THE MIDLANDS

Born in Cosford, to the west of Wolverhampton, and raised just outside Newark in Nottinghamshire, the Midlands are my homeland. My formative years as a cyclist were spent either lost on the plains of Lincolnshire or being battered by winds in the Vale of Belvoir. Each road within a 50-kilometre radius of Newark holds a memory of a battle won or lost, of wheat fields in the summer sun, or punctures mended in the driving rain. As you work through the hills in the first chapter you will notice that the text is littered with autobiographical references. Apologies if they seem quite frequent, but you’ll know as well as I do that you form a special bond with your local roads. The lanes that test you day in day out can become your best friends, and your worst enemies.

The first chapter kicks off in the Wolds of Lincolnshire: a tiny, raised ridge conveniently placed to provide the locals with some much needed elevation. Those of you lucky enough to live in the Lake District or the Yorkshire Dales may scoff at the pitiful lumps that pass for hills in these parts. If you live east of Lincoln, though, these climbs are your mountains, and there are just enough of them to string together a pretty tough ride.

I didn’t venture to the Wolds that often in my youth; most of my time was spent riding closer to home, in the Vale of Belvoir. And in particular climbing the toughest hill there: the one and only Terrace Hill. This climb was where it all began; it was the catalyst for my love of climbing, and the first place I won a bike race, so it will always have a very special place in my heart.

Chapter Two is devoted entirely to the most voluptuous county in the region, Derbyshire. Filled with legendary roads such as Mam Nick, Monsal Head, and the sensational Winnats Pass, there isn’t an inch of flat to be found anywhere. Back in the 1980s my weekends away would take my friends and I from Newark to the youth hostel in Castleton on a pilgrimage to ride Winnats. I’ll never forget my first ascent one cold November morning. With a sore head from the youthful excess of the night before, we rolled out of Castleton to face one of the most daunting roads in the country. On the old winter clunker with a 42x23 bottom gear, would I make it? Of course I would – I was 18 years old, under 10 stone, and couldn’t get enough of it!

In the summer months we would plan regular raids into Derbyshire, heading to Matlock or Bakewell to fill our legs with climbs before returning, aching, to the flat plains of home. Then in October we’d go back to race up them, which is where my passion for Riber began (see here). It’s an affair that may have lost some of its lustre over the years now I’m no longer able to cover the race distance in less than four minutes, but it will always be one of my favourite roads.

Moving on from Derbyshire I headed into an area of the country I’d rarely visited by bike, the West Midlands. There are many areas of high ground spread round the region, most obviously tracing the border with Wales from Oswestry down into Hereford. Filled with sharp ups and downs it was tough to make the final selection and I was forced to omit a few beauties in the final cut. Once I’d searched round the border I next set my gaze on the Shropshire Hills where one particular climb caught my eye: the service road up to the radio masts on top of Brown Clee Hill. I checked online to make sure it could be ridden. I knew it was going to be a tough climb, but I’d failed to study the gradient in detail – what a big mistake. Averaging 18% for 600 metres it’s the single toughest stretch of straight climbing I have yet to find. Harder than Hardknott and more brutal than Bealach-Na-Bà – not because it’s steeper, but because there are no bends! I’m afraid to say I had to stop and walk three times; the 39x26 gear that I had at my disposal simply wasn’t small enough, and my legs didn’t want any of it. No climb beats me and gets away with it, though, so a couple of weeks later I returned with the best bike to get my revenge. This time I made it to the top without unclicking, but I can’t deny that the thought crossed my mind. It is total and utter torment.

Before you start I’d like to apologise for the lack of sunshine in the photos. It rained so much while I rode these roads that I almost grew flippers and gills. I hope you have better weather, but even if you don’t you’ll still find seventy-five killer roads to test your legs. So get out there and ‘Ride them all’.