This time numbers were a little bit down, as they had been for most events this year, but there would still be no need for anyone to ride alone on the road for long, with such a big field of starters.
We set off from Longridge with rain in the air, just pricking the backs of our hands, and settled down to explore the 'new' outward route that Trevor Burton had set us this time. By any standards it was a really good, undulating, laney ride through the rural heart of Lancashire, but those who had ridden before had mixed feelings about missing out on the old route, with its vicious climbs from Slaidburn up onto Tatham Fell where at the steepest moment, if you had the energy and ability to look behind, the views were truly spectacular. Today's route took us over the Trough of Bowland instead, a very lovely climb but not quite so difficult.
Whichever route you take, one remarkable feature of this ride is, no traffic lights, not even pedestrian lights, throughout the whole 200 kilometres. On the other hand, there are a very large number of cattle grids. One is at the summit of the Trough, where, when I arrived, a large crowd of cyclists were already standing around trying to decipher the 'info control', a distance carved on an old weathered milestone. Unable to speed over the grid due the the press of people cluttering the road, I was forced to do the other thing, dismount and totter across on my Look plates hoping not to twist an ankle.
The first real control was on the Devil's Bridge at Kirkby Lonsdale, and here I found that, despite my slow climbing, I had not lost much time on the front-runners and many of them were in a log-jam at the refreshment caravan. Having passed through this control more times than I care to count I was expecting this, and had no intention of stopping for food or drink here. If necessary, I could stop at a cafe or shop later on, but, hopefully, I would manage without.
I picked up Sheila, who had beaten me by five minutes, and we set off through Sedburgh, where the infamous cobbled street had been tarmacced over (what vandal did that?) and then turned for one of the gentlest, easiest climbs in the country, up to Garsdale Head. Once again, we felt that the old route, through Dent Dale (more cobbles) and up over Gayle Moor to Hawes, was a little bit prettier, and much more demanding. I wasn't complaining - riding my rather heavy full-suspension mountain bike even Garsdale with the wind behind was rather hard going.
I was on the mountain-bike because the carbon frame on my best bike had pulled apart at the seat cluster. It's still fine on flatter roads but I didn't fancy straining it up Fleet Moss, or rattling it over all those cattle grids. In any case the MTB provided a bit of variety on this event, which I must have ridden at least ten times now. Three years ago Sheila and I rode it on a tandem, and earned a small round of applause for making it to the top of Fleet Moss without dismounting.
By the time we got to Hawes, the halfway control, we had been gee'ed up, first by a phalanx of Geordies riding past, with the substantial figure of Graham Wanless in their midst, shouting "get on the 'bus" - that worked for about three minutes but we couldn't hold them - then Rob and Jane flew past and Sheila set off in hot pursuit just in time for the very fast descent off Garsdale Head which helps gobble the last few miles.
Coming out of the cafe at Hawes (once again, too crowded to stop) we felt the rain starting in earnest and put our jackets on before the big climb. Fleet Moss is a great hill. Its long, and its straight, and its high - one of the highest crossings in the Pennines - but the thing that makes it so difficult is the gradient which steadily steepens towards the top. It may not be the hardest or the steepest climb in the country, it may not even be in the top ten, but it certainly commands respect and its reputation is such that many riders are psyched out even before they start. For me, like most serious hills, this is one where familiarity is tremendously helpful - first-time riders almost always have to dismount, sometimes a depressingly long way before the summit, but with experience comes the knowledge of just where the 110% effort is required, and where to back off for a few pedal turns at 80%. Invariably, we hit bottom gear about halfway up, then, as the road continues to get steeper and steeper, there is nothing for it but to dig deeper and deeper. Conquering Fleet Moss on tandem was one of the high spots of my cycling career!
This time, with poor visibility, I miscalculated the summit and was just congratulating myself when I realised that there was at least 200 yards of 20% still to go. That was bad - but the mountainbike silly bottom gear got me by.
From the top down pretty Lang Strath Dale and Wharfedale we suddenly remember this is a fast course and we should be able to get back before dark - even though the nights are a-drawin' in. In Wharfedale there's a B-road down one side of the valley and an A-road down the other. At the bridge in Kettlewell we direct Pat Kenny down one while we take the other. The B-road is the official Fleet Moss route, we normally go that way of course but today I had an impulsive urge to take the A-road instead. It was very quiet - probably less traffic than the B-road - and certainly a bit smoother and faster. To my mind it is the better of the two roads, for cyclists. It was quite amusing spotting the yellow-clad riders on the other side of the valley, sometimes they would be ahead of us then they would hit an up-grade while we flattened out, and we would pull past them. Eventually we hit a long climb and they were well ahead approaching Grassington, but we knew that they then had to drop down, cross the valley floor and make a short steep climb to join our road. We would gain two or three minutes.
The cafe at Gargrave was heaving as usual. Far too busy for us to stop. As we were leaving, Pat Kenny arrived on his trike, and gave me a very dirty look. Time to go! Would we be back before dark? As ever, the last leg seemed to go very quickly, despite being dead into the wind. It includes, soon after Bank Newton, perhaps the lowest and easiest of all the Pennine crossings. Soon we had Longridge (the hill, not the town) in our sights and we had only to climb round the shoulder of the hill then dash the last flat three miles home. That last climb is always a killer. After the obligatory sprint finish, I checked through my times on the brevet card. To the minute, at each control, the same as last year! This despite a quite different (and easier) route, a different (and tank-like) bike, and wet roads for much of they way. How strange.
Francis Cooke