The Great Yorkshire Mountain Bike Challenge 5th September, 2004 by Flat Eric

It didn’t get off to a great start. I had this momentous event pencilled in for several months. I’d swapped around tyres, had long dialogs with Krusty et al about their tactics, the terrain, the memory map route, the gradients (oh the gradients!)

I’d trained, built up a bit better fitness, though nowhere near as much as I should have, I’d got far more confident on steep and rocky downhill sections (still unclip one foot, just in case) so thought I’d eat a huge pasta meal the evening before, stay off the vino and get an early night. Wrong! Last minute invite to wife’s friend’s house warming and a sudden onset of heavy cold left me staggering into bed at 12:30am feeling absolutely dreadful. I woke early, almost thought about cancelling the whole thing I felt so rough, but decided to give it a try after all the anticipation. Even if I made it half way round, there would be the sponsorship money to collect. I packed up my kit with a very woolly head and drove off to Hade edge, completely forgetting my Camelbak, water bottle spare tubes, energy gels, pump and water bottle. Not a good start. Parked up and immediately spotted Biturbo’s car and bike, bumped into him in the marquee collecting entry numbers. Krusty turned up shortly afterwards and we hung about in slight apprehension waiting for the start. Quick team photo for the MacMillan cancer relief appeal.

Lining up, 10 minutes of nervous humour about the horrors ahead, mainly getting the awesome climb up Holme moss behind us. All age groups milling around us, from some very well kitted out 12 yr olds in their Kona Stinky Downhill jerseys to people close to or past retirement age. Biturbo reported Jenna texting him she was on her way too.

28 miles of steep West Yorkshire terrain, run for the past 11 years, a course that would take the fastest of us an unbelievable 2 hrs 5 mins to complete, and the final stragglers around 5 and a half to 6 hours.
Suddenly the horn sounded and the mass of some 240 riders eased off from the road outside the Bay horse pub to start the gruelling route.
The sun, at 9:00am, had already started to burn off the last of the fog patches sitting in the valleys below Hade edge and the distant tower of Holme Moss loomed menacingly, many miles away through the mist. The weather slowly heated up throughout the day, a blessing as the off-road terrain can be greasy and dangerous with a bit of moisture.

We clicked up through the gears to the end of the road then off right on the first bit of gentle bridleway heading down to the Brownhill reservoir. Poor Krusty, being only a few metres ahead of me at the start had an early but mild case of chainsuck on the first bridleway, and was soon on his way again. Six miles of relatively easy off-road, but strewn with big loose boulders meant you could not get a good early rhythm up, or afford to lose a moment’s concentration. Soon we were climbing out to the A6024 for the relentless slog up Holme Moss. This rises to just over 1900 feet in about a mile and as the morning warmed steadily, you could hear the cyclists gritting their teeth as they slipped down to lower gears for the long climb up. For me, it was about a 20 minute climb and my heart was pounding. I’d done the climb a few days before so knew the worst of the gradient was in the first half, it was just a case of pacing yourself and keeping going. What was demoralising was the marshall station at the car park at the top, people grabbed a drink then headed straight down again. By the time I hit the road for the climb, a steady stream of cyclists were already whirring back down the hill, taking the hairpins at breakneck speed like that mountain pass car chase bit in the Italian Job, as I slowly and steadily climbed. I thought, well if I can at least do this bit and I’m feeling so rough, then maybe I can drop out after the adrenalin-pumping rush of the descent.

I watched and watched my bike computer, reading off the tenths as the climb went on then all of a sudden the gradient got easier and I reached the turn-round, grabbed a drink, spilled most of it trying to turn round too quickly and started the heady descent. Waved to Krusty who had reached the top just as I was exiting, and flicked up to big gears. Chest down to the elbows, bum off the back of the saddle, let sweet gravity do its thing. Milo reading 7.5 miles and 45 mph, cool cool wind blowing all the sweat and heat off me. Passed Jenna and Biturbo about halfway down, yelled but was gone in a flash, off, down to Digley reservoir and a short section of the smoothest tarmac in west Yorkshire before the most hideous sharp steep climb you can imagine. From a 4 minute rush of speed over 2 miles in top gear to a granny-ring bastard of a haul up the other side of Digley was such a cruel experience, back to the aching legs and pounding heart and burning lungs again.

There then followed a rather sluggish 3km of off-road ascent, nothing too steep or demanding, just slowly energy-sapping, loose boulders, speed-eroding sand and a succession of ancient flagstones from the old pit-pony quarrying days, worn like a big set of gritstone stepping stones. Up, up, up, round the corner, up and up some more, beautiful views over the valleys unfolding as altitude was slowly gained, the reservoir and the distant Holme Moss peak we had just descended from. Finally out at the next marshall point for a mars bar and a water. Milo reads 12.5, well, nearly half way round, done better than I thought, maybe I can manage 5 more. Krusty arrives, we take a quick breather then it’s back on the tarmac, long long run downhill into Meltham, time to get your breath, finish the mars bar, rest the legs a little. Sharp turn left at the bottom after a riotous but short choppy off-road downhill section brought me back to the exact bloody house I had got wasted at the party the night before. Well fate is laughing at me I thought, and began the climb out of Meltham towards Honley and my home.

Now this bit of road is a bastard. It is very steep but shortish and it’s on my local home loop so I can pace it ok. I know it hurts and I’ve never done it all the way up this tired before, but there was a young and wiry Yorkshire lass cycling alongside me and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get off. We climbed it slow and steady, well OK she sprinted off on her little spindly legs leaving me puffing and wheezing again. We’re at about 16 miles now and the hard part for me; the route heads to the right through Oldfield before dropping down to the bottom of the Holme valley to start another complete bastard of a climb out the other side towards Thurstonland. Alternative for me, call it a day now, quick left, 300 yds down the steep hill and I’m home, cup of tea, soak in the bath and a Beechams Powder. Oh, the temptation! Against my better judgement I carried on, caught up with the wiry Yorkshire lass and headed off to the lowest point of altitude in the entire ride. Not for long. Half a mile later the turn off the New Mills road starts the agonising climb up to Thurstonland. Did I mention the roads were really steep round here? I mean really, really steep? This one had me. I was weary, so very weary. Had to get off and push. Krusty comes back into sight, 20 yards ahead and walking it too, I’m glad to say. Milo reads 18 miles, some guys are pedalling up in granny gear about the same speed as we are limping up the hill. It’s really hot now, I’m cursing myself for not bringing the energy gel and my flat coke and water mix in the camelbak.

We then head off to the right down a nasty little path lined with mud, nettles and cow dung, my tyres are useless on this stuff, there’s the odd boulder that forces you to put your foot down in the deepest section of crap, then we finally emerge onto tarmac again.
Milo is now at 20. I’m thinking, maybe its actually only 24 miles, that’s only 4 to go, Krusty shouts “8 or 9 to go, then we’re there”. Bugger.

I’ve hit a wall. I’m so very tired, my legs have no energy left, my batteries have run dry. I have not been on this section of the route, I’ve never driven round this part of the area, I lose my bearings and my sense of humour. I want to go home. I want to sleep, I want a cigarette and a beer, a warm sunny Sunday pub garden with a really good climbing frame for the kids. I’m back to watching the tenths tick off on my milo again, I still think I’m not going to complete this, but how do I get back now? Jenna whizzing uphill past me in the doldrums snaps me back to reality. All credit to the young lady, there’s no way I have the reserves of energy left at that point, even though nature has given me a momentum advantage when it comes to going downhill.

The route starts to blur from this point, endless short and evil steep climbs past idyllic farmhouse cottages, followed by short downhill spurts. A distant glimpse of a long diagonal downhill off-road track the other side of the valley, dotted with bikers spread out along its length, then finally round the corner an ambulance and mountain rescue team with some poor chap on a stretcher with suspected broken ankle. We were duly cautioned about this section, Meal Hill, its loose and rutted, with some big rocky sections, and an excellent series of big stone steps to launch off before hitting a sharp left and a hairpin right, running off down into the valley bottom, all that lovely stored potential energy used up again. Although very tired, the descent was no real problem and I took it far faster than I ought to have, but after surviving the drop down to Derwent from Whinn Hill with Krusty the previous month, anything else is a walk in the park.

Arms really tired now, keep swapping grip from grips to bar ends, just can’t get rid of the aches. We’re into Hepworth, past a very inviting pub and up another ½ mile of the most horribly steep road out towards Hade Edge. My milo’s now on 26 and my body’s told me it’s no longer talking to my brain. The final climb, we’re with a group of about 5 other riders, all battling up this last section before the final bridlepath back to the finish line on the village green. I’m having to walk it most of the way up the hill, then get back on the bike for the last mile, head down, arms aching, legs lon auto, but so little power, we manage to roll it down back onto the tarmac, along the road and right to the finish line, the big clock reading 4 hours and 2 minutes.

The sun is beating down on a field of collapsed riders, bikes laid to rest, a supreme sense of achievement, not an impressive time, but to have actually managed to complete the route across some really testing, energy-sapping terrain is a marvellous feeling. Will I be back for next year’s event?
Umm, I’ll get back to you later on that.