"Oh, cyclocross. It's sort of the mutant love child of road cycling and mountain biking, isn't it..."
The Evans staff at the Gatwick Sportive Cross registration desk are really giving their new event the hard sell.
"I'm more into mountain biking," she continues. "Not downhill though..."
Although she laughs when I ask if I can quote her, I think it's a perfectly valid point: cyclocross is a tricky discipline to pin down, and the 'cross label covers a diverse range of events. Where a typical cyclocross race will see riders rack up multiple laps of muddy turf (or even beach), 'cross sportives incorporate a variety of surfaces, from A roads to freshly ploughed fields, that help keep things interesting.
Sometimes the terrain is completely unrideable. And if you're super lucky, like I was last Sunday, your bike can implode so that your day becomes very interesting indeed.
Gatwick departures
Setting out from Evans' HQ to a bass soundtrack of planes bouncing up and down on Gatwick airport, the Gatwick Sportive Cross course took in tarmacked roads, muddy fields, finely gritted bridleways and stony singletrack. This was all good and as expected. The problem lay in the proportion of each ingredient: attaining the right balance of terrain is crucial in a cyclocross sportive. Too much mud is going to annoy the guys who turn up on semi-slick tyres hoping for a 25km/h average, while too much road will have the full-sus MTB brigade grumbling that they may as well have shaved their legs.
Now, I don't actually travel the country riding sportives with clipboard in hand like some sort of strutting Ofsted inspector in lycra. But if I did, then in this case my verdict would have to be "could do better". The problem was - and I hope this crushing assessment doesn't affect house prices in the Gatwick sportive catchment area - too much tarred road, and not enough off-road.
One important caveat: I should mention, before the Evans massive come after me, that I didn't actually ride the entire course. The reason is that after 13.5km my chain snapped on, ironically, the very first off-road section - an ascent of a short but rutted farm track that came right after a muddy field. It may have been the mud, but probably I was in the wrong gear too: I heard a crunch from below, my cranks suddenly gave way beneath me, and I toppled sideways into a ditch.
I didn't so much mind the fall - a sideways roll is by now my standard method of stopping on a cyclocross bike. It saves no end of wear to the brake pads (in fact, they're likely to outlast me). What did concern me was the sight of my broken chain coiled in the mud next to the bike. With my multitool safely at home where it belongs, I was left with what was effectively an extremely muddy balance bike on which to complete the remaining 35 miles.
My Sportive Walk of Shame
I won't lie, my first thought was to abandon. Especially when a call to each of the two emergency numbers on the route map went unanswered. I had walked back to the main road by this time, where the course rejoined the road sportive, and stopped for a few minutes to study my options. From my map I figured that if I could make my way to a train station there would be time to get home, have a shower, and go out for a proper ride on the road bike.
Where's the nearest station then? Muddy fingers prodding my phone screen. Oh, 5 miles away in Reigate. Cusses. I set off, occasionally mounting the bike where the gradient was amenable and pushing myself along with my feet like an olde-time pavement pirate on a dandy horse.
As I wheeled my bike along the road north a couple of lone sportivistes whizzed past. One of them, a guy on a white Felt F55X (snap, nearly!) wearing a blue howies jersey stopped to check if I was ok.
"Ah, FOOK!" he said when I showed him my chain wrapped like a greasy tree snake around the handlebars. He seemed more upset than I was. "I don't have a spare chain mate, sorry..."
So alone. But after, walking/wheeling a mile or so in the Sunday morning sunshine, I began to have second thoughts. Was it not perhaps tiny bit pathetic to quit a ride, just because of a broken chain? I briefly considered, what would Sven do in this situation? The answer - repair the chain with his bare teeth - was certainly an option to keep in reserve. But as I squinted at the map again another plan came to mind.
If I just retraced my steps, and cut across the course to Outwood and down this back road... it looked like I was in fact only a few miles away from the halfway feed station. And once I got to the feed station, I knew there would be a mechanic waiting with his sweet, sweet arsenal of tools and spares. Put your teeth away Sven, I've got this one covered.
I'm tempted to bore you with details of the long walk to the feed station but suffice to say it took me about 2 hours, during which I took a wrong turn and met two different members of Evans staff on the road, one on a bike and one in a van taking down signs. Each stopped to offer me a lift/help, but neither had a chain tool.
Highlights included this confusing scene:
...and repeated encounters with a small troupe of randonneurs who seemed to be orbiting me in ever-decreasing circles as they searched for a pub in which to have lunch. They were all of a certain age, riding sensible bicycles with spare parts strapped on. I wouldn't be entirely surprised to discover they'd been pedalling the back roads of Surrey since 1997, getting increasingly, but ever so politely, peckish.
One other thing of note: as I trotted through Outwood I got a text from Andy, who was riding the road version of the Gatwick sportive the same day, to say that he had broken a spoke and was awaiting rescue. Somehow that cheered me right up.
The Black Knight
When I finally got to the feed station the mechanic was busy trying to repair a stripped out pedal axle on a shiny black disc-equipped Cannondale Synapse. Unfortunately it was beyond remedy, and the owner was left to wheel off with a cheery "I'll just have to ride on one leg then!" I suppose it was just a flesh wound, as these things go.
My chain problem was an easier fix - even if, as it turned out, the wrench's chain tool was broken. While he hunted for a spare powerlink another cyclist was good enough to loan me his Alien multi-tool. I soon got the offending link - and a couple of extra ones, oops - removed; the mechanic clipped in the powerlink, and I span the drivetrain through the full range of gears with a triumphant bellow.
On the road again
Having wasted half the morning strolling around taking photos of road signs while pushing a crippled bike, the first few km zipping along the course were a true joy. Even a couple of not-as-advertised hills couldn't dampen my good spirits. After a while though, as my knobbly tyres hummed and hopped along the weapons-grade roads that are so bizarrely typical of this wealthy corner of England, I began to wonder about the lack of mud and stuff.
I didn't like to make a fuss - off-road frolics had already killed my bike once today, and the relatively easy going was good for morale and average speed. But I'd ridden a solid 15km on the main road: wasn't this suppose to be a cyclocross sportive?
Bang on cue, an off-road section appeared - so unexpectedly that I rode straight past the turn off and had to circle back. It was on the fringes of East Grinstead - a town I will always fondly associate with yurts. Here the route cut back west towards Three Bridges on a nice wide, flat gravel path where the main obstacle was dog walkers. After the challenge of the muddy fields and ditches I was relieved to crunch along a couple of relatively easy sections with a bit of road in between.
The final 6km back to base were back on the road, taking in the suburban delights of Copthorne and Shipley Bridge before crossing the M23 and back to Evans HQ. I caught up with a familiar-looking blue howies jersey about two miles from the finish - it was my non-identical Felt twin, who had stopped hours earlier to offer sweary condolences. We rode to the finish together and he told me that the long course had been diverted because of a fallen rider, so he had followed the road route instead.
At the finish line I asked the lady in charge of the stopwatch that my time be stricken from the records. I think she will probably have put it down as 'short route', meaning well, but I haven't checked as I don't expect to be pleasantly surprised by my official time.
Finally, I traipsed into HQ where, like any conscientious Ofsted inspector, I undertook a quick survey of the Evans staff toilets. I spotted this notice:
...worth bearing in mind if anyone's considering a job in Gatwick.
I hovered around for a bit debating whether to try to ride home. Some of the Evans crew (who were all fantastic) even got me the Wi-fi password and helped me work out where I could join the Downslink. But in the end, with the time pushing 3pm, I settled for a meander around the outskirts of Crawley - including a KOM attempt on a footbridge over the A23 at Ifield roundabout - before winding up at Gatwick for a slightly self-conscious stroll, complete with filthy bike and kit, through Terminal 1 to the train station.
Good, with room for improvement
In conclusion, the Evans Gatwick Cross sportive is a decent day out - at least, as far as I can tell from the parts I actually rode. Hardcore mud fiends may however be left disappointed by the large proportion of tarmac on the menu. If you like it dirty, you're better off seeking out a pure MTB sportive. There are loads to choose from, Evans' own Ride It MTB events or the excellent Wiggle series are a good starting point.
On the other hand, my friend in the howies jersey did complain that the muddy parts were too muddy; and while portage is part of the deal I know what he meant. I wasn't happy at having to wade uphill through a short section of calf-deep muck shortly before my chain broke.
Too muddy, too rocky, too roady...which is it? You'll never please everyone. Poor old cyclocross. It's not easy being a mutant love child.
SPORTIVE.COM RATING: 74.302%
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