Riding the Ronde van Calderdale: the UK's answer to the cobbles of Flanders

"Vous êtes des assassins! Oui, des assassins!" ("You are murderers! Yes, murderers!")

This is the famed quote bellowed by Octave Lapize during the first monumental crossing of the Pyrenees in the 1910 Tour de France.

Incandescent with rage that anyone could dream up such torture, he spent the day relentlessly berating race organiser Henri Desgrange for what he saw as inhumane expectations for the riders: “You cannot ask human beings to do a thing like this!”

These sentiments are echoing through my mind as I eventually roll across the finish line and come to a halt at the headquarters of the Ronde van Calderdale sportive.

“Where are the organisers?” I demand. “I need to talk to whoever is in charge.” Who on earth would plot such a route?

I had waited a long time to ride the Ronde van Calderdale (RVC), perhaps five years since I’d first got wind of its unique route.

The event had always been held on the same date as the Tour of Flanders because the RVC was imagined as a British take on the Belgian Spring Classic.

Where Flanders has world-famous climbs such as the Koppenberg and Oude Kwaremont, RVC possesses a clutch of climbs infamous within the wider British cycling firmament.

These climbs, such as Gibb Lane, Shibden Wall and Trooper Lane, make Flanders’ best look like mole hills.

The route of the RVC was devised in 2010 by Mick Collins, in a first year when only 30 local riders took part. It adds up to a devastating 120km challenge for all who dare to take it on.

Collins' replication of the Spring Classics with his club started with Milan-San Remo, before settling on their own take on the Tour of Flanders. With access to cobbled climbs on their doorstep, it proved a huge hit.

After several years of it being run purely as a club run, it was suggested that it become a public event, and in 2012 the RVC was born.

Spen force

As soon as you arrive at the RVC HQ, at Spen Valley High School in Liversedge, West Yorkshire, you’ll notice it has a distinctive feel all of its own.

There is no number to strap to your bike, nor pin to your jersey. There is no event timing: time is irrelevant here and the only goal is completion.

In the world of Strava, of course, most participants upload their ride to create an unofficial leaderboard at the end of the day and, although it’s not a race, the unspoken goal is to break the five-hour mark, which only a select few do each year.

I’m a rider on the extreme end of the competitive spectrum, so the casual, carefree feel to the event is somewhat confusing.

I’m told about a fast group that's heading off first, so I make a beeline for it and make it just in time for the flag drop.

I barely have a chance to catch my breath before we’re pedalling, and when we do it’s like being ejected from a catapult.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see smoke coming out of my bike computer. Traffic lights come to my rescue, splitting the group in two and dispatching the biggest culprits for the excessive speed up the road, never to be seen again.

I settle into a group made up almost exclusively of members of York’s Clifton CC and decide to hover around this tight and well-drilled outfit like a bee around honey for as long as I can.

Before climb one, Steele Lane, there is a full 10 miles of constant undulation, so being in a group is hugely beneficial.

The climb is preceded by a sharp descent, which leaves the whole group in the wrong gear as we ride up.

Half of us have to dismount and change gear manually, before getting back on and struggling to build back momentum over the rugged stones.

Steele Lane is a wonderful creation, a snaking rise of mish-mashed cobblestone sections that goes on longer than you expect, eventually delivering you above Scammonden Water.

Our group comes back together at the top after being blown to pieces on the climb, ratcheting up the pace to a level that is a fraction too fast for me.

I have to drop back. It’s never a nice feeling to make such a decision so early, but a totally necessary one here to stop me blowing a gasket.

I watch the red blob of Clifton CC disappear into the distance.

Up next are the twin climbs of Cliffe Ash and Dodlee Lane, the second of which is closed to traffic, which means I can romp up the centre of the road searching for the smoothest line from bottom to top.

Each sector of cobbles takes its toll and wears me down, incrementally robbing me of a finite amount of strength.

In isolation, each sector is perfectly manageable, but strung together it’s a whole different story.

Three more are safely negotiated – Brighouse Wood Lane, Staups Lane and The Hough – before we tackle the big beasts of the course.

Percentage play

Looming on the horizon after the initial flurry of lesser climbs is the triple whammy of Shibden Wall, Gibb Lane and Old Lane in Halifax.

Like the three prongs of the Devil’s trident, these climbs are waiting to skewer my legs, starting with the legendary Shibden Wall.

Of all the roads included on today’s route, this is the best known, having been used many years ago in the Milk Race and Kellogg’s Tour pro races and, more recently, the Tour de Yorkshire stage race.

Featuring 20 per cent gradients, cobbles with gaps between them so wide they can swallow even the fattest of tyres and a hairpin so tight it forces you almost to a halt, Shibden Wall is a total monster.

I battle up, encouraged by a few of the youngsters from the Kirklees Cycling Academy, an organisation that supports young bike racers and is a beneficiary of the RVC.

Also cheering me on is the event photographer, who calls me ‘young man’ (I’m in my 50s), as I battle to roll over the top in the shadow of Halifax’s dry ski slope, west Yorkshire’s answer to Val d’Isère.

In the gap separating Shibden and Gibb Lane, there are a handful of other paved climbs not featured in the ride literature. One of these, Wood Lane, is a total horror of a road that heads up under a rail bridge on awful 20 per cent slopes.

The unclassified climbs are always the toughest because getting hell when you’re expecting respite is hard on the head.

Onto Gibb Lane, climb eight, which isn’t quite as steep as Shibden but lingers far longer, and whose end comes with me begging for smooth tarmac.

When the blacktop does come, it’s behind me just as quickly, before I’m left to negotiate the godforsaken Old Lane, a cobbled climb that stretches into the sky.

I’ve only ever made it up here once. Old Lane is horribly steep and its stones are randomly packed, covered in grass and moss, and it is arguably the toughest obstacle of the day.

At the foot of the climb, I already have the feeling that I won’t be adding to my tally of one sole completed ascent.

I begin well enough, but with only 40 miles in the rear view, my body is already turning to jelly – I blame a dire week of back problems.

I make sure I pass Henry, the photographer, before I throw in the towel, but throw it in I do and I begin the walk of shame.

At the summit, there’s a feed station and in it are the Clifton CC riders that I’d slipped back from earlier in the day.

They’ve suffered a few time-wasting mechanicals in the meantime. I’m quietly pleased to see them, but I know there’s still a long way to go, with plenty of tricky stuff yet to come.

Once I grovel to the top of Old Lane, I immediately have to descend it, losing 200m altitude, only to have to traipse right back up again to the top of the moor.

Moor like it

There aren’t any significant cobbles for several miles, but up next is another shining star of the route, the incredible ride across Oxenhope Moor, past the Warley Moor Reservoir.

It’s an oasis of calm, away from the chaos of the cobbles and congestion of the valleys and, in stark contrast to the majority of the climbing, I can sit in the saddle on a far more agreeable slope and pedal away more comfortably.

Even better, following this there’s a long descent into the outskirts of Hebden Bridge and all the way back to Luddenden for a second visit to the Old Lane feed stop.

There are still riders battling up its slopes, some on foot and some on two wheels, each greeted with well-deserved applause as they finish.

Filling another bottle, I’m now starting to worry about my legs.

I can’t have been drinking enough, because the first signs of cramp are starting to appear, with three further hideous cobbled climbs remaining.

The first two, Woodhouse Lane and Wakefield Gate, are fine but I know the final one, the monumental Trooper Lane in Halifax, is going to be trouble.

As I pass a couple of riders at the bottom who are summoning the courage to climb, I crawl on, trying my absolute best to nurse my cramping legs into the lower slopes.

If only I can keep on top of the cadence and tiptoe across the cobbles, maybe, just maybe, I can make it up without climbing off… but no.

Hitting the start of the steepest section, the dreaded cramp returns. It’s time once again to transfer to two feet.

It is a shame because this is such a magnificent road, one that I have cycled up on many previous occasions.

Naturally, up ahead, Henry is waiting to snap me in my moment of personal despair, pictures he promises to delete.

It’s almost as hard to walk the 30 per cent slopes of Trooper Lane as it is to ride them, especially in cycling shoes, but with my cleats somewhat worn down, I cross the brow with only six miles left on the table, and the Clifton CC posse tantalisingly out of reach for the rest of the ride.

And what a ride it has been. It might be a route that’s mimicking another over the Channel in Belgium, but this is a ride with a character all of its own.