'Sore' de Yorkshire - how we took on (and survived) the hills

THERE was a moment, sat halfway up Sutton Bank, taking a breather, when I contemplated just why I put myself through such punishment.

I'm nearly 48, it's a Sunday afternoon, shouldn't I be sat in the pub, watching the footy?

The answer, I have to say, came a lot quicker than the compulsion to get back on my bike and continue the ascent.

I do it because I love it.

I'm not the only one - there's a two-wheeled army of us out there, all trying to emulate stars much younger and more talented than us.

With that in mind, tackling Stage 3 of the Tour de Yorkshire seemed like a good idea when it was floated during an editorial meeting. Thing was, the person whose idea it was wasn't the one doing it.

That was me and, as cycling correspondent, I wasn't in a position to say 'no'.

My cycling buddy, Andrew, and I had set out from Richmond at a little after 8am on a Sunday morning.

The pros would complete the 112 miles to the finish line in Scarborough in an average of four and a half hours - we'd given ourselves all day.

If I am being honest, I had been awake at 4am hoping to hear the patter of rain against the windows, maybe a strong wind blowing through the trees, but no such luck. While the mist hung heavy across the market town and into the rolling fields beyond, the weather was largely clement.

One of the first problems we encountered was our inability to read a map. Those setting off on May 5 will have been briefed well in advance and have sign posts and stewards to show them the way - we had none of this.

As a consequence we headed out of Richmond in completely the wrong direction, our plan to follow the exact route of the Tour already in tatters. To be honest, though, such was the mizzle rolling across the hills we could have been anywhere.

We managed to align our compasses at Barden and headed down towards Leyburn. Had we been in the race any hopes of glory would already have been dashed, but thankfully there were very few people around to see us as we pedalled by at a sedate 12mph.

The peloton would be eating on the go, energy bars and super-hydrating drinks the order of the day. We, on the other hand, settled for a banana or two and some Robinson’s squash outside the town’s police station.

‘I’m just about to sound my horn,’ the local bobby informed us. ‘Didn’t want to scare you.’ Acting like a starting pistol, it was loud enough to spark us back into action and onwards towards another picturesque market town, Bedale.

The road between takes in the likes of Harmby, Constable Burton and Patrick Brompton, those settlements aside it is largely featureless and forgettable, a road for getting your head down and pushing the pace.

Taking it in turns at the front, Andrew and I turned up the speed, each contending with a few miles of headwind before taking a breather in-behind. Even with just two of us in the field the benefits of drafting were appreciated.

At Bedale we decided to rest up for 20 minutes, this time at the Institution.

Sadly the professionals don’t have this kind of option, but if you are 3in the area, with a bike or not, I would recommend popping in, especially if you are a lover of cakes. Suitably refreshed, we headed down Bridge Street en route to Aiskew and then over the A1(M) and into Leeming Bar and then Northallerton.

By the time we got to this stretch, we were well into our stride, our average time was improving and we were full of energy. The sun came out, but a decent headwind blew up and on wide open roads it was doing its best to dent our progress.

Arriving in Northallerton, the traffic began to increase and so we decided, rightly or wrongly, to miss out the town centre and take a road parallel to the main route. Having had one serious accident during my time cycling, I was keen to avoid another and so we headed into Thirsk on a road less travelled.

With Sutton Bank on the horizon, mentally if not literally, we took a breather near the racecourse, the halfway point almost reached. The first you know of what lies ahead is a sign around three miles ahead of the bank itself warning of the ‘severe’ gradient. It’s intended for motorists, not cyclists – if those with an engine in front of them might struggle what does it say for those relying solely on the power of their own two legs? I don’t mind admitting that at this point my mind started to play tricks on me.

Gone was the earworm – for some reason I had had Michael Jackson’s Black or White rattling around my head for the previous 30 miles – to be replaced by the defeatist part of my psyche. ‘You don’t have to do it, you know. Just get off your bike and walk, no one will know.’

These messages and other less printable versions were running through my head. At the foot of the bank, just past Sutton-Under-Whitestonecliffe, Andrew dropped me. Considerably taller and with many more miles under his belt, his pace was a little harder than I wanted to attempt. Eager to keep some energy back, I decided to ride my own race and, hopefully, catch him at the summit.

The road had begun to rise a couple of miles out so the legs were already in climbing mode. Gears dropped, I didn’t go down to the smallest immediately knowing that, psychologically, it’s always good to hold something in reserve. The voice in my head began to get a little louder as I made my way through the first right-hander.

From here, the intensity kicks up another notch so I decided to focus on little victories, one hundred yards at a time. The road twists to the left and past a large house, dogs in the garden barking ridicule or encouragement, I couldn’t tell which.

A few yards further on and the lactic acid in my legs won out. I crawled to a halt, clipped out and lent up against a chevron sign. I’m not going to lie, if someone had offered me a lift to the top I’d have taken it, but they didn’t and I was forced to push on. A fourletter outburst and I was round the acute left-hander and onto the steepest part.

The sound of a tractor coming up behind brought both frustration and relief. I took a breather, let it and the procession of cars behind go past before setting off on the final stretch.

Knowing the end was in sight, seemed to banish my Doubting Thomas and I redoubled by effort, actually getting out of the saddle and coasting into the visitor centre car park. Andrew had been there long enough to order and start on a cup of tea and a toastie, but to his credit he didn’t gloat. Sated, we set off again.

From here the road is, in the main, gloriously downhill and at times we touched 35mph as we reached Helmsley. A sign post to Scarborough told us we had 40 miles to go – 40 easy miles, surely. After all, we were heading towards the coast.

Again, planning, or the lack thereof, was our downfall, for, after reaching Pickering, every couple of miles seemed to feature another ascent. It felt like we were doing the route in reverse.

The terrain will hardly register on the pros’ collective consciousness, but for me it was a demoralising discovery. “This will be the last of them,” Andrew said, reassuringly.

The only thing was it wasn’t and after the fifth time he’d said it I half-jokingly told him I’d punch him if he said it again.

Having opted to miss out the Cote de Silpho in order to rendezvous with our train back, the mile markers finally began to show single figures and the hills became streets. But while the terrain improved the weather did not and it soon became almost pea-souper standard.

A plan to take a photo on the seafront to celebrate crossing the finish line was ditched in favour of getting to the station.

Unlike there will be on May 5, there were no crowds to greet us, no bunting in the streets, just a rail employee to inform us it would be £42 each to get us back home. If only we had the energy to argue...