Sat 13.01.18
It’s 4 a.m. and I’m woken by the rain hammering on the balcony window. If this doesn’t let up, there’s no way I’m setting out on 200km. There are degrees of madness, and I’m not quite that mad. Yet. That would though complete the set for 200s: a finish, a DNF and now a DNS. And even if it has stopped or at least eased by the 8 o’clock start time, who knows what state the backroads will be in after a night like this? This course makes much of it being run over the old and forgotten byways and agricultural tracks, some paved, some some not, and most suffering from poor to terrible surfacing. By morning the potholes will be lakes. It’s not all like that of course, but the stretches of pavé and dirt road get ever longer in my mind as I lie there awake wondering if it’s going to be possible, or maybe I should say, passable this year.
5:55 a.m. the alarm sounds. I was awake anyway, after a fitful couple of hours. It’s still raining, but less now. We decide to take a punt on it: if by 8 it’s eased right off we’ll go for it, and take our chances with the forecast. So I shower then dress in my usual kit. How many layers? How cold will it be at the start and finish compared to how warm it might get by midday? Stepping outside to get to the breakfast room hints that it’s not going to be so cold today. At the tables, half a dozen lycra clad warriors are stocking up on bread and jam. We talk nervously about the weather prospects and wish each other well for what lies ahead. There are bikes in Reception. I note the lack of mudguards, against the organiser’s recommendation, and pity the badger’s stripe soaking the riders will be giving themselves. Their choice, I think.
7:15 Bike Check. My reflective gilet fails the homolgation test: no CE number. They are strict about this, so Decathlon, nil points. I’d left the other one behind so buy a new one from merchandising. I am now a branded member, wearing the ‘official’ gear. I won’t feel I belong though until I get back, it’s not the habit that maketh the monk but the committment, as the old Spanish saying goes. I’ll just have to make that true for Portugal too today. The checker didn’t like my lights either, but passes them anyway. I didn’t agree but it turned out that he was right on that too. Dawn’s light gives a hint of blue sky. The rain has stopped. For now.
08:00 We’re off. Determined not to be left behind early on, I head out with the first group,
only to find ourselves divided by the first set of traffic lights. The alpha males are champing at the bit, and we do the run to the first info-control at 29-30kph. I rarely get to ride in groups, and while there is no chain-gang discipline, it’s a joy to tuck into the shelter of the bunch and get towed along. I know I’ll blow up if I try to keep this pace, but for now I’m just enjoying the ride. As we string out into the fields, I stop with another rider to remove our rain jackets, at which point we realise we know each other from last year. From here to the finish we’ll ride together all day.
The sky is turning a threatening black. The wind from the NW has picked up and a dark, dark cloud comes over the ridge. We know what’s coming so another brief stop for rainwear is in order. Emilio, like me another rider over from Spain, has pulled up just ahead of us. He’s not done this route before and we have to call him back from a wrong turn once or twice. Together we do the day’s one big climb up into Santarem. He’s on a Trek Domain, José on the Surly Disk Trucker and me on the old Roberts red’un. On my phone, RWGPS declares this back way up into Santarem as Hors Categoria and so it proves: I walk the steepest 50m. Last year I rode all the way up it but this time the excuse for my shame is having heavier, tougher wheels and two teeth fewer on the biggest cog. Whatever, there’s coffee and a sandwich waiting in the park at the control at the top of the hill.
Leaving Santarem is even nastier than entering. Down a steep hill, where wet cobbles are as slippery as ice, José loses the front end and has a spill, landing on his elbow. But nothing’s broken and the Surly is as tough as its rider. Next there’s a cobbled hairpin, extreme caution needed, followed by a dismount and carry as we avoid a road closure by going down a set of steps. I’m glad I’m on SPD’s rather than bigger cleats which would make walking even trickier.
Back on the the flatlands of the floodplain we move through cabbage fields and orchards, vineyards and olives groves. Apart from the cobbled streets of Golega – wet cobbles are my pet hate – this whole section through to the lunch break is a delight. The rain has gone, the sun is out, the roads are good and clear. It’s the kind of riding I like best. One moderate climb up past the military bases and then the fast sweep down to the riverside for lunch at Constancia. We’re doing well on time too. A good feed and then we cross the Tagus to turn south for home.
Disaster for another rider at the river bridge. Once upon a time the bridge carried a railway into the paper mill. The mill is still there, but the trains have long gone. However, a remaining rail at the road’s edge catches his wheel and he goes down heavily. We come across him after his companion has him wrapped in a thermal blanket and still lying on the ground. Something’s broken. He looks small and pathetic and very vulnerable. Cars stop to see if help is needed and an ambulance is on its way. There’s nothing more we can do so they wave us off. As we crest the rise, the sound of sirens tells us he’s now in good hands. But it’s a sobering moment, reminding us that this hobby of ours is not without its risks.
From here to the 3/4 mark control at Alpiarça, we swap places repeatedly with the same 6-8 riders, sometimes forming a pack, sometimes stretching out between us. There’s more of the rough roads and more still to come and it’s difficult to maintain rhythm. At the control we make the fatal mistake of thinking we had time in hand, so spend far longer there than was strictly necessary. I’m not willing to set out on my own and in so doing lose a good riding companion to my impatience, so I wait for him. But our folly costs us dear when soon after we make a navigational error, and go half an hour out of our way before getting back on track. All this, togther with two other minor errors, puts us much closer to the limits than we’d bargained for.
Night falls and with it my poor lighting begins to matter. There are three factors: I should have put the fresh batteries in anyway rather than carrying them as spares, so the headlight beam is working but poorer than it needed to be; rain got in somehow making the contacts dodgy; and my l.e.d. back-up lights are simply not good enough. This will need sorting before the next event, my first attempt at a 300.
There have been some modifications to the route since last year to cut out a section of the EN118, a fast and busy road. The new part is quiet, but longer, indeed the whole brevet is now 216km, so over the 5% excess allowed in the ACP regs, but it still runs to BRM time limits. This, togther with our detours, adds roadtime.
Our second crossing of the Tagus is via the Ponte Rainha Amélia, another former railway bridge, one lane controlled by lights. To one side is a footpath, and to the other a narrow raised cycle track. We choose to ride it but it’s scary, which is added to by the noise of riding over metal plating. And it’s long and seems to go on for ever. We lose our group of companions though, as they chose to walk it instead. We press on as three.
Once back on the west bank, we’re on the homeward run, repeating the outward track for the final 38km. There is little time to spare, just enough for a quick comfort break and a final nibble of something sweet, then head down and time-trial into the finish. Job done.
RWGPS tells me we covered 227,5km, and we finished a mere 15 mins within the cut-off. But at least I succeded in all of my aims: to finish, to finish in time, to not be the lanterne rouge this year. (And no visitations! Hurrah!)
