I am not sure whether it was the gusting wind, the hills or the gravel that did the most damage, but between them they made the Hell of Hunterdon of 2015 a tough old day.
Despite the toll on the legs - and my legs had a particularly bad day - it was a great day in the saddle and memorable way to kick off the 2015 season in earnest.
If memory serves, outside of the rest stops I only had to unclip three times, traffic was light and for much of the ride you felt you were a hundred miles from the nearest town.
The spirit of the Spring Classics was definitely captured.
"We even arranged Belgian wind for you," joked Belgophile organizer Brian Ignatin of Kermesse Sport. He wasn't wrong and, while not Geraint-in-the-ditch strong, gusts on exposed sections had riders leaning hard and being pushed across the road.
The HoH had been postponed by the storm that swept through the day before the original date of March 21. As a result it was combined with Kermesse's original tribute to Flemish cobbles, the Fools Classic, which is usually the other side of the Delaware River.
In 2009, irritation over having to walk bikes across bridges spanning the Delaware River and the abundance of good roads led Brian to have two events - one either side of the river - and the Hell of (L'Enfer d') Hunterdon was born.
The brew of early season adventure in tribute to the hardy riders (and fine beers) of Flanders has proved popular and the 2015 edition of HoH sold out in just 22 hours, down from 40 in 2014.
The rearrangement took its toll, however, and the field was in the four hundreds, several hundred down from the expected numbers. Those that did not turn up missed a top day as the pre-start grey clouds were blown away and blue skies prevailed.
The two week delay gave the gravel sections another 14 days to dry out and bed down. Though "interesting" in parts they were not as ferocious as the nervous pre-race chatter had feared and the dire warnings in the pre-race instructions turned out to be overly pessimistic.
The Kermesse website described gravel and cyclocross bikes as ideal and at one point I was in a group of five comprised of two road bikes, one CX, one 29er MTB and what I can only describe as a bike for the apocalypse (I think by chance it is the bike to the left in the photo below). In absolute terms, I can't tell you which was the best for the HoH. In relative terms, they all rode away from me.
I was on a road bike with standard 25mm tires and it coped fine except for the deep loose gravel on the very first section, which seemed to alarm everyone whatever their bike judged by the soundtrack of ooohs, aaahs and curses.
The 17 gravel sections covered around a sixth of the 79 mile course. It made up a fair amount of the 5,100 feet of climbing, with one particularly vicious uphill fairly early on that challenged anyone standing on their pedals to keep enough weight on the rear wheel to prevent it from spinning.
There were a few punctures, but there was not carnage despite the alarming trend for steep tarmac downhills to become gravel just before sharp bends - a combination that tends to stimulate production of adrenaline in industrial amounts when the red "Caution" sign came into focus. The signage was good throughout with only a couple of points where there was any chance of confusion.
We were set off in waves of 100 and until the first rest stop at 36 miles in there were groups forming and reforming with pacelines, and even echelons at points. Around a dozen of us were travelling at around the same pace back and forth and I spent some good periods of time enjoying the shelter provided by one or other of the four red-kitted DNK Cycling guys (Mike, Josh, Ben and the eponymous Dave, I Iater found out). I hope I did enough time at the front that they don't despise me as a total wheelsucker.
The shelter of the group was even more valuable than usual given the wind. My Garmin has been sent back to the manufacturer for repair so until the rest stop I didn't have a clue as to our pace. Given the effort levels and collaborative riding I was depressed to see an average of only 15 mph when I pulled out my phone. It was going to be a long ride.
The only blessing was that, after six years setting out from Lambertville, the HoH's had shifted to a new base at the Elks Club in Blawenburg at the Eastern end of the course to accommodate increased numbers.
It meant that the majority of the first half was into the gusts from the northwest and riders had a helping hand for most of the second half when we were more strung out. The sting in the tail was a turn back north on Aunt Molly Road about 10 miles from the end that resurrected the headwind just before the 13+% slope of Hopewell-Amwell Road that almost finished me off.
As mentioned, my legs had decided not to play ball for the ride. I started having twinges of what felt like cramp from very early on, never a good sign. Quads AND calves, even worse, but while unpleasant it was manageable.
That changed - and how - eight miles from home halfway up the Hopewell-Amwell climb.
My quads locked. It got worse as I tried to get out of the saddle to see if standing helped - no - and I barely won the race to unclip before gravity did its thing. A few minutes of kneading my thighs, which at this point felt like frozen turkeys, and to my relief, and no little surprise, I was able to get going again. Without the little driveway that gave me the necessary flat ground to get started and clip in, it would have been the walk of shame to the summit.
It was a grind to the top and then to the finish, but I even managed to latch on to a group of a dozen or so and roll over for the final miles at a decent pace. I was a happy boy as I tucked into the great food and beer on offer at the Elks Club and chatted to other satisfied customers.
While the HoH's roots in a love of the Spring Classics shines through in the raft of lovely touches that introduce a taste of the Low Countries - the Flemish lions whipping in the wind, the little Belgian flags and crossed sevens on the riders' numbers and the good beer (thank you River Horse) - in many ways the event is unmistakably American.
The start at the Elks Club, the red farm buildings, the eagles above front doors and the stars and 13-state flags on barn walls are as American as it gets to a British eye.
As are the unpaved roads. Gravel is an American thing and it's fun. Chapeau!
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