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Blog 1- 'Cobbled Together'

francisschofield250

Updated: Feb 7, 2022

‘Cobbled together’

The fun of crazy routes, impromptu visits, torrential rain and working our way through a pandemic on two wheels.

First written in Oct 2021














Yorkshire… What really is it? Geographically, it consists of four counties named after York, which isn’t even the biggest city here in terms of population or size! It’s a strange place in the world, one that is famous for Wensleydale cheese, black pudding and Yorkshire puddings, all of which are items of food. Amusingly the one that would appear anywhere close to a dessert menu is the cheese more so than the ‘puddings’; a great example of how Yorkshire almost has its own, foreign language quirks, with the terms “Ey ‘op”, “Barm” and “n’owt” being some of my favourites. (Yes, I’m a Southerner and I’m still amused by these things.) There’s even a ‘New’ version of York over in the USA, which seems to say a lot about the heritage of our strange little city and region of the country.


Sure, our ancient walled city may not be large in number or full of skyscrapers, but that’s part of the beauty of it. It’s… Subtle. Small and quiet, but quaint. Its real history and beauty is found hidden through small alleyways and lanes. The same goes with the countryside of Yorkshire, far more beautiful than the overcrowded Central Park or the busy roads down South where I live. Yorkshire is a cyclist’s dream- no wonder the Tour de France and 2019 Road World Championships were held here, weaving through the Dales between Harrogate, Leeds, York and Sheffield.


The Tour de France and World Champs routes were probably the best possible for those races- from the three unexpectedly tough climbs in the Dales (amusingly called ‘Cote de Cray, Buttertubs and Grinton’ in the Tour de France magazine) to the finish rolling into and around Harrogate. Stage 2 of the tour, from here in York to Sheffield where Vincenzo Nibali swooped into town to claim the yellow jersey, was a genius route with a plethora of auspicious climbs.


Sure, these are excellent routes and rides, but they are limited by the roads they can take- fitting 184 riders and a full convoy on them is difficult enough, let alone resurfacing as little as possible and marshalling the technical descents and town centres. But what if these races could take the roads less travelled; the little lanes, alleys and hidden historic gems? Where would they go and what would they offer up to riders?

This is what I literally and figuratively set out to explore earlier this Summer, by riding solo from Leeds to Southport, firstly to visit my Grandma who hadn’t seen for well over a year, but secondly (or subconsciously ‘firstly’, knowing me...) to enjoy a nice, tough day out on the bike.


I’d decided to skip the flat and dull 2 hour ride into Leeds by taking the train, which was probably a good move as, come the day, it pissed it down like it does in Hollywood films set in the UK. I still got soggy on the 15 minute ride to York station though and the breezy train chilled me before I even set off.

^Good old rainy Leeds, with its mix of beautifully awesome and blatantly awful architecture…


The route I had planned from there, however, was one that many people would deem insane, including myself in hindsight… After searching Strava, Simon Warren’s excellent ‘100 climbs’ list and various online forums, I discovered an interesting route that uses many roads along the way, the ‘Ronde van Calderdale’. The fact that it uses the Flemish word ‘Ronde’, meaning ‘Tour’ in its title suggests that it is a ride worthy of Belgian classic status. Was this true, or was it just as gimmicky as the ‘de’ in the official race title of the ‘Tour de Yorkshire’? Short answer: it wasn’t, because many of the killer climbs were seriously cobbled and seriously steep. And amusingly, the Tour de Yorkshire had used some of them before!

But to merely reach the bases of these climbs, I had to get out of Leeds. Navigating the traffic is bad enough, but on a rainy morning it was even worse. And while Leeds isn’t as hilly as a city like Sheffield, the escape route was rolling, with a long series of ramps in the first 5 miles. Sure, this warmed me up quite nicely and got me into a good rhythm, but when I was planning the route this opening segment looked like a blip compared to the horrible hills ahead, which allowed some doubt to set in from the get go. The elevation profile looked like the chart of UK covid cases; uncertain at the start, with some terrifying peaks bound to appear later on. When this doubt and anxiety encroaches me so early on into a ride, it’s likely to stay and make the whole thing a feat of suffering, but to me that is also part of why I ride my bike. To find my limits, to suffer discomfort. As long as it doesn’t kill me, it will simply make me stronger… Right?


14 miles into an already hilly ride, and it was at this point that I reached the first major climb of the day, which was theoretically the hardest; the infamous Lee Lane, dubbed the ‘Shibden Wall’. In honesty, it isn’t really infamous until you have seen and ridden it for yourself. The ‘wall’ is a small, little road hidden in the Shibden valley, which is more infamous for being the residence of the first lesbian diatrist Anne Lister, a modern day LGBTQ+ icon. The valley itself feels like some sort of gladiator ring, with deep and dark forests lining its steep edges and hiding its secrets from the city of Halifax which lies at its opening. Not even being able to see the road from the other side of the valley is daunting and leaves you uncertain of the horrors that lie ahead- a 900m long stretch of road that averages a whopping 15% gradient, including the shallower lower section.


The climb starts with a strangely smooth ramp of tarmac off to the left of a small, hidden taphouse, which slowly turns over a bridge and right into the trees. The whole time the gradient gets slightly shallower, lulling you into a false sense of security. 900m isn’t that far, right? But as the road kinks left, you begin to see what lies ahead.

A quick google search provides the definition of a wall as “a continuous vertical brick or stone structure that encloses or divides an area of land”, and this ‘wall’ is no exception. Here you see a stretch of massive, uneven cobbles that rise almost vertically, dividing the land that lies between it. This road was not built of smooth tarmac from large, industrial machines, but built centuries ago by many laborious hands for horses and carriages. Its exact history is quite hidden and unknown, like the road itself, but it definitely wasn’t designed with bicycles and motor vehicles in mind. Even in 2017 during the Tour de Yorkshire a convoy motorbike stalled and toppled around the steepest hairpin!

^The infamous 'Shibden Wall'. This is the ‘easiest’ cobbled section right at the top.


Thankfully though, I did not stop going up it even in the wet, with my thin tyres somehow gaining traction on the wide cobbles up the climb. Getting it over and done with this early in the route was a double edged sword; in one way, it meant that the worst was supposedly over and that I was on track to do well, but in another way it drained my legs early on during a day where I’d need them to the very end. Either way, reaching the top of the climb and seeing the cobbles stretch out below me was instantly satisfying. To escape the gloomy amphitheatre of the valley and rise to the top of the wall felt like poetry in motion; while the Shibden wall may not have been the hardest climb I’ve ever done, it was certainly one of the most satisfying to complete.


And as if cobbles uphill are tough, they are also tough going downhill on wet carbon rim brakes, which just had to be the case heading down into Halifax… I should’ve planned my route a tad better!

Upon leaving Halifax, a town which seemed like a sombre industrial spectre of centuries past, I was granted a beautiful view of the largely untouched and natural Calderdale valley which lay ahead. Clouds rolled over the tops of the barren hills and mist seeped through the valley itself. It was hardly nice and sunny but beautiful nonetheless and the last bit of urban space before Burnley, another dull, industrial outlier of a town 20 miles away.

Upon descending the twisty ‘Halifax Lane’ (with my brake pads breaking more so than braking), I reached the hamlet of Luddenden, also home to a horrible cobbled climb named ‘Old Lane’ (which, like the ‘Shibden Wall’, was also true to its name). It lasts a mere 200m. Normally I’d be laughing at a 200m long climb, but this one was special and possibly one of the most unique climbs I’ve ever tackled as it averages a 22% gradient. 22% is tough enough over 50m, let alone for 200 cobbled metres, and these cobbles were leafy, mossy, muddy and therefore ridiculously slippery. This time I wasn’t really disheartened in only being able to make it half way before getting off due to my tyres losing traction on the cobbles, but I’d be back and conquer it one day.

^The point of defeat on Old Lane. Those cobbles aren’t half mucky!!! Look at the fence over the wall for perspective of steepness.



After slowly walking (or rather crawling) to the top of Old Lane, I reached the nicer main road, which was still a decent climb and felt like an alpine pass weaving its way through the endless grey rain clouds. Another sketchy and greasy descent into Hebden Bridge and I arrived at my next climb en route, Horsehold Lane. It’s just a one way dead end farm road really, but it’s quite a deceiving ascent. Anticipating its cobbles I was afraid of the top end of the climb, but the lower slopes were the worst. Crossing over the river and the main road and you reach another river, this time on the steep tarmac. The excellent surface would be a blessing in the summer, but the steep slippery starting slopes suddenly sapped me of my strength. The upper cobbles seemed flat in relation and were quite fun to ride at speed, like a Belgian farm track at altitude. The steep lower section also made for a horrible descent, too, which didn’t help!


Anyhow, by this point I pulled over in Hebden Bridge and had some lunch in a tearoom, preparing myself for the second half of the ride. Then I saw on my GPS that I’d only covered 28 miles, with 55 left to go… Uh oh.


Thus, with a full jacket potato in my belly, I left the sweet warmth of the cafe and continued on my quest. I would escape town via another obstacle; the ‘Mytholm Steeps’. Yet again, a road with a clue in the name. The twisting hairpin bends, which gradually steepened past a church and through a forest, reminded me of the bergs of Belgium and also reminded me of my lunch which was lurking within my bloated stomach. A tough climb, but the scenery was so epic in the shady woodland that I was motivated to continue onwards and upwards.

The climb began to plateau, rising gently over a few miles, where I saw very little below me but great wind turbines and sheep fields across the moor. The rain was starting to really get to me, but after pulling over, eating some snacks and conversing with some sheep, I felt a little more comfortable in my growing insanity.

^Misty wind farms and sheep blending into the clouds…

The descent towards Burnley was a fast and intense one and probably the only rewarding section of road over the course of the day, but cycling through the town in search of a nice coffee house proved feeble. The streets were strangely silent and I ultimately settled for a small petrol station for a cup which tasted more like petrol than coffee… But hey, it’s fuel, and it would keep me going.


After calling and updating my Mum, saying I had just 30 miles to go, I continued to ride. And this is where things began to turn South… Up North. The hills of Blackburn kicked up and made my body realise how little remaining strength it had, even with a caffeine hit that I’d hoped would get me in a rhythm. These climbs were only shallow drags, but they seemed to last forever and they were not what I was expecting. Furthermore, the cold had intensified and the rain had only gotten harder. I became much colder upon each descent and the rain had soaked through to my core. Did I even need water in my bottles now?


Escaping from Blackburn (and I mean escaping), I knew I had 20 miles of flat roads ahead to the West coast of the country, but the heavy traffic and feisty coastal crosswinds would create even more havok. My left leg was cramping up badly (which has only happened to me before during serious road races) and I just wanted to push on at a fast pace to get to the finish and have a nice hot bath and lots of food. But then the tether snapped, when I punctured a mere 5 miles from the end on a main road. This must have been a message from the devil of cycling himself, for I very rarely get a flat anyway being a light rider on decent tyres. So much for my new tubeless setup, which I’ve recently binned! I dived under the cover of a garden centre and got to work on the repair, which my shivering hands barely managed to complete before closing time.


As I got towards town, the final stretch approached, with a long left hander slinging you onto the seafront through the marshland and up to the derelict amusement mile. The road was empty and the weather was still disgusting, yet at this moment I felt like I’d reached the Champs- Elysees of my own Tour de Yorkshire, feeling a moment of brief ecstasy, flinging my arms up beneath the rafters of the pier; a natural finishing line.


What I thought would be an 82 mile ride for fun turned out to have really pushed me to my physical and mental limits, which at the time was not fun at all. It remains, in my opinion, my hardest ride to date, even though I’ve done longer and hillier rides. But in hindsight, even though I got mild hypothermia and a stomach bug that lasted the next 10 days, I now know that whenever I’m suffering at mile 50 on a flat ride, I can remember this ride and know that I can push on. I wasn’t killed, I was simply made stronger. Yorkshire can offer great beauty, amazing riding and great landscapes, yet it can also pin you to an industrial concrete wall, drown you in water and kick your legs for 5 hours too. And that’s why I love this place.

^“Super, trooper, cobbles gonna blind me”. ABBA were clearly singing about this awful road, right? The top of Trooper Lane in Halifax, probably the hardest climb overall in the area. If you’re ever there, give it a try. One for the way back in the dry.


So, what do you think is special about Yorkshire? What bonkers riding did you get up to during the pandemic? Which beautiful places have you explored within it and which rides do you think have really pushed you? Let me know! Send me a message through my socials/email or leave a comment on this blog :)

-F


Strava for this ride: https://www.strava.com/activities/5334588546

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