As is the trend at the moment with the weather, the seasons seem to be back to front, gales and heavy rain forecast for an early summer Sunday, didn't inspire me. I was pleased to see several colleagues with whom I'd worked with in the past, were also participating.
Along with one of these, Bill, we rode to the start at the Parish Hall for 8:30 am. Despite the forecast conditions seemed promising, however I'd decided to be cautious and not take my new carbon bike but the old faithful winter one, which was still sporting it's mudguards. This would prove to be a good decision later. Several hundred riders congregated near to the start as the organisers tried to relay last minute route changes due to roadworks on the way. Like horses at the Grand National start we gathered by the road before we were off. Lots of local north west club riders were here and keen to get going as they set off in their groups. Compared to what I'm used to, which is mainly riding alone, the pace was blistering. I was able to comfortably stay within the groups which does make a difference. I smashed every Strava PR I had for the first 20 miles or so.
However, this rip-roaring speed in the initial stages would come home to roost later on. I got a little carried away I think. Things started to string out as we reached the first climbs. Bill had left me and turned back , as he'd a prior appointment and couldn't complete the full event.
So there I was alone, the occasional club rider flying past me as I rode at my usual pace.
I had ridden the route back in March just after it was published on their site. This was purely to see if I was capable of completing it in a reasonable time. So I knew the climbing that lay ahead and was conserving a bit for that.
As I reached the Rivington Reservoir, I mentally stalled. should I take a break here ?
I decided to push on even though I could feel a bit of muscle cramp in my legs. That early pace was having an effect. Somewhat concerned at this unusual early fatigue, I hit the climb with some apprehension. I normally don't feel the cramp until at least 60 or so miles and often not at all. This was a worrying development.
My diesel engine approach to hills has served me well in the past and having completed this hill a few weeks previous I was confident of making it. Head down and push, a few riders past me but thankfully they were not exactly flying up themselves. Soon enough Belmont village was reached and I didn't have to crick my neck to see the the winter hill mast any more.
I spun along happily but my legs were cramping again following the effort. Choosing a smaller ring I took the strain off them and to add insult to injury the rain began to fall. A brief stop to put my waterproof on eased the stiffness in the thighs and the ride to Brindle would be a bit easier.
Brindle, turning left at the aptly named Cavendish Arms, with not a sprint left in me I free wheeled into the village hall and was greeted by hundreds of abandoned bikes. Not a wall or kerb was free here as this was the rest stop. The organisers had laid on a lavish banquet of beans on toast, tea, biscuits and juice. With the queue spilling out of the door I drank the rest of my liquid and ate one of my banana specials. Unsure whether or not to grab a meal I concluded that a brief break would assist me greatly and duly joined the queue.
I sat down with my food at a table where a few riders were sat, one of them asked us how well we knew the area as his friend had missed the turn at Rivington and in an effort to rectify the error was now in Bolton. Christ I thought, I'd cut my losses and head home.
He was in mid conversation with them when I made my excuses and left .
I was getting too comfortable there so I stuck my gloves and helmet back on topped up my bottle and grabbed a biscuit before leaving. It was raining more heavily now as I set off for the remaining 32 miles home. I was alone again apart from the occasional group crossing my path from obviously the wrong way,trying to get back on course. A few times I was asked if I knew where I was.
The rain grew heavier and the wind stronger, both in my face. This proved to be mentally sapping.
Not for the first time I questioned my decision to participate in this event and the fact I had taken a days leave for this punishment. The familiar villages rolled passed me seemingly slower than I had even ridden through them before. Leyland, Eccleston and Mawdsley. Eccleston is the home of Sir Bradley and there was some suggestion his wife was riding this event, I never saw her and if she was, by now I think she'd have called it a day.
The weather was more akin to a November weekday as it seeped into every corner of my clothing.
As I left Mawdsley I was caught by a group of about 8 riders who pretty much saved me from delirium. In the nick of time I was able to shield myself from the elements in the middle and maintain a steady pace.
The conversation took our minds off the worsening weather for a few miles before the pace of the group meant a few of us dropped off the back by the last pull up at Ormskirk. The drag over this hill of which I am so familiar was tough. My legs were leaden and I was ready for a hot bath.
I dragged myself over it and rejoined Rick, one of the old boys in the group with whom I'd chatted to. The final 2 or so miles we rode together and shared our days aches and pains .
Arriving back I rested my bike against the wall and gingerly walked through the doors.
Cyclists sat along a trestle table with steam rising from them. I collected a rather small cheap certificate by way of acknowledgement of my achievement and pondered how to get it home dry.
A quick biscuit and two brews later I wrung out my gloves and jumped back on the bike for the final push home.
A rewarding day and given the good cause, cheap cost of the event I can only complain about the awful weather.
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