Brecon Beacons - Rhondda Valleys

As the days get warmer and cyclosportive events begin to fill the calendar - when many of us will be doing events in France, Italy and Spain - one begins to wonder, as I did, if it would not be wise to get some good climbing in, to alleviate the shock and pain of negociating a something-per-cent incline that seems to go on forever up the Alps, Dolomites or Pyrenees.

So every morning as I sat behind my desk, the four ordnance survey maps (OS Landranger Map 160, 161, 170, 171) I had bought back in the dawn of times it seemed, also sat, neatly stacked and covering the Black Mountains, Brecon Beacons and Rhoddha Valleys in not so distant Wales. Stabilo fluorescent yellow highlighter weighing them down.

And it came to pass in this year of the Lord 2007, Thursday before Spring Bank Holiday weekend I got my co-worker, Dr Alan Williams, a Wales national champion climber in the early 90's to mark me a 100-mile loop. That had been the plan all along but you know what it's like.

He seemed hesitant in putting ink to paper but once he got going there was not stopping him, all maps were spread out on the office floor and around went the Stabilo with two variations to increase distance and ascent, depending of how I was feeling on the day.

Fast forward 45 hours . I'm in a state half enlightened, half comatose, in Alan's ancestral home, eating pizza courtesy of Mr and Mrs Williams who, after six-months of renovation work, have many family and friends checking out the new extension. The pressure is on Alan and Ian, his brother, for lots of grandchildren. The Giro is on Eurosport, Simoni attacks on the last ascent, Garzelli catches up on the descent and wins the sprint. Simoni blames the RAI motorcycle. I'm back on the road.

Rewind 20 hours. I arrive at Abergavenny. The start and finish of my anti-clockwise loop.
After a pub meal with a glass of red, bed and a fry-up, I'm on my bike - Specialized Roubaix Comp - riding along the A40, heading North-West to Crickhowell. 0730h departure time. The morning is bright and chilly. I've got leg and arm warmers, plus a gillet. I brought enough food and drink to last me about six hours.

It all worked out well. Alan gave me a lift to Wales - I had been planning to catch the train. We left the office early but still hit some holiday traffic. I reviewed the route, wrote some notes - turns, roads, distances and had a deep hour's sleep. Alan dropped me at the services on the A4042, near Pontypool, with ten miles to go, due north to Abergavenny.

I'm sure lots of you have been to bikely.com by now. I plotted my route the other day after coming back, and it didn't look at all shabby. The elevation profile (Show > Elevation Profile) looks really good with lots of spikes:
http://www.bikely.com/maps/bike-path/Breacon-Beacons-Rhondda-Valleys-tour

The first spike, from left to right, being the <...>. At Crickhowell I took the bridge over the river Usk, carried on North-West and just before Llangynidr turned South onto the B4560, which goes up the ridge in two hairpins. From the first hairpin onwards the view was postcard scenery and had "Visit Wales" written all over it.
Once on the plateau I dropped into Garnlydan then Beaufort. On the way down, about an hour into my journey, I saw a fellow solitary cyclist coming up the hill. I wondered where were all the brothers on wheels. Was it the unsettled weather that have kept them in? Or has the Rhyl Tragedy put everyone off? After those thoughts had come and gone I figured that the cycling population of Wales was a fraction of us in South London, Surrey and Kent, when on any given half-sunny Saturday morning you would have expected to see a few gangs,
and to be waved and noded by most of them, if you happened to be riding with Judith from Brixton Cycles, who seems to know them all.
I did not see Nicole Cook anywhere. Alan says she was a champion from the age of 13. She certainly falls into the category of riders I would only recognise from behind, like the Thursday Elmers End chaingang.

From Beaufort I headed South-West on the A465. The road looked busy on the map but Alan assured me I would be ok and I was. Now just a mile before Hirwaun, my exit, a fellow cyclist pulled up next to me.
"How is it going?" he asked.
It turns out his parents live in Swansea and his fiancee's near Abergavenny so she was laying in while he was streching his legs and later she would drive down to the soon-to-be in-laws.
They live in Wimbledon.
"What brings you here?" he asked.
"Training." I reply.
"What for?"
"An event in Italy." - The Granfondo Campagnolo.
"Not many places to ride in London, eh?" He stated sadly.
"Well, there is always Surrey and Kent." I said, trying to be positive.
"Do you know Box Hill?" He asked animatedly.
"I was there two days ago!" I replied almost shouting.
Silence. I guess the guy figured I was a nutter. In reality it was my boss who dragged me out there on the day. All I did was suggest we should head out to Surrey one morning before work instead of yet another few loops of Richmond Park, which for all its beauty, does become boring.

My exit came up. I wished him a safe journey while he wished me good luck in Italy and on that fraternal note our ways parted.

I turned South for the day's second climb - <...>, not as brutal as number one but compounded, it soon found out that niggle on my thigh. This was about 3 hours in and here the cyclists really started coming out of the woodwork although in the opposite direction, but Alan did not want to send me clockwise and in the end I found out why.
(...)

I bombed down the valley and as the morning shadows' shortened, I found myself in the bustling village of Treorchy, drenched in sunshine. Here I had an option to head South-East the short loop to Ferndale or South around the Rhondda Valleys, the long way. I was feeling ok so opted for extra miles. Here came climb number three and this one almost put the fear of God into me. It was an awesome view! The road heading up the mountain, a hairpin being negociated by an ant size cyclist. Alpine material. I got up fine giving me hope I might get over the Manghen pass with some voluntary leg motion and not on spasms alone.

At the top I went by another viewpoint but it didn't look as spectacular as it should. It then became obvious that most oxygen was being used up by my thighs, with not a lot left for my brain. I kept hearing Sean Kelly's voice, "You must eat, even if you're not hungry...". Something he said while comenting on this year's Paris-Roubaix.

After a few bumps I crossed the Rhondda river onto Porth then headed North-East to Ferndale, slowly approaching the town from below. Then came the shortest and sharpest climb of the day, over the <> and yet another inspiring view of Ferndale. Over the ridge, into the woods and past the village of <>, I got onto the . The weather now looked like rain and indeed the drops started falling from the sky, although the heavier rainfall would hit me on the last 10 miles.
I arrived in Nelson and gave Alan a ring. He gave me some instructions on how to get to his parents' home and it all seemed ok except for the fact that I really was not thinking straight and that my scribbled directions, so handy this far, had fallen out of my gillet pocket. He had described a two-mile hill. I went over three and only the third seemed hilly enough to be described as such, after the 4 passes. It turned out that I went about 6 miles too far. I turned around, no doubt, thinking about that hot cup of coffee, if fact it was about the only thing I could think of.
I got there in the end and my hosts were surprised that I actually turned around.
Fast forward to <>, the second variation of the day. My belly was now full of pizza chocolate mouse and coffee and the legs were spinning nicely. The options were left onto the for the last climb of the day or straight on to avoid the climb, repeating the route to Abergavenny from the previous day. I chose the climb and was not at all resentful. Although the rain was just about lashing down, it was one of those long and steady climbs, that allow you to settle into a nice rhythm and up and up you go, though copses and villages. I hit the plateau and the rain just about stopped. Then came the legendary Tumble, a brutal 1 in 10 and here I realised why Alan sent me the other way. I could see this monster, first thing in the morning, putting you off a beer. I had my breaks on practically all the way back to the valley floor. Then it was another two miles to the B&B where I left my backpack and there my adventure came to and end. Well, not really. Every end is a beginning, I say. And there is a lot more to explore. Although given the area and the terrain, I would say this was a very comprehensive loop, that would equate to the Fred Whitton Challenge, if we were talking Lake District.
Anyway my cycling friends, until next time, safe journey.


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