I don’t really struggle when it comes to ‘what can I write about this race that I haven’t written before’. It just keeps giving. I’ll give the customary run-through of the race itself and how things went, but first, a couple of things that popped into my head during the 3 hrs, 50 minutes and 23 seconds of my race.
Someone (sorry, but I can’t recall who it was) was talking to me on the approach to Horton in Ribblesdale after two of the 3 Peaks were out of the way, saying how I seemed to nail the descent of Whernside. I’d taken back a load of time on a load of riders. This is the theme of every year for me — shedding minutes going uphill and regaining them coming down — but it dawned on me at that moment that I’d been descending Whernside for 100 miles, since my debut here in 1995. That’s a long way. And it’s rough.
Another thought came to mind when I looked at my watch at the finger-post turning on Pen-y-ghent. It felt like there was still a lot of work to be done — indeed there was, another ~30 minutes — but the moment I happened to look at my watch, it was showing 3:18. My fastest finish time in the race. It just gave way to one of those more melancholy musings about getting older and slower. My 3:50 is a perfectly solid time at the age of 56, but it’s just as full-gas as the days when I used to finish over 30 minutes faster. I guess that’s a good thing, really, that the race still commands enough respect to get me to empty the tank 100%.
Anyway… the race itself.
The headline is that there was no headline. The dreadful weather forecast didn’t really manifest itself other than in high winds on the summits and funnelling up the valleys — although that was tough, it wasn’t the apocalyptic stuff that we were all expecting. I had no punctures. Nothing went wrong with my bike. I didn’t fall off (although I seemed to somehow avoid that after hitting a huge rock on the upper Ingleborough descent). I didn’t even properly seize up with cramp. So all good. I was a full 6 seconds behind my time there in 2025!
Having dropped 20 seconds or so on the fast exit of Horton on the way to Gill Garth, I didn’t panic. This happens each year, and the long slog up Simon Fell makes any time gaps like that feel academic. I flowed fairly well, steady and slow up to the summit of Ingleborough, then gradually unleashed on the descent. I say gradually, since I was paranoid about punctures at first. They have blighted me not only in this race, but generally on gravel bikes in the last couple of years. I was relieved about being mechanically intact as I grabbed my bottle from Alan at the bottom and hit the road. Andy Turner (not for long) and Ben Oldham, amongst others, kept me company on the cross-windy trip up to Chapel-le-Dale, and as usual I combined choking on food and drink with riding at or near my threshold. I hate that.
Whernside — much the same, and consolidating / one-step-at-a-time stuff. So many nice quips with fellow riders (and, as it seems, subscribers!) and a lot of just accepting my one-speed-fits-all climbing trudge.
I rode an edgy but controlled descent on the technical stuff, then as we got onto the faster section I really had to unleash and close up to some riders I could see ahead. I knew there was a headwind from hell coming on the road, so I was glad to join up with a group of like-minded soldiers on the through-and-off trip down the road to Horton. Again, drinking and food were the order of the day, and I was already getting a bit fed up with the sugary, salty crap that we understand to be perfectly formulated for our silly little unwilling bodies.
Turning up Horton Scar Lane, it felt like the end of a cooperative truce. We gradually split up and gaps started to open — and I wasn’t shocked when it was Big Dave who was taking the biggest beating of the group. But it was also good. Having a steady rhythm was better than having a ‘stick on someone’s wheel then die of cramp’ approach, and I was actually impressed by having a gear that was suitable for this cruel final climb. My comrade of choice as we neared the summit was Phil Hinchcliffe — who was completing his 35th event, which puts any of my smugness nine years out — and he was surprisingly strong and in very good cheer to have around.
I think we both knew I was going downhill better than Phil yesterday, so we amicably parted ways just short of the summit. Like the previous hills, I took places and lost none. My relaxed approach to tyre confidence was borderline criminal as I hit rock gardens and storm drains with little or no respect. I enjoyed every second of it.
Managing to hold on — just — to the gap I’d created on a small group of riders for the final road stretch and ‘the fourth peak’, I had a hairy moment with a pedestrian crossing the road on the final corner, but all held together, and my ‘safe’ ride was done.
Elsie’s day was less of a triumph. We would have hoped to hit step 2 of the podium again in the parent/daughter rankings, but her second 3 Peaks ended with a swollen and painful knee at Cold Cotes. She dismounted to jump over a bog on the descent of the grassy hillside and hyperextended her knee. The immediate pain was managed by adrenaline, but when she got down to the feed, it all overwhelmed her and the denial finished. She couldn’t race to the finish. Next time, Elsie. x
Thank you as ever to my wonderful pit connoisseur Alan Dorrington for his solid help, and big thanks to everyone who shouted, cajoled, rode in the wind, or stood on hillsides to assist us all in racing this most beautiful event. A stellar edition.
