Category: Long Distance Cycling

Dazzled again by the lights of an oncoming car, I dip my head so the short peak of my cycling cap blocks the glare, then crash straight into another pothole. Hitting the brakes to slow down, the disks squeal and attract the attention of what appears to be two lairy looking blokes leaving the pub. My vision is blurred and I can’t make out any details, but I feel uneasy. Rolling further down the road the GPS on my handlebars starts flashing so I slow to a stop and by squinting and pushing my face close to the screen, I can just make out I’ve missed another turn. I’ve been cycling for five solid days, lost use of my left eye and I’m nearly home, but I’m not going home, I’m heading back to Bristol and that’s another 350km further South. If there was ever a good time to quit, it would be now.

 

It’s the inaugural Bristol – Glasgow – Bristol 1600km Audax ride. The route devised by Will Pomeroy (Great Western Randonnées) with the intention of creating the longest, hardest and hilliest Audax* in the UK.

I’d convinced myself that this would be a holiday. With effectively 7 days of cycling if riding to the time limit, I’d only ‘need’ to cover 233km per day. That’s totally manageable in my head, albeit twice as far as I’d ever ridden in a week previously. I’d planned to build an early buffer in case anything happens later in the ride causing delays, and I’d also prefer to finish in six days rather than seven, so closer to 300km/day to start with should leave enough time for a beer later in the week. Almost like a proper holiday except without rest, or company, or luxuries.

*(Audax – Latin for ‘Bold’. An Audax ride – known internationally as a Randonnée – is a non-competitive cycle ride that must be completed within a set time limit, including any stops to eat or rest.)

The lead up

To say I’d not really thought this through would be a lie. I did think it though very quickly about 3 weeks before the start and figured it was worth a shot. I’m not at my fittest but I had a suitable bike pretty much ready to ride, some spare holiday entitlement from work, and it sounded like my kind of fun. You can’t get much fitter in 3 weeks but you can get tired trying, so I just made sure my bike was is good fettle, worked out various kit choices based around predicted weather conditions, and tried to get plenty rest.

Then with one week to go, every single technician in my team at work was either taken ill with Covid or forced to isolate due to potential exposure. It seemed only a matter of time before I was struck down but somehow, I managed to remain negative.

The start – Day 1

I steal a few hours’ sleep in my van before a 3:15am alarm. Quickly dressed and fed, then cycle the 30-minute journey into Bristol city centre, ahead of the scheduled 5am departure from the Cathedral.

The ride into the city is a real awakening for me. The nightlife is still in full swing, bars and cafes still open, music playing and revellers staggering the streets. My preferred type of nightlife these days is spotting owls, badgers, and foxes in the countryside and these city creatures make me feel uneasy. Still, I locate the Cathedral and meet with the other riders for the Grand Depart. There are only 12 of us but it’s Grand enough.

After a few encouraging words from Will, we’re on the pedals and the small group instantly spreads out. I don’t like riding in a group anyway so it suits me just fine. It’s warm and dry, and if the forecast is to be believed, it should stay that way for the week ahead. I obviously hold my reservations knowing that the route leads through Wales, Northern England and Scotland before heading south again. The British weather can be fickle at best but I’m feeling positive.

Across the Severn bridge and into South Wales. Gently rolling hills to start through the Wye Valley, past the Black Mountains at the eastern side of the Brecon Beacons and Northwards to the first control at Hey-on-Wye. Things ramp up a bit in Mid-Wales; steeper grades, narrow lanes, grass-up-the middle, and wild ponies. I’m keeping an eye out for birds of prey and have been informed of Merlins hunting in pairs in the area. These compact falcons are the smallest of the UK’s bird of prey and I’m keen to catch a glimpse but sadly it’s not to be. I enjoy a close encounter with a buzzard and although fairly common, they’re still a magnificent creature.

I’ve a clear goal for the days riding and that’s to clear the Welsh hills and hit the flatlands of Chester. The cycling in Wales is fantastic and it gets better and better as the route heads north. Along the shore of Lake Vyrnwr, over Bwlch-y-Groes ‘Hellfire Pass’ in Snowdonia, then towards the last of the Welsh hills and a serious kick to make certain the legs are battered before crossing the border. The Clwydian Range is only small but the brutally steep Bwlch Pen Barras gets the job done with a series of 25% ramps and hairpins. The sun is dropping to the west as I top out on the climb and drapes a lovely soft light across the landscape. I stop for a photo and pull on an extra layer ahead of the descent and the coming darkness.

Just shy of Chester I spot a pizza shop and order the largest vegetarian pizza on the menu. It’s only about 10pm and I could pedal for a few more hours if needs be but with 300km in the bank, I’m mindful that there’s still a long way to go. A quick scan of google maps shows my location pretty much next to Chester golf course so that’s where the tent is going for the night. Non-members welcome, thank-you-very-much.

Day 1 Stats:

Distance – 300.5Km (186.7miles)

Ascent – 5,788m(18,990ft)

Time – 17hours elapsed (15 hours moving)

Day 2 

4:30am alarm, stove on for a pot of coffee, break camp, and back on the bike at 5:30am.

I’m expecting a reasonably fast start to the days riding. The first 100km from Chester to Preston is almost flat but my legs aren’t responding. Humpback bridges seem like mountains and with busy roads, Monday morning traffic, red lights and roadworks, my progress is slow. The swiftest stretch is Chester Greenway whilst been chased by a Jack Russell, rapid little fella holds 40Km/h for a decent distance. I finally drop him but doubt he’ll ever see his owner again.

I’m glad to leave Preston, the whole place smells like the back of a bin wagon and it’s the last urban area before the route threads through the Forest of Bowland. A white chocolate Magnum in the pretty village Slaidburn to remind myself it’s a holiday, then I climb the wonderfully picturesque Cross of Greet road, passed the medieval cross base (a large irregular sandstone block with a square socket which once held a stone cross marking the border between Yorkshire and Lancashire), before a rapid descent towards the Yorkshire Dales. This is more like it! A patchwork of green fields, drystone walls and wild-looking fell ponies. With Yorkshires iconic 3 Peaks providing the backdrop, it’s very picture-postcard and I’m having a great time.

The summit of Cam High Road marks the highest point above sea level on the whole route. It also marks the middle of the first proper off-road section. Did I mention the organiser wanted to make the route challenging? A long, loose gravel climb leads to the top, then an 8km bone-shaking, bike-breaking drop down the rocky old Roman road into Bainbridge. Straight back up the 22% Fleak Moss, rocky mountain bike descent to Crackpot (yes, I agree), back up the hideously steep track to Reeth High Moor and the Old Gang smelting mills to completely toast the legs ahead of the final Dales climb, The Stang. Sighting a beautiful white Barn Owl hunting low over the fields in the fading light is a moment to remember and eases the pain momentarily.

I catch up with another couple of riders outside the Co-op in Barnard Castle and we all agree that it’s taking longer than expected. I’ve only covered 200km today and considering the first half was mainly flat, I feel ruined. Not really how I planned this and it’s getting dark again, so I stock up on supplies, pull on a layer and head into the evening fog that’s rolling over the North Pennines.

I’m a few minutes behind to other riders but occasionally catch sight of their rear lights in the distance between blankets of fog, and try using the distant red flashes to judge the terrain and approaching gradients. I eventually catch and pass the others but I’m not in the mood for company so a raised hand is the only acknowledgement as I ride on in solitude, the only company being the black night sky and a few shooting stars.

60km of steep, dark, foggy and remote Pennine hills later I roll into Hexham, just south of Hadrian’s Wall. Knowing Hexham Pizza opens until midnight is motivation enough to keep some pressure on the pedals. There’s also a 24hour garage down the road so once the pizza is demolished, I call in for water, a couple of instant porridge pots for breakfast, and use the facilities to wash off two days of grime in the mirror, it’s not a pretty sight. 

Google maps shows another golf course nearby and on arrival there’s a closed café with a covered outdoor seating area. It’s later than I would’ve liked and I’ve fallen a bit short on distance for the day so decide to save time on pitching the tent and set up my sleeping bag and mat in the corner of the seating area, next to a fence. There’s something scurrying around at the back of the fence. Guessing is rabbits or squirrels, I don’t give it a lot of thought as I strip out of my cycling gear and get into the sleeping bag. The scurrying noises continue, there’s a lot of action going on next to my head but it’s not enough to keep me awake for the few hours until my 4:30am alarm.

Day 2 Stats

Distance – 269Km (167miles) 

Ascent – 4,824m (15,827ft) 

Time – Elapsed 19hrs (moving 15:20)

Day 3

Get up, brew up, instant porridge and ready to go again whilst it’s still dark. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I take a look over the fence with a headtorch. It’s actually a gate to the bin storage area so chances are my neighbours were rats. I’m thankful they didn’t find their way into my food, or my sleeping bag.

Pockets of freezing mist hang in the valleys and I’m struggling to keep warm. My knees ache and sitting on the saddle hurts a lot. Two lumps have appeared on my sit bones overnight, each the size of half an apple. I’m not sure this is what Ibruprofen was designed for but I swallow a couple and hope for the best. After an hour or so the lumps seem to flatten out a bit, but I suspect it’s more due to pressure from the saddle rather than drugs. 

Slight detour for more coffee just as the shops open in Bellingham, then onto the next gravel section at Keilder Forest. The logging tracks are wide enough for haulage trucks carrying stacks of felled pine and the gradients are mellow, gently winding up and down the forest with gaps in the trees offering an occasional glimpse of Keilder Water, the largest artificial lake in the UK. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

The Scottish border seems like a milestone, so I take a picture of the ‘Welcome’ sign and let Kirsty know I’m ok. I’ve got today in mind as a ‘flat’ day. It doesn’t feel like that though as I’m rolling westward, just north of the border.

Macaroni pies and Iron Bru settle a grumbling tummy in Newcastleton, then onwards across moors and farmland towards Lochmaben and the last re-supply point for a long time. It’s a nice part of the world here. Quiet, not hugely spectacular, but green and pleasant. The few locals I pass all wave and the occasional car and tractor leave plenty space when passing.

I’m usually pretty thorough with my preparation before a long ride but all I’d really noticed about Dumfries and Galloway was the lack of shops along the route. I’ve never visited the area before and didn’t really expect much, but Galloway Forrest turned into a real treat. Roughly 20km of gravel tracks between Clatteringshaws Loch and Glentrool, along the loch shores then into the forest, always with The Merrick providing a spectacular backdrop. Whilst not quite tall enough to be classified as a Munro, The Merrick is the highest peak between Blencathra in English Lake District, and Ben Lomond 150km further north.

The roads which follow are nothing short of perfect. Smooth and fast, up and down, traffic free and beautifully remote. Cresting Nick of the Ballock pass, the sun is setting and the temperature drops but I’m feeling stronger than I’ve felt all day. I know it won’t last; it never does, but I’ve learnt to enjoy the highs and just ride out the lows, they don’t last forever either.

Back towards civilization and tiredness comes fast with the onset of darkness. Riding along an unlit road I brace myself for the large moth that appears at eye level, and then jump as a bat snatches it from the air just inches from my face. Wildlife encounters have been fairly scarce so far considering the distance covered.

Reaching the village of Dalrymple I’ve decided I’ve had enough for the day. Riding round the village doesn’t give much away in regards to bivvy spots and it’s only about 10pm so it’s a bit early to crash in a bus shelter. Up the hill, over a gate and pitch the tent in a corner of a quiet field. I don’t really like camping on private land but I don’t see many options. Besides, leave no trace and the landowner will never know.

Day 3 stats

Distance – 268Km (166 miles) 

Ascent – 3,779m (12,398ft) 

Time – Elapsed 17:30 (moving 14:25)

 

Day 4

Same familiar routine. Early alarm, brew up, pack up and off before first light. The tent and sleeping bag are soaked with condensation so they’re packed away wet. Not great but it’s just one of those things. I could really do with drying them so consider a stay in Travelodge for the next night and sort everything out.

The mornings riding seems fairly unremarkable for a while. Not bad, probably quite nice in fact but I’m tired, hungry, aching and still heading north. Mentally I just need to get to Glasgow and turn back south. More Co-op meal deals for breakfast at 30km, then finally Glasgow at 60km.

What a dump. Absolute shithole and its far too busy. I cross the Clyde, obtain proof of passage, and then head straight back away from the centre. Into the fourth day and I’ve not actually sat down for a meal yet. I’m hoping to spot a Mc.Donalds but it doesn’t happen. There’s a petrol station though so it’s another meal-deal and a full strip-off and hobo-wash in the toilets. My clothes are filthy and I stink but I guess it’s good for social distancing.

The roads are busy leaving Glasgow and I’m not surprised others are keen to leave, but progress seems good and I’m happy to be on my way ‘home’. Soon onto quieter lanes and enjoying myself again. It’s baking hot with very little wind. The GPS is reading 30 degrees C. Surely that’s a first for Scotland?

50km south of Glasgow the route picks up the NCN 74 running adjacent to the M74. The surface on the main carriageway is terrible. Actually the worst I’ve ever experienced, like golfballs bonded with tar and it’s relentless. The shared pathways alongside look rubbish too so I stick to the carriageway. The event organiser kindly recognised the tiresome nature of the stretch and briefly diverted the route away from the main carriageway and onto some smaller roads with an equally crap surface but more hills and potholes, before re-joining the NCN 74. I manage to ride most of it using aero bars, double wrapped to protect my hands. I’d not given much thought to my feet though and the heat and constant vibration is taking its toll. All my toes are numb and the soles feel like they’re on fire. It’s an energy sapping 50km stretch and by the time I reach Lochmaben for the second time, I’m cooked.

Filling my face with more pre-packed sandwiches outside the store in Lochmaben, I consider my options for the night. My sleeping stuff is still soaking and I could really do with re-charging the power-bank  I’ve been using to power my phone and GPS. Carlisle seems an obvious destination for a shower, an early night, a cooked meal, and a hotel to sort my gear out. The thought of the luxuries gives me a fuzzy feeling inside, until I see the prices. It’s the last week of the school summer holidays and the Premier Inn in Carlisle want £168 for a night! I’d rather sleep in a wet sleeping bag. Another option is riding a bit further to Caldbeck, staying on an actual campsite with a shower for £5, hopefully arriving in time to pitch up before sunset with a chance to dry my gear while I go to the pub for tea. Sold.

Easy riding, cross back to England in Gretna Green, though Carlisle and fill up supplies in Aldi, knowing it’s the last resupply until after dinner (northern dinner) the following day. Mindful the pub might not be serving in Caldbeck, so more pre-packed snacks as a last resort for tea, porridge for breakfast and lots of cakes.

The temperature drops as the sun dips on the approach to Caldbeck. The fells Back-o-Skiddaw fells are highlighted against a soft pink sky and it’s starting to feel like home. I’m comfortable in the Lake District; it’s where I spend most of my holidays.

It’s getting dark when I reach the campsite so there’s no chance of drying my gear. Soggy tent erected and I decide to use the small micro-fiber towel I carried to dry some of the water from the sodden floor, then take a shower and try to dry myself with the wet towel. It’s not the best process but it sort of works. Sleeping clothes on and call Kirsty. I’m feeling good for having a shower. I’m back in England and on familiar ground but decide to skip the pub and climb into my damp sleeping bag. In all honesty, I’m not even bothered about a beer and hot food and settle for an Aldi falafel wrap and an early night. Powerbank charge remains an issue. As does my wet gear and stinking riding clothes, but I’m £163 richer and happy about it. I’ve got a dynamo charger at home but didn’t think I’d need it. That turns out to be my biggest mistake

Day 4 Stats

Distance – 251Km (156miles) 

Ascent – 2,396m (7,861ft)

Time – Elapsed 15:10 (Moving 12:23)

Day 5

Usual early alarm/brew/porridge process. Wet, smelly clothes on, wet tent and sleeping bag away and back on the bike before sunrise. I thought a wet tent and bag would be a bigger issue but it wasn’t so bad. If I can camp every night I’ll be happier knowing I completed it unsupported.

It’s become apparent that the early part of the days are a struggle. I’m fine waking early and getting moving, and I’m happy to spend a little time boiling water while I sort other things, so I don’t need to rely on cafes and waiting around for service a few hours later, but it takes a while for my body to respond. My knees are wrecked, my undercarriage is swollen and tender, and I still can’t feel my toes. However, I’m in my favourite place, I’m riding my bike and I’ve only got 550km of these hills left to go. I’ve also got lots of food so I have a second breakfast of paracetamol, ibuprofen and Eccles cakes, and settle into a steady rhythm. If I can push the daily distance I know I can finish in two days with luck on my side. However, I know it won’t be easy.

Looping round the west of the Lake District is very familiar and I’m soon taking the route used by the Fred Whitton sportive. To many cyclists, the Fred Whitton is regarded as the toughest ride in the UK. It’s a 180km and features some great climbs, but it’s less than 1/8th of this Audax, is fully supported, and usually sees most riders pushing their bikes up Hardknott Pass.

Over Cold Fell I go, then It’s my turn on Hardknott pass. It’s a proper hill with a fearful reputation but it’s probably my favourite. With 20kgs of bike and luggage, I won’t be breaking any records but I’m determined not to push. The setting is dramatic and the 33% hairpin bends make it the steepest road in England. It’s the most effort I’ve put in since I started this thing days ago and by the time I crest the top I think I probably made a mistake. Getting off to take a photo is a real effort and my knees are worse than ever, stiff, swollen and painful. Even walking is difficult but they felt ok on the bike so I get back on and nail it down the other side. 

Brakes squealing under the load and barely dodging sheep and pot holes, I love this stuff. Along the valley, over Wrynose pass and into the tourist traffic around Langdale. The roads are gridlocked but I manage to filter my way to the front and find a HGV on the winding, narrow and completely unsuitable roads. Following it proves a bit dangerous as it bashes through the lower branches of trees and brings many down onto the road in its wake. Towards Ambleside, then south along the shore of Windermere. Petrol station grub again, bags and bottles refilled then away from the lakes. Another milestone ticked off.

Lancashire often surprises me. It’s actually much nicer than I give it credit for and I enjoy the quiet roads, old churches and historic manor houses. The Bowland fells occupy the Skyline to the south and there lies the next obstacle. Try as I might, I can’t quite fathom where exactly on the horizon I will be crossing next. I know it’s up there somewhere, and I know I’m on the wrong bike.

Hornby Road, also known as the Salter Fell track, is a special place. Described by A. Wainwright as one of the finest moorland walks in the country, I probably wouldn’t disagree but I’m determined not to walk. It’s a bit rough in places for a loaded road bike and would be more suited to a mountain bike but I don’t have that luxury. It’s all relative though and considering those who travelled this way before me, I’m probably better equipped. It’s an old military road built by the Romans, but probably following an existing Iron-age track. Later becoming a medieval pack-horse trade route and likely the way the Pendle Witches were dragged from Clitheroe to Lancaster for trial and execution in the 17th century.

The area is captivating. Wild and expansive, big sky’s, steep valleys and far reaching views of windswept moors. The track disappears over the horizon in the distance and once you reach the summit at 400m, it appears to stretch forever down the other side. Rocky and rutted, it requires concentration to pick the best lines, occasionally using the grassy edges to avoid the harshest ground. Roughly 1km to my right, high on the opposite fellside and overlooking the beck, sits the Whitendale Hanging Stones. According to OS maps, this is the geographical centre of the UK, considering the mainland and the 401 associated isles. This is the real middle-earth and there’s not a soul in sight.

The Forest of Bowland symbol is a Hen Harrier and once-upon-a-time supported one of the largest Hen Harrier populations in the UK. There’s very few left, and it’s only through recent conservation work by the RSPB that they have been saved (temporarily) from extinction. Illegal persecution of birds of prey by the grouse shooting fraternity is the single, largest threat to raptor species in the UK. I won’t harp on about it again, but the thought turns my mood sour.

Off the moors, another forecourt meal-deal and climb Nick ‘O Pendle before the sun sets. My vision has been a bit hazy for most of the day but it becomes more apparent when swapping sunglasses for clear lenses. I try to ignore it and blink it away but it’s no use. It’s worse in my left eye so I decide to change my contact lens at the roadside. Removing the lens is agony and placing a new one makes it worse. I can’t explain the pain but after riding a short distance I decide to remove it and ride without. I can usually see OK without contacts, just a little blurry but not now. I’ve lost any useful vision on my left eye; it feels like its burning and is streaming with water. I fashion an eye patch out of a buff but the pressure causes a searing pain that’s unbearable so it’s quickly removed. With the fading light and loss of vision, things only get worse. I can’t see the GPS, there’s no sense of depth perception and the light from oncoming vehicles becomes so dazzling I have to dip my head to block the light and lose even more vision. I know I can’t carry on like this so stop to weigh up my options.

Firstly, I’m almost home. Kirsty, my fiancé, is about 30 minutes’ drive away and I know she would pick me up in a heartbeat. That’s the easy option but I’m not a quitter. I think about if maybe she could drop off my glasses but realise they’re in my van, and my van is in Bristol. I’m in Rossendale and I’ve got a few friends in the area who would probably help if I needed them, but I don’t need help, I just need to be able to see. I figure its best to try and get some sleep and hope for some miraculous recovery overnight.

I follow the route slowly, nearly crashing a few times and missing several turns, until it heads back off-road and onto the hills of Rooley Moor. I can’t ride any of the loose dirt tracks without losing balance, so I get off and push for the first time. I can barely work out where to put my feet and spend some time staggering around until I find a spot to pitch my tent. It’s not ideal, not the best hidden and not as remote as I’d like but I do my best to get the sodden tent erected and get back into my wet sleeping bag. Taking the other contact lens out brings the same pain and almost complete loss of vision in both eyes. I feel helpless and empty. I’ve only covered 210km today, despite being on the move for 16 hours. I manage to focus enough on my phone screen to set a 4am alarm, then try and rest. It’s my only hope.

Day 5 Stats

Distance – 212Km (132miles)

Ascent – 4,316m (14,160ft) 

Time – Elapsed 15:50 (Moving 13:15)

Day 6

It’s a restless and uncomfortable night. Checking my phone at around 3:30am I realise I can see a bit better. My eyes still hurt but they’re working again so I boil some water for a brew and pluck up the courage to try contact lenses again. The searing pain returns and water streams down my cheeks but subsides after a few minutes. I can see! Pack up and back on the bike, aiming for the high cotton famine road of Rooley Moor.

Nothing quite wakes you like cold, damp and bone-shaking decent down a mile of cobbles in the dark. It’s still dark when riding through Rochdale and Oldham, and for that I’m happy. Morning has broken by the time I reach Glossop and I’m in desperate need of some charge for my GPS. There’s a café open so I decide to stop for a breakfast and take advantage of the plug socket. Its day 6 of the ride and this is the first time I’ve sat for a meal. A trip to the toilet and glance in the mirror is a shocking reflection. I don’t feel too bad, but my face tells a different story.

300km to go. With the serious off-road sections and big climbs boxed off, I’m confident I can finish in one go. The climb up Snake Pass is enjoyable. It’s the gateway to the Peak District and although it’s a long drag, the gradient is easy. It’s a grey morning and as the road winds upwards into the clouds, the rain starts. I raise a smile, I find it refreshing. It wouldn’t be a proper ride without a bit of weather and my clothes need a wash anyway so I pedal through it happily. The long descent pulls the heat from my body so I pedal hard until the turning across Ladybower reservoir. Still cold, I decide to put a jacket on but it’s a bit late, I’ve developed some flu-like symptoms which stay with me for hours to come.

The Peak District passes by easily in a series of quite lanes and picturesque villages, often grey and drizzly but pleasant enough. I had planned to re-fuel in Bakewell but find it too busy and too peopley, I ride straight through. Before long I’m in Derby, riding down the high street and dodging swarms of people. Absolutely not prepared for this level of busy after 6 days of solitude and as much as I’d like some fast-food, I ride on by. 

I’ve been keeping a close watch on my GPS battery and find myself in another predicament. On reaching Atherstone I need to stop to charge it again and recon I’ll need about 80% charge to make it to the finish. A chippy with seating looks just the job so I settle for the second meal of the day, veggie burger with chips and salad, and polish off 2 full teapots while the charger does its thing. An hour passes and although it’s not the biggest problem I’ve ever had, I’d rather be pushing towards the finish. Not for the first time I curse my decision to leave the dynamo charger at home.

South of Derby is all new territory for me and I’m enjoying the change. Everywhere seems posh, loads of fancy houses and expensive cars, but most notable if the quality of the tarmac. I don’t think there are any potholes for miles and miles. There’s very few hills either but I know that won’t last so I’m just cruising along and taking it in, admiring the neatly pruned hedges and thatched cottages.

Straight through the village of Meriden with its sign proudly proclaiming ‘Centre of England’. It’s actually incorrect, and the true geographic centre of England is in a Leicestershire field some 11 miles north, but since Meriden’s claim dates back 500 or so years to a time before science, such minor inaccuracies are easily overlooked.

Somewhere in Warwickshire I pass a skate park with no graffiti at all, that’s a fairly sad sight and I feel sorry for the kids growing up here, I recon this place was the inspiration for the NOFX song – What’s The Matter With Kids Today? The lyrics play in my head for a while:

There's something wrong with the kids in my neighbourhood 

They always listen to their moms 

They disregard civil disobedience 

They'd rather do what they're told 

They don't drink or **** or fight 

They sit home, and read, expand their minds




There's something wrong with the kids in my cul-de-sac 

They always go to church

They dress well and they're speaking articulate 

They show each other respect 

They're never late, don't smoke or break rules 

They eat right, study hard, and like school 

There's something wrong with the kids in my neighbourhood

I reflect on my own ‘cultured’ youth and remain thankful it was nothing like this.

With the passing time and the passing miles, the daylight fades and so does my eyesight. There’s been some discomfort all day but after another 16 hours of wearing contact lenses, the cloudy vision of yesterday has returned and it’s getting worse. I suspected this may happen and I’m now fairly certain it’s due to the lenses, rather than some condition brought about by extreme fatigue. However, it’s really not helpful and I know it’s only going to get worse.

On reaching Stafford upon Avon I seek out a petrol station to buy some final supplies. The light hurts my eyes and I can’t read the packaging on any of the items. I feel like a drunk but manage to collect what I need and pay the blurry character behind the till without seeing his face. It’s obvious I can’t ride much further like this so any hope of finishing without another camp is out of the question. My only real hope is that a few hours rest without lenses is enough to restore my vision sufficiently to reach the finish. I’m also hoping that no lasting damage occurs to my eyes, it’s a worry that I can’t do anything about so it’s put to the back of my mind while I deal with the current issue of finding a suitable camping spot.

The following 30km into the heart of the Cotswolds is either all greenway or uphill on unlit roads, neither of which requires great vision so I do my best to stay upright and follow the dim light from my dynamo lamp. It’s a slow process and the light from occasional oncoming cars is painfully blinding, but I use the peak of my cap to block the glare as much as possible. I’ve never been to the Cotswold’s before and I’m not really sure what kind of camping spot I expect to find, but the roads seems to be lined with fences or trees surrounding large domestic properties, I doubt they would appreciate someone camping in the garden so I continue plodding onwards. Topping out on the climb I can make out a brown road sign for a National Trust car park. I follow it, into a gravel carpark with a couple of parked cars with interior lights on. I can’t make out much else but I’m long past caring about dodgy characters. Though a kissing-gate into a field and follow a fence line until I’m out of site of the carpark, disturbing a flock of sheep in the process. This’ll have to do. It’s about 10:30pm on a Friday night so I assume most folk would have better things to do than disturb some poor sod in a tent. I manage to get the tent up and get in my cold, wet and all-too-familiar sleeping bag.

The following hours are a mixture of empty emotions. Pulling the contact lenses off my eyeballs is the most painful thing I can recall and I’m convinced I’ve done some irreversible damage. It feels as though part of my eye has come away with each lens and I can’t see anything. I think I’m crying but it could just be my eyes watering from the pain. Keeping my eyes open hurts, closing them hurts more. I rummage through my bags to find some food for tea. A pasty and muffin is as good as it gets and although I’m aware of the flakes and crumbs falling into my damp tent and sleeping bag, I can’t see to pick them up. I feel vulnerable, knowing if confrontation comes my way I will struggle to act but in honesty, I’m more concerned that the change may be permanent and I may never see again. I’m miserable and disappointed with myself. In my head I should be finished by now and mentally I know I’m capable of pushing through these final nights and riding out the fatigue. Instead I’m laid in a cold, wet tent, trapped in a body that’s falling apart, and only 100km from the final destination in Bristol. The pain under my eyelids makes sleep impossible as water runs in rivers down my face, but it subsides after a few long hours and I eventually get some rest.

Day 6 Stats

Distance – 243Km (151miles) 

Ascent – 3,043m ( 9,984ft) 

Time – Elapsed 17:40 (Moving 13:12)

Day 7

I awake in a similar manner to yesterday and once again, realise vision has returned. The pain is still there but not nearly as bad. Its dark outside but I open the tent to check my bike and find it where I left it, always a relief. My mood has lifted and the sadness, disappointment and self-loathing of the night is replaced with feelings of hope and contentment. There’s no rush now, I’ve got the whole day ahead to ride the final few Km’s across the Cotswolds to Bristol and still make the time limit. I decide to enjoy the final day, after all, it’s my own choice to be here and it’s a blessing to have the time and opportunity. Stove boiled, porridge and coffee, stinking wet cycling clothes back on, then painfully press another set of contact lenses against the damaged cornea. Six nights sleeping rough and into the seventh day of the ride wearing the same unwashed clothes. 1500km down, 100km to go.

The sky lightens as a break camp for the final time. It transpires that I’ve camped within the National Trust grounds of Dover Hill, near the town of Chipping Camden. There’s a topo-scope marking the viewpoint and illustrating the many landmarks visible on a clear day, including the Black Mountains of South Wales where I cycled through at the start of this quest. There are no views this morning however. It’s a dreich start, low mist and drizzle so I pull on my waterproof and take to the road at 6:00am

The first pedal strokes are always the hardest, but the stiff knees, tight tendons and swollen sit bones settle down after a cocktail of painkillers and I’m soon zipping along the lanes and occasional bridleway with relative vigour, towards my final planned re-supply point of the trip.

The petrol station at Colebourne has not long been open when I arrive and I catch the attention of the attendant as I’m roaming the isles, looking for something that takes my fancy. It’s a posh store, full of tasty looking baked goods and giant sandwiches on artisan breads. I must make a peculiar scene, looking and smelling like a tramp with an armful of luxury items. The well-spoken attendant politely enquires if I need any help? Then probes further and asks, ‘have you come far?’ She clearly didn’t expect my answer, but since conversation had been instigated, I request to charge my dead phone battery while drinking a coffee on the forecourt.

Cycling seems quite popular around this part of the country and it’s not really a surprise. All the proper hills are up North and the rolling lanes around Stroud seem ideal for getting out for a quick leg stretch on a Saturday morning. The weather has cleared up a bit and I’m enjoying the scenery when a cycling club catch me as I’m daydreaming and zip past in well-practiced formation. I slot another gear without a second thought and stomp on the power to catch the peloton. It seems like a bit of fun joining a spirited group-ride on a loaded bike after a week on the road but after a few minutes of wheel-hugging at 35km/h, my legs die and I instantly regret the effort.

The Km’s tick by without much trouble and I’m enjoying the morning. One final taste of the Cotswold charm is delivered whilst passing through the historic market town of Chipping Sodbury. The wide high street is bustling with people and lined along both sides with a hundred colourful stalls for the annual food festival. The air is full of delicious smells, sweets and spices. Bunting criss-crosses the streets between the tall, 18th century facades of pretty, golden-stone buildings. As nice as the food smells, I’m not tempted to stop. After almost a week of solitude on the road it all seems a bit overwhelming and I feel almost alien amongst the crowds. I’m not ready for this level of interaction so I happily pedal onwards in my own little world.

Besides, I’m only about an hour’s easy riding from the finish at the organisers’ home address in Bristol, and I wouldn’t want to pass up the offer of a homemade pizza. I stop to fire a quick WhatsApp message to Will so he can get the oven warmed up, and then steadily tap out the remaining distance along quiet lanes and cycleways, winding back to the heart of the city. Pedestrian numbers steadily increase and the final 10km of cycleway becomes quite busy. I’m in no rush though and quite enjoy pedalling amongst the city dwellers. Mostly young adults, likely students, travelling by foot and bicycle along the former railway tracks. The tracksides are mostly decorated with graffiti but it feels more ‘arty’ than ‘ghetto’ compared with most cities. Occasionally music from nearby bars adds to the atmosphere and it all feels very laid back. Then off the cycleway, down a couple of streets and my GPS announces I’ve arrived! I’m not sure where I’ve arrived though, I’m stopped in the middle of a residential street, lined both sides with parked vehicles and tall terraced houses. It takes me a while to think for myself since the GPS has stopped providing the ques. Spotting a piece of paper on a gate, I move to take a closer look.. ARIVVEE!!

Day 6 Stats

Distance – 106Km (66miles)

Ascent – 1,410m (4,623ft)

Time – Elapsed 6:21 (Moving 5:31)

 

Total Stats

Distance – 1635km (1,016 miles)

Elevation Gain – 22,223m (72,900ft)

Elapsed Time – 6 days, 7 hours and 28 minutes (151.5 hours)

Many thanks to Will Pomeroy for putting together such a superb and challenging route. The pizza was the best thing I’d tasted all week and the whisky was a most welcome surprise. 

The BGB1600 was complete but the adventure didn’t stop there. A few streets from Wills front door my phone and GPS batteries finally died completely. An old school friend had kindly offered a parking spot and to keep an eye on my van for the week, another selfless gesture I will remember forever. However, John Taylors home is some 15kms from the centre of Bristol and since I arrived and departed in the dark, I can’t remember where I’m parked!

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Bristol Glasgow Bristol 1600

Dales Divide 2021

By John Allan

Now in its third year, the Dales Divide has quickly grown in popularity. It’s a self-supported mountain bike race traversing the north of England, twice. Coast-to-coast-to-coast. A real mix of a route which crosses the best of the Yorkshire Dales, the North York Moors, and the pan-flat Vale of York

The 600km route is the brainchild of organiser Chris Ellison, who returned from racing the Tour Divide (the 2,745 mile mountain bike race across the Rockies, from Canada to Mexico), and decided to host his own mini version on home soil. Thankfully, Chris left the bears on the other side of the Atlantic, so the chance of being eaten alive during the race are somewhat reduced.

This would be my second Dales Divide. I completed the event last year after a solid block of bike training and it was undeniably hard. It was my first real taste of competitive, multiday bike-packing but I was pretty fit and well organised. My bike was well sorted and everything went reasonably well. It hurt a lot and tested my resolve but I finished strong with a time of 2 days, 8 hours, 47 minutes. By far the longest ride I’d ever done.

This year my training couldn’t have been much different. The reason I’d put so many hours on the bike last year was in preparation  for the Hell of the North West. Once that was put to bed and I’d finally dried out, cycling was reduced to fair-weather commuting and the shed was transformed into a gym. It’s slightly warmer in the shed, a bit drier and there’s unlimited 90’s metal banging out of the Marshall speaker. Winter was spent mostly moshing to, and lifting heavy metal, with occasional rides up to 100km when the sun came out.  Strong as an ox, and about as fast. 

A few weeks ahead of the Dales Divide I clocked some slightly longer rides, cumulating with the 200km Delightful Dales Audax event the weekend before. I rode fairly hard and felt surprisingly good on the bike, probably not wise to push so hard with just a week to go, but it’s only a bit of fun.

Then six days of faffing with kit and watching the weather forecast. I don’t particularly like being cold and wet. I’ve spent a lot of time outside in grim conditions and although I can deal with it just fine, it’s still something I prefer to avoid. The forecast for Saturday and Sunday looked fairly good, cold and scattered showers with little wind, but Mondays forecast was disgusting. Properly cold, properly windy and properly wet. All day kind of wet and I’m done with that life. It’s avoidable if the ride can be completed inside 48 hours, last year’s winner proved it’s possible but I’m not so confident in my own ability.

It’s a cold start on Arnside Pier as the riders assemble. There’s all manner of bikes here, from full suspension mountain bikes to more road-orientated gravel and cyclo-cross machines and everything in between, including a father and son on a tandem! Similarly with luggage selection, some bikes are kitted out with panniers and are ready for the long-haul, whilst others look more like they’re heading off for hours rather than days. I’m probably somewhere in the middle, I’ve got everything I think I might need and nothing else. The most luxury item being my bike – a fully rigid, steel framed, Stooge Speedball with fat 29” monster-truck tyres. As someone eloquently pointed out, everyone will be on the wrong bike at some point, might as well be on one you enjoy. 

Chris Ellison addresses the assembled crowd and we are also joined by Alex Pilkington, the current course record holder, and Pat Hall, mother of the late Mike Hall who inspired so many. The crowd is silent whilst Alex recites a poem in tribute to Mike and asks that we keep Mike in our hearts and minds and we race. His parting words are ‘ride strong and ride long’, a mantra which stays with me for whole race.

Once the wheels are turning I’m happily trundling along. There’s no point getting dragged into a race early on with so far to go, but it’s no surprise seeing the more ambitious riders giving it the berries. I begin passing some of the fast-starters after a couple of hours and make good progress through the Yorkshire Dales. I love this sort of riding, rough bridleways, open moorland and gravel shooting tracks with some tasty climbing and rapid descending. There’s never a bad time to be in the Dales, but spring is probably my favourite. New born lambs playing happily in the fields, Curlews crying and lapwings calling, wild primroses in bloom and plentiful, delicate forget-me-nots. The recent dry-spell has left the ground conditions running fast and before the daylight fades, I’m beyond the Dales and heading to Boroughbridge and the first of my three planned re-supply points.

Morrisons provides a decent meal from the salad bar, but you’d be hard pushed to call it a salad. Various pastas, boiled eggs and falafel are bulging from the box, to be washed down with chocolate milkshake and topped off with a slab of rocky road. I pull on some extra layers before it gets dark whilst simultaneously stuffing my face and filling the bags with a selection of wraps and snacks. It’s about 7pm and we’re roughly 110 miles into the ride. There are 100ish miles between here and Scarborough, but I’m planning to stop for a bit of shut-eye in Driffield, and then arrive in Scarborough when the shops open in the morning.

It gets very cold, very quickly. The route is now extremely flat for hours on end and it’s difficult to keep warm. I’ve got aero bars fitted and with my hands out-front and no need for shifting gears or braking they soon go numb, despite the thick winter gloves. It’s the same story with my feet, shod in big winter boots and thick merino socks but my toes are painfully cold. I can deal with it because there’s no other option, I’d probably moan about it if anyone was within earshot but that’s not an option either. It’s just me and the bike, pressing into the night on an intricate series of quite county lanes and bridleways. 

At some point I roll through York, another key resupply point for a lot of riders but I’m just passing. It’s busier than I’d like but I make a little time to admire York Minster, arguably one of the most magnificent cathedral’s found anywhere in the world, take a quick photo, then get out sharpish, back into the quiet solitude of the night.

I know there are a couple of decent hills coming up at Great Givendale, and I’m looking forward to getting the blood pumping a bit on the climbs. I slept in a ditch around here on last year’s race so I’m pleasantly surprised to find I’m a few hours ahead compared to the last ride, despite purposely riding with less effort. 

Over the hills, back to the flats and on towards my planned stop in Driffield. The route skirts the edge of numerous fields growing crops and occasionally a vole or field mouse will catch the light of my lamp, and then quickly scurry off into the thicket. A barn owl glares at me from a low hanging branch overhead and I imagine it’s a bit miffed that I’m scaring its supper. I’m faced with a bit of a predicament here. Progress has been faster than expected and I’m probably going to hit Driffield at about 1am, two hours earlier than I expected. I could carry on riding but there’s little point arriving in Scarborough before 8am on a Sunday as everything will be closed and I want to go to Greggs. In the end I decide to stop where I planned after 173 miles, and take a solid break in a cricket ground. 

Discretion is the key to sleeping in public places and there are a number of houses nearby, so I turn off the bike lights and roll quietly towards the veranda to find shelter, then catch a PIR sensor and the whole place lights up like a theatre stage, with me looking shifty in the middle, Oops. Still, it’s a pretty good spot and looks to have received a fresh lick of paint. There’s also some sort of rubber matting on the floor and it feels very luxurious compared to the ditches and bus shelters I’ve used in the past, although not quite on par with the heated disabled toilets found on the Hell of the North West, now the absolute gold standard of ‘Audax Hotels’ against which all others shall be judged. 

It’s just below freezing point and the faffing to set up camp isn’t doing my body temperature any favours. I change into dry clothes, put a down jacket on and climb into the sleeping bag on my air mattress. I’m shivering quite violently and realise I’ve not changed out of my cold, wet socks. I don’t want to get back out of the bag so I leave them and hope they warm up. It doesn’t work and although I stop shivering after a while and finally drift off, when the phone starts beeping my first thought is how dead my feet are. They’re like two blocks of ice and it only takes me a minute to change into the dry pair from the bag next to my head but it’s a bit late now. A lesson learned for next time.

 4:30 alarm and back on the pedals at 5am sharp. My toes are still numb but its minus 2 degrees so it should warm up a bit, otherwise I feel pretty good. I take a look at the GPS tracker link and find I’ve lost quite a few positions on the leader board but this is a long game and I’m not halfway yet.

I enjoy a beautiful sunrise after a short while and feel grateful for the added warmth whilst trying to get my GPS unit to charge from the power bank; fortunately I’ve got a spare cable which seems to sort it. The route is easy going as it gently winds along quiet tracks, through bright yellow fields of rapeseed and pretty villages with spring flowers in bloom. Certainly not the sort of mountain biking I’m used to, but progress is brisk and it keeps the distance manageable. There’s a blue-grey raptor hunting just to my right but I can’t quite identify it, I’d love for it to be a Hen Harrier but given the grouse shooting industry has persecuted them to near extinction in this county, the chances are slim. 

Passing through the village of Rudston, a huge standing-stone in the church yard catches my eye, towering at 25ft it’s the tallest monolith in the UK and quite an impressive sight. There’s not much time to admire it unfortunately but I take a quick photo and get on my way towards the alluring baked goodness of Scarborough.

A roe deer bounds into sight on the bridleway to Oliver’s Mount, then in the same frame, the largest fox I’ve ever seen. I could’ve done with a bushy tail like that to wrap up in last night, I bet the fox wasn’t as cold as me and it’s certainly not been going hungry. I wonder if it’s been snaffling all the leftover pasties from the back of Greggs? I hope it’s not had the fresh ones, not all of them anyway.

Rolling into Scarborough at 8am on the button, the roads are quiet and almost everything is shut. Sainsburys Local has just opened though and provides chocolate bars and fresh cookies for the day ahead, then around the corner to the nation’s favourite bakery. Breakfast is a double portion of porridge, large coffee, pan au chocolate and a cheese and onion pasty, plus a filled baguette strapped to the bike for later. I love eating and by my own admission, I’m bloody good at it.

Down to the promenade for a quick photo on the east coast, 24 hours after leaving the west coast, then change direction and head west again for the return journey. Another pearl of wisdom from Alex Pilkington has stayed with me since the start – take it easy to Scarborough, then wind it up a bit on the way back. Time to put some effort in.

The climbing starts as the route heads towards the North York Moors, and brings miles of gravel forest tracks. The temperature rises quickly and the sun shines from a clear blue sky, so I decide to stop and strip off some layers, legs out for the first time and short sleeve jersey. It looks set to be a stunning day and I’m in my happy place, winding uphill through the trees with the sun kissing the skin. All the positive vibes.

Five minutes later it’s absolutely bouncing down and I’m huddled under a tree, adding all the earlier layers and then some. Waterproof jacket zipped to the top and full leg cover again. I had considered just riding through and getting wet, but I thanked my decision to wrap up when the hail came. Ah well, can’t win them all. Ten minutes later the suns out again and the jackets off but its staying close to hand. That’s pretty much the weather pattern for the whole day – glorious sun and icy showers.

The riding is excellent now though – Steep, steep hills, wide exposed Roman roads, high-level disused railway tracks and tight wooded single track. There really is a bit of everything and the Stooge handles it superbly. Crossing a few fields on the Cleveland Way there are signs warning of cows with calves, always best to give these unpredictable beasties a wide birth and not hang around, but these are adorable! There must be 50 little fluffy ginger highland calves all to the left, then 50 massive fluffy ginger highland cattle with long, sharp horns to the right. I sadly decide to not cuddle any of them and pedal on towards Northallerton, over more stiff hills and through several heavy downpours.

I’ve been looking forward to Northallerton for a while. It’s the home of Adams Pizza and I’m ready for a good feed. I call into a Mc.Colls first for supplies and fill my bags and bottles for the last 100 mile pull back to Arnside, then visit Adam, Northallerton’s pizza supremo, and order the largest vegetarian pizza on the menu, plus a can of Dr.Pepper. 

Its 5pm and I’m about five hours ahead of where I was during last year’s race. It’s a key point for me now, I’ve been on the bike for 12 hours already today and covered 100ish miles (275ish in total). I feel better this time though, much better. During the last race I was ready for another night’s sleep but although I’m cold and wet, I’m confident I can ride all the way back to Arnside through the night without stopping.

The 15-minute wait whilst the pizza cooks is well spent. Adding extra layers, sorting my bags so I know exactly where everything is (most important being sandwiches and chocolate bars), then a quick call to my fiancé, Kirsty at home so she knows I’m OK. She’s great is Kirsty, totally understands this sort of thing and doesn’t question it all. She’s doesn’t flinch when I mention riding straight through the night, but we keep that bit of the conversation short. Kirsty is keeping herself busy by building some new horse stables from six-inch concrete blocks, and I’m more interested to hear how many more courses she can lay before needing a scaffold to raise the lintel into place over the door. Yep, she’s a bit special. Once the pizza comes, we say our farewells and I shovel it down as fast as possible. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten off the top of a bin and although I’m still feeling damp and cold, I’m happy and full. Always happy when full.

Back in the chair for the big last push. A nice mix of quiet lanes and gravel tracks winds through farmyards and a large deer park, leading to Catterick Garrison, the largest British Army garrison in the world. There are compounds full of military vehicles along the roads and I’m wondering if I’ll see some Tanks on the streets (Confronting police, Bleeding the Plebs, Raging crowd, Burning cars, Bloodshed starts, Who’ll be alive?!!!). Unlikely in this sleepy corner of North Yorkshire, but I keep moshing out Sepultura lyrics in my head to pass the time.

There’s a loaded mountain bike propped against a wall outside a shop and I remember I’m supposed to be racing, click another gear and make sure they never catch me.

Pressing on a bit harder on the fast rolling lanes through Swaledale, I’m feeling good. The sun is setting and the sky looks dramatic, the rain has stayed off since Northallerton and the pizza power has worked its way into my legs. I know the route gets properly lumpy again after Grinton so I’m keeping it strong but controlled. Ride strong, ride long.

I catch and pass one rider just before the real climbing starts, then shortly after spot the rear light of another, flashing away on the brutal gravel climb up to Harkerside. He looks to be pushing his bike and it’s no surprise. Its steep and loose, a long way from the valley floor and we’re all heading into the second night of the race. I’m in my element now though, this is my kind of riding and exactly what I’m here for. I pass him with a wave and a cheery ‘ey-up’, then grind it to the top and make sure I never see him again. 

Lights on, quick one-handed cheese and onion butty and send it over the moors. Miles of perfect cross-country riding now, deep into the night. Along well-maintained shooting tracks, past numerous bothies and onto more technical moorland paths. Mostly steep, rough and loose, and I’m thankful to be on the Stooge. This is the fun stuff for me, and I wonder how close the nearest riders are in front. If they’re on gravel bikes I recon I can catch up.

I’ve rode this next section many times and it’s a real gem. Off the moors, through the village of Askrigg, then onwards towards Bainbridge. A good time to stick a Double Decker in the cakehole before the magnificent feat of Roman engineering which is Cam High Road. When it came to roads, the Romans didn’t mess about, so when Julius Caesar heard about the upcoming Dales Divide race, and the riders need to pass efficiently from Bainbridge to the top of Sleddale, he commanded the legions to make it as efficient as possible. They did a cracking job. The first 5 miles of walled rocky track is absolutely die-straight and gains 1,500ft of altitude at a near-constant gradient. Built 2000 years ahead of the race and it’s still in better fettle than Leeds Road on my commute to work. 

It’s a proper pull to the top but it rewards in spades. A nearly pan-flat traverse of Dodd Fell along the highest point of the entire route, followed by an absolutely stonking decent down the Pennine Bridleway to Newby Head. Most probably taken faster than is advisable on a fully loaded rigid bike in the dark, but I’m having all the fun. Popping off the drainage humps and drifting through the bends

The rider notes sent out by Chris Ellison prior to the race are, for the most part, extremely useful. There is a little misleading text here though, for while Chris points out that from the top of Cam High Road, “the last 60km to Arnside is predominantly downhill”, it doesn’t mean that it’s actually all downhill, far from it. 

Continuing along the Pennine Bridleway brings another proper climb, straight up Dent Fell and then along the shoulder of Great Knoutberry. The beam from my front light reflects the dew on the grass and I can clearly see a few sets of tyre tracks. I’ve been following these for some time but two sets are looking increasingly fresh. I’m also getting increasingly frustrated that whoever is riding in front has left almost every gate unlocked for miles. It’s disappointing behaviour, hardly riding with integrity, and perhaps I’m being a bit harsh but I feel if you can’t look after the countryside, maybe you should stay at home. Oh, and don’t worry, I locked them all for you.

Plummet down the steep road past Dent train station, the highest main-line station in England, back to the valley floor and follow the lovely winding lanes and sharp rises through Dentdale. I spot the strangest looking short, fat, cat waddling down the road towards me. It stops so I slow down a bit as it turns to run away, then realise it’s actually quite a large badger. It warms my heart a little and I’m surprised by its agility as it runs up a grassy banking and hops over a wall. I’ve not seen a badger for years and the last one charged straight at my feet whilst running through the local woods at night.

For the most part, my brain has stayed fairly stable thus far. I had a few mild hallucinations earlier but nothing too outlandish. Bushes that appear cow-like in the shadows, stones that look like sleeping lambs, and just things that you might generally come across in the countryside at night but aren’t actually there.  The wet patches on the floor are starting to look very much like petroglyphs now though, all manner of ancient, contorting rock-art and I’m quite enjoying the experience. Then winding down a narrow, shrub-lined track, my light is causing the hedge tops to gently glow. The leaves take form of hundreds of fairies, dancing in the soft halo. It’s magical and I’m having a great time until my front wheel crashes into a load of rocks and jolts me back to reality. Wake up John, not long to go now, don’t mess this up.

Occasionally I think I catch a glimpse of a red light in the distance but then it disappears, then a white light, then nothing. I can’t work out if I’m gaining on another rider or just going a further down the rabbit hole. It could even be a far-off car, or light from a farmhouse, but I keep the pressure on anyway. Through a gate and into a boggy field and there’s definitely another rider ahead. In fact, there are two of them and I can’t quite believe my luck. It’s a race after all, so I wind it up a bit more and catch them both at the top of a hill, trying to work out how to get through a gate with boulders placed at either side to prevent it being opened. Quite ironic really, can’t leave it unlocked if it can’t be unlocked. I don’t have any words so I throw my bike over first and get back on the gas. The GPS says its only 10 miles to the finish so I ride it as hard as I dare. ‘Predominantly downhill’ but with plenty up’s, all narrow tarmac lanes and no traffic at 4am. It feels fast and I’m in TT mode right through Sandside and all along the coast road to the finish at the far end of Arnside Pier. 44 hours and 39 minutes.

Naturally, there’s nobody else here. I step off the bike, lean it carefully against the flag pole and gently lower myself onto a bench. My heartrate drops and breathing settles as I gaze off the end of the pier. The Lakeland fells are silhouetted against a gradually lightening pink sky as the new day dawns. Time seems to stand still for a few minutes as I reflect on the past two days. What just happened? Whatever next? Looking towards the distant fells I remember running the Bob Graham round a few years earlier and having similar feelings afterwards. Perhaps I’ll run on the fells again? Or maybe follow the tyre tracks of Mike Hall and Chris Ellison, to race across continents rather than counties? Or maybe I’ll just go back to lifting the weights in the shed at home.

I’m not sure exactly where I’ve positioned in the race, and honestly don’t care. I’ve finished faster than I ever expected, beat the coming storm and had a great ride. I live a quiet life anyway but the solitude of these long rides is dream-like. I decide to move before the next riders arrive, it’s nothing personal but I’m enjoying the peace.

I take a quick photo and head back to my van to warm up with brew before the rain starts. It’s set to be a miserable day for the riders still on the course and I quietly wish them luck as I finish my pot, lay back on the bed and drop into a deep sleep. I think I’m content. For now.