Our training regime over the winter months has been building up to the event and the thought of perhaps a bit of balmy early May weather and posing around in our best gear helped to get us through the January frosts, February sleat, March gales and incessant April showers.
The three day race was devised as a bit of compensation to East Yorkshire for its exclusion from the rollercoaster that was the Grand Depart of Le Tour in 2014. That saw fantastic crowds in the main regional cities of Leeds, York and Sheffield but even then nothing to compare with the aggregated attendance along the roadsides of the other three Ridings (aptly named).
I took the day off from work for Stage 1, gleefully putting a bold line through my day to day diary announcing what I would be doing. My actual area of coverage for work, given any day of the week would in fact resemble the schedule for a Stage with my regular circuit of Bridlington, Scarborough, Whitby, Beverley, Selby and many villages in between all of which have been included over the first two stages. The notable absence is of course being Hull who declined to participate although I would forgive them in view of the prudent housekeeping required to fund the rapidly forthcoming role of UK City of Culture (2017).
The area does have a great cycling heritage at amateur and professional level although you would have to get up very early to see the grass roots competition of say, a Time Trial (individual riding against the clock) or a mass start road race as these take place on remote highways and byways.
To most of the population a cycle race can be a nuisance imposing a few seconds of delay at a road junction or resulting in a small build up of traffic. There is an army of club member and volunteers who give their time to hosting and helping out at events and many a cold morning I have been found in high-viz vest standing in a country lane making sure that the riders get through my patch safely.
The attitude of other road users including cars, commercial vehicles, other leisure cyclists and gals on hosses can be quite shockingly selfish and shows complete disregard for those pursuing their chosen sport.
There is a distinct change in attitude when the Big Race comes to town and the media machine and visual ceremony of a peleton of 140 top international riders cocooned in a convoy numbering 40 or 50 team cars, official vehicles, police motorbikes , press and other outriders really captures the attention of those who may, a few days earlier, have verbally abused those participating in a local, but nevertheless as important event.
Stage 1 saw my son and I in Dalby Forest amongst thousands of spectators followed by a mad ride over the undulating ten miles to Scarborough to see the finish on the sweeping North Bay shoreline. It is possible to get very close to the stars of the sport and this represents one of the last surviving opportunities to do this and for free particularly in these days of premium pricing and pay to view.
In our case we just had to expend enough energy to cover the 30 or so miles between vantage points, a bit of an effort in my case but rewarding enough. Stage 2 was within easier riding range and we set off from central Hull to ride the twelve miles to see the race ascend the hill at North Newbald.
We were even closer than at Dalby. Just watch the Europcar Rider bounce along the loose grit on the verge, just missing me.
The crowds here were phenomenal, so much so that it took an age to make our way through to reach the main road.
This was followed by a long, fast paced pedal of another 40 miles to try to catch the field as it reached Stamford Bridge on the final run in to York.
We had learnt a bit of a lesson on Stage 1 about the limited thermal properties of our best riding gear. Intense shivering whilst standing around in the forest and seafront waiting for the race to pass was not very pleasant. For Stage 2 we were more appropriately dressed in three quarter length leggings, mountaineering spec long sleeved vests, two top layers and the fallback of a wind cheater jacket which could be stowed in the back pocket of a cycling jersey.
In fact we mimicked perfectly the attire of the well wrapped up and insulated Continental based riders in the peleton, many of whom will not have ridden as far north in their careers to date. Our impersonation of Pro-riders was not intentional but we did attract a few second glances from the roadside masses who were just dismantling their collapsible chairs or lingering over a hot flask and picnic after having seen the convoy pass by some seconds before.
On approaching Stamford Bridge one voice informed us we were two minutes behind and with a bit of effort could catch up . In the town itself we were cheered and accompanied by the clanking peel of Alpine cow bells.
I was by that point in the day, after four hours of hard riding, quite weary but never underestimate the uplifting effect of an enthusiastic crowd even if fooled by a couple of well intentioned imposters.
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