Ajay had asked me what sort of time I was looking for. Since this was my first such event and I only really wanted to get round, I didn't have any specific time in mind. But pressed, I did some quick (bad) maths and suggested "something around six hours?" Eyebrows were raised archly - after all, Ajay had done this ride last year. My rash words were to come back to haunt me.
A quick trundle round to the registration point followed, and before we had time to panic or have last-minute second thoughts, we were ceremoniously dispatched in a group of 20 or so which included an acquaintance of Ajay's - a bloke called Digby who turned out to be a 1st cat rider. So the initial pace was quite frisky - not quite what I had in mind but I thought I'd see how things panned out for the first ten or 15 miles.
In the event, Ajay also thought better of sticking around with the big boys, and he and I spent an amiable couple of hours shamelessly sucking the wheels of some riders from Hemel Hempstead over the still gently undulating course. We were offered a spell at the front, but Ajay's rejoinder of, "We're only in it for the final sprint!" seemed to discombobulate them. I saw no need to add further comment. At any rate, they didn't ask again.
The weather was perfect - slightly overcast, not too warm or windy, very good visibility. The scenery was outstanding, the roads largely free of traffic, and everyone was friendly and cheerful, clearly congratulating themselves - myself included - on having chosen this event in particular, and this sport in general.
Then we came to the first major climb of the day - Larks Stoke, and the mood in our peleton changed for the worse. This was a single-track, erm, track that rose steeply - and endlessly - westwards. I was surprised to see one rider walking within 100m or so, but a couple of hundred meters further on, my body was screaming for me to do the same. Just about hauled it over the top what seemed like hours later, but by now my confidence had taken a blow to the solar plexus and the fact that we had another seven or eight such climbs still to go began to weigh very, very heavily on my mind.
At this point, but for sporadic brief encounters and breathless greetings, I was pretty much doing a solo time trial, which was to be a feature of the day. The ride to the next feed station went by in something of a daze - the climbs on this section long and - with the possible exception of Snowshill - steady as opposed to hellish.
Given that I was now out of water again and the hardest climbs of the day were to immediately follow feed station number two, I was dismayed to get there and learn that they'd nearly run out of water and were rationing the bloody stuff. So I was to face perhaps the biggest challenge of my cycling career - such as it is - to date with less than half a bottle of water to sustain me (food was no problem - in fact I was feeling a bit sick from all the dates and dried apricots I'd been stuffing in all day). Great.
Only half way round, and over 3.5 hours on the clock. Six hours, indeed!
With hushed rumours of an imminent "one in four" in my ears, and after a vertiginous descent from the feed station - so steep that I feared my rims would overheat and blow my tyres to smithereens - I pressed on, alone again, naturally (as someone once sang). Although a bit worried about my lack of water, I was now feeling OK in mind and body, so when I saw that lonesome 25% sign at the foot of Cleeve Hill, I didn't panic. Surely it couldn't be that steep for long?
Oh, but it could, and it was. I passed an ever-denser crowd of riders on foot - in their shoes and socks, to boot - and hoped it would be over soon, but then looked up to see what was left, and all at once my legs, lungs and spirit gave up the ghost. I had to get off the bike, something I haven't done for quite some time. Did feel a bit better after seeing only one sylph-like, polka-dotted rider make it all the way up. ("Ah, that Rasmussen," said Ajay later. "Was it???" I marvelled. Ee, I'm right naive, me - but 'appy.)
As soon as the gradient would allow, I remounted, but my legs didn't respond except to cramp and spasm up. I had to retreat to a lay-by, lie flat on the ground and do fifteen minutes' stretching and massaging before I could get up again.
This seemed to do the trick, because despite being rabidly thirsty, I completed the rest of this hardest section quite niftily, feeling quite comfortable on climbs where scenes of carnage were all around - riders walking, wailing, cramping, cursing and generally having a torrid time of it. Ajay had flown past as I was self-administering first aid after Cleeve Hill, but I caught him up on the climb at Corndean Lane as he was zig-zagging up in a quite worrying manner.
At this point, climbing had become so commonplace that to turn a corner and see a huge hill ahead no longer had the power to surprise and horrify - it had become the order of the day. With the scent of a well-stocked (I hoped) feeding station and a relatively gentle last quarter of the ride to follow it ever stronger in my nostrils, I fairly danced up hills on which other riders were clearly struggling - Brockhampton, Compton Abdale, Yanworth. The week I'd put in without booze or caffeine had paid off. Even so, I was spitting cotton as I finally pulled into the final feed station at North Leach.
Sure enough, I was relieved to see a veritable cornocopia of drinks, and friendly, sympathetic volunteers to distribute them. In double-quick time, I necked something blue and something orange - both looked and tasted like anti-freeze, but I cared not - before working my way through a two-litre bottle of water.
The last 25 miles seemed to be the hardest. A nasty climb straight out of the feed station did nothing for my temper, but after that it was mostly just a (lonely) slog forwards. One alarming moment came when a bee lodged inside my helmet on a 35mph descent - had to stop and extricate it, and got a reprise of the cramps for good measure while I was about it.
Missed a couple of route arrows near Burford (the signposting was excellent all the way round, by the way) as my concentration petered out, but didn't lose much time. Was quite taken aback as not one by two cars stopped to see if I needed help with directions.
Finally saw what I'd thought I never would - a sign saying 'Witney, 5'. Joined up with two lads from the Forest of Dean and we dashed 'home' along the flat at a rousing 32mph.
It was all over, and it felt great.
This was by some distance the hardest ride I'd ever done. Talked to a bunch of riders who'd thought that after the Fred Whitton and Etape du Dale, the ride in the less-scary Cotswold would be, and I quote, "a piece of p*ss." Not so. My time of 7:15 wasn't great (six hours, indeed!) but without the cramps and a bit of laziness on the flats, I might have done better. But really, I was pretty pleased to have got round relatively unscathed.
Ajay came in shortly after me, and after a quick (but life-restoring) cup of tea, we were changed and back in the car again and into a world where the car is king - the ride had been wonderfully traffic-free. The M4 was ghastly, and my legs were seizing up quite badly, but Ajay's company made the trip more than bearable, even if he did keep reminding me of my earlier idle and foolish boast. Thanks to him, and especially to everyone involved in making this ride possible. It really was a memorable day - I'll be back next year if the good lord's a-willing and the creeks don't rise.
Distance: 105 miles
Time: 7hrs 15mins
Av speed: 14.2mph
Max speed: 42.8mph
Av heart rate: 140bpm
Max heart rate: 181bpm
Calories expended: 5,200
(Approx) distance climbed: 2,500m
Time before I'll be able to sit down in comfort: no data available yet
