Cyclocross Ride.
With The Cafe Racers
Easter Sunday, at a time when sensible people are reaching out from under the bedcovers for their first Easter egg of the day, we are in a sunny but cool car park in Mytholmroyd, in the valley of the river Calder, assembling bikes along with a few dozen riders. The other riders seemed to be local, not appearing apprehensive about the surrounding verticality; the tattered remnants of the Cafe Racers, Chairman Whelan’s once mighty phalanx of cyclists, now garnering slightly less attendees than the Gary Glitter fan club, were decidedly apprehensive. To say Calderdale is steep country is like saying the Pope is a bit religious. Our accommodation the previous evening was reached by roads so vertiginous third gear was out of the question, we anticipated the Clif Cross would be similarly perpendicular. It would not be long before we found out.
Faffing finished, mandatory pre-ride photographs taken, we made our way to the start line, where riders were released in batches after the quick briefing, which was mainly “Don’t ride like a knob.” Beeping through the start gate, we successfully negotiated the exit from the car park, avoiding the tarns left by yesterday’s rain, turned left and made our way along a road towards the first climb. Dilettante Dom got a spurt on and soon disappeared into the throng, weaving his way through as if there was prize money on offer, the rest of us ‘paced’ ourselves - or just hung about at the back chatting. It was not long before the route reared up and the pace slowed down, meandering through some houses, where apparently the residents remove the Clif Cross signs because they object to cyclists riding on the public right of way; the Durham Beast, a ride in County Durham passes through a similar hamlet, the residents there bring out garden chairs to sit and cheer the participants as they pant past. After Killjoy Village, the track steepens and becomes cobbled, something which normally elicits an almost orgasmic glee in The Chairman, who unfortunately was stuck at the bottom trying to extricate his chain from the back wheel. The rest of us headed upward, struggling to keep front wheels in contact with the cobbles and swerve around dejected cyclists let down by legs or gear ratios.
Eventually the route levelled out, payback time came quickly with a speedy plummet down the other side of the hill into Hebden Bridge, where another climb began almost immediately. Nothing like as steep as the initial torture but longer and on a varied surface, with lumps and bumps of gritstone poking through a rough track. Still managing to stick vaguely together, the Cafe Racers regrouped at the summit, except for Dom, who, presumably, was still a la tete de la course, showing the world being a university lecturer isn’t all leather elbow patches and torturing athletes in the name of science. We appeared to be in remote countryside now, being unfamiliar with the area, we did not really have much idea where we might be but the scenery was pleasant, rolling moorland sprinkled with picturesque reservoirs, a network of stony tracks making the going quite speedy in an arm-battering sort of fashion. The climb up from Widdop Reservoir, is one of the route’s timed climbs, as complete exhaustion is being reached, a photographer is waiting to capture your grimaces and the Easter Bunny appears handing out chocolate eggs, like a Yorkshire remake of Donnie Darko, next year some speakers blasting out Tears For Fears would make the surrealism perfect.
A long and not unwelcome descent lead away from the Easter Bunny, passing a couple more reservoirs, to the food stop, where we turned into the wind and a light drizzle appeared to make our enjoyment complete. Our Cafe Racers contingent was now reduced to a trio as we made our way along some tarmac, the other two pulling away from me as I faffed with cameras and filled my pockets at the food stop. A quick right then left put us onto a broken track, lots of deep puddles, ruts, rocky drops, mud and gates slowed progress to less than walking pace with numerous dismounts to negotiate obstacles. A grand view over a town which may or may not have been Todmordon (depending who you spoke to) unfolded, as did the realisation the scrawny ones had abandoned me, they had not been spotted since the road after the food stop. Not that I was alone, there was always another Clif Crosser in the vicinity to share the suffering. This sectioned culminated with a carry up a steep muddy path, to the summit of a hill before returning to the more familiar hard-pack tracks.
The village of Blackshaw Head appeared, then a right turn which led to a long descent, varied and steep, forearms aching from braking, the valley bottom was reached. “One last climb” said a cheery local and off we went, dragging slowly up a zig-zag fireroad through some woods to farm tracks, always climbing, no gears left, grinding away on automatic, trying to ignore the burning thighs and wheezing lungs. At last the split point was reached, thankfully we had signed up for the original route, or more importantly, the short one, with only a couple of mile to the finish, the long route heads off for a few more miles and another couple of thousand feet of ascent. It must take some willpower to turn right instead of left at this point.
The cobbled climb from the start was reversed which was a good bit of payback, then it was a simple matter of retracing tyre tracks back to the start, or would have been if I had remembered about the missing signs. Hebden Bridge railway station suddenly appeared, which, even with my limited knowledge of the area, proved I was heading in the wrong direction. Arriving at the car park after a quick blast down the main road, I swapped my timing chip for a hog roast sandwich (which was the highlight of the ride) and rejoined my ‘companions’, those emaciated youths who had so casually abandoned an older member of society to the wilds of Yorkshire or Lancashire or wherever the hell we were. It turned out their Wiggins and Cavendish impersonation had meant the right turn after the food stop was not noticed (a likely story), completely missing out the slowest and toughest section of the route. Naturally, like guilty schoolboys, each both blamed the other.
The Clif Cross is definitely a challenging event but our apprehension was misplaced, there are a few tough hills, for a short route there is a lot of climbing but most of us managed the whole route without too much trauma. I am sure we’ll be back next year, when perhaps the whole of The Cafe Racers will ride the whole of the route.
Some pictures courtesy of Chairman Whelan.
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