Catford Hill Climb Continued

The tarmac on Yorks Hill hardly ever sees the sun, buried as it is between towering trees whose branches intertwine to form a permanent canopy. On wet days, the surface can be treacherous: running water from nearby fields; damp leaves; clumps of mud and gravel in the centre of the road.

But as we made our way through the Kent countryside on race morning, the sky was a deep clear blue, the roads were dry and the North Downs were at their most beautiful. The elements were giving me no excuses.

The car park at the top of the hill was like stepping back several decades to the heyday of British club cycling: row upon row of bikes, modern carbon leaning against well-loved classic steel; the bright sponsored jerseys of the elite teams mixing with the familiar colours and evocative names of local clubs: the Norwood Paragon; Sydenham Wheelers; Kingston Phoenix; De Laune CC; the Bec; the San Fairy Ann (their name derived from wartime servicemen’s bastardisation of the French “Ce ne fait rien”) and the 34th Nomads.

The signing-in tent was manned by an impossibly old gent in faded gold and claret – the Catford colours.

Grasping my arm with a shaky hand, he looked into my eyes and smiled in the way locals do in horror films, when directing strangers to the Count’s castle.

“Ooh,” he said, with undisguised glee “you’ll be sorry you came”.

I already was. Number pinned on my back; I half-heartedly warmed up on some borrowed rollers before gingerly freewheeling down the hill to the start line.

An exceptionally tall and skinny rider from the Rapha Condor team was lined up before me, a small and fiercely fit-looking young woman from the equally serious agiskoviner.com outfit behind. I was just starting to worry about the very real possibility of being caught and passed – true humiliation on such a short course, when my number was called and a sturdy bloke grabbed my handlebars and seatpost, holding the bike upright, allowing me to click into the pedals.

“Rider number 19….30 seconds….”

I took several long, deep breaths as the starter continued in his flat, emotionless voice.

“Three, two, one…off”

When I was training to run the London Marathon, I read an article about how the body adapts to sudden, unaccustomed physical effort. Since Neanderthal times, it said, the body has been wired to conserve energy for truly vital activities, and protect ourselves from our own stupidity. Extreme effort should be reserved for those fight or flight emergencies – wrestling with bears or fleeing sabre-toothed tigers; anything else was a frittering of resources. So when modern man slipped on his trainers for a gentle jog around the park, primeval survival instincts would come into play. The legs and lungs would send warning messages to the brain urging it to put a stop to this pointless effort; the brain itself would begin its own spoiling campaign – filling with images of the warm bed just left, or the cosy pub just passed. If, after twenty minutes or so, you still hadn’t done the sensible thing and stopped – then the body would reluctantly swing into help mode: releasing endorphins to dull the pain and raise the spirits; pumping extra blood and oxygen to where they were most needed. This, the article claimed, was why the first twenty minutes of any hard physical activity always felt awful, and explained the well-known phenomenon of “second wind”.

One minute into the hill climb and I was firmly stuck in caveman territory. I knew I was going to stop and abandon; the only questions were where and when. Despite the absurdly low gear, my legs were burning and refusing to obey orders from my brain which was in any case fighting its own campaign to convince me of my stupidity.

On the first steep stretch of the hill there were just a handful of spectators – including a small girl and her mother – presumably dragged out to watch Dad make a fool of himself – shouting encouragement as I weaved past. No matter how tempting it was, I told myself, I couldn’t give up there: the little girl would probably think it was something to do with her shouting; she’d be upset – possibly for life. I would wind myself round the next bend, out of their sight, before climbing off.

Round the next bend stood another woman who yelled me on, then yelped as I lurched involuntarily towards her.

“Go on mate, keep it together – don’t lose it now” came an unseen voice from the shadows at the side of the course.

Another couple of yards and that would be it, I could just give up and slink over the line on foot; perhaps I could feign some mechanical problem: a foot pulled out of a pedal, a slipping seat post – anything that would end this horrible, grinding pain.

I looked ahead and saw the road, steepening yet again, packed with people – seemingly impassable – blue sky behind them. Somewhere in my consciousness I registered that this must be near the end.

I have seen countless mountain stages of the Tour De France on TV – the way the spectators form a screaming wall across the road, only parting at the last minute as the police motorbikes sweep through, clearing a narrow route for the riders and closing in behind them as they pass. I’d always thought how distracting it must be for the riders, how infuriating it must be to be pursued by some gurning clown in a costume, to wonder whether those idiots will really get out of the way.

Based on my Yorks Hill experience – it doesn’t make the slightest difference. I put my head down and aimed straight at the crowd; I was faintly aware of shouting, cheering, clapping and chants of “Up…up…up”, but had no concept of who was making the noise or what was going on around me. Before the race, I had fondly imagined that I might crest the hill and see my family at the side of the course – cheering me on. In reality, the baby Jesus and Three Wise Men could have set up a stall right in front of me and I would have been oblivious.

The hill finally flattened off, a white line passed underneath my front wheel and I coasted to an unsteady stop by the entrance to the car park.

I’d finished. A spectacularly slow time, but at least I hadn't given up. Unsure whether I should smile or cry, and uncertain whether I had the strength for either, I leaned forward across the handlebars and closed my eyes.

I became aware of two, interconnected, things – a sharp, burning pain in my chest every time I breathed in; and the fact that I was emitting extraordinary, hoarse grunts, like a Dutch porn star warming up for the money shot.

Never again, I told myself, would I do anything so stupid. Never again would I put myself through such unnecessary pain and distress. I would be happy doing what normal people do -- riding to work and occasional weekend outings; the fitness spins round Richmond Park, the odd long ride through the countryside – but nothing that would expose me to the humiliation and suffering of a competitive cycling event.

By that evening, the pain in my lungs was so bad I could barely speak a sentence without coughing, and I’d sent off my application form for Paris-Roubaix.

How did we get here again?

So, to recap: a careless remark to my neighbour after the relatively gentle 56 miles between London and Brighton and it was all decided.

Less than 18 months after a life-threatening illness which had left me unable to walk more than a few steps, I was going to ride one of the world’s hardest bike events. On a training regime that, until now, consisted entirely of commuting through London traffic and a weekly, half-hearted spin round Richmond Park.

While it was hardly Lance Armstrong rising from his cancer ward to conquer the Tour de France, some training was clearly in order. And the only worthwhile training is specific training –something which would prepare me for a long, flat endurance event in the company of thousands of other riders over cobbled roads.

So I entered the Catford Hill Climb.

The Catford Hill Climb likes to bill itself as the world’s oldest bike race which, with some qualifications, is true. Strictly, it’s the competitive cycling event which has been run uninterrupted for the most years – but that wouldn’t look quite as snappy on the posters.

It’s organised by the Catford CC, one of England’s oldest cycling clubs and is held each year on the North Downs of Kent. “The Catford” as they are known, were formed in 1886 and, a year later, came up with the bright idea of staging a hill climbing competition near Westerham. Given the weight of Victorian bikes (at least 35lbs) and the rudimentary gearing, it was a miracle anyone got to the top at all. As it was, barely half of the 24 starters survived the course; but the event was clearly judged a success because it’s been an annual fixture ever since, on a variety of increasingly unpleasant inclines.

Since 1939, the Catford have settled on Yorks Hill, near Sevenoaks, which starts off innocuously enough before rearing up to a vicious 1-in-4 before the finish line. The course is around 700 yards long and the record stands at a shade over 1-minute 47seconds.

I still don’t understand the thought process which led me to think that this would in any way contribute to my being able to ride from Paris to Roubaix, but it was the only event I could contemplate entering at that stage. Yes, I was a couple of stone overweight; yes, I was a rubbish climber, but at least the agony would be over in a few minutes.

How wrong I was.