The other day, cycling over a zebra crossing, a couple of the urban youth of Bow Church called me a twat. They yelled it as I passed them, adorable bags of sweaty testosterone that they doubtless were. Aside from the obvious reasons (Avid fans of my blog? Forced to spend time with me socially? Related to me?) there was no good reason I could see for them to do so. Minutes later, cycling down the Mile End Road, I came precariously close to hitting – in quick succession – several pedestrians who leapt out from behind parked cars, a Ford Focus making a suicidally late left turn, and a guy on a Boris Bike who decided at the last moment that he would like all the road, please, and swerved across the road in a manner reminiscent of a sine wave. It is, I suspect, for these reasons, amongst others, that the organisers of the 2014 Tour de France decided not to host the Grand Depart in London. Yorkshire it is then.

Taking advantage of a well timed trip to Sheffield in the tail end of Autumn, I slung my bike on a train to experience the area for myself. If I know my blog readership, then the literally hundreds of Pro Cyclists who visit this page daily will appreciate a bit of a low down of the area prior to visiting next year. It’s worth noting at this point that whilst the majority of my ride was in Yorkshire, I did stray into the peaks of Derbyshire as well. In my defence, I am from the South and therefore woefully ignorant about such things.

First Impressions:

Very cold. Much colder, in fact, than London. Also, steeper than London, as a whole. On my initial drag out of Sheffield I was struck by two thoughts: First, What on earth am I doing?, and second Why am I doing it in fingerless gloves?! I usually can’t stand full fingered gloved because it feels like I have less control over my brake levers, regardless of how much grip the gloves have on them, and my sealskins, although lovely and warm, tend to spend most of their time banished to the back of the drawer, but on this occasion I was bitterly regretting not packing them.

The hills were fantastic though. It was everything I love about cycling in the countryside – long empty stretches of road, big old hills to punish the legs, and then dropping down the other side for mile after glorious mile. Even though I suspected at several points that I had somehow chosen the only route into the Peak District that was entirely uphill both ways, I was eventually rewarded with some crazily long descents. It really highlighted to me how little I get to hone my descending skill, and I am incredibly grateful that the few cars that followed me down the descents were sensible enough to pass safely, and not seem too impatient as I took hilarious lines through sharp corners at 30mph. Fantastic.

Scenery:

Yorkshire is one of the seemingly many places that claims the title of ‘Gods Country’, and it is undoubtedly beautiful, around every bend were sights like this:

And this:

I, however, unused to the hills, with heat leeching out of all of my extremities, and apparently taking a leaf out of Chris Froome’s book, was entirely unappreciative of the beauty surrounding me. This was the view I experienced the most:

It goes some way to explaining why it is I don’t tend to wear a helmet camera for trips like this – no one wants to see endless miles of featureless tarmac punctuated by the sound of me breathing. Thrilling and breathtakingly beautiful it is not.

Feed Stops

Eventually I found the long winding descent into Bakewell, and whilst I didn’t find any tarts, (in what might be the most overused joke about the place, at least by me, quietly to myself several times over the course of my visit), I did find that Bakewell Pudding makes for an excellent recovery food – not quite as good a recovery food than if I’d been cycling to Kendal, but delicious nevertheless. Bakewell is a rather pretty town, but one that I expect both suffers and thrives upon its noteworthy name and signature dish. But the hordes of tourists taking pictures were nowhere to be seen on this freezing November afternoon, and the coffee was particularly nice, so I’ll chalk that up to a win. I can highly recommend the local Pudding as a great way to cram in some calories before hitting yet another hill as well, and if they can somehow work out a way of providing it energy gel tube form, then I can’t see myself ever eating anything else.

A peruse of the official routes informs me that the Tour will come within 10 miles or so of lovely Bakewell, but will not visit the town itself, and I think that’s a shame, because it’s very picturesque and lovely, and a brightly coloured peloton tearing through, gulping down entire Bakewell Puddings as they go would be a hilarious and iconic sight indeed. Another wasted opportunity there then, just because it’s not, in any way, located in Yorkshire.

Safety

In a rare display of solemnity here, I’d like to say that I encountered some truly awful driving on my jaunt up north. Some of the worst I’ve ever seen, if I’m honest, and that’s including London drivers. What’s almost worse is that fact that I can almost get into the mindset of someone who passes a cyclist too closely in a place like London where the streets ate cramped and packed at the best of times, but here, with wide roads, and the fact that any blind corner you see is followed immediately by ideal passing conditions, there is really no excuse for a wing mirror to pass within six inches of my handlebars. And if I’m complaining, how about the fact that cycling infrastructure in Sheffield city centre is awful? Bike lanes are poorly maintained and filled with rubbish, and have a tendency to end suddenly and with very little warning; maybe this isn’t true for all of Sheffield, but if there are better areas to cycle in the city, I certainly didn’t find any of them.

This really surprised me. Sheffield is a big university city, and student heavy areas usually have a lot of bike awareness, but not only did I not see any of that, I didn’t really see that many cyclists on the roads either, and that’s a shame, especially given that they are incredibly – and rightfully – proud of their Grand Depart status, and seem to be really pushing cycling in Yorkshire as a result of it.

That’s not to say it was all bad. When it was good, it was great, but that was always thrown into stark contrast by the exceptionally poor driving I would inevitably see minutes later. Frankly, it’s not what I expected from somewhere that’s being so privileged as to be hosting stages of the Tour de France.

Conclusion:

I, along with various members of family, will be cycling to Paris next year to see the finish of the tour, and my recent, all to brief trip has made me extremely keen to come back for the start. What a cracking place to sling yourself over the top tube of a bike and lose yourself in mile after mile of gloriously beautiful, gloriously hilly terrain. The ferocious ache in my legs over the following days bear testament to the ludicrousness of the landscape, and I was sad to leave it behind. Even with my brief taste I can really see why Yorkshire was chosen to host the Grand Depart, it’s going to be an absolute cracker.

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