I’m sat writing this because I still can’t ride my bicycle.

“Why can’t you ride your bicycle”, I hear you shout from the depths of cyberspace.

Well, I can’t ride my bicycle because I’ve a surprisingly large, and painful, lump in my most inaccessible nether regions.
Current size, fresh apricot, slightly squashed – ironically possibly one that’s been sat on.
To be fair, writing this, I’m only now just capable of sitting down so riding my bicycle was always going to be a bit of a stretch.

“How did this happen”, I hear you whisper (as we’ve now anatomically gone ‘down there’ into the dark recesses of polite conversation)

Well, I’ve been to Scotland with a few other club members to race the awesome Gralloch.

“The Gralloch?”

Yes, the Gralloch is the UK round of the UCI World Gravel Series and a qualifying round for the world championship.
It is held in Galloway Forest, Gatehouse of Fleet, Castle Douglas, Dumfries, Scotland, which as well as being an area of outstanding natural beauty is also a far too lengthy an address for any sane person to scribble down regularly. If I lived there, I’d probably have to move, at the very least to a house with its own name and postcode.

Not defaced with a CCC sticker.

Despite being Scotland, the best description is Carlisle and turn left. I’ve conditioned myself to think of Scotland as the bit north of Glasgow so this was all new territory for me.
Our elderly, un-updateable Sat-Nav even gave us a brief tour of Dumfries, which was nice.

“Well, tell us all about it. But we don’t want to hear about your lump again please…”

So, it turns out that gravel riding is a lot of fun, mainly type 2 fun if we’re honest.

If you’re not familiar with the types of fun, here’s a handy guide.

What are the Three Types of Fun?

Gravel riding with friends and finding cake is almost always type 1 fun.
Gravel riding with friends and not finding cake is often type 1 fun.
Gravel racing seems to be type 2 fun.
This may, or may not be because usually there’s no cake stop.

Of course, this is only my opinion. However, I can’t deny that I’m shallow enough to rate any ride based on the quality of its cake and coffee.
I will also go out on a limb and say that any race with a cake stop isn’t really a race is it?

Gravel riding is also hard. ^[1]
I’ve done Ironman, Marathons, Ultra-marathons etc but gravel riding is up there; a full-body workout, but also with that “did someone push me over a cliff” feeling afterwards.

Or even, “Have I been run over by a bus?”

So, if you’re going to do a gravel race why not add to the fun and do it up in Scotland? We even went with our own Scotsman, just in case.
I’d also be lying if I said we didn’t take shortbread with us too (and the Fruit Pastilles).

Possibly the least enlightening map of a gravel route somewhere in Scotland.
Ayr is up there to the left whilst Dumfries is down there to the right.

The Gralloch is a 114km route with 1800m of climbing. All, but what felt like about 1km was on loose surfaces with most of it uphill, even some of the descents.
The loose varied from smooth, compacted dust to proper loose granular material, possibly 6F5 if I’m wearing my professional hat.
The vast majority of surfaces however were gravel fire roads and logging tracks, with loose verges, a slightly loose, crowned mid strip and two compacted, well-defined tracks formed by the wheel tracks of heavier vehicles. These smoother lines were also often rutted, pot-holed and full of the odd surprise (alas, not of the shortbread or Fruit Pastille kind).

It’s a proper race, against the clock, with the top three and / or the top 25% of starters of each age group qualify for the Italian final later in the year.

When I first entered, I convinced myself of three things.
For my age I’m not a bad rider.
Plenty of riders would be taking selfies, chatting at food stops and taking in the fabulous views and making an all-round day of it.
Not all competitors were there to qualify for Italy.

With retrospect, it turns out I was only right about one thing. I’m not a bad rider, I’m just not better than 24% of my age group, that’s all.

Did you drive straight up to Scotland?

No, we split the journey north at Warrington.
I’m now pleased that I’ve ticked Warrington off my list of places I’ve yet to go.
Ok, I lie; it was never, ever on the list of places I wanted to go, it was just a place on a map, about the right distance from home in the direction of Scotland.
I can tell you that it sells diesel and there’s a Greggs there, oddly both in the same location, just never confuse the two.
Jane bought both; I managed not to confuse either.

Also if you’re heading north and want to study the engineering marvel that is the Thelwell viaduct try to do it before you get to Warrington, otherwise it’s just a memory in your rear-view mirror.
Why I thought of it being somewhere near Preston I’ve no idea.

you could strap me down to a table and poke angry army ants up my bib shorts but I still couldn’t tell you the name of a famous gravel racer

Our ultimate destination for the weekend as Anworth Holiday Park, a mere tattie-scone’s throw from the startline in Gatehouse of Fleet. We’d packed a tent, Billy & Emma had packed a van and Matt had chosen to slum it in an Airbnb.

Abusing the facilities at the camp site.

This isn’t a trip advisor review but it was rather a splendid campsite. Far nicer than anticipated and thoroughly recommended.^[2]
Here’s a link etc…

ANWOTH

Emma had also chosen to bring Covid with her too. Personally, I think the shortbread was a better choice.

Unsurprisingly, the campsite was full of other competitors. I struck up a conversation with the relatively local chap in the camper next to ours; to this day I’ve no idea what he said.
I did seem to get away with nodding and laughing during suitable pauses but inwardly I was rather annoyed with myself for not only bringing my own Scotsman but then totally forgetting how to use him.

As the race started at a civilised time, Friday night was spent finding food and wandering around the race village. It turns out that Matt seems to have a rather large fan-boy gravel anorak. He kept pointing out famous people and their famous bicycles.
If I’m being honest, you could strap me down to a table and poke angry army ants up my bib shorts but I still couldn’t tell you the name of a famous gravel racer – or their bicycle.
Ironically, Valtteri Bottas (former Williams, Mercedes and currently Alfa Romeo F1 driver) we had heard of and he was there with his famous gravel-racing girlfriend, Tiffany Cromwell, who we hadn’t.
Curiously, despite his anorak, Matt chose the race village as the correct time and place to buy parts necessary to fix a potential puncture the following day.
I’m convinced there’s an entire bicycle maintenance blog waiting to be written on that very subject alone.

Was the race on the Saturday then?

Yes, and not too early.
Plenty of time for a sensible breakfast and some final bike fettling.
Unlike long distance triathlons we didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night.^[5]
Jane DID get up in the middle of the night but that was, of course, purely optional.

Race day.

All the women went off first, youngest at the front, oldest at the rear.
After a suitably chivalrous gap us old men were set off followed by older men, really older men and then finally, after what can only be called a generous head start, the professionals and young tearaways, (and Formula One drivers naturally).

As we massed in the starting pens it became somewhat obvious that I was surrounded by lean, mean, 50+ men who all fancied going to Italy, or, failing that, thrashing those upstarts in the spiffing green kit from Wales

Somewhere behind me was Valtteri Bottas. I knew that leading Bottas into the first corner had the potential for a story I could dine well off for at least a day or two.

Are you going to tell us about the race?

Just a little bit, it’s probably a blog rule, isn’t it?

The start was somewhat chaotic. This was actually a race and clearly some people intended winning it in the first 3km which was basically a climb out of the village and up to the forests.
As you’d expect, on closed roads, the initial climb was kerb to kerb cyclists all going at the pace of the chap in front. There was no space to punch through the pack so you sat on wheel until the road turned off-road onto the gravel.
Now there were two definite tracks and a nasty no-man’s land of peril in the middle. Rather than kerb to kerb riders there were now three abreast cyclists all trying to climb a gravelly hill at different speeds.

If I’m honest it wasn’t much fun.

Then the Pros arrived…

There was a lot of contact, wheel to wheel, shoulder to shoulder but thankfully no shoulder to wheel or face to gravel, well, not from my vantage point.

After about 6km the pack started to find its space and there was more opportunity to switch tracks, or risk the scary middle bit, without coming an absolute cropper.
We were now also amongst the rear of the women’s pack that had started earlier.

I passed Jane and wouldn’t see her again until at the finish. ^[3]

The catching up of the women’s wave meant that our group were both fighting with ourselves and overtaking the slower women.

Eventually a sort of equilibrium was reached as the men around my pace made their way through the field to join women of a similar pace.
I like to think of it as a ‘sugar daddy’ zone; old men, younger women, all hot & sweaty, elevated heart rates, chasing each other through the woods…

For a brief moment everything was sort of fab ‘n’ groovy with lots of people of similar abilities riding at a similar pace on nice, fast gravel.

Then the Pros arrived…

The first group came past line astern, wheel to wheel, on gravel, kicking up a rooster tail of dust and debris as they disappeared from view, around a corner, as one, like a porridge-fuelled rally car with a madman at the wheel.
I briefly hopped on the back of Team Wiggins as they flew by me and then stayed with them for, oh, 20 or 30 metres at the very least. ^[4]
Just long enough to read the logos on their bibs as it happens.

Having consulted my thesaurus when I got home, the words I was looking for were ‘positively scary’.

I can’t deny I was rather impressed.
Having ridden rather a lot of gravel I find it’s not dissimilar to trail running. You can’t follow the person in front too closely for fear of them suddenly side-stepping a dead badger and you taking an impromptu dive.
Well gravel riding is really no different, just with huge holes, rocks, but fewer dead badgers all waiting to snare the unwary.
My ultimate conclusion was that these youngsters, not unlike the young motor-racer equivalent, are simply invincible, with absolutely no fear or thought for their own safety.
You cannot err on the side of caution and still ride wheel to wheel on those surfaces.
You must just have to negotiate each potential catastrophe, real-time, in the flick of a handlebar. Failing to do so means you eat gravel and end your race – as, judging by those walking off the course, some did.

be supple like a big, floppy shock-absorber…

Galloway Forest Park, north of the Solway Firth, is within the Southern Ayrshire UNESCO Biosphere, unspoilt and unpopulated and was designated as one of the first ever Dark Sky Parks, the first in the UK.
I didn’t get to see a great deal of it during the race, and, sleeping in a tent, didn’t get to see the dark sky.^[5]
Sure, it’s beautiful.
Remote and wooded, with streams and lochs, flora, fauna and goodness knows what else, but a moment’s glance, to take in a view or examine a red squirrel, and you were off course, into a bush, ditch or rocky appointment with failure.

So, my glances were fleeting and my eyes kept on the track as best as I could manage.
Thankfully Google has furnished me with some of the awesome views that I missed on the day.

Was it hilly?

Well, there was 1800m of climbing but I’d say it was generally ‘rolling’. Yes, there were hills but not the sort where you’re struggling for traction, just a little wheel-spin every once in a while, on the loosest stuff.
There was only one, loose climb and that came after the only bit that had mud. Almost a “buy one, get one free” sort of offer.

Some of the descents however were, how shall we say, challenging?

They weren’t steep in a technical manner but they were long, bumpy and fast.
Think of descending the Rhigos towards Treherbert but on firm gravel with the added obstacles of occasional ruts, holes, loose patches, puddles and other riders.

That’s not really a fair comparison though.

For me, my carpal tunnel syndrome means my hands are numb and control is not precise. The lack of suspension and constant battering making your eyes lose focus, my whole body fighting to be stiff and rigid, part of the bike, whilst my brain is telling it to relax and be supple like a big floppy shock-absorber.
Eventually the gradient flattens and you sit down again, waiting for the feeling to return to your hands…

Exhilarating stuff.

..and Valtteri?

Never saw him and he never said “hi”.

Any problems?

Well, I finished the race and didn’t have to stop and fix anything.
Judging by others at the roadside that’s rather a plus.

There were people walking home from the forest carrying the two halves of their bicycles that had fallen apart.

At 77km, turning slowly to avoid a chasm and stomping heavily on the pedals, I cramped in my left leg like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
It went from the outside of my hip to the inside of my ankle, almost through the thigh bone itself. From then on I knew I was just riding for a finish. I couldn’t stand up on the hills or press hard anywhere. At high cadence everything seemed to function normally so I could do little other than spin up for the last 35km.

The following day I noticed I’d punctured my rear but the tubeless had saved it and it hadn’t affected my event.

Thankfully the only time my bike was in a bush.

Back at home later I discovered that my lower headset bearings were shot, the headset loose and the top bearing cap had separated into 4 pieces.
Again, it hadn’t affected my event but it is indicative of the beating that gravel bikes take.

There were people walking home from the forest carrying the two halves of their bicycles that had fallen apart.

Indeed, on those fast gravelly descents (well, on the flat bits afterwards) I often pondered the severity of the beating that my bicycle was taking and at what point the forks separate from the frame or the frame collapses or the wheels explode in a million carbon-fibre shards.^[6]

Road cycling just doesn’t have this level of destruction.

What about the rest of your team?

Emma was sadly too ill to race but did manage to stay on in Scotland and ride the course later in the week.

Billy finished 18^th in class and qualified for the Italian final.

Matt finished 27^th in class but didn’t qualify.

Jane stopped at the last cut-off

I finished 74^th in class.
Even without the cramp I was a good way off a qualifying time.

Ok, how’s the lump?

Currently awaiting specialist intervention.
Current mood, flippin’ annoyed.

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[1] Strava takes your distance, heart rate and elevation and says, yeah, that was quite tough. It doesn’t even begin to recognise the surfaces you’re riding on. When I started doing long gravel rides I thought somehow I had become unfit, heavily fatigued and beaten up, despite still setting new PBs when out on my road bike. Finally it dawned on me; gravel riding is hard.

[2] The campsite manager was, how shall we say, a little odd? I think he was from London, most definitely not Scottish. He seemed happy to let us pitch anywhere on his grassy field the first day; explained that the nearby caravan, along with its rusty table and chairs, wouldn’t be occupied as the owners were away and that we wouldn’t disturb them.
By the third day we had become the target for every competitor related question as though we had a shared diary with each of them, “where’ve they gone? Are they coming back? Are they staying another night? Did you see which way they went?” And to top it all, the rusty garden furniture suddenly became out of bounds as the owners might, “turn up any minute”.  Whether we could have got over the embarrassment of the table owners turning up and finding us putting coffee cups on their rusty table we will never know.
And what brought on this strange change in attitude? I blame Jane for complaining that there was no more hot water after the race.

[3] I wouldn’t even see her at the finish. Despite not being prevented from proceeding past the last checkpoint she felt she didn’t have the legs to get her back to Gatehouse of Fleet before the end of the road closures so she jumped into one of the support vans.

[4] This may be a fib. 2 or 3m is perhaps more realistic.

[5] What we did get was the dawn chorus at 4am.

[6] I’m genuinely unsure of how we ‘life’ the primary bicycle components and whether there becomes a point where we keep replacing the wearing components but ultimately throw what looks like a perfectly good bicycle in the skip.