Andy took no prisoners…

Expansive village depart

Rider pic by www.sportivephoto.com

To categorise the Dartmoor Classic in a few words is not easy, but a very apt and neat turn of phrase was overheard at the end of this year’s event. One very tired and exhausted competitor was overheard complaining bitterly to her companion about the number and severity of the climbs. His rather unsympathetic reply was; “Well, what did you expect? This is the business end of British sportives”.

Having just rolled across the finish line myself I knew exactly what he meant. Events like the Dartmoor really are on another level from the majority; even, dare I say it, from the Dragon Ride Wales. Anyone who rode this year’s or previous incarnations of the Dartmoor Classic will surely empathise with this view. The route takes no prisoners and, if it did, the threat of incarceration within the walls of Princetown’s infamous prison would surely have you back in the saddle.

But to dwell on this one aspect of the ride, significant though it may be, would be to fail to do justice to a stunning route that meanders along high-banked lanes connecting thatched Devon villages seemingly untouched by time, past cascading, boulder-strewn rivers empting their pure waters into deep gorges, then up, always up across the haunting beauty of the moor and its granite Tors.

Wonderful; who needs to get on a plane when there’s a landscape like this to ride in? It’s a stance shared by organiser Ron Keegan. “I bet the original organisers of the Tour de France back in 1903 didn’t envisage that it’d be still going and have grown to what it is 100 years later. So I’m hoping that when my time comes people will say the same for the Dartmoor Classic.”

A host of changes this year meant a new start venue with the original start and finish area now devoted just to parking. This, combined with food and trade tents set up a day in advance of the ride, provided finishers with somewhere to relax and chat after the day’s ride.

It has to be said these arrangements still need fine tuning. People were standing around for far too long waiting to hand back transponders instead of immediately getting drinks and food – not what you want after a ride like this. Also, the whole finish and leaving interface was a bit hairy, a situation that Ron will definitely improve. In return, perhaps the thoughtless minority will keep used gel sachets in their pockets rather than leave them strewn all over the roads.

One thing I definitely would not change was the weather; whilst the rest of the country gently cooked in fierce sunshine, Dartmoor’s micro-climate provided an overcast day with a few showers – perfect, I suspect, for a lot of riders.

With the opening miles under my belt and the first serious climb of the day up to Trendlebeare Down in sight I set myself a steady tempo, one that immediately dropped RCUK ed. Richard and enabled me to revel in the views and chat to the few people I knew en route. It was soon apparent that group riding was totally impractical, simply because there were so many hills and each with its own gradient, meaning that everybody had to set their own pace. It was the nearest thing to a 104 mile time trial I’ve done, and with 3500m of climbing it hurt!

Memories of that wall of a climb up to Devon’s own landlocked Alcatraz and the second feed will live a long time. With water and flapjacks on board I rode back to rejoin the course only to see Richard on his way down to the feed. Convincing myself that he was only two minutes behind, when actually it was a full 10 [11 – ed.], I gave it my all to the finish imagining he was about catch me at any moment. He, likewise, did not spare the horses, being equally convinced that just round the next corner there I’d be. Who said these things are not competitive?

There is, perhaps, one piece of advice to pass on to prospective entrants for next year, which comes from the editor himself. On the journey home I reminded him for perhaps the 10th time that day of his 15 minute deficit on the line. He simply tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Ah yes… Well, if it hadn’t been for the second helping of cheesecake and clotted cream last night our times would have been a lot closer.” Obvious, really.

Still, he probably had the last laugh as my dreams that night found me desperately trying to get away from some imaginary presence aboard a machine which appeared to be a combination of a recumbent and a tandem. The harder I pedalled, the slower my progress, until, looking down with horror, I found the reason. Tarmac had turned to, you guessed it, clotted cream!