National 12 hour - long overdue ride report
I rode my first, and last, 12 hour time trial in 2016. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time. It’s also what I tell myself after any ride that spans every daylight hour and those that sometimes span more. Yet, it’s 6:32am on the morning of 11 August and here I am about to ride around the clock again.
It’s a chilly, but dry, start to the day and the wind is already up. The start timekeeper completes his count and I push off; as all the pre-race tension and nervousness falls away there is no cathartic sprint up to speed, just a gradual acceleration as I settle into my bars and focus on keeping my start effort steady. Too hard now will cost me later.
Sunday morning and the roads are quiet. Thankfully, my bike is too and I whirr through the lanes of the start circuit. I plan to ride mostly on feel but a quick check on my bike computer shows the numbers are where they should be and my legs feel OK. I catch a few of the earlier starters before we arrive at the main circuit. It’s a surprise but I trust my plan and keep the effort where it is, beginning the first of many runs up and down the A11 between Wymondham and Croxton.
The first stretch heads north east. I have the wind at my back and progress is easy. I catch a couple more riders before hitting the rutted concrete of the final stretch on the run to Croxton and heading up the slip road to begin the reverse circuit. The high frequency judder of some of Britain’s finest tarmac pops the top off my handlebar mounted drink bottle. I make the decision to stop and try and find it – it’s early in the day and I’m worried about spilling more of my bottle than drinking it – but no luck. I decide to grab some gaffer tape on the next lap as the next best thing.
The following week, I find the top inside the bottle when I come to clean it. Great.
The bottle top is an unwanted distraction because the next leg is the one I’ve been dreading since the first weather forecast. An unbroken 20 mile stretch straight into the wind, which only happens once as part of the transition from the start circuit to the first loop of the day. I up the effort here, knowing it will gain me more distance in the long run, even if I pay for it later. It’s hard, and the second 10 miles is particularly exposed with some open sections creating crosswinds where the trees break. I am grateful for the roundabouts and a couple of rises which break things up a bit, even if my average speed suffers.
Turning at the south western most point, the next 10 miles will be gently downhill and, with the tailwind, it whistles past. Stretches where I did 15mph on the out leg become 40mph on the return stretch. Nothing to gain once you hit those speeds so I rest my legs and enjoy the “free” distance I’ve earned from my preceding efforts against the elements.
I’m lucky to have my wife, Chelsea, supporting along with my folks who have travelled down from Sheffield the night before. Logistics mean they haven’t arrived when I first set off, and I have 50 miles under my belt before I reach the planned waiting spot and see them all for the first time. It’s a small thing, but knowing now they are there puts part of my mind at rest. We nail the first bottle hand up – Chelsea is a pro now – and it’s into the first loop proper.
That sets the pattern for the day. 10 miles of slog, 10 miles of speed. I’m averaging 24mph, but it’s a product of 21mph one way and significantly more the other. The wind is a challenge and takes real focus and concentration. I’m riding a shallower front wheel for stability but even that is a fight in places. By the 3rd loop, the drags on this out leg are starting to bite already and I find myself out of the saddle for a break and to keep the gear turning, rather than spinning up them in my aero position as I had at first.
On the return leg, I ship my chain shifting up into my smallest sprocket. It’s a frustrating mistake: the bigger gear would grant me another fraction of a mph, a gain which is far outweighed by the time lost putting the chain back on and getting back up to speed. I treat that shift with kid gloves for the rest of the day but still drop my chain a couple of more times.
You can’t underestimate the effect of mental fatigue on a ride like this. It plays to my slightly obsessive nature but I have mapped out what will happen when at various times and distances. When you are tired, you make bad decisions. The trick is to make as many of them as possible – what to eat, what to drink, how to deal with a mechanical – with a fresh mind and don’t second guess it later.
On the next pass, I stop briefly to take on new bottles and food. I’m four, maybe five, hours in and averaging 24mph. On the face of it, everything is going great and I’m well in to the ride but I’m struggling already. It’s like a switch has been flicked, and while the power is still coming, my legs are protesting and feel empty. I take on more sugar and some caffeine and focus instead on completing this first lot of loops and on to the next set.
Eventually, a marshal waves me past the turn I have made four times already, signalling the start of the next loop. This means a near 20 mile stretch of booming tailwind. It should be a real boost but the sun is starting to break through and every stretch into the wind becomes more attritional, more interminable. I am thinking only of how hard it will be to ride back. This is only added to by the rutted road surface at the far point of the loop. My forearms are taking a battering and it is taking total concentration to avoid as many of the potholes as I can. Each one feels like a race ender and I don’t have enough distance in the bank to absorb a long stoppage.
Oh yeah, distance. Obviously the name of the game today is to ride as far as possible in 12 hours. My previous best was 255 miles, but I came away from that ride knowing I could do better. Once I saw our longstanding – as in as old as me – club record was 274.86 miles, the goal was set.
I came in to the National knowing it was very achievable, and that was cemented by the early hours. Here though, well past halfway and suffering badly, I watch my average speed begin to ebb away almost imperceptibly. You can make up a mile or two over 12 hours, but as the clock begins to run down, those distances begin to look as long as they are.
I know the comfortable buffer I have built up has been eroded and a problem would mean not meeting the target I’d worked so hard for.
In a tired moment, I try to swap bottles only to jettison the full one at the feet of another team of supporters, watching it roll helplessly under their car. After some brief scrabbling around, I carry on and rationalise I’ll be back through in another 50 minutes or so. A mistake compounds a mistake and I suffer badly on the next leg with no water to take on and the energy gels making me nauseous.
Each of these loops becomes progressively slower. 48:18. 48:56. 49:37. 50:50. Not an explosion but a slow death. It’s a relief – a relative one, but a relief nonetheless – when I am pointed on to the more sheltered finishing loop. I will ride around this loop, with timekeepers stationed at mile intervals until my time is up.
I finally start to rise out of my slump. There are plenty of supporters around this circuit cheering us all on and the undulating lanes are a welcome break from the busy roads of the day. I resolve now that I am going to finish, and I’m going to finish with a bloody good distance, club record or not.
The finishing loop is my favourite part, and not just because it means the end. Finally, the field is brought back together and whether you are passing or being passed, there is mutual respect between all the riders that only comes from this sort of shared experience. The results will show plenty who started did not finish. Getting this far has taken courage, grit and fortune. Everyone gets a shout of encouragement as our paths cross.
Three hours to go. With my head back together, I am riding these loops with proper focus again, even if I’m not physically where I want to be. I am chugging flat Coke, being the only thing I can stomach.
Two hours to go. With a lap of the circuit under my belt, I know where to push on and where to hold back. Chelsea, Mum and Dad are in place and we are back in the swing of it. Throw bottle. Grab bottle. Keep going. Their support has made this possible.
90 minutes to go. I start calculating. My average speed is still dropping but only slowly now. If I keep this up I will do it. I coax my bike around each corner and weave around each pothole like it’s a landmine. No room for mistakes.
One hour to go. I reckon I am going to do maybe one and a half more loops of the circuit. That means I’ll finish as far as I possibly can from HQ. I am hoping someone comes to pick me up. You’ve ridden this far, what’s a few more miles? Ha. I eye up a comfortable looking spot on the verge roughly where I think I’ll finish.
30 minutes to go. I am going to break the record if I just keep moving. Chelsea hands me a bottle and I chuck it. Not needed now I decide. Luckily she understands.
7 minutes to go. 275 miles on the Garmin. It’s done. A supporter on the course catches the moment I realise.
Time is up. I keep riding to the next time keeper. Can I stop? Yes, you can. I roll to the verge, unclip my feet from the pedals and lie down in the grass. Helmet off, skinsuit unzipped, the breeze I’ve fought all day is so welcome now. Christ, I’m never doing that again.
https://www.strava.com/activities/2611939231
I rode my first, and last, 12 hour time trial in 2016. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time. It’s also what I tell myself after any ride that spans every daylight hour and those that sometimes span more. Yet, it’s 6:32am on the morning of 11 August and here I am about to ride around the clock again.
It’s a chilly, but dry, start to the day and the wind is already up. The start timekeeper completes his count and I push off; as all the pre-race tension and nervousness falls away there is no cathartic sprint up to speed, just a gradual acceleration as I settle into my bars and focus on keeping my start effort steady. Too hard now will cost me later.
Sunday morning and the roads are quiet. Thankfully, my bike is too and I whirr through the lanes of the start circuit. I plan to ride mostly on feel but a quick check on my bike computer shows the numbers are where they should be and my legs feel OK. I catch a few of the earlier starters before we arrive at the main circuit. It’s a surprise but I trust my plan and keep the effort where it is, beginning the first of many runs up and down the A11 between Wymondham and Croxton.
The first stretch heads north east. I have the wind at my back and progress is easy. I catch a couple more riders before hitting the rutted concrete of the final stretch on the run to Croxton and heading up the slip road to begin the reverse circuit. The high frequency judder of some of Britain’s finest tarmac pops the top off my handlebar mounted drink bottle. I make the decision to stop and try and find it – it’s early in the day and I’m worried about spilling more of my bottle than drinking it – but no luck. I decide to grab some gaffer tape on the next lap as the next best thing.
The following week, I find the top inside the bottle when I come to clean it. Great.
The bottle top is an unwanted distraction because the next leg is the one I’ve been dreading since the first weather forecast. An unbroken 20 mile stretch straight into the wind, which only happens once as part of the transition from the start circuit to the first loop of the day. I up the effort here, knowing it will gain me more distance in the long run, even if I pay for it later. It’s hard, and the second 10 miles is particularly exposed with some open sections creating crosswinds where the trees break. I am grateful for the roundabouts and a couple of rises which break things up a bit, even if my average speed suffers.
Turning at the south western most point, the next 10 miles will be gently downhill and, with the tailwind, it whistles past. Stretches where I did 15mph on the out leg become 40mph on the return stretch. Nothing to gain once you hit those speeds so I rest my legs and enjoy the “free” distance I’ve earned from my preceding efforts against the elements.
I’m lucky to have my wife, Chelsea, supporting along with my folks who have travelled down from Sheffield the night before. Logistics mean they haven’t arrived when I first set off, and I have 50 miles under my belt before I reach the planned waiting spot and see them all for the first time. It’s a small thing, but knowing now they are there puts part of my mind at rest. We nail the first bottle hand up – Chelsea is a pro now – and it’s into the first loop proper.
That sets the pattern for the day. 10 miles of slog, 10 miles of speed. I’m averaging 24mph, but it’s a product of 21mph one way and significantly more the other. The wind is a challenge and takes real focus and concentration. I’m riding a shallower front wheel for stability but even that is a fight in places. By the 3rd loop, the drags on this out leg are starting to bite already and I find myself out of the saddle for a break and to keep the gear turning, rather than spinning up them in my aero position as I had at first.
On the return leg, I ship my chain shifting up into my smallest sprocket. It’s a frustrating mistake: the bigger gear would grant me another fraction of a mph, a gain which is far outweighed by the time lost putting the chain back on and getting back up to speed. I treat that shift with kid gloves for the rest of the day but still drop my chain a couple of more times.
You can’t underestimate the effect of mental fatigue on a ride like this. It plays to my slightly obsessive nature but I have mapped out what will happen when at various times and distances. When you are tired, you make bad decisions. The trick is to make as many of them as possible – what to eat, what to drink, how to deal with a mechanical – with a fresh mind and don’t second guess it later.
On the next pass, I stop briefly to take on new bottles and food. I’m four, maybe five, hours in and averaging 24mph. On the face of it, everything is going great and I’m well in to the ride but I’m struggling already. It’s like a switch has been flicked, and while the power is still coming, my legs are protesting and feel empty. I take on more sugar and some caffeine and focus instead on completing this first lot of loops and on to the next set.
Eventually, a marshal waves me past the turn I have made four times already, signalling the start of the next loop. This means a near 20 mile stretch of booming tailwind. It should be a real boost but the sun is starting to break through and every stretch into the wind becomes more attritional, more interminable. I am thinking only of how hard it will be to ride back. This is only added to by the rutted road surface at the far point of the loop. My forearms are taking a battering and it is taking total concentration to avoid as many of the potholes as I can. Each one feels like a race ender and I don’t have enough distance in the bank to absorb a long stoppage.
Oh yeah, distance. Obviously the name of the game today is to ride as far as possible in 12 hours. My previous best was 255 miles, but I came away from that ride knowing I could do better. Once I saw our longstanding – as in as old as me – club record was 274.86 miles, the goal was set.
I came in to the National knowing it was very achievable, and that was cemented by the early hours. Here though, well past halfway and suffering badly, I watch my average speed begin to ebb away almost imperceptibly. You can make up a mile or two over 12 hours, but as the clock begins to run down, those distances begin to look as long as they are.
I know the comfortable buffer I have built up has been eroded and a problem would mean not meeting the target I’d worked so hard for.
In a tired moment, I try to swap bottles only to jettison the full one at the feet of another team of supporters, watching it roll helplessly under their car. After some brief scrabbling around, I carry on and rationalise I’ll be back through in another 50 minutes or so. A mistake compounds a mistake and I suffer badly on the next leg with no water to take on and the energy gels making me nauseous.
Each of these loops becomes progressively slower. 48:18. 48:56. 49:37. 50:50. Not an explosion but a slow death. It’s a relief – a relative one, but a relief nonetheless – when I am pointed on to the more sheltered finishing loop. I will ride around this loop, with timekeepers stationed at mile intervals until my time is up.
I finally start to rise out of my slump. There are plenty of supporters around this circuit cheering us all on and the undulating lanes are a welcome break from the busy roads of the day. I resolve now that I am going to finish, and I’m going to finish with a bloody good distance, club record or not.
The finishing loop is my favourite part, and not just because it means the end. Finally, the field is brought back together and whether you are passing or being passed, there is mutual respect between all the riders that only comes from this sort of shared experience. The results will show plenty who started did not finish. Getting this far has taken courage, grit and fortune. Everyone gets a shout of encouragement as our paths cross.
Three hours to go. With my head back together, I am riding these loops with proper focus again, even if I’m not physically where I want to be. I am chugging flat Coke, being the only thing I can stomach.
Two hours to go. With a lap of the circuit under my belt, I know where to push on and where to hold back. Chelsea, Mum and Dad are in place and we are back in the swing of it. Throw bottle. Grab bottle. Keep going. Their support has made this possible.
90 minutes to go. I start calculating. My average speed is still dropping but only slowly now. If I keep this up I will do it. I coax my bike around each corner and weave around each pothole like it’s a landmine. No room for mistakes.
One hour to go. I reckon I am going to do maybe one and a half more loops of the circuit. That means I’ll finish as far as I possibly can from HQ. I am hoping someone comes to pick me up. You’ve ridden this far, what’s a few more miles? Ha. I eye up a comfortable looking spot on the verge roughly where I think I’ll finish.
30 minutes to go. I am going to break the record if I just keep moving. Chelsea hands me a bottle and I chuck it. Not needed now I decide. Luckily she understands.
7 minutes to go. 275 miles on the Garmin. It’s done. A supporter on the course catches the moment I realise.
Time is up. I keep riding to the next time keeper. Can I stop? Yes, you can. I roll to the verge, unclip my feet from the pedals and lie down in the grass. Helmet off, skinsuit unzipped, the breeze I’ve fought all day is so welcome now. Christ, I’m never doing that again.
https://www.strava.com/activities/2611939231
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The new bike worked a dream, just need to sort out my gearing on it to make sure I don't fumble the start next week. Few pictures on Strava.
