miles beforehand.

So, 8am and it’s mild, dry and breezy and I’m in the 1st pen of riders doing the 110 mile long route, amidst about only 200 others, with around 400 in the pen behind, for those doing the shorter 62 mile route.

The usual speeches and then the whistle goes and we’re off.

Must be some kind of record, ‘cos I’m literally 10 yds past the start when there’s an almighty bang and hiss and some poor soul has punctured behind me, before even crossing the line – at least he won’t lose any time, only some company.

As usual, the frantic flying along starts and I’m rapidly confirming my lack of real fitness, so tuck in the pack and cling on at mid-20’s. I realise that that I’m having the expected struggle, when three recumbents pass me…errr….

Anyway, get to the first feed station at around 42miles and leave with the same group of flyers, to be joined by a couple of Brits, one of whom asks where the split in routes is. I must admit I had forgotten about that, but resisted the temptation to tell him he’d missed it and was now doing the longer route! ½ mile further on, the split appears and everyone turns off onto the shorter route, ‘cept me! No wonder they were flying – 48 miles and the hilly section less!!!

So, plod on and we then become three, to be rapidly one when I go off the back on a nasty climb. Manage to get with a couple of others after a good few hilly miles and struggle to keep up on the very hilly coast road – the Route des Caps or something like that – either way, it was up and down like a roller coaster.

Just about finish the hills and turn into the wind on a long drag and, once again, come off the back of a group of four which had formed, but felt a bit better half way up when I pass one of the others who is lying on the grass verge looking absolutely shattered.

Get to the 62 mile mark and am feeling less than energetic, when I meet up with a very kind, nice, fit, helpful, friendly (where’s this going, you may ask) French rider. Get chatting to him and discover he’s going to be well outside his gold standard, so mention that I’m likely to be a few minutes outside mine, if I don’t blow up first.

He tells me we’ve done all the hills and it’s flat-ish from there on, with just the headwind to cope with.

So, I mention that I’m le Patron (left) from Seacroft Wheelers, here without my domestiques, but am looking for a good lead-out man and does he fancy the job at a good rate of pay (well, I offered to buy him a beer at the finish).

Clearly that was the magical word, as we set to taking turns on the front (and keeping the same speed when it was our turn on the front – not speeding up like someone on the York 100!!) – 20’s/23’s on a nice smooth surface.

We reached the second feed at 80 miles and, whilst my man Marc (yes, you have to be called Marc if you’re a lead out man!) and I are watering the grass verge, he comments that he’s forgotten about a couple of hills yet to come (great – hope he leads out better than he navigates – and he’s local).

Off we go, chasing down the clock (there’s no peleton to chase) and I’m doing all the time calculations as we cycle along and give Marc a running commentary about how close this is going to be, whilst he keeps telling me we’re going to do it comfortably.

Get to 15 miles and I reckon he could be right, so I enjoy the glimpses of the beaches and sea, just before we turn at 6 miles to go and get a bit of a tailwind.

Final turn and we’re on my recce’d stretch, dead straight with a tail wind and my lead out man pulls off the front with 2 miles to go and I go for it. I shout to him to watch out for a speed ramp at 800 yards, to get hear a curse and clatter as he hits it hard rather than using the gutter as I did, but he survives.

Last 200 yards is down hill, with a bend into the village square, which I take at rather a rapid rate of knots, to fly over the line to great cheers and admiration and a raised clenched fist (well I have to show some emotion, don’t I?), in 6hrs 30m 36s - for gold standard by 3m 24s.

My lead out man follows me in by 2seconds, for his well deserved beer.

All in all, a challenging sportive and a fitting finish to my season.

Best wishes to all and here’s to 2011 and something special – watch this web site for news.

Fred Lyn (Le patron).

 

East Midlands CiCLE Challenge - Sunday 4th July 2010.

Dave tackles the 'Somerberg'

Having, on calm reflection, really quite enjoyed the 101 mile Discover Rutland CiCLE Tour earlier this year (although most of the words he used on the day of the ride were unprintable, as I recall), Chris Beetham decided that he was going to go the whole hog and enter the event’s Big Sister, the 110 mile East Midlands CiCLE Challenge.

Both sportive events cover many of the roads on Britain’s own Spring Classic, the Paris-Roubaix inspired, UCI 1.2 classified East Midlands International CiCLE Classic. However, whilst April’s Discover Rutland CiCLE Tour was all on tarmac, the East Midlands CiCLE Challenge parcours contains all the off-road sections that the professionals race on, and a few more even nastier ones to boot. So that’s 100 miles on lovely smooth tarmac, interspersed with another ten miles or so on a variety of rock and gravel strewn, potholed, filthy, unmade, bike wrecking farm tracks.

So when Chris challenged me to join him, well, what could I say? I mean, what’s not to like?

Accordingly, both of us paid our entry fee (yes, both of us this time), booked our accommodation, and got into some serious training for the big day. Well, that was my plan anyway. As it turned out, I didn’t actually sit on a bike for 3 weeks prior to the ride. You know how real life gets in the way sometimes?...

Chris, however, was not leaving his preparation to chance, and thought it would be a good idea to hone his fitness, and off road bike handling skills in particular, at the Brigshaw Summer Cyclocross meet on 16th June. As training rides go, I suspect he has had more productive evenings, as he contrived to fall off on a tricky, high speed corner and, as later tests would show, break his ankle.

And worse was to come. Chris was under the misapprehension that his injury was a valid excuse to pull out of the sportive. Sadly, it was a misapprehension that he was sticking to...

The weekend of the event duly arrived and was kicked off in excellent style with a superb pasta party the evening before the ride, which was attended by former winner of the professional race, Robin Sharman.

The weather was warm and sunny but decidedly breezy the following morning as over 200 riders gathered at the King Edward Sports Centre in Melton Mowbray prior to their chosen 13 mile, 63 mile or 110 mile challenges. As I had been freed from domestique duties by the late withdrawal of my team leader, I decided that my strategy was going to be, in technical terms, to avit large right from the off. Given the fact, however, that I had only sat on a bike once in the preceding six weeks, albeit for another 100 mile sportive ride, I was aware that this plan had the potential to backfire in spectacular fashion. Well at least I was loaded with the right sort of carbs for once...

At 9.30am sharp, the 50 or so hardy souls who had opted for the full-on long version rolled out of the car park together, turned left up the main Melton – Oakham road, shoved it in the big ring, and the ride was on.

Less than half a mile later, and with the pace somewhere up near 30mph, the bunch hung a left and the first of seven off-road “sectors”, Sawgate Lane – a half mile stretch of potholed gravel strewn nastiness - was well and truly upon us. To be fair, the organisers had laid on alternative, tarmacced diversions around the more gruesome off road bits for the faint hearted owners of premium carbon kit, but where’s the fun in that?

“Welcome to Hell” said the banner, and it wasn’t wrong. The somewhat predictable carnage duly ensued with riders being instantly thrown off their rhythm by both the horrendous terrain and the erratically weaving bikes around them. Amazingly, the pace at the front stayed high, but the group fractured dramatically as riders struggled to pick a safe line in the dust cloud amid the foot deep potholes and bounced-out bidons. It was all on just to stay upright and survive!

It seemed an eternity before my bike hit silky smooth tarmac again, although it was probably marginally over a minute. What a relief! I have never needed to concentrate as hard to ride a bike in all my life...

As I buried myself for the next couple of minutes to catch up with the remnants of the main group, I must have passed 4 or 5 riders who had punctured on Sector 7 - one mile down and just the 109 to go! Welcome to Hell indeed!

A mile or so later and I was back on, in a group that had already been whittled down to about 25, and which was taking advantage of the increasingly stiff westerly tailwind to roll along purposefully at around 30mph. Before too long, however, the road inevitably turned westwards, and the true strength of the wind became apparent. The speed of the group almost immediately halved and the hubbub of conversation was punctuated with the tell-tale clicking of larger sprockets desperately being sought out.

The chatting subsided almost completely as the effort increased and riders regimented themselves to the task in hand with most (including me!) taking turns at the front. As a result, and despite the keen pace, the group stayed largely together for the next twenty miles or so, during which time the route zigzagged in and out of the wind around the gently undulating outskirts of Melton Mowbray.

The descent into the Vale of Belvoir at Stathern after 24 miles was as breathtaking this time round as I recalled from April’s sportive, with speeds of nearly 50mph in the group of around 20 keeping our wits razor sharp. Experience has taught me, however, that what goes down generally goes back up with interest soon after.

So it was no surprise when, five pan flat miles later, and in a repeat of April’s torture, the road turned right into the forest canopy and the nasty 1-in-6 climb back up the cliff face towards Belvoir Castle (left) was there to greet us. For reasons widely known by anyone well versed in my climbing prowess, I chose to hold back from the front of the lead group for the first time since Melton, and by the time the hill was crested I found myself in a selection of four equally shattered souls whose heart rate was in a place not visited by choice.

Despite the increasingly undulating terrain and ever rising wind, the next hour presented a chance to regroup as our quartet rode briskly in the big ring through familiar villages nestled in beautiful countryside. Sector 6 at Stroxton on the 45 mile mark comprised a cinder and gravel farm track about a mile in length. Compared to the introductory carnage of Sector 7, being in this small group made it much easier to hit the sector at pace, churn out a big gear and get through safely. Tyre choice was clearly a major determinant on the day, as we mopped up three more riders on the exit to the sector, each with tyre lever and fresh inner tube in hand...

Another six rolling miles due south later on silky smooth tarmac and, just when it all seemed to be going so swimmingly, the road hung a right into the teeth of a by now howling westerly wind. The next five miles to the feed-station at Wymondham Windmill were purgatory. It was all I could do to summon up the strength to turn the pedals in the smallest of gears, the gusts were so strong.

After a few moments rest, and with my bidons refilled with SIS and me refuelled with an excess of bananas, energy gels and flapjack, I set off with a group of about ten for the second half of the ride. Within a couple of miles we hit the entrance to Sector 5 just after Teigh where, surprisingly, only I ventured in, the rest of the bunch turning sharp left and taking the easier asphalt option. The mile long, rough gravel track that I had opted for presented few problems at pace early on, but rose sharply into small chainring territory for the last hundred yards or so. I gained some considerable satisfaction in rejoining the main road at Barrow well ahead of the group from which I had recently split, although I realised I had now resigned myself to riding at least the next few miles alone.

Five further miles west into the teeth of the gale followed, before the road turned south towards the sharp climb at Cold Overton, which prefaced the main event of this sportive – the iconic Sector 4: “Somerberg”. Named in the style of the Northern European Classics, this mile of sharply undulating, potholed, rock-strewn nastiness has an equally nasty habit of grabbing the headlines for all the wrong reasons. A review of the professional race reports since 2005 reveal that, on numerous occasions, this is where defeat has been grasped from the jaws of victory by way of an ill-timed puncture or race ending mechanical.

I entered the sector with no small sense of awe although the initial, flatter section did not prove overly difficult. As the downward gradient increased, however, it became increasingly challenging at rising speeds to pick a safe line amongst the debris without constantly braking. Just as I was beginning to feel comfortable on the downhill, the trail kicked sharply upwards. It was imperative to maintain momentum at this point and on this dusty, cratered track there was no option but to grind out a big gear, as any effort in the small chainring simply resulted in wheel spin. Just after the wide, open crest of this rise, the route descended and narrowed into a horrendously rough, tree lined cinder and flint track. A few hundred high speed yards of optional Hell later, my bike and I both emerged, amazingly unscathed, back on to the blacktop. The thrill of completion and sense of relief were both incredible.

There was hardly time to catch breath, however, before I was reacquainting myself with the endless first gear slog out of the pristine grounds of Launde Abbey. In April’s sportive, this climb had seen as many walking as riding, but today the field had spread so thinly after 78 increasingly intense miles that I suffered it alone.

The gruelling nature of the parcours was unrelenting, with the sharp climb at Marefield followed closely by the short off-road Sector 3 through Owston village, by which point I had actually caught and then passed a group of three riders toiling ahead! Although for some reason not classified as a sector in its own right, the next mile was a roller coaster ride over an extremely narrow, gravelly track, followed immediately by an interminable half mile climb up to Burrough-on-the-Hill and the salvation of the second feedstation.

I did not tarry long, however, as I had ample energy supplies for the remaining nineteen miles, and preferred to press on for the finish. Half a dozen welcome flattish miles were to follow, including the now defunct Sector 2 at Stygate Lane, a one mile long former gravel track that the local council saw fit to resurface with snooker table smooth tarmac a few years back. I could smell the finish by now and had faith in my legs to get me to the end, maintaining well over 30mph for the majority of this “sector”, albeit largely on the flat and with a generous following breeze.

The hundred mile mark soon clicked over on my computer, and even the sharp ascents and swooping descents around the final loop through Great and then Little Dalby could not dent my determination nor halt my increasingly rapid progress. In no time at all I found myself turning left back on to Sawgate Lane and up the final two mile drag of tarmac before, a mile or so from the finish, I hit Sector 1 – which was Sector 7 from earlier that morning in reverse – alone and somewhat triumphant. Discretion being the better part of valour, I took this last half mile of particularly nasty off-road a little gingerly, as the thought of a puncture at this stage of the day was for some reason hugely unappealing.

I happily emerged from the day’s last outpost of Hell and back on to the main road towards Melton without incident. Amazingly, rider and bike had survived the challenge intact! Minutes later, with overwhelming senses of both relief and achievement coursing through my veins and, doubtless, a huge grin spread right across my face, I crossed the finish line.

One hundred and ten hilly, windy and occasionally diabolical miles in 6 hours 28 minutes (17.0 mph) gave me a creditable seventh place out of the day’s 46 starters, the fastest rider coming in on 5 hours 57 minutes (18.5 mph). And there was me worrying that I may have over trained...

See you there in 2011 Chris?

More 2010 Sportive and Ride Reports