Category Archives: cycling

Gravel King: Coed y Brenin’s Vision of the Future

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Despite what you may have seen in the cycling press, Coed y Brenin is still very much open and is still one of the best trail centres in the country.  In recent months, six new gravel trails have been opened, ranging from 9km to 36km.

And as I gravitate (see what I did there?) more towards the aggregate and away from mud and mountains, I have given a few of the routes a test ride.

I am very reluctant to drive to ride as apart from it going against my principles, I hate driving. But it’s a very pleasant drive to Coed y Brenin and the lure of waymarked routes is hard to resist. There’s a good combination of fire roads, singletrack and road, although some may feel that there are too many road sections in the longer routes. The views are great, as one would expect at Coed y Brenin, and best of all, no gates to negotiate.

Expect techy rocky climbs and descents, twitchy singletrack, treelined roads and lung busting climbs. It is really rather pleasant.

There’s another debate to be had about whether gravel/adventure riding is just another fad (see fat bikes), but for me, it is what I love about riding off-road. It’s that sense of adventure, of getting off the beaten path while exploring beautiful countryside. The heart rate and adrenalin surge are just as big as when negotiating a techy section on my full suss, and I don’t feel as though I’m taking my life in my hands.

I’m lucky to be able to get this by riding from the door but if I do get the urge for a change of scenery and can cope with the 40 minute drive, I could do worse than Coed y Brenin.

Cycling, upcycling, recycling

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Yesterday I was reminded by Facebook that it’s 10 years since I passed my driving test. I never wanted to drive, but moving to Bala made it a necessity and I still try to use the car as little as possible.

Today I needed to go to Llangollen. I also wanted/needed a bike ride, so I loaded the tourer/winter bike and cycled there. It’s a 36 mile round trip.

I had asked the lovely people at Drosi Bikes to try to save my gravel wheel. It’s only 2 years old but constant battering has destroyed the freehub. It couldn’t be saved so I have now ordered some rather lovely replacements from Hunt Wheels.

Drosi Bikes is a community bike workshop where bikes are repaired and recycled and people are upskilled and educated about bike maintenance and sustainability. Even though they couldn’t help me this time, they are great people and it’s a wonderful resource. Go see.

I also took two jackets to Handmade Llangollen to have zips replaced. As my ex-husband will attest, I have always been heavy handed with zips and frequently break them.

Finally, I popped into Recycledkit, relieved myself of a few pounds (very few) and came out with a couple of nice jerseys, one of which will be perfect for gravel riding. Once my new wheels have arrived.

Not A Grimm Fairytale

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Earlier this year I was asked to write a few words for the newsletter of my old cycling club in London.  Even though Dulwich Paragon has many, many members, not everyone will have read these fine words and it would be remiss of me not to share those here….

Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I’ll begin.

Once upon a time there was a young woman who loved cycling, so much so that she joined her local cycle club, the Dulwich Paragon.  At that time, the club was small but perfectly formed but it soon began to grow, and new members joined. Along came a handsome young Prince, they fell in love and road off into the sunset together.

Some of this is true, most of it not.

I have been a member of Dulwich Paragon for many, many years.  I did meet my future husband Richard through the club, and after living in London for nearly 20 years we did decide to start a new life in North Wales.  We both had enough of working ridiculous hours, me especially, just to have enough money to spend most weekends out of London doing the thing we loved most, cycling.  I had a moment of epiphany after visiting Bala where Richard’s parents had a holiday cottage, and after looking in Estate Agents’ windows, as one is prone to do, asked the question. “Why don’t we sell up and move?”  We didn’t have children, Richard was a furniture maker so in theory could be based anywhere, and I would find something to do.

We decided to look for a property that would provide a workshop for Richard and that could also give me an income through offering holiday accommodation.  After a long search we finally found Ty Hen, 4 miles north of Bala in the tiny hamlet of Sarnau.  We had already put our house in London on the market, which sold very quickly, so after making the decision in March, we moved to Ty Hen at the end of June 2013.

North Wales Holiday Cottage

The next few years were spent applying for planning permission, building a workshop for Richard, converting two barns into holiday cottages and nearly running out of money.  We also spent a lot of time exploring the local lanes and bridleways.  I now know the area better than most locals and can easily cycle 30 plus miles on the road without seeing a car, encountering traffic lights, or roundabouts.  I also venture off road, usually on a gravel bike, and stare at mountains, red kites, curlews, brown hares and dead sheep.  I have been known to go to bike parks where I can stare at my own mortality.

In the summer of 2015 we opened our first cottage, The Barn.  The other cottage, The Stable, was finally finished in December 2015 after we re-grouped and earned some money.

Barn Self catering cottage

But life is not a fairy tale and after 5 years of living in Wales, Richard felt that his happiness lay elsewhere.  He left and we got divorced. My lovely dog Jac, lots of good friends and cycling kept me sane. Just. The pandemic came along, my cottages closed and I began working in digital marketing and social media to make ends meet.  3 and a bit years later and I am still tweeting (or should that be Xing?) and writing about crumhorns and sackbuts for a living and the holiday cottages have re-opened.  I have never been busier and love meeting new people, cleaning toilets (that’s not true) and waxing lyrical about the wonderful cycling in North Wales.

It really is very good.

Will I still be here in 10 years’ time?  Who knows.  But at the moment it is the best place on earth and I love living, working and cycling here.  If you would like to see for yourself, book a holiday and if you ask me nicely, I may even join you for a bike ride.

Super Athlete Makes Glorious Return to 3 Peaks (not)

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The first time I finished the 3 Peaks (in 2004) I said to myself “never again”.  Then the last time I finished it, in 2008, I said “never again”.   I had a long break from it, but then this year, when entries opened, I thought “go on then, I’ll have a bash”.

In theory, I was going to be fitter than ever for this year’s Peaks.  On the 1 July this year I completed the Dragon Duathlon – riding and running the 300km length of Wales in a day including running over three of Wales’ toughest mountains.  Well, the theory was good but I think it would be fair to say that I rather took my foot off the gas, and sat drinking ale, congratulating myself on my achievement.

3 Peaks cyclocross

And so I found myself on the start line at Helwith Bridge – fit but not tip top. And then it started – the horrendous lung busting ‘neutralised’ section to Horton.  My god, I’ve done easier crit races than this.  Then off left up through the farmyard towards the base of Ingleborough and a sickening crash just in front of me, as the bunch funnels through a gate. It was a nasty one –  I heard later that there were broken vertebrae.

Simon Fell 3peakscx 2017

the trudge up Simon Fell www.cadenceimages.com

Then, up up and more boggy up, getting steeper as we go.  I was making places on the grovel up Simon Fell.  All my fell running was paying dividends.  Dibbing at the top of Ingleborough I was starting to feel good, I was overtaking people on the descent and then…the almost inevitable flight over the bars.  Peat luck if you will – an innocuous looking but extremely deep bit of bog swallowed my front wheel.  Picking myself up I realised that I had managed to jam my brake levers full of peat with the result that my brakes were permanently on. Great, because this wasn’t hard enough already.

3 Peaks damage

a little bit bent

And down – tora tora tora! – sinking, sliding, watching dozens of other riders flying off around me in a deranged display of improvised gymnastics.  A friend of mine who is not hot on modern slang was trying to remember the term ‘face plant’ but instead came out with ‘head splat’ – she’d inadvertently created the perfect phrase to describe a 3 Peaks phenomenon.

3peakscx2017

the face of composed control. Photo (c) Steve Harling

Then I reached the road and I realised my legs felt terrible.  There was a strong headwind and I was struggling to push even my smallest gear.  I was taking deep sucks on my camelback which I had filled with energy drink.  As the day wore on I realised I had made the drink too strong – or maybe I hadn’t mixed it well enough. It seemed to get stronger as I went on, and while it was giving me energy it was making me thirstier and making my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.  Excellent.

Whernside – there it is, the track stretching upwards for miles ahead. Lots and lots of high uneven steps.  My legs were feeling distinctly dodgy and I was really wondering why I was doing this to myself again.  Finally, the summit and we’re off again.  I’m seeing lots of mechanicals and punctures all around.  I get off the bike and run down to the top section of the steps with the big water bars – I’ve punctured there before and I wasn’t going to let that happen again.  So there’s a man covered pretty much head to foot in black Pennine mud, wearing inappropriate footwear, running down a mountain with a bike on his back – and there’s a lot of bewildered looking walkers very politely/nervously waving me through.  I can’t think what the average punter must make of this spectacle.

And so to Ribblehead and I’m starting to feel OK, but then I hit the road again and it’s as though the lights go out.  A small boy (I mean he was about 7) on a mountain bike cycles past me giving me a smile.  Struggling into the headwind and internally bemoaning my plight I’m suddenly rescued by a little group of riders and I’m able to sit in the wheels and rest a bit. And with that help I find myself at the foot of Pen y Ghent.  I’m managing to cycle up the lane, keeping out of the way of the leaders who are hurtling down towards the finish.  The support is tremendous, generous crowds shouting encouragement and lovely marshals offering motivation.

3 peaks cyclocross 2017

the art of brake finessing

And so it’s through the gate about a third of the way up Pen y Ghent and the track steepens and seems to stretch endlessly upwards into the sky.  It’s another dark moment – and now dozens of people are walking past me. There’s just nothing in the legs.  Slowly slowly I make it to the top.  Some new steps have been laid and they are pretty gruelling. And then the descent – I’m annoyed with myself for feeling like such a slug and so I absolutely leather it down.  The crowds were oohing and aahing as I went.  I was on the ragged edge, but I made it down in one piece with bike intact overtaking about 20 riders as I went. Then just the short road section to Helwith Bridge – made bearable by being nearly home. And then I’m there – the finish line. What a relief.

And then I say to myself that I will probably not definitely almost certainly be back. Possibly.

As pick I the bike up to put it in the car I notice my saddle bag is gaping – not sure exactly when it unzipped itself, but I’d lost my two spare tubes and my co2 inflator.  Ah well, I’m just glad I didn’t need them – I’m happy with the offering to the Peaks gods to get round unmolested. My Vittoria XL tubeless tyres pumped to 60psi held up well to my 80kgs, but they didn’t half feel draggy – but that could just have been in my head.

empty sack

an empty sack

What I learnt (or was reminded of – yet again) is that the 3 Peaks finds you out.  The boggy ground conditions this year left me feeling well drained (unlike the bogs) and If you’re not feeling great there’s nowhere to hide.  What also struck me was the brilliant support from spectators and fellow riders – someone gave me a little push as I was struggling to get going after a remount and I did the same for another rider.  For a super fit few this a real race, but for me and, I think, a lot of others it is a battle with yourself and the terrain to get to the end.

And later, in the pub, we wonder how we could do it faster next year… shall we never learn. I hope not.

3 Peaks medal

The dog ate my hard work or medal, medal, medal

3 peaks bog

muddy

bog boy

Re-visit the Wayfarer (again and again)

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The ride up to the Wayfarer memorial on the Berwyn has become one of our regular rides.  A mini epic of about 24 miles with 3,300 feet of climbing.  The classic Wayfarer route starts in Llandrillo and goes over the Berwyn and down into Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog.  It’s an epic ride with lots of climbing and some interesting descents but finishing in Llanarmon DC means that there’s a long and hard slog home, unless you can persuade someone to pick you up.  We’ve created a shortened version which starts and finishes at Ty Beic and doesn’t require a car.

Our route starts from the back gate and up to Caer Euni along the ridge before dropping down to Bethel and crossing the A494.  There’s a much quicker route along the road if you want to avoid a testing grassy climb and some would say an unnecessary off-road slog.

Once across the main road there’s a bridleway through Ty’n Fedw and up to Mynydd Mynyllod.  During the winter months parts of this can be very boggy but a dry spring and early summer means that it is still relatively dry even after some recent downpours.  The track across the moor is difficult to find but we do have a GPS/Strava file we can share.

singletrack

there’s a track there somewhere

wind turbines

windy

Wind turbines

From the wind turbines at the top of Mynydd Mynyllod we drop down to Cwynyd and take small back roads to the start of the climb proper up to the Wayfarer memorial.  This is a hard slog up a tarmac road.  Once the tarmac runs out the gradient easies a little as the track follows the contours.  During the holiday season you may see the odd group of walkers and a few green laners but the track is wide enough to accommodate everyone and there’s never any conflict.  And choose a day during the week you’re unlikely to see another soul.

before the crash

The climb takes about an hour.  Once at the top take time to enjoy the views and sign the book in the metal box by the memorial.  It’s then a fairly fast and fun descent down a rocky track to Llandrillo.  Don’t do what I did recently.  Hit a loose rock, not hold on to the bars properly, impromptu dismount, trashed helmet and damaged hand.

arty rock and sky pic

time for a picnic

Dulwich Paragon

Looking smug and not for the first time

top of Wayfarer

quick check of the map

gates to slow the descent

If it’s open we’d recommend a quick pint in the Dudley Arms before bashing along the road to Llandderfel where it’s possible to have another quick pint and a bite to eat in the Bryntirion before the ride home.  The beer will help numb the pain for the *testing* climb from Llandderfel to Cefynddwysarn and the final haul back up to Ty Beic.  There’s another off-road route home through Ty Uchaf if the road doesn’t appeal.

That stem is too short

there is a lot of climbing

This ride is not for everyone.  There’s a lot of climbing and the descent off the Berwyn is slightly spoiled by the number of gates.  But if you like cycling out of the door without having to use a car, non-technical cross country riding with epic views and being able to earn your end of ride pint, then this could be the ride for you.  It is rideable all year round but in the depths of winter I’d probably take the car to Cynwyd and ride from there.  If you fancy the complete Wayfarer to Llanarmon DC and back then a cross bike would be Richard’s steed of choice.  He’s written about such a ride here.

wayfarer off road

and here we are again

Enter the Dragon by Mistake (sort of)

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Somewhere in the dark depths of January, in the full grip of a Snowdonian winter I was hunkered down by the fire enjoying a glass of wine when my phone pinged.  It was my good friend, who had just drunk a bottle of wine, suggesting that the two of us should do the Dragon Duathlon.  In an utterly uncharacteristic move I went straight to the Dragon website and entered.  £150 lighter, I then messaged him to tell him that I had my entry and received back from him a stream of shocked expletives.

The Dragon Duathlon involves cycling and running from Swansea to Beaumaris on Anglesey in a day, which is approximately 300km – or like cycling the length of a country the size of Wales.  For extra masochism the three running stages involve climbing three of Wales’ largest mountains: Pen y Fan, Cadair Idris and Snowdon – and the cycling isn’t flat either.

What followed now appears to me like the recollection of a confusing dream.  I went and bought some fell running shoes (lovely Walshes) and some weather proof winter cycling boots and off I went. There were 15 mile runs up mountains through knee deep bogs in freezing rain, bike rides that hollowed me out and left me asleep on the kitchen floor because I was too tired to walk upstairs. In a word – beasting.  There was one immensely long ride where my 80kgs were bodily lifted off the road by the wind and dumped on the verge. Right up on top of the highest parts of mid-Wales there followed about ten miles of the most frightening cycling I have ever done.

Lots and lots of very hard effort gradually, gradually started to bring rewards. Hills didn’t seem quite as steep or as long as I remembered them being, I had an extra gear or two left at the top of steep climbs and I could run and ride a bit further without too much effort. I still had no idea whether I could keep moving for as long as I would need to to do the Dragon.

It’s about ten years since I last rode the 296km Tour of Flanders sportive – the only similarly long ride I have ever done regularly. I really had nothing to which to compare this undertaking. So, I devised a series of the most testing riding and running that sought to simulate the Dragon.  I’d set off on my bike, meet my support vehicle (thank you Karen), run over a mountain, collect the bike the other side, ride to another mountain, meet my support, run over the mountain etc etc.  Even then, my confidence only began to grow very slowly.

 

I’m not someone who would describe myself as an athlete and I am not generally confident in my ‘athletic’ abilities.  I consider myself to be very lucky to have a good and robust physiology, despite the neglect I have heaped on it over the years.  And yet, when I found myself standing on the Dragon start line at 5am on Saturday 1st July 2017, on the Swansea waterfront, I knew that I would do this thing.  And so I did.

I wouldn’t say any of it was easy, and there were definitely times between the riding and running legs when I didn’t want to leave the car. After a wet ride to the foot of Snowdon I sat in a warm car and looked up at the cloud surrounding the summit. It was getting dark and cloud was getting lower. Leaving that warm car was probably the hardest part of the whole thing, but I did get out and I got over that mountain. It was grim and dark and lonely, but I got to Llanberis – then a quick 15 miles to Beaumaris. And then what? Well, I suppose there was a sense of relief – and then a massive sense of disappointment to find that all the pubs were closed.

On a slightly odd note, completing this event marks a return to my full enjoyment of road cycling and through that a return to fitness. It was eleven years ago this weekend (a week after finishing the Dragon) that the rider immediately in front of me on the Dunwich Dynamo was killed outright by a freak head on collision with a van. For many years I didn’t really want to cycle again, especially in SE England where there is so much aggression on the roads. It’s taken a long time, but I feel like I’m back and I’m enjoying it again.

When I mentioned to Karen that I thought I might do it the next time it runs in 2019 she told me I would have to find a different supporter – anyone?

 

The end of the road: or ‘Only glove can break your heart’

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In cycling, as in life, you develop relationships with people and things that you come to depend upon. Well, for me, and this sounds flippant, one of those things is a pair of winter cycling gloves that have finally become so worn as to be unwearable. Indeed, they are dangerous: last week on a steep descent I had a sticky moment when the end of my brake lever got caught in one of the gloves between the outer shell and the liner.

I bought these gloves about 12 years ago when I started training properly (or if not properly then at least hard) as a road cyclist. Rides were often long and, in winter, cold and wet.  My combination of old cycling mitts with woolly gloves underneath was not up to the job. My hands were getting so cold I could hardly hold the bar. I went into my local bike shop, Edwardes of Camberwell (home of some of the most vindictive, hostile, rude customer care (in the very best sense)) and asked them for the warmest gloves they had. What follows is pretty much verbatim:

“I need a pair of very warm gloves please – what are the warmest you have?”

“You’re not going to f*****g want them, you’re too much of a tight f*****g c**t.”

“I see, may I at least have a look at them?”

“Get him (me) the f*****g Assos gloves” (boy fetches gloves)

“Hmmm, they’re very nice. How much are they?”

Anyway, they were about £50 and because, at the time, I had become a mature student I didn’t have much money and I remember paying for them in installments. That was the kind of thing Edwardes would do for you if (believe it or not from the above) they liked you.

I’m not sentimental about objects generally, but I have loved these gloves. I must have ridden 20,000 miles in them over the years. I remember one particular Tour of Flanders sportive, where I set off at 6am in the snow in the dark from Brugge – 294km later the only bit of me that wasn’t cold were my hands (we took it in turns to lie down on a huge heating pipe at the end just to try and raise our core temperatures). There was a London-Battle and back ride that we did in the snow. At the road junction at the bottom of the long descent of Toys Hill I tried to unclip and I couldn’t because my feet were frozen into my Speedplays. Again, my hands were warm. An icy chaingang ploughing down Polhill, reaching for a drink at the bottom only to find the bottle frozen. And so on. As they got more worn out I have tried other gloves, but none have been anywhere near as good.  The closest I’ve ever found in terms of warmth are the Gore lobster claw things – but if I’m honest THEY JUST AREN’T RIGHT.

I’ve looked at the modern Assos gloves and, whilst still reassuringly expensive, they don’t look up to much. And also Assos seems SO much to belong to a brand of snotty, grabbing, aspirational types these days rather than to the stock room of a slightly grotty SE London bike shop where the owner calls you a c**t whilst blowing cigarette smoke in your face. All of its original charm is lost to me now.

…so if anyone out there has a pair of Assos Thermax XL gloves from somewhere around the early 2000s please let me know. There is some money waiting, possibly in installments.