At the back end of last year, I discussed targets for this season. At the time, most seemed realistic, if not aiming a little too low (according to some). However, as the off season has progressed, some of those targets now look slightly ambitious, not that I won’t give them my best of course. One of those targets was to complete a 100 mile sportive - a target which I had planned to maybe aim to do towards the end of the season. The furthest I have ever been on a bike in one day is 86 miles - a Tyneside Vagabonds’ Sunday ride - after which I felt pretty ill for a couple of days. For me 100 miles, especially this early in the year, would be a stoooopid idea.
Not that it stopped me.
Egged on by the girlfriend and her cycling buddies, I foolishly signed up for Kilo To Go’s Cheshire Cat. As if that wasn’t enough - I could have agreed to do the 67 mile route with Kerry, but that would have been oh-so sensible. Oh no, I had to be all macho and sign up for the 100. Hindsight is a truly wonderful thing, you know?
Preparation couldn’t have been worse. We’ve both been coughing up what can only be described as a green version of stuff you find inside Cadbury’s Creme Eggs… thick, ropey mucus from hell. Our throats have been that sore that even swallowing ice cream was a chore (not that it stopped us, of course). With days to go, the sore throats had not subsided, and on the morning of the event we were still coughing up Creme Eggs. In fact, in the 2 weeks build up, we managed a 47 mile hike around the Mountain Time Trial course and a 20 mile ride from Blyth to Tynemouth Priory and back. Great preparation, then.
All week, the Met Office had been threatening sleet, rain, wind - basically every kind of crap that Michael Fish could throw at us. We breathed a collective sigh of relief then, when on the Saturday morning all the weather websites agreed on something - a sunny Sunday with a slight westerly wind. That meant the carbon would be traveling to Cheshire - which is a bit of a shame for Bicycle Repair Man in Prudhoe who had spent the week completely stripping and rebuilding my Burls specifically for the event. But thanks guys, that bike now looks brand new again!
Setting off on Saturday, Kerry and I were buzzing. Not only was it our first road trip together, but my first cyclosportive, and the first time that would meet her friends Anna, Penny, Mike and David. We crammed 2 bikes, a large toolchest, 2 changes of clothes, 6 pairs of shoes, enough junk food for an entire family of Americans, all our cycling gear, 1 pair of knee high boots (not mine I might add) and several bags containing all manner of women’s stuff (can anyone explain why a woman packs more stuff for a weekend away than a man does for a fortnight?) into the back of my Fiat 500. For all those who took the piss when I had to put the rear seats down to fit a microwave in, eat your words! During the drive down we were both a bag of nerves, and totally excitable. And it doesn’t particularly help when someone showers you in mixture of spit and hobnob biscuits at 70mph(ish) on the M6…
If someone were to say, “Crewe” to you, what would you think? I think of 2 things - Crewe Alexandra FC, and Rolls Royce. What doesn’t immediately spring to mind is natural beauty (and I don’t mean the local women, either). The countryside and some of the traditional buildings are a sight worth going for on their own - Cheshire is a truly beautiful place. Of course, beauty would be far from my mind on the Sunday.
We met Anna, Mike, Penny and her husband David in the Travelodge at Knutsford and proceeded to a local pub for dinner. Of course, we prepared ourselves in the way that all serious cyclists prepare themselves for a Cyclosportive - plenty of beer, wine and fattening food. Several pints of lager and 4 bottles of Tempranillo between us, and the world’s largest plate of fish and chips later (ok so Kerry had pasta the teacher’s pet) and we staggered back to our hotel room to prepare our bikes for the following day (I know, it’s not reading well, is it?) Both of us had new pedals and cleats to contend with, Kerry’s bars needed adjusting, and I wanted to give both bikes the once over for the following day to be sure. Drunk, of course.
We finally got to bed at around 1am, at which point we remembered the clocks were going forward so we’d miss another hour’s sleep, and the alarm was set for 6am (or 5am really). We put our heads on the pillows, said goodnight and sure enough the alarm went off seconds later. I don’t think we actually spoke to each other for the first hour of being awake - a combination of slight hangovers, dehydration, tiredness and a collective feeling of, “OK, so why the f*ck are we here?” (A note to travellers - the Travel Lodge breakfast really isn’t worth bothering with unless you like 6 corn-flakes with warm milk, a muffin that was so heavy made a thud noise when you dropped it, and a croissant that could well be used as an offensive weapon should you throw it at someone’s head). To make matters worse, we met everyone in the Little Thief for coffee - we instantly regretted opting for the Travelodge atrocity of a breakfast and our home made tuna pasta and wished we had a full English instead. Note to self - a night on the beer should ALWAYS be followed by a fry up - forget carbo loading it’s for pussies.
We eventually got ourselves sorted and on the way to Gresty Road - home of Crewe Alexandra FC and the start/finish of the Cheshire Cat sportive. 2700 cyclists would be leaving and arriving at this famous football ground today, a lot of them attempting the 100 mile route I was stupid enough to sign up for. Most of them would have to brave Mow Cop - a notorious climb that is dubbed “The Killer Mile” - a climb the organisers hype up so much that they actually award you a medal if you can climb it without getting off!
Setting off, I was suddenly nervous. Up until this point I had just been enjoying the road trip - spending time with Kerry, meeting new friends and generally just enjoying not being in the North East for once. Now it dawned on me, I’d actually got to go through with it - a 100 miles on a razor sharp Flite saddle. What on Earth was I thinking?
The first 15 miles went slowly. We were all taking our time, stopping a couple of times to allow our team to regroup, generally enjoying the nice weather and being outside on our bikes. Before we knew it, a massive hill sat in our way. It came unexpectedly - in a quite unnatural fashion - the road had been almost completely flat until suddenly there it was - the Killer Mile. I very quickly became a bag of nerves. People had promised to give me money for the Laura Dodds Fund if I made Mow Cop. Kerry was behind watching me. New friends were there. Everyone back home would want to know if I had done it. And shit, did it look steep?
The climb reminded me, for the first part anyway, of Bilsmoor. It starts out steep and gets steeper. That’s where the similarity ends. Because then it gets super steep - we’re talking 1:4. My thought process became almost hysterial.
“That thing’s a wall. A car would struggle. I’m already in my lowest gear.”
All around, riders were walking, pushing their bikes. Thin people. Roadies. People who looked like they’d been cycling for years.
“How the hell was a fat kid on a bike gonna get up?”
Like this: head down. Think of nothing else but the climb. Each pedal revolution is a few precious inches closer to a medal and bragging rights. Each turn of the pedal kept the bike upright. Someone else falls - the sound of metal and human hitting the road sounded sickening. Up ahead, both Anna and Mike hit the deck - and for a second I felt for them. Back to the job in hand.
“They’ve not done it, how the hell can I? Where is Kerry? Is she ok?”
Someone else falls, and I can hear someone reading out numbers. A camera flash goes.
Some shouts in my ear, “GO ON BIG FELLA - NEARLY THERE!!!!”
“Big fella? Am I still THAT fat? Come on, head down. Last few metres. Nearly there…”
And then all of a sudden I was sat down pedaling, not stood up - the climb had become easier.
“Number zero zero seven five!” shouted the man reading out numbers.
“That’s me… I’ve made it… I’ve done it!”
But I didn’t stop there. To me, the climb shouldn’t stop at the pub, I was going to make it to the top without stopping. Others were getting to the pub and stopping in victory - I was going to the top. And I did. And at the top I didn’t stop pedaling until I’d asked someone if I’d made it and they confirmed I had (although the second I stopped I put my foot down he told me he was joking - which scared me a few seconds until I realised he was taking the piss).
I had climbed Mow Cop. I was getting a medal. I HAD CLIMBED MOW COP!
I waited for everyone else from our little group, or “Team Twat” as we had called ourselves, to make it to the top. Kerry made the top and was completely disheartened with herself as she’d had to get off and walk on Mow Cop. Purely self indulgent this I realise but a message to Kerry:
Kerry, there were people who have been cycling for years didn’t make it up Mow Cop. There were all sorts of exotic bikes being ridden by super skinny roadies who got off and walked - there is no shame in it. You made me so proud for even attempting it, and completing your first 67 mile sportive.
Self indulgence over.
The truth of the matter is, Mow Cop was over, but we still had 3 more climbs to do before we’d even make the halfway stage of the ride. All the major climbs of the Cheshire Cat come in the first half, but even then the second half is by no means flat. By 35 miles, my legs were hurting. I’d put so much into the climbs in the first part of the ride that I was now feeling as tired as I would normally be at the end of a 60-70 mile club ride. I was seriously concerned about how I’d complete the day. I’d try to be so clever by climbing Mow Cop and going up the other climbs as quickly as possible, I’d knackered myself.
The last 50 miles would be ridden by Anna, Mike and myself. Kerry and David had opted for the 67 mile route and would be splitting shortly. I’m not sure even now why I did it, but at around 55 miles I decided to up the pace and go for it. If anyone wanted to come with me, they could. If not, I’d wait for them at the next feed station. We’d spent so long waiting around to regroup and in feed stations that we were on for a 9 hour ride, and I wanted to be closer to 8. Those first few miles on my own were great - my average speed was hitting 18/19mph and my legs were feeling good. Then the head wind hit me. Then some false flats. Then a couple of medium climbs. All of a sudden, I wasn’t in a good place. My bottle was empty. I had 1 gel left, and no food. I didn’t know when the next feed station was. At 72 miles, just 5 miles further than Kerry would have done, I started to cry. A million things were going through my head, but 2 things stood out:
1. As sad and pathetic as it sounds, I just wanted a hug.
2. The Laura Dodds Fund. I’d only be getting a few quid for finishing, but a few quid is a lot when it comes to fighting cancer for children.
I kept pedaling, and like a shining beacon I saw a sign post: FEEDING STATION 1 KM. The road to the feed station was a climb, one that I’d usually nail, but I sat in my smallest gear grinding up that hill being overtaken by several people. As I pulled into the station, I was still crying. Tears had dried on my face and the skin had gone all tight under my eyes. Was I the only one feeling THIS bad? Surely not. Everyone else was so chatty and happy. Was I really THAT unfit?
I filled my bottle, drank it, and filled it again. I ate 2 jam tarts and stuffed a banana in my back pocket. I waited a few minutes to see if Anna and Mike would appear, but knowing there was only 20 miles left, I decided to get going. 20 miles left. Half a Saturday club ride. 2 time trials. That’s all.
I’d love to be able to write about the last 20 miles, but I can’t. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember a single road, a single hill, a single point of interest. All I can remember is pain. The furthest I’d ever been was 86 miles, and I was now in unknown territory. From 86 miles to 100 I had no idea what to expect. Would something snap? Would my legs give in? Would my knees just say no?
As the painful blur continued, I kept checking my Garmin. 88. 91. 93. 96. And eventually… 99. 1 mile to go. But why was I still in the middle of the countryside with no sign of Crewe? As my Garmin hit 100, I started to panic. And then a signpost for Crewe - 3 miles. 3 MILES! 3 BASTARD MILES TO GO?! I’d done 100. I’d paid £28 to do 100 miles! Not 103! My head went down, and my pedal stroke became weak, but then I saw it. In the distance - the framework of the stands of Gresty Road. If I could see the finish, I could get to it. With every pedal stroke I was closer to that hug from Kerry. With every pedal stroke there was a slice of Penny’s cake to be had. With every pedal stroke there was money going to the Laura Dodds fund. Before I knew it, I was at the car park for the football ground. I was worried I’d be finishing on my own and looking for Kerry, but my heart warmed and I felt tears well up again as I crossed the finish line to see her face stood at the side behind the barrier waving at me. That was the best thing I could have seen.
As I crossed the line, my timing chip made the computer beep and I stopped my Garmin. I wasn’t interested in times, heart rates, speeds or anything. I wanted that hug. And I got it. And as I stood there, in tears again, hugging Kerry, I heard a throwaway comment from a passing roady. He said,
“God, they’re STILL coming in!”
If you are that roadie, and if you read this, know this. It doesn’t matter if you take 4 hours, or 14. 100 miles is a LONG way. Most people don’t like DRIVING that far. For a man who less than 2 years ago weighed 22 stone, 100 miles is one hell of an achievement. Normally, I’d let a comment like this bring me down. But it makes me resolute - I’m going to do the Cheshire Cat again next year, and I’m going to be faster.
Regardless, I’d done it. My first century. The first target of the season completed - in March. I’d finished a 100 mile sportive - The Cheshire Cat - AND I’d climbed Mow Cop! Not only that, I’d made some good friends in the process, and raised money for the Laura Dodds Fund.
At this point, I want to big everyone up again. Mike, Anna, Penny and David it was a pleasure to meet you, and I hope to see you all again. Well done to David who completed the 67 mile route with Kerry, and also to Mike and Anna who did the 100. To Penny, thank you for the cake. Penny would have been riding too but broke her arm in a skiing accident - a speedy recovery to her.
To Kilo To Go, who organised the event - well done. Apart from 1 turning where the sign post had vanished (1 guy did an extra 10 miles because of this) it was a great event and to anyone considering a sportive you can rely on Kilo To Go.
And finally to Kerry. You were my inspiration to do the Cheshire Cat (in other words you nagged me into it), and when I started to struggle and thought I’d not finish it was in part the thought of you that got me to the end. Well done on your 67 - and next year you’ll get your own Mow Cop medal too.