A training weekend in Lincolnshire 27-28 March 2010

There were two reasons for organising a pre-season training weekend in the Lincolnshire Wolds:

1. To hone the climbing legs of the riders going to Girona, and also provide an opportunity for other riders to benefit from two days back-to-back riding in the hills, and

2. To explode the myth that Lincolnshire is flat.

The weekend succeeded on both counts.

Nine to five

The starting point for the trip was Moreton Hall Community Centre Car Park. Tricia Dennison had kindly offered to transport me and my bike in her VW Passat Estate, which doubles as her company car. As my bike and kit were loaded aboard Tricia apologised for the strong canine aroma that emanated from the car. ‘I had a dead dog in here yesterday’, she said. ‘Had to put it to sleep and take it to a crematorium.’ It was comforting to know that if anyone needed putting down, Tricia had the expertise at hand.

Mike Bowen had volunteered to take Jeff Agricole in his Passat. Two small guys in a big car; but size matters when you are transporting Jeff’s essential requisites for an overnight stay (bike, cycling kit, tubs of recovery powder, an extensive range of evening wear, and more toiletries than a super model). Even Ryan Air felt guilty about his excess baggage charge on his return journey from a Wheelers’ Italian training camp.

Julia Jepson and Paul Horsley were travelling up in their people carrier and were the only ones taking cycling kit and running kit – Julia is running the Paris Marathon in a week or so and needed to keep the running muscles in tune.

Ron Fisher and Gareth Doman were on the drag, and a call from Ron’s wife, Lynne, informed the waiting throng that jump leads were at that moment being connected to their car’s battery. Five minutes later they were with us and we were all heading north.

The ninth member of our party, Neil Dykes, was travelling up from Pangbourne.

Feed and weed

Following a comfort break and a healthy midmorning breakfast at one of Lincolnshire’s finest Little Chefs, we rolled up to our cottages at the foot of the Wolds.

There to meet us was an old friend of mine from my Velo Club Lincoln days, John Flear. At 77 years young, John is just starting his 60^{th consecutive year of road racing. John was joining us for the afternoon ride.}

With the arrival of Neil the party was complete, and with clear blue skies and a stiff westerly wind at our backs we saddled up and headed into the Wolds.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’

We followed the rolling road to Belchford (appropriate name if you’d eaten on the late side) where a right turn took us up a step climb to Fulletby and Greetham (the hill used to host an annual soap-box car downhill race, but I think the health & safety police have stepped in), a dog leg left turn took us down through Salmonby and on to our two major tests of the day: The Tetford and Ruckland hills.

Tetford Hill can be seen from the run in to the village of the same name and can be a little off-putting if you’re not familiar with it. As we puffed and panted up the slope we were aware of two trikes labouring their way up just ahead of us. Cheery banter was exchanged by those able to spare the breath, as the point of contact coincided with the climb’s steepest section. Ruckland Hill, on the other hand, has its sting at the start. A high speed descent from the top of Tetford throws you round a sharp left-hander immediately followed by a right-hander and onto the hardest section of the climb. Better be in the right gear unless you fancy a walk.

At the top of the climb, and at the top of the Wolds, is Woody’s Top. This remote youth hostel never used to have the luxury of outside toilets – it was bucket and chuck-it – until a retired warden bequeathed a sum of money for the erection of an outside loo. He had a sense of humour as he asked for a sign to be placed on the outside of the door: ‘Please close the door as there’s nothing to stop the wind from the Urals to the urinals.’ Not with todays wind direction; but with a north-easterly it’s quite another kettle of Grimsby’s finest.

Cakes and mistakes

And so on to Burwell (no not that one) via a rapid descent with views to (almost) die for. It was then a fairly flat ride to Alford windmill for a well earned tea break. A warm welcome, homemade cakes a nice brew and a friendly chat. The only area for improvement was the locks on the two unisex toilets. Imagine my surprise at opening the first door only to find a little old lady rearranging her undergarments! She had failed to negotiate the 360 degree turn required on the door lock. As had the second little old lady who was sitting in the next door toilet!! Certainly not a case of two old ladies locked in the lavatory.

Neil is a push over

And so it was time to turn into the wind for our journey back to the cottages. From almost sea level, the climb out of Alford, up Miles Cross Hill, always brings pain to the legs, and this day was no exception. However, we did have the splendid Blue Stone Heath road to follow for most of the way back. This spine of the Wolds has some stunning views along its route, so long as the water running from wind blasted eyes doesn’t obscure them. John was suffering after a 50 mile training ride the day before. But not to worry, Neil, our super domestique, was ready to start what was to be, a weekend of self-sacrifice, and was there to push John up the steepest hills. A service he provided again and again on the Sunday to whoever needed it - easily winning the weekend’s man of the match award. Some say age is mellowing Neil; I say he was always mellow, and the confident, opinionated face he showed to the world was simply over compensation for his shyness, and now that he is in the later stages of middle age he is able to be his mellow self. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cycling_domestique

The final series of small climbs pulled at the legs and the 40 mile total for the ride felt more like 50. Tricia’s Garmin said we had climbed 2,475 feet and descended 2,471.

Service with a snarl

Following showers (and in Jeff’s case the appliance of various beauty treatments) and snacks our merry band made its way to the Coach & Horses for dinner. The owner of the cottages had asked us to report back with our opinion of the landlord (‘He’s from Yorkshire’). 6:50pm and the front door was locked. Table booked for 7pm so we rang the bell – fools! The withering stare from the window seemed to drill through us – well me mainly. It wasn’t until the end of the evening, when he was holding the counterfoil for the total of our meals, that a hint of a smile played around his lips. Amazingly the pub was heaving with locals, who were no doubt desperate to escape from the merry atmosphere of their home life.

Day two

More sunshine and more wind and another tailwind start. No detour in Belchford today, plough straight through the village and climb the Belchford wall up to the Blue Stone Heath Road and a left turn take us on a fast descent into Scamblesby – crosswinds pushing at the lighter riders. A right onto the main Horncastle/Louth road and there’s the steep climb of Cawkwell Hill beckoning in the distance. The second good climb of the day took us up to Cadwell Park Motor Racing Circuit where the sound of motor bikes could be heard roaring around the twists and turns and humps and bumps of this testing circuit. We were now heading east along the Blue Stone Heath Road. The respite from the wind lasted until a right turn in South Ormsby led us to the foot of Brinkhill. The hill used to be part of a road race circuit and it was sure to provoke a shakeout on each lap. It was the scene of my first road race in 1975 (when riding in the WSW colours, prior to my move to Lincoln in ’76) and I was one of the early departures from the main group and spent the remaining five or so laps in a small ‘chasing’ group. Today it didn’t feel quite so bad, as the run-up had been more sedate and the climbing pace more measured. All the same, it is still a conversation killer. But as we crested the hill we were fortified by the words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson – born in the village of Somersby, just down the road – who penned, among other notable works, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’. So onward, onward rode the nine riders, with thoughts of tea and cakes resounding like cannon around our heads. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson#Early_life

Where’s the tea stop?

We thought we would try a different type of mill – water instead of wind. As we headed down Miles Cross Hill towards Alford we were on the lookout for a sharp left to Claythorpe Mill, via the village of Rigsby (Yarmouth, Miss Jones!). No luck; the mill café didn’t open until Easter. So it was back to yesterday’s watering hole at the Alford Windmill. Due to the wonders of the iphone Neil was able to call up some of Tennyson’s poems, and Tricia read to us while we supped and chomped. How civilized.

Onwards and upwards

And so it was another fairly flat ride from Alford to the foot of the climb at Burwell that took us up to the top of the Wolds. The climb was into the teeth of a strong wind which became stronger as we crested the summit and rode along one of the highest roads in the Wolds. Tight formation was the order of the day and volunteers for service on the front were gratefully accepted. Following a steep descent into Scamblesby there remained just one last, longish climb before we were on the home straight. The cottages were a welcome sight and although it was a relatively short ride at 51 miles, it was no relative to our usual training ground and felt more like 70. We had climbed 2,616 feet and descended 2,618.

A good time was had by all

Showered and fed, the merry band said their goodbyes and headed back to Suffolk. The blue skies and sunshine had showed the Wolds off in their best light; and hopefully we will return and ride through those quiet lanes again, and maybe introduce others to their hidden charms. They are, without doubt, one of the country’s best kept secrets. Thanks to everyone for making it a weekend to remember and for playing so well together.

Justin Wallace