Vertical chess

Two days later and I'm still chewing over the Three Peaks. I've raced quite a bit this year, more than any other, but this thing is different. Regular racing has perhaps dulled the experience — turn up, do the best you can, go home — but the Three Peaks is made of sterner stuff than most events. It's an experience you pass through, rather than a mere sporting event.

I borrowed a quote from one of Henri Desgrange's 'victims' at the birth of the Tour de France, chatting to Dave Haygarth afterwards... 'It's not sport, it's war!'. I'm sticking with that description.

In the interests of denial and sanity, I'd honestly not thought too hard about the nitty-gritty details of the race in advance, naively thinking 'It'll go'. Somehow. Sure I'd run through the place names, heights and distance, even made some half-hearted attempts to study the map. Surprising how doable those tightly-packed contours seem from the comfort of the dining room table. But I don't think any amount of pondering and chin-stroking would have prepared me for the horror of the actual event.

I was late getting the bike sorted, so happy to join the peloton pretty much at the back, where I immediately found a few friendly folk. Almost 500 riders take up a lot of road. There was an air of anticipation and plenty of gallows humour at the back.

The start was pretty low-key, the neutralised first few miles anything but. I was hammering along at 20mph, knowing it was too fast, breathing too hard ...and still getting passed. Soon enough we dropped the lead car and swung left onto the first climb. Which steadily got steeper. I passed a guy with exploded shoes and Biff with a popped calf, on their way down. Two races over too soon. We got to the bank of Simon Fell, where some folk are wont to use the wire fence as an extra handhold, before I had a proper look behind. There were only a small handful of folk behind. I began to wonder if I was out of my depth. A punter out for an enduro, in the company of athletes in a proper race.

As it got proper steep, I found my own lines out right away from the fence and crowds, and picked off places, without getting too in debt. Fell running fitness I guess. This thing went on for ages though, you go into another zone. One foot, other foot. Keep off the calves if you can. Zig-zag a bit for relief. Eventually the angle eased. More pushing, more carrying, some riding. Picked off some more places.

Ingleborough! The summit emerged from the mist and a dib of the timing chip. I'd almost forgotten why were up there, such was the single-minded demands of simply making progress. Start the descent, a bit of quality banter, a few more places. Bloke in front loses it on some rocks and brings me down. I'm back on before I've thought about damage to me or the bike. Hey! This is racing.

The descent went on for a long time, a lot of it fun. Couldn't be more different from the climb. But crikey the forearms were ready for a break by the bottom. Must. Brake. Less. Onto the road and out towards Ingleton. This was hard, lack of road fitness kicked in and I was annoyed at losing places to people I'd outridden earlier. Nobody at our end of the field works together, so there's no respite.

Whernside. More quality chat on the approach, but it's not long before we're all off and shouldering the bikes again. I try to wheel a bit when the terrain allows, saving a bit of energy. Again I'm picking off places on the climbs without really burying myself. The top is a mad place to be, on a jumped-up road bike. I chuckle to myself a little.

The descent was cruel. Rideable, not rideable, sketchy. Never time to get a real rhythm. Easy rock flags, punctuated by drainage ditches with big raised edges. Already nervous of punctures, I was wishing for more psi. I felt the rims almost bottom out a couple of time when I mistimed the un-weighting (I won't dignify the process by calling it a bunny hop).

Ribblehead was ace. Lots of support crews and cheers. Couldn't resist showboating, with a little jump over a grassy lump. More road, more lack of basic speed.

Climb up to Pen-y-ghent is unusual in that as you're inching your way up, faster riders are flying back down the same way. Again the climb went on for a long way before we even approached the top. Great support from people though. Carrying was again the order of the day nearer the top. Too steep, too rocky. Summit. Final dib of the day, turn around. Pleasantly surprised by how many folk were still on their way up. Not a super-technical descent, but I'm fighting off cramp in all sorts of places now. Back on the road and the final run in.

I passed a group of CTC riders on a Sunday run, only to suffer the indignity of being reeled back in when the road turned up and there was simply nothing left. I got them on the final bend though on the run in to the finish. That'll learn em.

Proper big event finish with commentator and crowd barriers. It's done. 308th place and 4h44, in the end. A long way from embarrassment I think you'll find.

A horrific event, but compelling.


Full results here. Pic from eddieallenbc's excellent flickr set.
[Thanks for the nudge Dave.]