Paul gets Philosophical

We were near Watergrove Reservoir by Wardle, and Kirsty was starting to fall asleep while moving. I was doing my best to be jolly and encouraging, as she had been earlier when I was grumpy. This was one of the benefits of being in a team. But still, I was starting to think that we wouldn’t get in by 7. Sensing this, Kirsty said you go ahead alone, I’ll be fine. After checking she was sure, I immediately upped the pace. It was now a proper race against the clock. I would need frequent sugary snacks to replace glycogen, not only for the riding by also my brain which was getting sloppy. I thought that over the next hill was Bacup Road, which meant I’d nearly be at Cornholme. However I was still nowhere near.

I’m on fire by Bruce Springsteen was looping over and over in my head. Was this referring to me feeling knackered but nonetheless strong and committed? Or was it my burning shoulder or two left toes, or my saddle sores? My pumped hands and forearms from continually yanking the brakes? My chapped lips and dry, sore throat?

Or was its looping more indicative of the extremely repetitive, by now tedious and endless cycle of rocky climb, rocky descent, narrow flats with routine crashing into huge rocks with my front tire and chain ring, smashing thighs and groin into cockpit?

I wasn’t sure. Probably just a song I’d heard and somehow singing it over and over was helping me stay in a routine as I ploughed towards Todmorden. I was going too fast and was suddenly flung over my bars into a stone path, my forearms breaking my fall. My tool bottle flew out in the process, its cage hanging down vertically due to a lost top bolt.

I picked myself up and carried on more carefully. My mind started wandering to philosophical thoughts. What if I just slowed down and came in when I came in? Was 25 hours any less of an achievement? It didn’t actually matter. That would be diminishing the efforts of anyone slower, which seemed antithetical to the ethos of cycling. And I had nothing to prove to anyone, I didn’t need to impress others. At least I don’t think I do.

Was this just me accepting I might not do it, and justifying it to myself?

What drives people to do difficult things, making themselves suffer for something that is ultimately of no real consequence? Is it purely ego, that individual enjoying the admiration of others and feeling better than them? To finish a race 10mm in front, to ‘beat’ everyone else? Those horrible phrases “second place is first loser”, or “win at all costs” spring to mind.

You hear the reasons “to challenge myself, to see what I am capable of” so often it seems meaningless. What does it even mean? Why challenge yourself? Why push yourself to the brink of collapse, of serious injury, in order to meet an arbitrary goal (number of hours in a day)? Is a heroic effort purely egocentric? Or is there something meaningful about overcoming difficulty?

In the days preceding the event I had binge-watched a number of cycling documentaries, stuff like Mark Beaumont’s attempt at the LEJOG tandem, and RAAM paired relay records. I realized that I enjoyed the classic drama of the struggle, and the hope of eventually triumphing. Without the struggle, it would have been a boring watch. And for the achiever, less meaningful.

So maybe this meant that achievement is meaningful in itself, as long as it’s not purely egoic and is simply because it’s something you set out to do. Because a struggle builds confidence and strength of character. Maybe that is the reward, a very personal thing. Not so much a different-coloured badge and impressing your mates. Hmm.

Such were my thoughts approaching Todmorden at 4am, after 21 hours of riding.

I slid my way down a completely hideous descent to the bottom of Bacup Road. I was then furious I had to ride the canal path and not the much faster road. I shouted a few expletives at no one in particular. Reaching Tod, I passed a few bemused clubbers near the market, then it was up Doghouse Lane! Meh, what’s Doghouse Lane after all that I’d done today? Actually the route went parallel to it, through the woods then back on itself before joining the road – then up towards Sour Hall. Cross the cattle grid and up to the top I thought, then down Carr Road into Portsmouth. Easy! As I neared the top my heart sank, the route was branching left – up that horrendous climb Flower Scar, i.e., the wrong direction!

Finally reaching the top, I felt as if on an alien planet, with its moon-like surface and eerie whooshing of wind turbines. Cows and sheeps looked at me blankly as they moved out of the way. Yeah, I didn’t really know what I was doing, either. A few wrong turns and another truly horrific descent and I was in Portsmouth. One more climb up Shore, no less! While it was slow, it was sheer relief to be on tarmac. By now I had stopped praying for more tarmac because I knew the final descent across the valley wouldn’t be paved. They would not have been that kind. They weren’t. I plunged into the first real wet bit of the course, my feet totally submerged. Wet feet didn’t bother me at this point, but the stench did. But it was about 5.30am and I was starting to feel like I’d done this.

I wasn’t taking it for granted though, so I rode and jogged as quickly as I could, finally reaching Halifax Road at 6am. Then it was a flat ride along the canal path, while being careful to not come a cropper on the greasy and treacherous cobbles that are the canal overflows. At this point I knew I had done it, barring some kind of mechanical tragedy. I finished in 23 hours, 30 minutes, waking organiser Adrian for my finisher’s pie, peas and beer.

I was elated, but knackered and couldn’t wait to get home, showered and in bed. I thought of Kirsty and wondered if it was worth waiting for her, as it was approaching 7am and still no sign. Several riders had finished in well under 24 hours, including former Centreville rider Ben Stead and some other guy who managed an incredible 15 hours.

It was a truly epic day. My first time riding more than 12 hours and much of it was off-road. I was battered and bruised, sleep-deprived and yet content. Would I do it again? Given some time to rest, I reckon I’d try to do a better time on a MTB. The route had really showcased mountain biking to me and I can’t wait to add one to my collection. I liked reaching places I’d never normally reach, the lack of vehicles, the going fast over rough terrain. A gravel bike couldn’t quite cut it for me for the rougher stuff, there was too much braking required and it felt like the bike was being rattled to death.

And then, the door opened and in walked a grinning Kirsty. She had arrived two minutes before our self-imposed deadline of 24 hours was up, and in doing so, claimed the women’s FKT (fastest known time)!

What a day, what a route, what a personal achievement for us both.

But we agreed, never again on a gravel bike!

Calder Divide Trail, long route

150 miles, 4000m, to be completed in 36 hours