Today is officially A Good Day. I'm delighted to report the successful culmination of this year's Macmillan Cancer Support Etape Caledonia - my first attempt at what is fast-becoming an iconic challenge in the UK cycling calendar.
After months of training and a few last-minute nerves on Saturday, Sunday dawned cool and bright - perfect cycling conditions. Extremely lucky given it had snowed a week before and we all know what Scotland can be like.
Come Sunday morning, the epic drive north was but a memory as we nervously made our way to the start line, exchanging awkward jokes with fellow riders like troops about to do battle. Pitlochry's rather twee main street resembled the start of the London Marathon, every colour of the lycra rainbow and all manner of steeds, from sturdy old MTBs to the latest titanium uberbikes. I was part of wave V, setting off on the 82-mile loop at 07:30.
The first mile was somewhat fraught - I narrowly avoided causing a minor pile-up when my cleat slipped in the early melee - but the field quickly found its rhythm as we turned along the shore of Loch Tummel. Strange how people habitually stick to the left-hand side of the road, even though the Etape is one of Britain's only closed-road events. It took a good few miles before riders started to risk blind bends on the 'wrong' side of the road.
The first proper climb, up to Queen's View, legs not yet fully awake, clearly caught a few people out - I witnessed one poor soul on their knees by the roadside, perhaps regretting that last wee dram the night before - but we were soon back in the big ring and breezing west, passing Cath and our caravan park at Tummel Bridge, before making it to the first feed stop at Kinloch Rannoch without further incident. Bumping into my mate Sankey, who had started in the wave behind, was an added bonus at this stage.
Bidons replenished and carbs loaded, we set off along the shores of Loch Rannoch, into an unexpectedly feisty headwind. At this point, the view suddenly and dramatically opens up, the vast lake framing a distant view across Rannoch Moor and into the snowy eastern ramparts of Glencoe. After the rather Snowdonian surroundings of Loch Tummel, at last it felt like we were amongst the properly big hills. The long trawl up Loch Rannoch was mitigated by chatting to a local lady who had been encouraged to enter the Etape after watching the peloton pass her lakeside home the previous year. What a lucky person to live amongst such splendour.
Turning around the top of Loch Rannoch was a blessing, that uncooperative headwind suddenly feeling like an extra pair of legs and speeding us towards the second feed station around the 45 mile mark. The iconic pyramidal peak of Schiehallion had been looming ahead of us for miles but only now did its psychological presence start to exert an explicit influence. "Been up Schiehallion before?" asked a nervous-chatty bloke from Kent. "Don't care how long it takes - my only target this year is not to put my feet down at any point. Or throw up." These kind of comments were not helping my own mental state, although we were fortified by the previous day's reconnaissance drive, which suggested the monster was perhaps not as formidable as the organisers had tried to suggest with their (well-meaning but perhaps slightly disingenuous) 'King of the Mountains' billing. Certainly not Ventoux, in any case.
Not that one would have realised this from the mood at that feed station, people nervously checking their granny rings and taking that extra slug of energy gel. "Great deeds are done when men and mountains meet," William Blake said. I say that this kind of rhetoric is all very well from the comfort of an armchair, but with no time to lose, Sanks and I set off. Gentle spin for the first mile, across the 'King of the Mountains' timing mat, good luck pep talk from the steward in his fluorescent tabard, and off we went. The first section, a series of steep ramps up through woodland punctuated by a vindictive little hairpin, was a definite grit-your-teeth job. Already, cyclings were peeling right and left off the road, beaten either mentally or physically. Or possibly both.
"Don't worry mate," I chimed up, to a man on a Specialized Cirrus who looked like he was about to crack. "It's a doddle after the treeline, honest - we checked yesterday." His response is not suitable for a blog post that may be read by children, but my heart was in the right place and I spoke the truth. Once clear of the forest, the road takes on a rolling character, not entirely dissimilar to parts of the Alps I would think. Pop out of the saddle, few turns of the big ring until the calves start to protest, but always the prospect of these brief downhill stretches to spin out the lactate. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" I enquired as Sanks pulled alongside. He agreed. We were not yet at the top by any means but eventually the summit hove into view, precipitating a final noisy "Huzzah!" sprint from our two relieved protagonists, much to the mirth of those recovering at the feed station. The climb may not have been as savage as the gradient profile suggested, but the sense of relief and achievement was palpable as we were serenaded by pipers of the Black Watch army cadets.
Any residual leg pain was banished almost instantly by the joyous descent down the back of Schiehallion - seven miles of pure, endorphinated bliss. I've never been the most enthusiastic downhiller, but on a smooth, dry road and with the incentive of no oncoming traffic, it was a different story. The glee on the face of a local spectator as we laid our bikes over at what felt like impossible angles (probably less than 10 degrees in reality), round a sharp bend over a bridge, felt more like the Manx TT. I must have been going pretty fast as Sankey, normally the bolder descender of the two by some distance, only caught me in the lower section - a good result by my usual, rather snail-like standards.
All too soon, the serotonin rush was over and we turned up a torrid little glen, the sudden abundance of unpleasant little insects bearing testimony to the surrounding fields of Aberdeen Angus. The rest of the penultimate section passed without major incident, although two highlights stand out: first, flashing past a group by the roadside and hearing one of them exclaim at how "the fast guys are really pushing it still, aren't they?" to his mates. All I can say is that looks can be deceptive, mate. Secondly, pulling alongside a chap on a beautiful Look, who had spent the past hour sitting by the roadside waiting for the solitary (kamikaze) Mavic support bike to arrive, having somehow slashed the sidewall of his doubtless expensive tyre. Cycling can be a cruel mistress.
Final feed station, and by now the wheat was being forcibly separated from the chaff. Not that I would ever consider myself part of the cycling wheat, but at least I'd done some training. Those poor souls who had never cycled anything like 80 miles were by now looking rather shell-shocked.
Feed station dispatched, onward to Pitlochry, passing the village of Aberfeldy where the previous day we'd witnessed a twee little cycling festival opened by the legendary Graeme Obree. Now there, right there, is proper cycling inspiration. As we banked onto the A9, we assumed the worst was over. We'd heard rumours of a sting in the course's tail, but mistakenly interpreted this as meaning the gentle hill up into Pitlochry from the main road.
Big mistake. HUGE mistake. Out of nowhere loomed what appeared to be a barrier across the entire road. Well, to be fair it was literally a barrier across the entire road. Without even the courtesy of a warning sign, suddenly the crowd was exhorting us to "Kick down! Go on - go for it!". To my evident distaste, a minor road led sharp left, up what appeared to be an improbable incline. "F***cking hell!", I just about had time to exclaim to the excitable spectators as I grasped desperately for the small ring.
But I was not to be beaten at this late stage. Miracle of miracles, somewhere deep down, some of that training must have actually worked. I kicked for home like the proverbial mule, up a series of really quite unpleasant ramps. I surprised myself with instinctive, staccato shouts of "On your right, coming through, thanks mate!" as disconsolate riders tacked across the road in front of me, desperate to maintain their rapidly-ebbing momentum. By now, I had lost Sanks but to stop and wait on a hill of this nature would have been suicide. He'd be fine, of course he would. In the meantime, I was stuck inside my own private little Cancellara moment. Only when I glanced down at my chainset near the summit, did I notice that I was still in the big ring. Brilliant.
After months of training and a few last-minute nerves on Saturday, Sunday dawned cool and bright - perfect cycling conditions. Extremely lucky given it had snowed a week before and we all know what Scotland can be like.
Come Sunday morning, the epic drive north was but a memory as we nervously made our way to the start line, exchanging awkward jokes with fellow riders like troops about to do battle. Pitlochry's rather twee main street resembled the start of the London Marathon, every colour of the lycra rainbow and all manner of steeds, from sturdy old MTBs to the latest titanium uberbikes. I was part of wave V, setting off on the 82-mile loop at 07:30.
The first mile was somewhat fraught - I narrowly avoided causing a minor pile-up when my cleat slipped in the early melee - but the field quickly found its rhythm as we turned along the shore of Loch Tummel. Strange how people habitually stick to the left-hand side of the road, even though the Etape is one of Britain's only closed-road events. It took a good few miles before riders started to risk blind bends on the 'wrong' side of the road.
The first proper climb, up to Queen's View, legs not yet fully awake, clearly caught a few people out - I witnessed one poor soul on their knees by the roadside, perhaps regretting that last wee dram the night before - but we were soon back in the big ring and breezing west, passing Cath and our caravan park at Tummel Bridge, before making it to the first feed stop at Kinloch Rannoch without further incident. Bumping into my mate Sankey, who had started in the wave behind, was an added bonus at this stage.
Bidons replenished and carbs loaded, we set off along the shores of Loch Rannoch, into an unexpectedly feisty headwind. At this point, the view suddenly and dramatically opens up, the vast lake framing a distant view across Rannoch Moor and into the snowy eastern ramparts of Glencoe. After the rather Snowdonian surroundings of Loch Tummel, at last it felt like we were amongst the properly big hills. The long trawl up Loch Rannoch was mitigated by chatting to a local lady who had been encouraged to enter the Etape after watching the peloton pass her lakeside home the previous year. What a lucky person to live amongst such splendour.
Turning around the top of Loch Rannoch was a blessing, that uncooperative headwind suddenly feeling like an extra pair of legs and speeding us towards the second feed station around the 45 mile mark. The iconic pyramidal peak of Schiehallion had been looming ahead of us for miles but only now did its psychological presence start to exert an explicit influence. "Been up Schiehallion before?" asked a nervous-chatty bloke from Kent. "Don't care how long it takes - my only target this year is not to put my feet down at any point. Or throw up." These kind of comments were not helping my own mental state, although we were fortified by the previous day's reconnaissance drive, which suggested the monster was perhaps not as formidable as the organisers had tried to suggest with their (well-meaning but perhaps slightly disingenuous) 'King of the Mountains' billing. Certainly not Ventoux, in any case.
Not that one would have realised this from the mood at that feed station, people nervously checking their granny rings and taking that extra slug of energy gel. "Great deeds are done when men and mountains meet," William Blake said. I say that this kind of rhetoric is all very well from the comfort of an armchair, but with no time to lose, Sanks and I set off. Gentle spin for the first mile, across the 'King of the Mountains' timing mat, good luck pep talk from the steward in his fluorescent tabard, and off we went. The first section, a series of steep ramps up through woodland punctuated by a vindictive little hairpin, was a definite grit-your-teeth job. Already, cyclings were peeling right and left off the road, beaten either mentally or physically. Or possibly both.
"Don't worry mate," I chimed up, to a man on a Specialized Cirrus who looked like he was about to crack. "It's a doddle after the treeline, honest - we checked yesterday." His response is not suitable for a blog post that may be read by children, but my heart was in the right place and I spoke the truth. Once clear of the forest, the road takes on a rolling character, not entirely dissimilar to parts of the Alps I would think. Pop out of the saddle, few turns of the big ring until the calves start to protest, but always the prospect of these brief downhill stretches to spin out the lactate. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" I enquired as Sanks pulled alongside. He agreed. We were not yet at the top by any means but eventually the summit hove into view, precipitating a final noisy "Huzzah!" sprint from our two relieved protagonists, much to the mirth of those recovering at the feed station. The climb may not have been as savage as the gradient profile suggested, but the sense of relief and achievement was palpable as we were serenaded by pipers of the Black Watch army cadets.
Any residual leg pain was banished almost instantly by the joyous descent down the back of Schiehallion - seven miles of pure, endorphinated bliss. I've never been the most enthusiastic downhiller, but on a smooth, dry road and with the incentive of no oncoming traffic, it was a different story. The glee on the face of a local spectator as we laid our bikes over at what felt like impossible angles (probably less than 10 degrees in reality), round a sharp bend over a bridge, felt more like the Manx TT. I must have been going pretty fast as Sankey, normally the bolder descender of the two by some distance, only caught me in the lower section - a good result by my usual, rather snail-like standards.
All too soon, the serotonin rush was over and we turned up a torrid little glen, the sudden abundance of unpleasant little insects bearing testimony to the surrounding fields of Aberdeen Angus. The rest of the penultimate section passed without major incident, although two highlights stand out: first, flashing past a group by the roadside and hearing one of them exclaim at how "the fast guys are really pushing it still, aren't they?" to his mates. All I can say is that looks can be deceptive, mate. Secondly, pulling alongside a chap on a beautiful Look, who had spent the past hour sitting by the roadside waiting for the solitary (kamikaze) Mavic support bike to arrive, having somehow slashed the sidewall of his doubtless expensive tyre. Cycling can be a cruel mistress.
Final feed station, and by now the wheat was being forcibly separated from the chaff. Not that I would ever consider myself part of the cycling wheat, but at least I'd done some training. Those poor souls who had never cycled anything like 80 miles were by now looking rather shell-shocked.
Feed station dispatched, onward to Pitlochry, passing the village of Aberfeldy where the previous day we'd witnessed a twee little cycling festival opened by the legendary Graeme Obree. Now there, right there, is proper cycling inspiration. As we banked onto the A9, we assumed the worst was over. We'd heard rumours of a sting in the course's tail, but mistakenly interpreted this as meaning the gentle hill up into Pitlochry from the main road.
Big mistake. HUGE mistake. Out of nowhere loomed what appeared to be a barrier across the entire road. Well, to be fair it was literally a barrier across the entire road. Without even the courtesy of a warning sign, suddenly the crowd was exhorting us to "Kick down! Go on - go for it!". To my evident distaste, a minor road led sharp left, up what appeared to be an improbable incline. "F***cking hell!", I just about had time to exclaim to the excitable spectators as I grasped desperately for the small ring.
But I was not to be beaten at this late stage. Miracle of miracles, somewhere deep down, some of that training must have actually worked. I kicked for home like the proverbial mule, up a series of really quite unpleasant ramps. I surprised myself with instinctive, staccato shouts of "On your right, coming through, thanks mate!" as disconsolate riders tacked across the road in front of me, desperate to maintain their rapidly-ebbing momentum. By now, I had lost Sanks but to stop and wait on a hill of this nature would have been suicide. He'd be fine, of course he would. In the meantime, I was stuck inside my own private little Cancellara moment. Only when I glanced down at my chainset near the summit, did I notice that I was still in the big ring. Brilliant.
Finally, joyously, the rooftops of Pitlochry hoved into view. It was clear from the hill that we could go no higher, that we had drawn the sting in the Etape Cally tail. The last mile was beautiful, crowds thronging the street as we approached the finish line. The tannoy announcing our names as our race chips chirped the good news. It was done.
My finishing time will not give Bradley Wiggins any sleepless nights. Discounting the four rather leisurely feed stations, we completed the course in around 5.5 hours. A stately 3,311th place out of around 4,000 entrants, though a *relatively* impressive 2,542nd on the Schiehallion climb was some consolation, I must concede. There's always time for lap records next year - 2010 was all about simply finishing, hopefully with a modicum of style, which is exactly what we achieved, I reckon. Oh, and £510 for the St Thomas' Lupus Trust in my case. Every little helps.
Medals collected, bikes back on the roof rack, we beat a hasty retreat back to the caravan park for some hard-earned refreshment. Cruelly, the bar only served Carling - my personal bete noire of beers - but it tasted like angel tears I can tell you.
So, now the dust has settled, what are my parting thoughts on the Etape Caledonia?
Firstly, this is an absolute peach of an event, which every cyclist in the UK should try soon. The organisation, courtest of IMG under the auspices of Macmillan Cancer Support, was absolutely first-class. The route was just stunning - every time morale started to flag a quick glance to the hills restored the faith instantly. Scotland is just so beautiful, I really don't understand why so many Brits splurge vast amounts of cash and CO2 on flights to New Zealand when all that splendour is just up the road.
Secondly, pride. Which may sound pompous given the finishing time and relative brevity of the course, but for someone who has spent most of their sporting life being rubbish at everything, it felt absolutely fantastic to have one perfect day when the legs felt strong and everything just clicked, physically and mentally. Training for this event has really inspired me to push myself further, get out on those rides more often, lose those extra pounds and maybe even have a crack at one of the classic Continental sportives eventually.
My overriding sentiment, though, is one of gratitude to the large number of spectators who turned out to cheer us cyclists. Considering this event was infamously sabotaged last year, by a small minority of NIMBY morons angry at five hours of local road closures in return for around £1m of local tourism investment (surely a fair swap?), it was really quite moving to see how obviously proud the majority of local people were to be hosting such a worthwhile event. Many of the houses, hotels and farms we passed were thronged with cheering bystanders, banners and good luck messages, plus the occasional piper of course. Just awesome and I hope the few narrow-minded idiots who would have this event banned outright or at least replaced with a half-baked time-trial on open roads were there to see this powerful demonstration of public support for what must surely rank as one of Britain's best cycling events. Highly recommended - enough said. Until 2011, at least.
