For 18 months UK sportives have been on a pandemic-enforced hiatus, so when we learned one of our favourites, the Dartmoor Classic, was running at capacity, we couldn’t wait to get down there
We celebrate the long-awaited return to sportives with one of Britain’s toughest: the Dartmoor Classic
It was 7am, and Dartmoor National Park was still asleep. Wrapped in a sheet of thick mist and gentle drizzle, the mountains were invisible and impenetrable. Just the curious, unflappable figures of the cows and sheep at the side of the road, unperturbed by the bright lights and fluoro Lycra shooting by.
But there was something else happening — a silent procession of red flashing lights toward the top of the moorland. It wasn’t a pagan celebration, though that would seem fitting in this ancient, mystical area of Britain. Instead, it was the first edition of the Dartmoor Classic sportive after its forced interruption due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Because of the new safety measures implemented, this was a smaller event than in the previous 14 editions of the sportive, but a large enough presence remained to cut through the gloom.
A smaller event than usual, then, but still bigger than most at that moment in mid-June. The organiser had secured ‘test case status’ by British Cycling, which allowed it to have three times the number of participants (3000 vs 1000) than those that didn’t have this special status. As a condition, I had to take a mandatory Covid test 24 hours before travelling to the event to Kingsteignton, headquarters of the Mid-Devon Cycling Club that organises the event, and the site of both the start and finish line. Other concessions to Covid were evident; registrations were not allowed the day before or on the day - everything had to be done online, with race packs shipped to participants by mail. Indoor facilities were gone too, with the whole event held outdoors at Newton Abbot racecourse
– not a problem, you might think, on a midsummer’s Sunday, but the weather wasn’t exactly playing ball.
Negative energy
For the riders, once the Covid test came back negative and they were in Kingsteignton, it was business as usual. A bike number on the bike, a timing chip on the helmet and jersey pockets bulging at the seams, even more so given the presence of the ubiquitous hand gel and face mask. The sagging rear of your jersey is another one of those things that you don’t realise you’ve missed until it’s gone. It was exciting to feel part of a sportive again after so long.
For the riders, once the Covid test came back negative it was business as usual...
Of course, there are things that one will never miss about being part of a sportive. Such as the 4am wake-up call to be ready on the start line by 6am, which wasn’t helped one iota by a fire alarm in the hotel at midnight and the resultant car park assembly. If I were to take a glass half full view, as preparation for standing out in the cold, bleary-eyed in far too few clothes, there was honestly no better use of my time in the five hours before the rendezvous at Newton Abbot racecourse.
The lack of sleep is perhaps helped by my carb-laden breakfast, which included a chicken sandwich, feeling more like a late supper than an early breakfast. Sitting alongside it on the menu were two cups of porridge and innumerable mugs of coffee, not to mention a few pre-race nerves that I hadn’t felt in ages.
As I’d signed up to the Grande route – the full-throated 107 miles (172km) and the longest option of the Dartmoor Classic – I had a window between 6am and 8am to get my ride underway, but I opted to get going as early as possible. Always better to be a front runner than playing catch-up. In this scenario, with Covid restrictions slowing everything down, it was better to avoid the queues that the organisers had warned of if I arrived later.
As such, I found myself in the first of 50-rider waves departing the racecourse.
“Enjoy your swim!” I heard from the side of the road. And, although it wasn’t pouring down yet, it wasn’t due to stay that way. The forecast is a big part of the Dartmoor Classic – with the route bisecting the highest roads on the moor, the weather defines its unpredictability and toughness. “It’s part of the challenge,” says Guy Langworthy, event chairman, and one a significant proportion of the start list baulked at. Clearly there could have been other factors at play – not least that pre-ride Covid test coming back positive – but there were many participants pulling out this year. “We were expecting around 800 to 1000 more in a normal year,” adds Guy, “and that’s mainly on the basis that the forecast was pretty poor.” Of the 3000 riders expected, only 2220 completed the event (630 in the Grande, 1334 in the 68-mile Medio, and 256 in the 38-mile Piccolo).
Tough pill to swallow
Big aspirations at a sportive can be quickly undermined by the irresistible allure of the mid-race fork – that being the point where you can go in one direction to ride the full distance, or the other to cut out a huge chunk and return
The weather is a big part of the Classic, with the route bisecting the highest roads on the moor
While the gradients never change, the feel and rhythm of a climb is alive with possibilities and the thick, viscous fog put me into an almost racing mindset
home faster. Sort of like the blue pill/red pill options that Neo got early on in TheMatrix. It can be a life-saver on a tough day or the easy way out for the undertrained. From the start I was determined not to be one of those downgrading to one of the shorter options – I’d travelled a long way to get here, and waited a long time for it. It’s also easier to know how big a day is in store, because you can set your stall out.
The opening 2.5km were merely a loosener, a neutralised section leading out from the racecourse and led by an out-rider. From that point it was all business, first with a gradual rise in the direction of Bovey Tracey, then a hatful of significant climbs, this first one up to the summit of Haytor, a bona fide legend of the British cycling scene. Not that I could appreciate it much today; while the gradients never change, the feel and rhythm of a climb is alive with possibilities and the thick, viscous fog put me into an almost racing mindset.
Nothing to see here, just grit your teeth and metronomically hammer on those pedals as you penetrate the fog in front of you. It’s actually a pretty good way of taming a beast like the Dartmoor Classic – one pedal stroke at a time. Even when you can’t see in front of you, you can still feel those wretched gradients in your legs.
In five-metre increments of visibility, I eventually cracked this 14-kilometre climb, before descending – again in gloopy fog – into Ashburton. Respite was negligible as the road pointed up again in the direction of Princetown, 21 kilometres of slick tarmac away, with only a fraction of that distance downhill. Whether climbing or descending, it was tricky to be navigating these roads on such a dark, wet and misty day, so I was grateful both for the tyre change a day earlier and the volunteer marshals scattered along the trickiest sections of the
course. Lit up like Christmas trees, these road warriors became like mirages in the mist and were the only reason I was able to stick to the route and stay upright.
That wasn’t the case for every rider, sadly, and on one of the sharpest bends sat a couple of riders, clearly in some pain, who’d fallen foul of the course and conditions. I stopped and checked their condition. Three other people were already taking care of them, and an ambulance was on its way.
During a phone call the day after, Langworthy confirmed that there had been several accidents, and two required the intervention of the air ambulance to Derriford hospital in Plymouth. He also added that “their injuries are not as bad as first thought” but the cyclists reported concussion and a suspected fractured pelvis between them. Another rider, who had suffered from nine broken ribs, a punctured lung and a broken scapula and was also in Derriford, had messaged the organisers on the Facebook page. He first asked if they had found his bike and then hoped the event went well and said he was looking forward to participating again next year. “He must have had a lot of morphine at that point,” joked Langworthy, clearly relieved the injuries weren’t any more severe than they already were.
Going for gold
That accident made me hit the brakes. Sure I wanted to be a fast finisher and snag that gold medal time, but today I was celebrating my first Father’s Day and undue risks weren’t necessary. It was a complicated enough event as it was without me adding to it. The colour of the medal had to be down to the power in my legs and not the risks I was willing to put into the descents. Those extra daddy kilograms that I’d gained since February should have slowed me down, but just before our baby was born I’d moved to Cornwall, whose hills can’t fail to make you stronger.
Still, around the 4.5-hour mark, I was really starting to crack, even with my strategy of taking in 100g of carbohydrate an hour. Events like this sportive can highlight deficiencies that training rides simply can’t, pushing you harder with fewer breaks to recover. I had descended from Princetown to Tavistock, made a hilly loop to Lydford and back, and hit the second climb to
Events like this can highlight deficiencies that training rides can’t, pushing you harder...
Princetown, this time taken from Horrabridge. And I felt like my body was saying no more: no more food and no more tempo. By now I was sweating profusely and my vision had started to get a bit blurry. Crucially, I didn’t panic. Instead, I slowed the pace down a little and stuck to only water.
At this point, finally, the fog had cleared and Dartmoor had awoken from its slumber, the vast and wide-open scenery revealing itself, like endless climbs in the Alps high above the treeline. My game plan began to work, with my body collaborating in harmony with my mind once more, and I survived the final two hours, even as the rain began to pour down from Moretonhampstead. It was all downhill and flat roads from here, however, and the rain could inflict its worst as I knew the finish was close.
And despite the fog, rain, crash nerves, early morning fire alarm and all the other obstacles from a chastening return to sportive action, I was to walk away, satisfyingly, with a gold medal time. The only thing missing was the first-class scenery of Dartmoor. Here’s hoping for a sunny day – and a full house – the same time next year.