Steepest Wales
/An oldie from my home turn in North Wales
Back in the mid eighties I remember riding up from Lake Vyrnwy to the top of Bwlch y Groes to watch the Milk Race pass. The entire might of the old Russian red guard had lined up as near invincible racing machines to batter the rest of the worlds top bike riders in to submission once again. This particular day the stage was to be something special, as on it’s way to the Llandudno finish it was to cross the Bwlch y Groes, a huge Welsh back road climb, for which the organisers had recommended a 23 sprocket. There are very few hills in Britain which would require such a low gear for top class riders to scale, and so many chose to disregard this warning.
By the time I’d ridden up to the summit most of the race had passed by, but there were still a number of riders on the final section of this climb - and they were walking, these riders included Russians. That day the climb had etched it’s name deeply in to the pages of the cycling history books, and painfully in to the annals and shoe plates of the many top riders who were forced to their feet just to get over this beast of a Welsh mountain.
Now every sunny day sees some cyclist or other braving the challenge of the Bwlch y Groes, in a kind of tough guy pilgrimage that ranks your cycling status one whole notch higher. Me, I’m no exception there. Far too many years later, by which time I should really know better, I find myself dueling once again with this great wall of a road.
About once a year I make brave and ride out to tackle the Bwlch, only this year I’d let it be known that I was going to go ride it, and a couple of mates had decided to invite themselves along for the ride. This meant I had to do it come what may. The day we’d planned for this had a near perfect summer weather forecast, but needless to say they screwed up on that one, and it bucketed it down all day long.
Before we’d even blown away the morning cobwebs and reached the foot of the first climb Clive had gone in to full on hammer mode. John and myself just sat back and dodged the spray from his back wheel, in the hope that he’d fry himself by the time the going got seriously tough. The thing about Clive is that he actually likes the rain, which is a characteristic I find distinctly disturbing in anyone without a huge ark. On the other hand I hate riding in the rain, an had decided that if I had to ride in it that this was going to be a day that Clive would not forget, and that may well end his strange enthusiasm for the wet stuff.
The first climb, over Hirnant pass is a beast, which drags on for miles before it suddenly rears right up before you. As the pace ground down with the gradient I rode alongside Clive, then slowly stamped down on the pedals and gritted my teeth. The gap opened, and stayed open. Somehow I clung on and took the first moral honors of the day, before the race continued on down to the shores of Lake Vyrnwy.
These roads are tough, really wild, and extremely light on traffic. Even though it was a Sunday we managed an entire loop of the lake without meeting more than a handful of cars. Vyrnwy has to be one of the prettiest lakes in the whole of Wales, and the lake loop is really a treat to ride. The views here are not at all what you may expect of Wales, with Bavarian looking water towers, a huge stone dam, and a tall tree lined road right round the lake. Not that we saw much of it, in my anti wet rage the ride turned in to a turbo charged half wheeling session.
More grinding and half wheeling took us straight past the sanctuary of the cafe and back to the wide open baron slopes that lead away from the lake and in to the lower splendors of Mid Wales.
With the rain pouring at a constant drenching pace we ground on and on through miles and miles of stunning, but tough, Welsh countryside, electing to keep moving rather than risking a freeze up in a cafe with miles still left to ride.
The pace had dulled some by this stage. Partly this was due to the fact that we were all pretty well stuffed, but more so was the fear that we still had the final ascent of the steep side of Bwlch y Groes to face, and this was coming right at the end of the ride too. The lead in to the climb is quite intimidating; all around you are scarcely high and steep sided green mountains, with just one narrow strip of Tarmac leading right in to them. The mist was low, and the summit’s horrors lay hidden from us, waiting to torture our legs and lungs.
The first few miles are a slow and grinding slog, and you get little time to take in the scenery. By this stage the talking and joking was long gone. Like three wheezy and drawn old men we cranked our way up towards the steepest section of the climb. Would the 25 bottom sprocket be enough to get over the climb ? It was too late to worry about that now, the road swung sharp right and the full ferocity of the climb was unleashed before us. Gripping the bars to knuckle whitening point the pedals are forced around at near stand still speed. The steepness of this is something rarely seen on road, but perhaps the cruelest thing is the way it strings right out, and straight up before you. For what must be the best part of a country mile you can see the road ahead, which is so demoralising. It’s a case of eyes down and simply concentrate of keeping in motion and traction.
After what seemed like an eternity we summited finally the mountain. The cake was just about cooked, and all there was left was to ice it with one of the best descents in Wales. Relief ranked high in our thoughts at that time, but so did a certain sense of achievement. After all, those Russians walked up ! Maybe you’ll only do this ride once but the whole experience of that once will stay with you for a long, long time.