Last Sunday I did a Surrey sportive as a practice run. It was 80 miles, with three climbs. I was doing the Long version.
I had to get a 7.10am train to get there. The stupid train took over an hour and had no toilet, which was unfortunate considering I'd necked a latte while waiting for the platform to come up. There were lots of cyclists on the train but none of them seemed as desperate for the toilet as I was, so by the time I'd finished they'd all left and I had no one to follow to the start of the sportive. I had a map and eventually I found my way to the start, where I found that there were no energy gels left because the early birds had taken them all, probably because they'd driven and got there much earlier. Which was a shame because I was looking forward to offsetting the entry fee by eating as much as I could. Nevertheless I registered, put the timing chip on my wrist and the number on my bike and set off.
I soon realised I was going to be mostly on my own. I overtook a couple of groups who were pootling along *very* slowly; they were probably on the short version. And then I was pretty much alone. I got overtaken by people much faster than me and soon realised there was no point trying to hang on to their wheels, which was also a shame because there was a bloody headwind. On the other hand, I found it more relaxing not having to worry about riding with people that I didn't know and had no idea whether they were sensible riders or not. Plus I'm a nervous descender so I didn't have to worry about getting in people's way.
The first 45 miles, while they weren't flat, were not too bad at all, and I did them in under 3 hours. After 40 miles I spotted my mum and partner by the side of the road; the sportive went within a few miles of my mum's partner's house, so they'd come out to say hello. I stopped very briefly to say hello and then carried on until the first feed stop. The gel-stealing vultures had already been, however, but there were bananas and cake left so I had some of those, plus some rice cakes I'd made the day before which are apparently what Team Sky use. I knew I couldn't hang around so having stuffed down some food, refilled my water bottles and used the loo, I set off again.
My body wasn't terribly happy with the 15 minute break, however. It's the first time I've not had a ride break that involved at least half an hour's sit down at a tea room or pub, and I missed that kind of proper break badly. Also, some bastard had saved up all the climbs for the last 35 miles of the ride.
The first one was Leith Hill. I've done Leith Hill before, with Jane, and though I was slow, I just about winched my way up it. I hadn't done it via Tanhurst Lane, however. I gritted my teeth and inched my way up, but then my front wheel started lifting (it was 23% in places) and although I managed to get it down again, about halfway up I had to admit I didn't have the strength, and walked it. Ahead of me were two other women walking it. Where it flattened out two of us stopped, ate some more, and complained bitterly about the incline. I thought I might have found some riding partners, except they were only doing the medium route. When one of them spotted that I had a standard double, she expressed surprise that I had got as far up the hill as I had.
I set off again, a bit cross at having to walk a small amount of the very first proper climb, but not too disheartened. My average speed had dropped quite a bit, however, and energy levels were low. It struck me that I'd not eaten anything like what I'd usually eat on a ride where we usually had a decent-sized lunch at a pub, so I ate a bit more on the move. Soon the second hill presented itself. This hill was long, but nothing like as steep as the first, and I cheered a bit as I made it all the way up steadily without stopping. Perhaps the first hill had been the worst?
The first hill was NOT the worst.
The first indication I had of the final climb was a sign warning that caravans & trailers shouldn't attempt this road because it was 27% in places. My heart sank. I knew I had sod-all chance of making it up something of that incline. I seemed to be cycling for some time before the 27% made itself known, and I started to wonder if it really existed.
Of course it bloody existed. It is called Barhatch Lane. If you're a masochist you should go check it out some time.
It rose up before me like a wall. I adopted my usual policy of getting into my lowest gear, pedalling slowly and seeing how far I got.
Predictably, I didn't get very far. By now my legs were saying 'So we've got 60 miles in us, you've not rested since you sat on the train, you've not really eaten enough, and you want us to get up this? You're having a laugh! We're going on strike!'
So I walked it. And it was steep, and it was long, and my shoes kept slipping where the incline was so steep. The fact that I was on my own did not deter me from swearing heartily and muttering to myself about what a ridiculous hill it was. At the top was the second and final feed stop. This time there was one solitary gel left!
I asked if I was the last one as I filled up my bottles and gobbled down banana and cake. They assured me I was not. The organiser was there and I complimented him on the signposting (which was faultless, I did not need to look at my map once). He said he'd had to put some up again because locals pulled them down. Just as I'd finished eating the people behind me turned up. Determined not to finish absolutely last, I thanked him, said goodbye and pedalled off down the hill. It was the kind of hill that Jane would like; steep, bendy, potholes, gravel. Lots of 'fun'.
I was feeling pretty shattered for the final 15 miles; the climbs were like nothing I'd seen (except perhaps in Wales) and they seemed to have taken every last vestige of energy. But I pushed on, finishing up the last of the food I'd brought with me. I rolled over the finish line 6 hours and 48 minutes after I'd left, which I'm not particularly happy with. I'm taking some comfort in the fact that for one thing I know I didn't eat enough early on, and for another I don't think the RideLondon 100 has anything as bad as the hills on that sportive.
'Did you enjoy yourself?!' asked one of the staff at the end brightly. 'Oh yes!' I lied, because this is the English thing to do. I had not enjoyed myself particularly - I've had much better rides - but it was very good training, so I got what I wanted out of it. But I don't see myself becoming a regular at these things. The organisers had promised lots of homemade cake at the finish, but the faster bastards had eaten all that as well. So after a little lie down on the grass, my addled brain somehow found me the way back to Guildford, where I fortified myself with a milkshake, and managed to find my bike a space on the train after a brief discussion with the owners of the Luggage in the space.
They have paparazzi at these things, and so this is me on my first sportive:
<a href="
https://www.flickr.com/photos/46480570@N05/14859466731" title="055A-CWSS2 by bartonlaura1, on Flickr"><img src="
https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3903/14859466731_d9357626c6_s.jpg" width="75" height="75" alt="055A-CWSS2"></a>
Look at how my face says
I'm having a LOVELY time...
