Into The Dragon’s Lair
Its huge distances and savage climbs have made the Dragon Ride in Wales one of the biggest challenges on the British sportive calendar. Let’s just pray it doesn’t rain…
Cyclist tackles one of the UK’S most popular sportives and discovers that it bites
The Welsh Valleys don’t lack for natural resources. From the coal-rich hills to the water that pours down the rivers between them, it’s a landscape that is by turns bucolic and industrial. The region also has the highest average rainfall in the UK, along with enough wind to power an army of turbines, so it’s no surprise that this part of the world breeds tough bike riders – as proved by native son Geraint Thomas.
The climbs where Thomas sharpened his skills may be dwarfed by the peaks of the Alps or Pyrenees, but when they are stacked one after the other, like the scales of a dragon’s back, they’re no less ferocious. And it’s by linking up no fewer than eight of them, including Bwlchy-clawdd, Rhigos, the Devil’s Elbow, and the Black Mountain, that the 223km Dragon Ride accumulates its 3,600m of climbing.
Town and country
I arrive in Margam Country Park at the start of the 16th edition to find a curtain of grey cloud drawn down so close as to obscure the hills into which we’ll soon be heading. The first part of the ride takes us down the broad but quiet roads alongside the smoking mass of the Port Talbot steelworks. If it wasn’t for the Bristol Channel,
I could easily imagine myself to be riding one of the more obscure early-season Belgian Classics. It certainly feels as if I’ll need to employ my best ‘hard man’ impression, along with every bit of available warm clothing, if I’m to get through the coming hours.
The scenery becomes greener as we turn away from Port Talbot and the coast and follow the River Afan into the hills. We’re climbing steadily as we go, and I’m pleased with the opportunity to warm up. Of the small villages dotted up the valley, the furthest flung is Abergwynfi, beyond which the gradient steepens and evidence of human habitation dwindles.
Known as Bwlch-y-clawdd, or ‘the gap in the hedge’, this first climb is in effect a side door into the Valleys. It curves slowly to follow the fold of the hillside, and its steady slopes could be mistaken for the start of an Alpine ascent. Despite coming early on, it’s also the day’s highest bit of tarmac, and by the top the landscape is exposed enough to have scrubbed away any trees from the hillside. Camped by the last of them are two kids with homemade signs, presumably waiting loyally for a soggy parent. They look as if they’ve been waiting a while.
The high road that follows wiggles around to drop us down into a channel cut through the last bit of the hill. Behind us, someone has neatly painted a Welsh dragon onto the rock, along with the motto ‘Croeso i’r Cymoedd – Welcome to the Valleys’.
The landscape is exposed enough to have scrubbed away any trees from the hillside
A fast descent takes us down and across the Rhonnda. Now in the first of the valleys that give the region its name, nestled in beside the river is a series of villages abutting one another as the road passes gently upwards: Treorchy, Ynyswen, Pen-yr-englyn and Treherbert. Sitting between their strips of terraced houses are the Baptist chapels, libraries, working men’s clubs and concert halls that served the community when its mineral wealth made Wales something akin to a modern-day Dubai.
Swinging right towards the head of the valley is the Rhigos climb. It’s just over 5km at an almost constant 5%, but it’s the exposure that’s to be feared more than the gradient. About halfway in is the former watcher’s hut. It’s a squat building with just enough space for a bunk and stove, and it once provided shelter to the person responsible for keeping the way open.
Go back enough years and these roads would have been regularly blocked by rocks washed off the hills by rain and snow, as well as wandering flocks of sheep. Today swathes of wire mesh keep the hillside – and the livestock – in check, although occasionally sheep still make it onto the road. Not that my speed would make me a danger to them, or them to me. This climb is one for picking a pace and settling in for the duration. It won’t hurt too much unless you provoke it.
Despite the steady precipitation, up top is an ice cream van. I’m told it has been run for 23 years by the distinctly un-welsh-sounding Nicolo Marenghi, and by his father before that, and that ice cream vans in the rain are something
The Devil’s Elbow is a brutal nick in the landscape, with the first hairpin hitting 25%
of a Valleys speciality. These descendants of the Italians who came to work in the docks and mines from the late 19th century onwards don’t tend to be put off opening by the weather, just as their customers aren’t put off buying. Sadly, however, on this occasion I’ve no time to stop for a cone.
Once over the top I sweep down past the Llyn Fawr Reservoir and Tower Colliery. The huge headframe that delivered miners to the seams below watches forlornly as I aquaplane past, before a few more kilometres bring me to the first rest stop. Given its proximity to the adjacent Penderyn Distillery, I’m slightly disappointed to find nothing more fermented than a Soreen malt loaf on offer, given that the harshness of the conditions surely make a pre-noon nip an acceptable proposition.
Squelching myself back onto the bike, and now within the Brecon Beacons National Park, the road carves its way through exposed moorland. The next climb raises itself slowly before falling into a depression across the top, only to head back upwards again. Soon I’m descending into the Taff Fawr valley and crossing the grand-looking bridge at the head of the Beacons Reservoir.
Cold day on the Devil’s trackway
The rain is starting to pick up again and it encourages riders to huddle closer together. I find myself at the centre of a mini-peloton as we race in close formation wordlessly along broad roads towards the next climb.
The Devil’s Elbow instils fear in both cyclists and nervous drivers alike. It’s a brutal nick in the landscape that presents a stall-inducingly steep 10% across its whole length, with the first hairpin hitting 25% if you choose to seek out its very steepest part. Alpine in gradient if not necessarily length or maximum altitude, the Devil’s Elbow is a designated climb, which
means it’s closed to traffic and possesses its own timing and leaderboard. However I am mindful of the distance still to come, so even the sight of a rider from a rival East London cycle club gassing it up can’t convince me to do anything other than take it easy.
The descent is less severe and more sweeping, which would normally see me grabbing a tow, but the amount of spray flying about means I keep my distance from other riders around me and make my own way down. Regardless, I’m now properly drenched. Pulling into rest stop number two the old boys of the local Rotary Club are doing great work handing out drinks and snacks to the riders, although space under the awnings and out of the rain is in short supply.
Still, it’s better to be out here than in the back of the medical truck, where I spy two rake-thin youngsters huddled under a pair of shiny space blankets. Both have obviously neglected to bring a jacket, and the cold seems to have got its claws firmly into them. It reminds me of a story about a young Geraint Thomas getting lost on the roads around here and returning home so frozen he had to ring the doorbell with his head.
For once it makes me happy to have a few years on the whippersnappers. I may be slower but I’m more experienced, plus I have an extra protective layer of flab to keep me warm. Less happily, compared to those going home in the broom wagon I’ve still got over 120km of riding to go.
The amount of spray flying about means I keep my distance from other riders around me
The quickest way home
Returning to civilisation, the hill outside the town of Glynneath is a bit of a slog and the long straight section above it proves a lousy place to get caught alone. The surface is broken, the conditions are blustery and the gradient is just enough to make it hard to generate any speed. I forego the third rest stop and instead launch straight into the following descent, which brings me onto the Bwlch Bryn-rhudd climb.
It’s a pretty bit of countryside, but perhaps a little too well travelled to be truly picturesque. I put this thought aside, though, because for the first time today it’s no longer raining.
It’s around this point that the riders on the 300km Devil split off on their extra loop, although I can’t say I suffer much of a pang of guilt – even when I follow the sign pointing out the easier of the two remaining options. With the hardier competitors despatched, I soon find myself riding parallel to the River Usk. It’s all very scenic, with a gentle climb rising up below the Usk reservoir, the sun now shining in the sky, and several red kites circling above us as they take the opportunity to do a bit of hunting.
The birds hang in the air, suspended just metres from the road, strangely static as we trudge by. Thanks to the various distractions,
I’ve managed to get myself a further 50km into
the route, and despite the earlier rain I’m feeling surprisingly good. There’s now only one climb that could possibly spoil this.
Dark musings
The Black Mountain is a great name for a mountain. In fact, so great that a confusing number of local lumps have adopted it. There’s the more famous range known as the Black Mountains in the east of the Beacons, which includes the eponymous peak and is found south of Hay-on-wye. By comparison, the lesser-known Black Mountain I find myself at the bottom of is part of the park’s most westerly range that straddles Carmarthenshire and Powys. Henceforth, I’m designating it the true Black Mountain. It’s blacker than black, full goth even.
The sticker on my top tube declares it to be 7km long with a steady average gradient of 5.3%. With the summit somewhere up above me, it could easily be mistaken for a far larger stack than its 453m elevation would suggest.
This is the final major fang in the route’s profile, but there’s still 60km to run over its far side so I avoid the temptation to attack. Despite the ominous name I find the sun shining on some of the best scenery anywhere in the UK. The climb’s sweeping tarmac presses up against the moorland, and towards the top it spits out two excellent hairpins. About half an hour after starting the ascent I find myself at the summit and beside another lonely ice cream van.
Sadly, although it could now almost be described as warm, I again don’t have time to stop. Instead, I spend the duration of the descent back down cursing my billowing jacket for acting like a giant parachute (having previously thanked it for saving me from hypothermia).
Down from the high ground, I’m tempted to speed through the final rest stop but decide this
The looks on the faces around me speak of the hardship each rider has endured today
is no time for foolhardy heroics and pull in for a break. It turns out to be an excellent decision because within seconds of pulling over a gaggle of children offers to rack my bike and make me a cup of tea. Before I know it, I’m propped up in a folding chair with my shoes off and enjoying a cuppa in the sunshine. Boosted by the sight of so many local people who have donated their time to help put on the event, when I do leave the rest stop it’s with my spirits much improved.
Even with a couple of hours of riding to go it feels as if the worst is over. This feeling remains even when the final and surprisingly urban climb of Cimila Hill arrives, taking us back onto the roads we rode earlier, only this time in reverse.
By the time we hit the stretch beside the Port Talbot steelworks everyone is engaged their own personal time-trial. The looks on the faces around me speak of the hardship each rider has endured today, but also of the pride at finishing and the joy of being part of it all. I guess that’s why the Dragon just keeps getting bigger every year.