King of the Downs/ Pennines

littleprawn

After completing my first Dorking Sportive - 78 miles and 5,000 feet of climbing over 6 big hills(Wiggle ride), I was wondering how much training miles (and climbing feet) do you need to prepare and tackle on of these 'monsters'? Evans quote the Downs as having 9000 feet of climbing and Pennines as having 11, 000 feet of climbing with ~100 miles. Obviously, there are more hills for this event!

Personally I see them as a challenge and also it is something to train towards...maybe not this year but next year in 2014 seems a reasonable target? Or am I being too optimistic? Are there equivalent events you guys would recommend?

nunowoolmez

I wouldn't describe anything on these rides as 'monsters', just really usung what is there to make a good ride from. Monsters are found in the Alps. However, I did the King Of The Downs ride last year & loved it! I'm signed up this year too. You can always just sign up but do the shorter distance & maybe gauge where you are at then. I am using the full distance as training towards a 2 week trip to the Alps. Sign up, you will enjoy it, especially if the weather is as good as last year!

Southgate

A little piece I penned for my cycling club for last years event.

King of the (ups and) Downs

I sometimes wonder whether cyclists are certifiably crazy. And surveying the massed ranks of weekend warriors at the start of the King of the Downs sportive did nothing to disabuse me of my suspicions. There we were, hundreds of grown men and a sprinkling of super-fit ladies, actually looking forward to hours and hours of pain and suffering! And suffer we would. 115 miles comprising two loops of the toughest course in Surrey and Kent that the fiendish organisers could dream up. 10 killer climbs, including four that feature in Simon Warren’s 100 Greatest Cycling Climbs. And to top it off, a promise of blazing sunshine with an energy-sapping high of 30 degrees. There really is no other word for it apart from insanity.

My day began at 4am with my mobile phone alarm beeping insistently in my ear. A surge of adrenaline ensured that on this particular Sunday morning, despite the unholy hour, I had no difficulty flipping myself out of bed. An hour and a bit later I was at Wood Green, where a bleary eyed Andy was waiting for me outside the not-yet-open tube station. From there it was a slow spin to Victoria station to catch the Gatwick Express, with us sensibly deciding to conserve energy by riding through London’s eerily deserted streets at little more than a snail’s pace. Curiously, the exit for cyclists at Gatwick involved leaving the airport through a sort of fire door and carrying our bikes down several flights of stone stairs and out into an industrial estate! Five minutes later we were at the headquarters of Evans Cycles for the start of the event.

Registration was smooth and unfussy, and the complimentary porridge, coffee and energy drinks were gratefully stuffed down our gobs. Then, a little after half past seven, we rolled over the start line to a cacophony of bleeping timing chips and the excitement of a big sportive.

The first loop was, in truth, a bit of a doddle. The heat was not yet oppressive and we were well fed and hydrated. The hills were tough but not leg-destroying. And the panoramic view of the Surrey countryside from the top of Box Hill was simply breathtaking. Perhaps us cyclists are not so quite so mad after all!

The second loop out into the Kentish countryside was also breathtaking, although in a much more literal sense, as I was soon to discover. We had skipped the first of three feed stations, and when we pulled into the second we were annoyingly presented with two queues; one for water and one for sticky High 5 energy drink. Stupidly I joined the queue for the energy drink, and having filled both bottles declined to queue again for water. Big mistake.

With the temperature soaring and the hills getting steeper, the energy drink became an energy-sapping drink. The hills seemed to rise higher and higher and I was finding it hard to focus on the fast technical descents. This was scary, and it was not something I had experienced before. Where, oh where, was that third feed station?

With 90 miles in the legs and dehydration taking its mental and physical toll, all I could think about was water, water, water. Delicious pure ice-cold water. If at that moment God had reached out from the clouds with a bottle of that beautiful colourless liquid in his hand and boomed: “Calvin, how about you trade me your bike for what I’ve got?” I would gladly have done the deal.

But between us and the third feed station was a hill. Not just any old hill, but the dreaded Yorks Hill, a nasty little brute and home of the annual Catford CC Hill Climb. I selected a middle gear and determined to get to that elusive water as quickly as possible, whatever the short-term pain. That was my second bad decision of the day.

Standing out of the saddle, I began powering skywards, leaving a hugely impressed Andy in my wake. As I passed rider after rider, many now on foot, I could already begin to taste the water on my lips. But with only 50 odd yards to go the road suddenly reared up to a mind-numbing 25% gradient and my legs started to scream. I had gone off way too fast and now it was payback time. With the sun beating down on my back, my throat parched and my breathing out of control, I was entering the fires of hell.

Above me marched a small army of dejected cyclists, each one defeated by the hill. But not me! I was invincible. Onwards and upwards! I pressed down on the pedal. Nothing happened. I pressed a little harder. Still nothing. Finally I forced the pedal down with all my body weight. The bike juddered forward a couple of feet and then ground to a halt. For two or three seconds I remained rooted to the spot, swaying this way and that; unable to continue but refusing to admit I was beat. Then with a loud curse (and just before the laws of gravity were about to complete my humiliation), I unclipped and joined the ranks of the wounded walkers. A few seconds later Andy came spinning by, this time not looking quite so impressed at my riding skills!

Andy may not be crowned King of the Downs, but he was certainly prince of that particular hill. By contrast I was the Grand Old Duke of York!

Perched on top of the hill, the third and final feed station more resembled a UN refugee camp than a refueling stop. Glassy-eyed cyclists sprawled out across the grass, completely wrecked. Poor bastards, I thought, somehow failing to register that I too was one of their number. I gulped down a couple of litres of water – boy, did it taste good - and felt instantly revived. Only 25 miles to go and with the worst behind us, my spirits were rising faster than the temperature. The end was nigh and there was just the tenth and final hill separating us from the finish line.

This time, fully hydrated and having learned my lesson from the Yorks Hill fiasco, I reached the summit of Titsey Hill with my dignity intact and my feet firmly on the pedals. My body however suddenly felt like it had gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. My right kneecap needed an injection of WD40, my upper back was aching and each time I turned the pedals it felt like I was being stabbed in the centre of my left thigh by a malevolent dwarf. Even my performance enhancing drugs (otherwise known as caffeinated energy gels) had stopped working. By now, I had given up all thoughts of a sprint finish and I no longer cared about my ranking. I just wanted the pain to stop. After what seemed like an age, but was in reality just a few short miles, it finally did. As I crossed the finishing line, there were no raised fists from me, no smiles, no bragging calls home. Just utter heartfelt relief it was over.

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Calvin and Andy made it into the top 20%, finishing together with a time of 7 hours 40 minutes (including stops). Our star rider Adrian stole the show with a kick-ass time of 7 hour 03 minutes. Graham unfortunately finished the race in an ambulance, having hit a rock at high speed just 10 miles from the end - he was on for a stonking good time too! Congratulations to all of them, and especially to Graham for living to tell the tale. Club members will be relieved to know that he escaped with nothing more serious than a heap of stitches, bruises and road rash, and should be back in saddle shortly.