Get off and Milk It !

I made a bit of a statement back in 1982.

It was nothing earth shattering or controversial. I was not quoted in any authoritative publications nor did I put my words into any written document, like a contract.

The gist of the matter was that I had just taken delivery of my first proper racing bike and at the age of 19 was in peak physical fitness for fast and furious cycling. It did not seem out of hand under this combination of machine and man to vow to myself and anyone else who happened to be in earshot that if I ever had to dismount said wonder machine and walk whilst tackling a hill then I would sell it (the bike not the hill).

The bike had just been purchased with a more than generous bequest from my Grandfather and so there was very much of an emotional bond attached to it on which I was counting to help me push on the pedals that bit harder on a difficult climb.

From 1982 up until  today, May 1st 2015, I had failed in my self declared invincibility just the once and in mitigation I would state the following.

I had left my house at 5am on a very wet saturday in order to ride 70 miles to see The Leeds Classic International Cycle Race at Ilkley, West Yorkshire. The rain and cold, surprising for June, affected my energy levels and I struggled at the 60 mile mark as I hit the rather undulating course of the Leeds Ring Road. I was behind schedule to see the large field of riders go up the intimidatingly steep Cow and Calf Rocks but was able to glimpse the flash of team jerseys on one of their crossings of the main arterial route as they made their way out of the city. This was some compensation for my efforts as by the time I reached the foot of the Ilkley mountainside the race had passed through.

My morale was rock-bottom and about half way up I unceremoniously gave up and put my foot down on the gritty tarmac. There was no chorus of booing from the retreating  spectators , no-one swooned and as far as I recall no fingers were wagged and tuts tutted.

On the balance of the evidence I might have been forgiven for this betrayal of the promise to myself, the memory of Grandad Dick and even a meta-physical alliance with the bicycle.

That was in 1993.

I feel that I have made up for this failure many times in the intervening years by persevering on any gradient presenting itself and tolerating the resulting pain in limbs and respiratory system.

Today, I have to report that I had a terrible lapse and in a short 2 hour period had to stop, climb off and push that same and now somewhat antique bicycle three times on some horrific hills.

I was riding in completely new territory accompanied by my son, incidentally the same age as I was in 1982, as we went to see Stage 1 of the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire.

The plan was to take our bikes on the car roof rack to just outside the finish ( not Finnish) host town of Scarborough and then make our way on two wheels inland with the beautiful Dalby Forest as the intended vantage point for the race.

I had reccied the route on Google Earth and it looked nicely rural with meadows, moorland, forest and glade. I was aware that the terrain would be hilly although viewed on screen in one dimension there was no validation of how hilly it actually was.

Immediately from leaving the car in a residential street the roads went upwards.

Without a warm up or easing in on flatter ground this was a rude awakening.

I managed to get up and over the summit and enjoyed a rapid sweep down into the estate village of Hackness, all dressed stone and tied cottages. The Broxa Road, towards Dalby Forest undulated a bit and the ups and downs just about cancelled each other out.

Then at Langdale End there was an almighty climb. I was wheezing a bit by then but congratulated myself on defeating gravity. Within a quarter of a mile and surely defying geography the road went up yet again and it was here that I had to climb off or rather stop myself from toppling over with loss of momentum.

I pushed the bike up the hill past the silent but scornful glances of a group of camped out cyclists. Not a nice feeling at all.

I did get going again and on a long swooping descent caught up with my son to whom the slope had not been as problematic.

We had reached a plateau at the entrance proper to The Great Yorkshire Forest and rode along quite swiftly for once.

Then the Dalby Hill loomed up around a hairpin. 16% as a gradient sounds harmless but in old currency that is about 1 in 6 which is quite severe.

At less than a quarter up I had to get off again and push. Two spectating cyclists remarked on the pedigree of my beloved bicycle and one of them offered to take it off my hands for a tenner. I laughed a bit but was deeply hurt. I may have in a reflex action patted the handlebars in a bid to reassure my bike that we would not be parting company any time soon.

Taking up our own roadside position at the King of The Mountains marker to see the race which would be arriving in about 60 minutes it was clear to see that my bicycle was, by far, the most senior amongst all of the hundreds strewn along the verge and in the tree line.

In an unprovoked approach by a camera toting bike fan I was further insulted with the jibe "You haven't ridden all the way here on that have you?".

I was a bit taken aback by this but dismissed it as enthusiastic banter sparked by, probably, low blood sugar levels and too many caffeine based drinks.

After the race had skipped and breezed up the same hill with no evident trouble I set off with my son to backtrack the route to arrive in Scarborough to see the finish, scheduled for some 2 hours later.

In the company of about fifty or sixty cyclists with the same intention it was a bit of a mad dash eastwards but seemed easier for all of that.

However, my third dismount was at the foot of the last incline. I was by then resigned to failure not helped by the disparaging and insulting remarks that had come my way earlier. A fat bloke passed my slow walking progress and this encouraged me to try to catch him up after remounting.

Anger and incredulity are a potent fuel for tired limbs and although I did not see him again on the road I had enough energy to chase down my son and get to Scarborough.

It had been a difficult day but I could not wait to just get out and ride the next day to see Stage 2 on Old Faithful , and not because it was completely level and flat.