Jodrell Bank Classic Cyclosportive 10th March 2013

5 am Sunday 10 th March 2013 , I awoke well before the alarm. I wasn't sure if it was the apprehension of an 80 mile ride or the weather forecast which was grim to say the least. I'd sorted the car out the day before, but in the few minutes it took to place my bike on the rack, my hands were frozen, not a good sign. It took me about 50 minutes to drive to Poynton Leisure Centre where the attendants were working furiously to organise cars neatly as they arrived. I was lucky and parked quickly. The wind was gusting straight off the Urals right through the car park as the snow began to fall, I wondered why I'd thought this was a good idea. I'd had the choice of a 30, 50 or 80 mile ride when I booked this. In my efforts to gain experience of bigger miles to help my London to Paris fitness, I hadn't considered doing anything less than the 80, until now.
As 8 am loomed, the official start time of the event, I made my way to the start. Wrapped in several layers of clothing I was keen to get going and warm up. Just after the hour I was off alone, but with dozens of other like minded riders.

A few miles in I felt good, the winter training was making a difference, albeit a small one. I'd programmed the Garmin with the 80 mile course, but the signs were well placed and I didn't need to worry for the first dozen or so miles as everyone was doing the same route. I rode west toward Wilmslow and through Alderley Edge onto Mobberley. Here the route split for those on the 50 and 80 mile stints. A diversion around Tatton Park brought us back to Knutsford  and then Mobberley again. Briefly into the head wind which had been so helpful behind me, was now most unwelcome. A wind chill of -4 degrees into my face, you can sense my joy. I turned south and headed toward Middlewich . A 15 minute stop near to here gave me the chance to re fuel with energy drinks and flapjacks and lifted my spirits. I knew the worst was to come, 40 miles of head winds and two steep climbs lay ahead. The legs felt good and I'd teamed up with another rider doing the 80 miles alone. We shared a few war stories and decided to help each other out swapping lead riding positions as the wind gusted stronger or so it seemed. He confessed to me that his achillies heal was hills, not exactly my favourite either. After 40 minutes or so we separated and I watched him ride on ahead as I slowed and took on more liquid. We would meet again in the latter stages.
By now I was  heading towards Congleton and up towards Macclesfield. At times here I thought I was alone and the event had finished, it was only the route signs and the occasional rider at the road side that reassured me I had not been forgotten. There had been over seven hundred riders registered and only a small percentage had gone for the 80 mile route and I suspected some of those had seen the forecast and not even turned up. I can't say I blamed them, by 65 miles I was in the hurt locker myself. I had some emergency banana butties smothered in golden syrup that I downed as if my life depended on it. Well it kind of did . It seemed like forever that ride to Prestbury, but this village with the partly cobbled road surface was a sure sign that I was getting close now.
Bollington, I have only ever been here once before, last summer on a ride, I knew the severity of the hill out of the village. That time I had the joy of free wheeling down it,  sadly the opposite lay ahead. As I rode through the village I mulled over in my mind whether or not I should take a break before the climb up what I'd describe as the Hovis Hill. I decided to push on, my leaden legs slowly pulled me up and past my fellow rider who was not wrong about his weakness for hills. Bless him, he was off the bike and pushing it along the pavement.I offered some words of encouragement and rode past. I felt bad that I hadn't stopped, but I knew I would never have clipped back into my pedals again had I done so.
The hill soon leveled out and I could change gear to a more manly cog and pick up speed. The elevation was slow and gradual on this bit and I yearned for a sign that read Poynton. Soon enough it came and I caught up with two riders tailing them for the final few miles down hill.
Through the suburban streets and into Poynton Leisure Centre to the finish. The car park was almost empty and people were packing up and leaving. The poor compare who'd set us off over 6 and a bit hours ago was still desperately cracking jokes and in a scene reminiscent of the final moments on the deck of the Titanic, he played on.
I was thankful there was some sense of  acknowledgement of my achievement, if only by this guy.
I followed some of the other finishing riders to the sports hall where hot drinks and food were being served. Here I collected my printed certificate complete with blank spaces to put my name on and a cup of coffee.
I didn't dwell and shoved the bike on the rack satisfied with my days ride and another step nearer my goal.