I’m pretty sure there isn’t a race manual or coach in the world that would advocate going deep into the red in the first 5 minutes of an endurance race. Less than 5km into my first 3 Peaks Cyclo-Cross race I was at 189bpm trying to maintain a half decent position in the morass of 650 riders surging towards the first off road section.
My Garmin also reckons that my speed didn’t drop much below 40kph in that ‘neutralised’ road section. I still found myself much further back than I had anticipated by the time we neared Gill Garth. I had never really been sure whether the 3 Peaks was a running race that involved bikes, or a cycling race that needed a bit of footwork. As a fully paid up cyclist I was pretty perturbed to be struggling so early. We hadn’t even gone up any of the peaks yet!
The 3 Peaks is an annual event. Starting and finishing in Helwith Bridge after a tour round and over the 3 Peaks of Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen Y Ghent. The 1600m of ascent in its short sounding 61km. Its been running for 52 years and is unique in that it requires contenders to be able to run, walk, ride, climb, carry and descend, sometimes on the bike and sometimes off it. I’m not quite sure why I thought entering it would be a good idea. Perhaps it was the perfect excuse to buy a new bike as only drop handlebar, knobbly tyred cyclocross bikes are allowed.
I could already see a string of people heading up towards the notorious Simon Fell ahead of me. By the time I turned off-road, I got my first proper look at the slope. I could not do a Recce of Simon fell as it is on private land. However I had seen enough photographs to know it wasn’t going to be easy. More than a kilometre of extremely steep, grassy hillside followed. I soon joined the grim procession upwards, bike slung over one shoulder. The other hand being used to haul up on the convenient fence or pull on nearby clumps of grass.
A brief, rideable respite followed by a rockier carry finally deposited me on top of Ingleborough the first of the day’s 3 peaks. Thankfully the boggy descent to Cold Cotes went without incident. I settled into the road section, overtaking a few people as the bulk of Whernside loomed oppressively ahead. I couldn’t help but keep looking up at the summit, thinking how far away it looked, how entirely unsuitable a place for a glorified road bike.
Pained expression near the top of Whernside - Photo ©John McCann
I had the first tickles of cramp in my calves as I repeatedly lifted one leg higher than the other up the Whernside staircase. I felt like Sisyphus trying to roll that big boulder up a hill. The never ending path teased us onwards in single, suffering, file, heart-rate soaring and speed plummeting. However, 500 vertical metres and god knows how many rocky steps later. The bike and I made it to the summit checkpoint. I knew from a running recce that the descent to the north was totally ride able. Albeit quite rocky, technical and highly puncture prone.
I hadn’t made a conscious decision as to whether to run or ride the tricky bits. The 65psi gave me some confidence in my tyres, soon enough I found myself at Ribblehead feeling battered but without any dismounts, planned or otherwise. This allowed me to overtake a few less confident riders who had to carry their bikes down some sections. Trail turned to tarmac, with Horton in Ribblesdale the next target, and few moments for gels and water .
Pen y Ghent lane sounds like quite a pretty, almost whimsical place; Heartbreak Hill would be a better description on the 3 Peaks I reckon. By the time we reached 45km the body and sometimes spirit is broken. Its lower slopes are much quicker ridden than walked, but riding is a tough, painful grind, with virtually no respite even with my gearing of 34-32.
I needed concentration, despite the short supply. The skinny, rock hard tyres ping mercilessly off every stone and root. Eventually the path kicked up even more and everybody was off and walking. However the change in effort caused cramp to shoot up both my quads. It alternated left and right as I hobbled upwards. Thankfully a friend had come to watch here and encouraged me on. Despite my deepest desire just to lie down on the grass, I eventually crested the summit. Pushing my bike up the last few hundred metres to the final checkpoint.
Of course at this point, as gravity turns from foe to friend, the race is back on. The responsibility shifts to the fingers on the brakes and to the mind. I had to calculate constantly the fine line between speed and puncture, success and failure.
I reached the road safely, uncurled my fingers from the brakes, and settled into the last few km to the finish. Latching onto another rider working with him to the line, ensuring that we both scraped in under the 4 hour mark.
I never worked out whether it was a fell race or a bike ride. However I’ll be back next year to try and find out again.