The Buckland Gap climb is one of many in the area and arguably one of the hardest. Sure, it might be short at only 3.2km long, but the final 2.4km of the climb have an average gradient of close to 9% as the road winds its way up the hill towards Beechworth.

So, check out the Buckland Gap climb guide and be sure to check out the climb if you’re ever in the area. And if you have done the climb before, why not leave a comment at the link above — the more people that give their perspective on the climbs the better!

Oh, and while I think of it, the Buckland Gap is the 30th climb to be added to the site! It’s been a slow process and it’s often been many months between climbs, but I’ve now posted three climbs in the past three weeks and there’s plenty more to come. Enjoy!

Recently added climbs:

• The Crescent
• Mt. Buninyong

In cycling terms, “gradient” simply refers to the steepness of a section of road. A flat road is said to have a gradient of 0%, and a road with a higher gradient (e.g. 10%) is steeper than a road with a lower gradient (e.g. 5%).  A downhill road is said to have a negative gradient.

You might remember from high school maths that gradient is simply defined as rise/run — that is, the distance travelled vertically (b in the diagram below) divided by the distanced travelled horizontally (a in the diagram below). If we want that figure as a percentage then we multiply it by 100.

So let’s say we’ve got a 5km-long climb in which we climb 350 vertical metres. The average gradient is simply:

(350/5000) x 100 = 7%

Right? Almost.

When you climb a hill you aren’t actually riding on the bottom of the right-angled triangle. You are riding on what’s called the hypotenuse, the edge opposite the right angle. That is, the sloping part labelled c in the diagram below.

If we simply divide 350 by 5000, as we did in the example above, we’re dividing the rise (the elevation gain, b) by the hypotenuse of the triangle (c), not the run (a). We need a way to find out the horizontal length (a) based on the information we’ve already got. And to do that we need to employ a basic formula from high school maths.

You might remember the Pythagorean Theorem which shows the relationship between the lengths of the sides of a right-angled triangle. Namely:

a² + b² = c²

Remember, c is the length of the hypotenuse and a and b are the lengths of the other two sides. So, if we know two of those lengths (and we do: our hill climbs 350m in 5km) we can find out the third.

Plugging our known values into the Pythagorean Theorem we get:

a² + 350²  = 5000²

a² + 122,500 = 25,000,000

We then subtract 122,500 from both sides:

a² = 25,000,000 – 122,500

a² = 24,877,500

Taking the square root of either side we get:

a = 4988

That is, in a 5km-long climb that rises 350m, we’ve travelled 4988m horizontally (imagine the road is perfectly straight).

So now that we know the horizontal distance travelled (a), as opposed to the hypotenuse (c) — the distance on the road — we can calculate the gradient accurately.

As discussed above, the percentage gradient = (rise/run) x 100. So, in our example:

(350/4988) x 100 = 7.02%

You’ll notice that this is extremely close to the figure we calculated before. Given the inherent inaccuracy in elevation measurements — either by a bike-mounted GPS unit, online mapping software or other method — this extra accuracy from calculating the gradient properly is virtually redundant.

Even if we’re talking about a super-steep climb — a rise of 1,500 vertical metres of 10km, say — the simple estimation of (1500/10000 ) x 100 (15% average gradient!) is more than accurate enough. Using the proper method really doesn’t give us any extra accuracy when we consider discrepancies in elevation measurements — an average gradient of 15.2% compared with the 15% we can calculate much faster.

So, when we’re talking about almost every road used for cycling, we can use a simple formula of (rise/hypotenuse) x 100 to estimate the road’s average gradient, even if it’s not technically accurate.

And speaking of not being technically accurate, don’t assume that a climb’s average gradient can tell us everything we need to know about how steep the climb is.

Mt. Hotham, for example, is a 30.8km long climb with an average gradient of 4.2%. From that percentage you might assume Mt. Hotham is a reasonably easy climb. But what the 4.2% doesn’t tell you is that the final third of the climb has several sections that hit 10%. By the same token, an average gradient of 4.2% doesn’t tell you that the middle third of the climb rises at less than that.

So let’s try to put all of this into a bit of context. What does climbing a road with a 5% gradient feel like? And how much easier is it than a gradient of 10%?

Of course, it really depends on how strong you are and what gearing you are running. First-time climbers might find hills with a 5% gradient challenging at first, but after a bit of training it will likely take a much higher gradient to create the same sort of challenge. That said, here’s a rough guide to how various gradients might feel:

• 0%: A flat road
• 1-3%: Slightly uphill but not particularly challenging. A bit like riding into the wind.
• 4-6%: A manageable gradient that can cause fatigue over long periods.
• 7-9%: Starting to become uncomfortable for seasoned riders, and very challenging for new climbers.
• 10%-15%: A painful gradient, especially if maintained for any length of time
• 16%+: Very challenging for riders of all abilities. Maintaining this sort of incline for any length of time is very painful.

In the next part in this series, we’ll look at ways of objectively measuring how hard various gradients are and what effect a rider’s weight has on climbing speed.

Brendan’s been spending a bit of time out on the trails in the You Yangs Regional Park down near Geelong and I was keen to see what it was all about. We drove out there on Saturday morning and for the next few hours I followed Brendan around as he showed me some of the many amazing trails in the park.

Heading into the ride I figured I’d be able to pick up where I left off and fly around the corners without any problems. Quite the opposite.  I was riding a mountain bike belonging to my youngest brother Ash and I had pumped the tyres up far too hard, meaning I was slipping and sliding around like an idiot to begin with. I was extremely rusty on the trails and it showed. I fell off three times on the day but the worst injury I got was a scrape to my elbow.

I had my GoPro attached to my helmet and managed to capture all three crashes on film. When the first spill happened my tyres were pumped up too hard, I hit a soft sandy corner too fast and paid the price, flying over the handlebars.

The second crash happened a short time later when I totally misjudged a left-hander which turned in front of a small tree on the opposite side of the track. Brendan was ahead of me and he misjudged the corner too, hitting the turn far too fast. But he had the skill to avoid a collision and negotiated the obstacle successfully. I managed to avoid the tree as well, but I must have locked up the brakes and before I knew it I was hitting the deck again.

I might have crashed three times on the day but Brendan took out the prize for the most impressive crash of the day. Riding ahead of me, Brendan hit a small jump and when he landed both wheels appeared to slip out from under him. He hit the deck hard, sliding along the dirt and colliding with a tree. I spoke to Brendan yesterday, a week after the ride, and his ribs are still sore.

The final crash of the day was one I knew was going to happen. There’s a ridiculously steep gravel climb, lovingly referred to as “Hell” on Strava, that’s 11.2% for 400m and that briefly gets above 20%. As we approached the climb I asked Brendan whether he thought it was possible to get up it without walking and he was sceptical, but I thought I’d give it a shot. I gave it absolutely everything up the steep stuff, trying to keep my weight back so the back wheel didn’t slip out, but forward so the front wheel didn’t lift up.

I got about halfway up before I lost traction, pedalled hopelessly on the spot for a second or so, and then fell unceremoniously in a heap.

We only rode about 32km for the day (my Garmin wouldn’t start for the first 4km) but it felt like we rode about three times that. We went pretty hard for the entire ride and it was a lot more draining that I remember mountain biking to be. But, it was a fantastic day and despite crashing a bunch of times, I had a whole lot of fun. I’ll certainly be back.

I managed to get a whole bunch of footage from the day (not just of the crashes) and put together this short video which shows the great variety of terrain and trails in and around the You Yangs. I hope you enjoy.

Today, Huon-Genesys rider Jono Lovelock has been good enough to pen a piece for The Climbing Cyclist about the 2013 Tour of Japan, which starts this Sunday and, more specifically,  about the brutal stage 4 climb up Mt. Fuji that he remembers all too well from last year’s race.

I still have nightmares to this very day. Some would even say I crashed on purpose a few weeks back, just to avoid another confrontation. What on earth am I talking about? Fujisan. Mt f#%&ing Fuji.

Cam Wurf said it was harder than Monte Zoncolan. Nathan Earle said he’d prefer to do Mt. Baw Baw. I just said, upon cresting the beast, please, just kill me now!

Furthermore, and just to prove the Japanese know what they’re talking about, there’s a Japanese proverb that roughly translates to: “He who climbs Mount Fuji is a wise man, he who climbs twice is a fool”. A phrase that proves as prophetic as it is prudent.

Looks nice, doesn’t it? (Image courtesy of Sonoko Tanaka and Cycling IQ)

Some context

Each year in the Tour of Japan there are two types of riders: those who face Mt. Fuji for the first time, and those who can’t believe they are about to do it again. Like an evil mistress this mountain simply slaps you around and reduces you to tears.

There’s no canoodling or foreplay. Just complete and utter domination.

The Tour of Japan is hilly. Very hilly. Bar the prologue and the Fuji stage the rest of the race is composed of “championship” style circuit races, the majority of which involve a large amount of climbing. Generally though, the vertical metres sneak up on you through covert accumulation.

Riders spend the majority of the tour chasing wheels down descents, smelling the smokey wafts of cork on carbon as they rail into tight corners, putting in last-ditch efforts to survive over the top of small climbs, every lap. Thus, as riders complete each stage, they tend to:

1. Dispense with the drool on their chins
2. Clean the salt crusts off their skin
3. Settle into their sushi lunch, and finally
4. Gawk at their Garmins and realise they’ve climbed 3000-4000 metres without ever climbing for longer than a few kilometres in one hit.

“Aaah, so that’s why my legs hurt so much …”

If you want a review on one of the other stages from Tour of Japan, one of the particularly insane, particularly Japanese stages, check out a piece I wrote on my blog about the “circuit race of death” last year.

The history of Fuji

When Mt. Fuji was first introduced into the Tour of Japan riders tackled it as an individual time trial. Many riders endured the silent solo sufferance with current Orica-GreenEDGE riders Cam Meyer and Michael Matthews clocking top ten times in 2008 and 2010 respectively. Cam Meyer even went on to claim the overall tour in 2008.

Interestingly, pundits will also spy Jai Crawford coming in ahead of Meyer in 2008 and we can look forward to seeing the Hobart hill climber get re-acquainted with Fujisan when he hits the start line with the Huon-Genesys team this year. The ultimate eagle eyes amongst you will also have noticed one other crucial element in the results linked above. In 2008, Mt Fuji was an ITT. In 2010, it was a road race.

Image courtesy of Sonoko Tanaka and Cycling IQ.

Yes, a mass start road race at the bottom of an 11.4km climb. A 11.4km climb with an average gradient of 10%. It’s so crazy. It’s so mad. Like watching a game show where pretty women must bob for apples in a tank full of spikey sea creatures it’s so very, Japanese.

In extending my previous erotic references, most tours that involve such extensive ascensions do tend to give you a bit of gentle caressing before the sadomasochism begins. During a grand tour the climbs early on in a stage allow the autobus to form. The sprinters, domestiques and lesser climbers are gone. The big boys are left to fight it out on whichever hors cat climb remains.

Fujisan, on the other hand, is a veritable cluster-f**k.

So what is it actually like?

A warm up is both a necessity and futile. The paradox is clear: line up early, be on the front. Good. But you will have cold legs. Bad Warm up long, be late, and be ready to go. Good. But you will be starting at the back. Bad. Either way you can’t win.

BANG!

The gun goes and in what is likely the most important cleat-to-pedal engagement of your entire season you begin the certified shit-fight to get to the front. Then it’s a bum rush to stay there as the bunch ebbs and flows with 100  riders all trying to put themselves where only 20 belong. People are bashing bars, running into wheels and the multilingual melange of swear words fills your ears.

This is hectic. This is hard. But boy oh boy, this is a shitload of fun! It’s kind of like a Bay Crit that goes up L’Alpe d’Huez.

But now 500m has passed. Now the acid is rising. The red zone is nearing already. Your brain begins to take over. It tells you this is going to hurt a lot. It tells you that the current pace is someone else’s. You don’t need a Strava segment to tell you your ranking. You know. Today is not your day. The following 10km of agony and anguish just go on forever.

The first 3km are dead straight. They taunt you, and they tease you. Then it begins to twist and turn, and after halfway the climb just goes nuts. It’s as if you’ve just reached the summit of Arthurs Seat, only to find Mt. Baw Baw on top.

Image courtesy of Sonoko Tanaka and Cycling IQ.

The 39×28 is not enough even on fresh legs. Give me a compact. Give me a long-cage derailleur, a 32-tooth cassette and a few extra links on my chain. Or preferably, give me a gun.

It starts to rain. And you start to weave. The only excitement you feel is trying not to fall over as you experience some bowel-loosening wheel spins on the metal grates that come every few hundred metres during the final kilometres of the climb. As the salt from your helmet aids in blurring your grovel to the line you begin to count down every pedal stroke.

And finally it is done. You get out of the wind, the rain, and the snow. It’s time for a hot tea, a hot coffee and a hot towel. Cleaned and changed you are ready for your hopeful redemption the next day. Unfortunately, it’s then that you realise the only thing scarier than facing Fuji again, perhaps, is driving down this bastard of a mountain in an overloaded tourist bus.

Then the undeniable aroma of a clutch burnt to within an inch of its life surrounds you. Sphincter-tightening would be the only fitting description. Nonetheless, we’re all alive to tell the story…

(Check out Jono’s pain-face at 1:41 in the video below. That’s him in the orange Genesys Wealth Advisers kit climbing Fujisan during last year’s Tour of Japan.)

Why Japan?

The take home point of this post comes in part with the following clarification. Please do not assume my bizarre usage of the term ‘Japanese’ as an italicised adjective is meant to imply anything pejorative. It’s everything but. I love Asia. I love the food. I love the people. I love the culture. It’s just so different. And Japanese cycling is just that, different.

It takes on an entirely new level of excoriating punishment. It’s brutal. It’s bizarre. But it’s bloody brilliant. I reckon cycling worldwide should be just a little bit more Japanese.

And for this year?

The 2013 race will be gangbusters. Go grab Google translate and blast your way through these:

• the startlist
• the stages

And get ready for two top-line Aussie teams, Huon-Genesys and Drapac, to take it up to Lampre, Vini-Fantini and the defending champions in Team Nippo. I won’t lie; I’m a bit jaded that I won’t be there. My training days pre-crash were fuelled by Fuji-fear. I was a Fuji-man. Ready for Fujisan. Hoping to kick arse in Japan. But now I am chained to the keyboard writing cheesy rhymes to pass the times (wait a minute …)

So as we hit the home straight in the Giro, and as stories about Sky leadership tensions, Wiggo’s mutton chops and the Colombian conspiracy begin to tire, take a peek at the Tour of Japan results when they pop up. Because this race is big, hard and honestly a bit scary.

The guys over there need all the support they can get, so go give it to ‘em! Good luck lads!

I’ve only climbed it a few times but each time it’s been part of a multi-climb ride in the Dandenongs. The Crescent lends itself perfectly to rides like that, given it’s so close to the 1 in 20, The Wall, Perrins Creek Road, The Devil’s Elbows, Sherbrooke Road and more.

So, check out The Crescent climb guide then head out there and ride it yourself. And once you have, head back to the climb guide and leave a comment. If it’s a climb you’ve already done, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.

Stay posted for more new climbs in the coming weeks and don’t forget the Mt. Buninyong climb guide which was added just recently.