September Song: The Hoy Hundred

They handed us maps. Two sheets of double sided A4 paper. I take them out now and again and unfold them. Tracing the route against my mind’s eye. These creased papers are now overlaid with sunshine, their contours conjour up the cliffs over Malham Tarn, chalky against the blue sky, the rolling lanes into Kettlewell, the golds of Fleet Moss glowing in the sun, the umbers and ochres of Park Rash and the light, sinking the heather to an inky purple on Barden Moor.

I’m stunned at how much landscape a day can hold. Turn the maps over again to relive the vertiginous descent to Nab End, the deadening right hander at the end that unfurled into a steep bank. Where the photographer, poised, shouted ‘come on young lady’ as I stood out of my pedals, straining to beat the gradient.

Young lady indeed. I wonder how, at this age, I’ve suddenly taken to hundred mile rides. ‘I’m 42 you know’ I call back. ‘Bloody hell’ he says. I’m not sure how to take that. Maybe I’m only as old as I feel.

I found the photograph of me at that point. Framed by the Dales pocket meadows, gridded with dry stone walls. I’m smiling the smile that is fixed somewhere between suffering and joy.

I think I’d decided on the ride quite lightly — the Dales did not conjour a tough century when I did. We’re not into lakeland fell territory, no jagged peaks or scree slopes, just the sweeping curves of moorland shaped with subtle shadows, blurred, rounded and softened by heather and grasses and topped by the occasional outcrop.

With my piece of BMC carbon loveliness, it would make a good day out, the passage into September, a reminder of road riding after being lured off onto trails and rocks all summer. And besides, I really enjoy putting my road kit on. There’s a calm in the order of having one of everything, peeling on each piece from my BMC armwarmers to my DT Swiss socks, safe in the knowledge that they all do their jobs correctly. The instant I step onto the Granfondo, everything just works.

We lined up at the start in groups for the pep talk and are set off together. But our groups strings out quickly. I have the hundred mile target in mind and I set myself a good pace from Skipton. A few men race ahead but it’s only a couple of miles down the line before I begin to pick them up. That’s me, steady, but unrelenting. I keep pushing and I don’t stop. I chat to a lad on his second best bike. Steel frame, down tube shifters and a self-confessed penchant for racing on the flat. Stunned when I tell him to do it before he gets to my age. I lose him on the hills somewhere beyond Malham.

It takes a while to realise that this ride is not to be underestimated. The tops may seem shallow but the roads that lead to them are steep and sapping, and as they level to threads of tarmac across the moors, they’ve already worked on my legs, persuading them they’re heavy and tired.

But the route is good. No, marvellous and magical. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a ride so gloriously and splendidly solitary. These deceptive sapping climbs lead to breath taking moor land roads, slender sinewy byways that just about take the path of least resististance over the tops to link parallel valleys. At these heights though, the lush valleys and pocket fields are hidden from sight, swept away and forgotten as the expanse of heather and hazy peaks draw the eye heavenwards.

I’ve mountain biked here, on bridleways that cross the roads and have the disconcerting feeling of the almost familiar. The route takes a sharp left at Cracoe, the foot of a hot, but fondly remembered, struggle up Cracoe Fell and over Bardon Moor. In Kettlewell I glimpse the insane climb above Starbotton, a loose stony limestone scar that rears straight up the face of the hill.

The difference is one of scale. Off road, each tussock and boulder of progress is hard won. On these magic little roads, we roll out along the valleys, brace for the climbs and then are bowled out towards the heather, the hills and the tantalizing horizon. We seem to fly towards it, suspended between the moorland and the sky, but before we can touch the distant peaks, the road dives and we plummet back to follow the green lined river routes along the valley floors.

The route takes us the length Wharfdale, out over the top of over Fleet Moss and into Wensleydale. I can feel the distance growing. Hawes is about the turning point, the top edge of the route, and we follow the river until we reach Wensley and turn back over the moors towards home.

And as the miles mount steadily, the amount of climb leaps up and up. It seems that every 30 miles we top another thousand metres. There are feed stations on this route. Cyclists congregate and eat. There’s quite a lot of sitting around but I worry about reaching home (and Clover the poodle) so I set off alone.

Just before the final feed station — as I tag onto a group for the first time in fifty miles I calculate that I have spent the best part of eighty odd miles battling my way into a headwind. In fact the best protection from the headwinds has been the shocking climbs.

Leaving the feed station I am grateful to join three southern mountain bikers -exiled on road bikes — for the last fifteen miles. These cheery chaps with broad shoulders usher me to the foot of Barden Moor. I am stunned at its bulk before me. From an entirely disinterested perspective, it is beautiful. Glowing in the slanting light of a September afternoon. But my heart sinks. There are only a handful of miles to go but it stands between me and my destination.

I have to put my head down and grovel in my lowest gear. Ignore the walking figures of broken riders ahead and pedal. Occasionally I look up. We are making progress. Even the retro Raleigh is doing well, zigzagging across the road ahead of me to stem its incline. I had exactly the same bike twenty odd years ago. Black and shiny with Raleigh emblazoned in gold. I loved it — the tall gearing was perfect for tearing round London but it was stolen in Clerkenwell.

Musing takes me up. The steepest section abates and from the shoulder I make better progress. My companions are waiting on the summit and we freewheel down the hill into Embsay and push on the last couple of miles back to base.

The day is wrapped up. I have hardly stopped. No photos. But my head is full of gold and light. Small green fields. Steep hills. And an infinite hazy moorland rolled out below blue skies.

To Di2 for?

"Hello, my name is Beate Kubitz and I am a gear mangler."

Thus begins my confession at bike-wreckers anonymous. My fantasy self-help group who will listen sympathetically to my weekly unburdening that I am a klutz. A seasoned destroyer of finely machined chains and mechs, breaker of derailleur hangers and greatest fan of the power link.

Me? This?

So when I won my BMC Granfondo, once I'd finished squeaking with excitement and delight and utter overwhelmedness, I nearly called them right back to confess to them that I, in no way, deserve a bike with Shimano Di2 electronic gears.

Give me a piece of bling, and I will find a way to chew and snarl it up. I regularly ride with my chain in exactly the wrong position, at full diagonal stretch from front chainring to rear cassette. There's usually a gentle clearing of the throat from behind me to warn me that Chipps is about to commence his reproachful mantra 'darling, did you mean to be in your big ring right now?'.  'Oh no, I was just changing up (or down)' I lie cheerfully, whilst shifting away, accompanied by a horrendous set of clickings, crunchings and crackings as I try to find a more appropriate combination of cogs.

I couldn't quite admit to BMC that I wreak this kind of havoc. So the call wasn't made and the email remains unsent. And I went to Evans to be presented with the Granfondo, looking sleek and smooth and just beautiful. Press on the shifter paddle, and a discreet whirr indicates that you are shifting. Just keep turning the pedals and a new gear will present.

I rode out with trepidation. Expecting to do my worst and have to return to Evans, shame-faced and clutching bits of chain and cog in an oily rag, hoping they would sort out whatever disaster I'd created.

But that's the thing. The gears just work. The little motor shifts precisely so there's no doubt you'll be in the gear you ask. There's no cable stretch because you don't tension the cable. Di2 means that the cable is really a power lead between the switch (the gear shifters) and the motor which moves the derailleur. So I won't be having to change the cable or adjust the gears to allow for changing cable length as it stretches with use (something that has had me flummoxed on long rides before). It won't get harder to shift as the cable wears and is coated with road grime. It'll just keep transmitting a little electrical power surge to the tiny motor, which will make this shift exactly like the last.

So what else do I love about it? It doesn't moan when I put it into the wrong gear and it's by far the easiest bike to correct if I do (wrong gears are always a sign that I'm tired, so this is hugely appreciated). Ooh and you can press and hold the shifter paddles and the chain will skip up or down the back cassette as happily as a spring lamb for as long as you do. Gone are the days of multiple repeats of the shift, click, crunch cycle, and I feel a better woman for it.

Easily removed in a hotel room

Removing the derailleur for travelling is easy - you just unplug the cable before un-mounting the derailleur. And there's no faffing putting it back, it plugs in and the gears work without any adjustment (Well, they did for me. Adjusting them isn't too bad - there's a reset button or for finer adjustments, a YouTube video below). The battery pack needs unplugging when you remove the seat post too, but that's it.

This generation of Di2 is less chunky than the last, the motorised derailleur is remarkably compact with hidden battery concealed in the seat post so there's minimal extra paraphernalia other than a little junction box to be mounted on your handlebars (where adjustments can be made and the charger plugged in) which is the least aesthetic bit. Internal cable routing makes sense - given that it's an electrical cable, rather than a cable which is under tension - so routing round corners isn't an issue. It should be very low maintenance (the indicators are good so far but ask me again in another few thousand kilometres).

If you've always thought that gears were illogical (yeah, why does the same action shift up with your left hand and down with your right?) you can change that now and have your Di2 programmed however you like. All gears going up on the left and down on the right? Yes you can do that. All your other bikes are traditional and you don't want to be confused? You can keep it traditional too.

So, I am a starry-eyed Di2 convert. I already was secretly impressed when Chipps used one of the early models on his 2012 Three Peaks 'cross bike and it rode through the infamous Pen y Ghent headset-deep river which was a 'feature' of that year's race. The gears worked perfectly even after total immersion, and a couple of weeks later when we could finally face looking at our bikes again (it had been the worst race weather on record) the motor whirred obediently back to life as though the bike hadn't just been callously abandoned in a barn.

I've always thought that you need to work your way up on bikes - start with slightly clunky kit that you learn on and then finesse it over time. And I am wary of over-complication and over-engineering simple processes. But I'm changing.  Di2 has made my riding so much easier - I worry much less about gear changes and therefore am always seeking the perfect gear for the situation - that it's something that anyone who rides a reasonable amount should consider sooner rather than later.

Up, up and away

It's all about the bike

This is the bike I collected last Saturday morning. I was so excited that there was no traditional Saturday morning lie in for Chipps. We were on the train to Manchester first thing before the Saturday shoppers' rush. Before 11am, the man at Evans had said, to beat the crowds.

And here she is…. all the bells and whistles. I am still stunned that I could possibly own such a gorgeous piece of engineering. She's light as a feather, carbon all over. I've never owned a proper road bike so much of her is a mystery. But my first spin, just out of the door and round the block is of speed, put your foot down and she shoots away, wherever you want to be carried.

Everything about her is optimal, neat, right for a bike that wants to go the miles. I pop up onto a kerb and drop back off onto the road. No worries, we can take the cobbles with the smooth. Her Di2 gears whirr gently and put me into precisely the right gear. Nothing is too much, too difficult. We want to stop here? We stop. We want to go? We go. And we don't stop. It amazes me how well she carries speed. Inject just a little acceleration downhill here and she'll eat the following incline up. Magic.