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Long Tour of Bradwell

PETER STOBBS 16 AUG 2012

The alarm clock is telling me it’s 5.50am and time for breakfast. I’m picking Tony up at 6.30am but that’s okay ’cos all my stuff is ready. We’re away on time and with the satnav on we have posh woman giving us directions. Today will be interesting for me as it’s my first race since the Lakeland 100 blowout a fortnight ago and as it’s going to be hot I’ll be drinking as much as possible, and interesting for Tony as it’s 2 weeks since his fortnight of all inclusive holiday in Cyprus.

All goes well on the journey, save for posh woman taking us on a detour through a housing estate, and we make good time. Bradwell is a nice little Derbyshire village and at 8.00am there ain’t much going on. We notice numerous references to well dressing and I recall a trip hereabouts with school, aged 10, and learning about this and its relation to the great plague.

By 8.30 we are registered and have our maps and the dibbers that will evidence our visits to the 16 checkpoints en route. The journey through the usual clothing and kit dilemmas is shorter than usual and I am reassured to see that the guy next to us, who will probably win this race, has changed his shirt 3 times. The start is on a lane about quarter of a mile up the road and we are encouraged to make our way there. Everyone is in good spirits and acknowledging the usual suspects that these events attract. Despite earlier toileting I can’t decide whether I need to go again. It’s too late anyway.

We are counted down and off we go; 33 miles of glorious Derbyshire countryside ahead of us. It’s overcast for which we are thankful, but warm all the same. About 1.5k in the decision on toileting is made for me and I lose ground to half the field. Great! Soon we are on the tops with some grand views and tracks take us to a nice grassy downhill leading into Cave Dale, which we discover is both scenic and lethal, being comprised of increasingly steep, wet limestone. It’s the sort of place one could imagine being ambushed by Indians (Native Americans if you prefer). Through Castleton we enjoy a gradual climb for a couple of k before hitting the first big climb. At the top I note from the map that we will have to revisit this summit ridge again in a short while. Maybe this route planner has the same sick sense of humour as whoever thought up the full tour. Nice descending and general flat stuff delivers Edale to us, which heralds the start of big climb number 2. This is my first visit to Kinder Scout and the visibility is decidedly iffy. Fortunately I am latched onto a Dark Peak guy who should know this place like the back of his hand. We’re looking for a checkpoint on the Druid’s Stone, which seems to involve some off-piste heather bashing. The occasional runner coming the other way indicates that we are either on course or we are lost and have stumbled into another event. After the stone we backtrack and vertical heather leads to a deliciously steep and long grassy decent. Good job it’s not wet as I’m racing in slicks today.

Across the valley floor we are treated to a climb back up to that there ridge and I sense that my Dark Peak friend is holding back a bit so it’s time to part company. Approaching the summit I catch Helen Skelton and chum. Helen is a contender for first lady. There’s also a guy from the Royal Dragoon Guards and a couple of others and for the next 4k or so we overtake one another. At the little hamlet of Aston on the outskirts of Hope I recognise the terrain from an adventure race I did with Molly about 4 years ago. An old lady told me off for going too fast on my bike here! Thankfully more steep climbing provides an excuse to walk and at the crest we contour before dropping down through trees to Ladybower Res. A disused railway line leads us South to Bamford where quaint stepping stoney board walky things lead us past bemused drinkers to a steep rough track suited only to pack mules or mountain goats. Definitely a place to kill oneself on a bike; not that I’ve been looking for such a place you understand.

A fairly flattish lane leads pleasingly to Stanage Edge, the scene of several crimes in my climbing past. How nice to visit and not have the car broken into. It’s a good job that Helen is here and knows the event as this prevent me and another missing a checkpoint which is tucked away. Maybe our lack of concentration is something to do with the heat. The route along Stanage Edge involves a reasonable path interspersed with enjoyable boulder hopping and mildly irritating tourist dodging, which is quite fatiguing, and I am glad to arrive at the descent path to Upper Burbage Bridge where the next checkpoint and more water awaits. From here there is a choice of 3 routes for and we all elect for the straight forward but slightly longer one. At the convergence the route takes us down a lovely little river valley where half of Derbyshire is picnicking, and thence on a series of complex paths through bracken and trees to more of the same but steeper to the valley bottom. Although we’d been treated to the occasional bit of marker tape on the section, Helen’s knowledge had come in handy and prevented any navigational embarrassment. We stayed together for a few kilometres and at the next checkpoint where Helen was feeling iffy, another guy joined us and we pressed on. Ordinarily the climb up the valley to Abney wouldn’t have been particularly taxing but in the heat and with the distance already covered it was tough and we were all digging deep. The route finding was a bit fiddly in parts and I was finding it a bit of a chore until the other guy wacked his head on a low branch. I’m not saying that this was amusing, it just broke the monotony for me, and probably gave him something else to think about too. Helen, now in iPod land, had caught us again, being surer of the route and having shaken off her low patch.

The lane at Abney had the sort of gradient that justified a walk at this stage but I was determined to keep a steady run going and I found myself pulling away from my companions; only about 3k to go. Some nice contouring on track led to welcome turf and then a very steep descent which I’d previously climbed on a different adventure race. Hmmm the gorse was just as prickly then. It’s not long before I hit the lane which in turn leads me to a kilometre’s worth of strange looks; Bradwell is bristling with tourists. I’m feeling dishevelled and rather conspicuous but the satisfaction of having broken the back of a tough day out puts a spring in my step.

Back at the ranch camaraderie, banter, brews and broth are enjoyed. Nice. Once changed and having regained our constitutions, we head for home, having nowhere else to go really. There is certainly plenty to talk about and we are sufficiently full of ourselves to ignore the satnav and revert to common sense/homing instinct. Unfortunately by Stockport the day’s exertions began to take their toll and a stop for strong coffee is needed. Suitably fortified we continue homeward, formulating plans for future cross-border raids. What a great event; what’s next?

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