Well, that was ridiculous. I've seldom felt so slow after a bike ride - but, in hindsight, there were some clues that Graean Cymru was not a typical sportive.
The first clue was rolling up to my start pen past the likes of Ben and Connor Swift (INEOS Grenadiers) wrapped in foil blankets and looking like the world's leanest Sunday roasts. They were racing in the elite category, with qualification for the UCI Gravel Worlds at stake.
This prize was, in fact, on offer for all of us: Graean Cymru, of which this was the debut edition, is one of two UK qualifying events (the other being The Gralloch in Scotland) for the UCI Gravel World Championships. As such, it sees riders race in categories: at the pointy end are the elite, stacked with pro cyclists, followed by amateurs in age groups spanning 5-year brackets.
The top 25% of finishers in each category would qualify for the finals in Flanders a couple of weeks later on 6 October.
I was aware of all this of course, but hadn't come with the intention of qualifying for anything. It says something, perhaps, of the low bar I set myself, but my usual pre-event aim is to get to the correct venue on the right day before they've cleared away the start arch.
I don't mind setting out last because it means I can sometimes overtake a few stragglers, mainly people with punctures; this sense of achievement serves in lieu of actual nourishment because all the feed stations are ransacked bare by the time I roll in.
Stretch goals include not falling off or requiring the services of an ambulance to get home, and recouping the entry fee by collecting stray energy gels and bidons from off the course.
I don't like to boast, but I'd say as often as 7 times out of 10 I'm able to meet most of those goals.
Good luck with that I thought, naively assuming he was an outlier; it somehow didn't dawn on me that for 95% of the quietly focused cyclists around me this was serious business. I'm so used to sportives that I didn't recognise a race starting right under my nose.
Of course, it didn't take long to realise once the flag dropped: the entirety of my group, all 48 of them, shot off like a rocket - leaving me fumbling to put away my phone and clip in.
I'd love to say that's what happened, but the truth is I didn't see those guys again. I managed to catch onto the tail end of a few stragglers as the course headed north along the shores of the lake, but barely 10 minutes in there was an ominous rumble of an approaching train from behind and the next age group, the 50-54, steamed past me at pace. We hadn't even hit the proper gravel yet!
By this point I realised I was in for a kicking, but what can you do. I was banking on somewhere between 5-6 hours in the saddle and didn't want to blow up too soon, so continued to pace myself at what I hoped was a sustainable effort.
I'd done a course recce on the Monday, in very different weather conditions - it was a beautiful, sunny autumn day - but typically had managed to take a wrong turn so a good portion of the forest section of the course was new to me.
Conditions on race day were grim and getting worse: a mist hung over the lake and the woods and grey skies threatened rain; a yellow weather warning was in place, with a downpour set to arrive around 1pm.
For now it was still dry, and I enjoyed the new sections of course - well, except for one fast stretch where two deep channels had been gouged into the gravel road (by the tyres of lumber trucks I guess) which made the rapid descent a little nerve-wracking; hit the sides of the rut and you and your bike were likely to go cartwheeling off into the trees at high speed.
I was grateful to be riding mostly solo at this point rather than in the cut and thrust of a racing group. Still, as the two hour point passed the novelty of the lonesome woods wore off; the occasional sighting of marshalls along the course turned out to be a high point, they cheered us past with real enthusiasm, some with Scouse accents which is always a treat.
Also a treat: the 5km to go sign. This popped up a little earlier than expected, in fact 2-3km early, but I wasn't going to argue. I fell in with a couple of riders here, one of them spotted my jersey and asked "Do you ride for EF?"
Biting back the sarcastic reply that was forming, I replied that I just liked the jersey and was a fan of Lachlan Morton.
"You know Ben Healy?" the chap continued, "I used to be his DS (directeur sportif). Team Zappi."
Ben Healy is a rising star at EF Pro Cycling and reigning Irish national champion; I recalled hearing he was from Birmingham but assumed at least one of his parents was Irish?
"His grandparents are Irish," corrected my new friend; "I don't think Ben could name you a single town in Ireland!"
"We'll take him," I answered back, remembering the Irish soccer teams of the 90s and our heroes, Charlton, Cascarino, Houghton... Irish sports can't afford to be too fussy when it comes to selecting from the diaspora. If only Grealish and Rice had stayed in green the current team might have half a chance...
The former Zappi DS dropped back on a draggy climb leaving me alone again. As I finally reached the course split near the lake's edge, I was met by a wild-eyed bunch of racers already launching back into the woods for the second lap. I tried to do the maths, but failed: they must have already completed the lake loop on their second lap, putting them nearly an hour ahead of me?
Mind thoroughly boggled, I swung a right onto the finishing straight and trundled over the line; one more lap to go.
I'd passed the two feed stations on the first lap without pausing, but when the first stop appeared again after 60km I pulled over to refill my water bottle. In fact it was still nearly full - I'd barely taken a drink, probably a mistake despite it being a cool day - but I tipped in a sachet of hydration powder, topped up and rolled out again.
Not long out of the stop, and still heading north on the shores of the reservoir I was passed by a couple of guys, one riding a familiar looking celeste Bianchi Impulso - it was Stuart!
I met Stuart earlier this year when he bought the Bianchi Impulso that I'd reviewed here. While handing over the bike I Jedi mind-tricked him into going to Gravel Rocks and writing a report for us.
> Ride report: Gravel Rocks 2024 >
I knew Stuart was riding Graean Cymru, and we'd had a brief chat before the start but I was delighted to see him now. Anticipating a bit of company for the next few km, I caught up to him and his pal. We exchanged notes and he told me that a big bunch from his start group had taken a wrong turn not long out of the start gates; they'd been forced to retrace to get back on course and had lost a few minutes.
Stuart seemed in good spirits and full of energy, but confessed he was feeling cramp which was a bit of a worry. As we reached the section at the top of the lake where the path narrows into a singletrack climb, I entered the climb first and soon lost sight of the two over my shoulder in the mist. It later turned out the cramp had kicked in badly and Stuart had abandoned after completing the second loop of the lake.
I trundled on oblivious, narrowly avoiding a tumble on the slippy, rollercoaster section of singletrack at the top of the lake. I'd spotted this as a potential hazard on my recce, and sure enough had seen a couple of riders picking themselves up out of the undergrowth after overshooting a turn on the first lap, but it still very nearly got me; the bike went sideways but i managed to kill my speed and just about keep upright.
Other riders were few and far between as I rolled down the east shore of the lake and turned uphill into the woods for the second time. The rain started to fall, right on cue, but I wasn't too concerned: I was past the halfway point, and another 90 minutes or so seemed manageable.
Progress wise, although near the back of the pack I was doing better than I'd thought: the first lap had been ticked off in something like 2hrs 19, which was encouraging given I'd anticipated 6 hours after my recce. I revised my goal to a sub 5hr finish time, and set alarms in my head for the three remaining hazardous sections: the ruts of doom; the slippery singletrack onto the bridge; and the long muddy singletrack climb.
Somewhere after the ruts of doom (safely negotiated, albeit probably the only person to use their brakes more than pedals on this descent) I fell in with a fellow rider sporting a grey number plate denoting the 19-34 category: a rare sight indeed.
We got chatting, he introduced himself as Julian and his bike, Kevin (a very nice steel Curve). He'd warmed up for Graean Cymru by tackling the Badger Divide the previous weekend, "maybe not the best preparation" he admitted, but it sounded like a worthwhile mission all the same.
The day by now had settled into what I remarked to my young comrade was "ambush weather"; the forest was shrouded in mist, rain dripping from the leaves, visibility reduced to a handful of metres and it was easy to imagine a shivering Roman cohort peering into the murky woods where the woad-smeared natives were gathering to attack.
Attacking was far from either of our minds as we rolled along together, and although fatigue and, possibly, the increasingly gruelling conditions meant the second lap passed some 20 minutes slower than the first, it seemed quicker thanks to the company.
At last the final climb was done and, alongside another Irish chap (at least, he was wearing a Galibier jersey which is often a clue), we picked up the pace on the shores of the reservoir and sprinted for the finish line.
Just a few hardy staff were on hand, wooden finishers' medals were slung over our heads and I grabbed a quick photo with Julian before retreating back to the visitor centre HQ.
But regret at what; that I hadn't qualified? I'd never expected to, so it wasn't quite that - but perhaps a sense of regret at not having at least given it a decent shot.
I had managed to get around the course in under 5 hours, my slightly arbitrary target made up on the fly; and realistically, I don't think I could have done it any faster even if I'd gone out all guns blazing from the start. But still there was a niggling sense that I'd somehow not quite done the occasion justice. As I realised too late, this really is not a sportive. I'd turned up to a race; maybe I should've at least tried, just this once, to, you know... race?
All these thoughts would have time to percolate, my more immediate concern was to clean some of the accrued mud of my bike, clothes and self before getting back into the van for the five hour "recovery drive" down to Brighton that my DS, aka wife, had prescribed.
At a small sink in the men's toilets I managed to sluice away the worst of the mud off my face and legs, at the price of filthy water filling my socks and shoes. Shivering in the cold I began the trudge back to the van before realising I'd left my bag under a gazebo; I collected it and trudged off again, only to realise I'd forgotten something else - my bike, leaning against a wall of the visitor centre being slowly cleaned/rusted by the rain.
It was a good 10-15 minutes walk back to where I'd parked in a layby off the road and when I got to the van my fingers were so numb with cold I could barely open the doors or strip off my soaked kit to change. If only I'd brought a lighter, I mused bitterly, I could have burnt my wooden medal to stay warm...
Two weeks later, the dust has settled and I've regained enough feeling in my toes to type out this report: so what's the verdict on Graean Cymru, the UK's newest gravel race?
I'm going to call it a race because that's really what it is: if you want a sportive among laidback company look to Glorious Gravel's wide selection of other excellent events, including North Wales Gravel X which offers a taster of the Graean Cymru course although by no means the full thing.
If however you dream of glory and want to pit yourself against some of country's fittest and fastest gravel riders on a high-speed romp through a 95% gravel wonderland then look no further: Graean Cymru is it.
This was a strong first edition, no doubt a few changes will be implemented for next year - a little more could be done with the finishers village I feel, although possibly it was the weather that dampened enthusiasm to hang about on this occasion - but the organisation and course itself, including marshalling and signage, were spot on.
I think I will be back; at some point I like to imagine that, with enough coaching and training - and possibly a bit of tampering with my birth certificate, and the installation of a discreet seat-tube mounted motor - I might be in with a shout of scraping qualification.
Or maybe not... a perusal of the results reveals that not only was I nearly an hour shy off qualifying in my own age group, my time of 4:56:39 would not have qualified me in any age group, including the 65-69yr category (I'd have come fourth out of five finishers, missing out on a podium by just under a minute). The calibre of entrant was consistently high across the board, in fact the top 3 in the 40-44 age group were faster than the top 3 in the 19-34 category.
Proof, if needed, that some of us "older guys" still have it. Only the elites were truly a class apart, with cousins Connor and Ben Swift's winning time of 3:20:51 some 25 minutes faster than the speediest amateurs. The women's field was half decent too, with Brighton's Joss Lowden (former women's hour record holder) winning in a time of 4:01.
My best bet at this point would appear to be stacking the field with approx 160 ringers and instructing them to ride verrrry slowly, and stop for a few tins of lager halfway to be on the safe side. We're talking in the region of £10,000 in entry fees here, not to mention the cost of the bribes and beers - I mean by all means get in touch if you'd like to volunteer, but it might be easier, after all, to renew the Zwift subscription and double down on the training plan.
You may, like me, be a casual sportive rider, but it doesn't hurt to have a goal in life and Graean Cymru is an excellent crucible in which to test your mettle. The course is lovely, and it's open year round: it's well worth paying a visit to Llyn Brenig on a sunny weekend for a lap or two in your own time.
But if you have even the faintest hint of competitive spirit, I'd equally recommend signing up for the event next year. You could qualify for the world championships, or you may just be humiliated by an elite cadre of geriatric whippets for the reward of a wooden medal with a side helping of hypothermia.
Either way, it beats being ambushed by druids and thrashed with sprigs of mistletoe under an oak tree, no? Just about. Probably...
Graean Cymru is set to return in 2025. Find out more and enter at gloriousgravel.com.
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