The annual blog posts I’ve done on this race are not quite countless (because I’m also meticulously counting events), but date back some time. If you told me in September 1995 that I’d be writing blog posts each year after the 3 Peaks to offload the event’s happenings, I’d have given you a funny look. Particularly as that was definitely pre blogging, and pretty near pre internet. But the ritual continues, and I do like to site and gather thoughts.
The main story of the day was that it was Elsie’s first 3 Peaks. Without a doubt, that milestone blitzes all my usual ‘goings on’ for me, and I’m glad to say it happened, and was all good. The worry that you carry as a parent when your child takes on an event like this is unfathomable. I honestly was on the borderline of dicouraging her. It’s a very VERY hard day out – even to finish, but it’s important to let people find out for themselves too, I guess. And find out, she did.
With only two Junior Women in the race (which was two more than the Junior Men’s entries!) it may seem cocky to gloat about a ‘win’ for Elsie, but her and the other tough peer in her category Rianna Mahoney both received so much vocal respect from all people at the event, and rightly so.
For Elsie to have come away with her category win – just five minutes from the Junior Women’s record after two stressfull and time-consuming punctures is a great feeling for me, but it doesn’t even compare to the feeling of seeing her beaming from ear to ear as she climbed Penyghent. That was a true watershed (literally, for my tear ducts) as it could so easily have been the face of a wasted, bedraggled young person marching wearily up the final climb. Job done. Fantastic.
As for my event? The result and outcome was a mere blip on an otherwise cracking day out. I can move on. Here’s what happened:
- Roll-out to Gill Garth
The best lead car driving in memory I think. Nice and fast so minimal jamming of brakes through the massive peloton – and as usual I started to get tailed off on the final bit of road before we turned onto Simon Fell. That’s just me, and riding bikes uphill. - Simon Fell up to Ingleborough Summit
I’m not one to panic about slipping backwards on the looooong first climb any more and always settle into my rhythm. I’m a descender at heart – or at least I certainly am in this race, and do enjoy the tricky, daft descents on a ‘cross bike. So I let it go and get into a decent climbing rhythm and just basically bear the pain and keep my head on the couple of metres ahead as much as possible. I was slightly distracted by my mount for the DJI action camera, it had lost one of its two bolts so was coming loose quickly. I made the decision to take off the camera and pocket it. Annoying, as its stabilisation is brilliant, so I was looking forward to capturing some of the descents.
Once on top of the silly steep bit and riding, I was still grovelling really just to stay with whoever was around me, but that’s me at threshold and I managed not to lose any places really on to the summit.| - Ingleborough Descent
My summit position of 79th was identical to last year’s race (excellent marks for grouping), and as I set about the descent to Cold Cotes I was looking forward to dishing it out a bit to those around me. It didn’t feel as fast going down there – the bogginess felt slow after the rain we’ve had, but somehow I got down 36 seconds faster than 2024 and had passed 16 riders on the descent. Alan Dorrington, my helper this year, was like an utter pro. He knows this race, and knows cross, and knows me. Perfect position, drink and gel passed to me, and I’m off on the road. - Cold Cotes to Chapel le Dale
The next road section always feels a bit surreal. Maybe it’s because the body has finally stopped shaking, the tyres suddenly run smoothly on the asphalt, and maybe it’s a touch of relief that you’re alive after the threshold heart abuse you get over Ingleborough. Either way, I know not to go too deep on this stretch with so far to go. Stef Macina comes through on the climb past Stoors Common and I fight to grab his wheel. His turns are generous, and as always, his tone and demeanour is so light and lovely. What a great bloke! We and another rider do turns through to Chapel le Dale, then I ease slightly to gather myself for the gruelling climb ahead. - Whernside – ascent
In the days when I was a top 10 contender, I’d have been gobsmacked by the improvements this year to the lower slopes of Whernside’s hockey-stick gradient climb. I was pleased to find a newly surfaced, lightly gravelled path that made a good 3 minutes or so of previously unrideable climb rideable. But on 55 year old legs and notwithstanding comments above about my climbing non-penchant, I basically ground away at bottom gear. Still, it was a nice change. I had the usual tinges of cramp on the upper slopes but, like Simon Fell, my ‘let them go’ approach to people romping up was pretty much my only choice. I still was pushing on, don’t get me wrong, but I certainly wasn’t making any gains on anyone. Between Cold Cotes and the summit, I’d relinquished 12 places. All manageable, really! - Whernside to Ribblehead
This is where the wheels started to come off the wagon sadly. Despite my excitement for the most technical descent, I got myself into a few daft mistakes. The traffic on this descent, this far down the field can be a bit of a problem. A lot of “singletrack” (I use the term generously – this means slabe that are a couple of feetwide, with spike rush and bogs either side) means that passing a slower rider can be near impossible for some stretches. I got caught at the back of a long train of riders stuck behind someone whose descending confidence didn’t match their climbing ability (I’m only jealous) and it took a while to find a diversion and nip round the four or so riders.
This, in hindsight, was my downfall. I’d bottled up the frustration of being hindered, and when that was all uncorked, I simply went too fast for the rock strewn path, overcooked things, and pranged a storm drain with my rear wheel. It was an instant moment of recognition, and the tyre was flat within seconds.
Riding from above Blea Moor on the flat wasn’t too bad until I hit the flatter parts, where you can pedal damn hard and pick up speed. That wasn’t happening on the squirming tyre and liner, and I knew it was just a case of ‘getting by’ to get to Ribblehead. I lost a load of places on that stretch. - Ribblehead.
Alan was a total pro when he saw me. I stood back, took a drink, and let him put my spare wheel in. It seemed such a luxury and I was actually quite relaxed once I got going again. The wall of noise there is truly something else. I feel pretty ‘well known’ at this race and countless cheers of my naame gave me goosebumps. - Ribblehead to Horton in Ribblesdale
Rolling through with Richard Morgan, who was a true gent and did plenty of pulling, I was quite chilled about the time lost to the puncture, and only a healthy trepidation for the Penyghent climb was on my mind. But then, disaster. My pedals tightened up withing the space of a few metres and suddenly the cranks wouldn’t turn, at all. What transpired was that the spare wheel I’d prepared had not had the MTB cassette screwed on properly. It had slipped away from the XD splines and ‘tightened’ (loosened!) itself right up against the drop-out part of the frame. It was hopeless. Nobody carries a spare cassette tool, so not even a hope of salvaging this. My tyres were intact, and the bike was otherwise fine, so less than two miles from a simple ‘retire and DNF’ at the finish I did the only thing I could do. Carry on up Penyghent. Obvs. - Penyghent to the finish
Looking back, my initial approach to Penyghent, pushing a bike, was that of a desparate, tired and confused old man. Running up the bottom of the long, long climb of Horton Scar Lane, it took me about 10 minutes of gently turning myself inside out before it suddenly dawned on me what a fruitmless and silly pursuit it was to ‘rush’ at all. There was no way I was going to salvage any ‘good’ finish position as I watched scores of people ride past me, so I slowed to a very polite jog, before an even more respectable walk. I was going to finish. That was all.
Nearing the summit, I took the camera out of my pocket and enjoyed grabbing a bit more footage, and honestly enjoyed the craic, the view, and the whole ‘not rushing’ thing. I’d like to say ‘before I knewit I was at the summit’, but it took a fucking age to get up there at my leisurely pace. But it was also lovely!
I could ride almost all of the descent (freewheeling, of course) and it was peppered with lovely moments as I passed the ascending family crew of first Matt, then Elsie, then Angus. I cried when I saw Elsie’s beaming face, although I did so with the confidence of a man wearing mirrored cycling shades. I scooted the odd bit, until I hit the road at Horton for the final, bound-to-be-comical scoot to the finish. A hugely gentlemanly shove from Phil Hinchliffe helped me for a few hundred yars, before I sent him on his way at ‘the 4th Peak’ and had to do my final bit of jogging, before a scoot and freewheel to the finish.
So that was my 25th completion. My worst finish time ever – almost 4 and a half hours – but the best time ever ! Another load of memories and no less love for this race. How could I not love it? To add to that, we also somehow scraped 2nd in the parent/daughter category, too. Brilliant chance to share a little bit of Elsie’s limelight.
I grew even more love for the race this year, somehow. The family thing was one aspect, but I’ve really been enjoying the video interviews I’d done in advance, and on the day, too. They got me even more whipped up for what was already a frenzied love for this event.
A big thank you to Alan, to Dan Monaghan for his warmth toward me and Elsie in particular, and of course to Dean Barnett and all of the helpers who make this most beautiful race happen. We’re the luckiest competitors on earth.
Thanks too to the photographers, and to the riders who also helped me on the day.
