John Allan managed to ride Hell of the North West this lockdown year 2020, below John recalls his amazing journey around the north west of England, including witches, rain, getting wet, sleeping in a disabled toilet, getting wet, dinosaurs, hills, more rain and trying not to be shit.
Hell of the North West
I’m not really a cyclist, not a proper one anyway. I’ve always had bike’s and often ride them for a bit of fun, but I’ve never really taken it seriously. If anything, I’d say I was a fell runner. I enjoy being in the fells and mountains, competing in long distance foot races, ultra-marathons and mountain marathons. I fancied a change though, so stopped running for a year to try my hand at long distance cycling.
I first spotted an advert for ‘Hell of the North West’ about 18 months ago and initially dismissed as ridiculous. It was too hard, too hilly and frankly, I didn’t believe anyone would finish. It’s not a good race if nobody can finish. It was also a cycling event and I wasn’t doing much cycling. Some time passed and I saw another post saying the event was nearing full capacity. Maybe it is possible? I entered to find out.
I put the work in, dropped some weight and started feeling good on the bike. I’m not the sort of person to use heart rate monitors, power meters, Zwift, and all that stuff, preferring instead to get outside and put some effort in. Some things don’t need to be complicated and this is about as simple as it gets.
Effort in = Fitness out
I don’t think you’re ever really fit until people raise concerns about your health, so whilst I may have looked sick, I started to believe I could do it.
Then Covid happened, and the event was postponed. Six long, lonely months of winter training in the dark after work, 4am weekend starts for long solo rides, hundreds of hours hard work and pleasurable suffering, in possibly the worst winter conditions I can recall, all seemed wasted.
With little else to do during ‘lockdown’, I just carried on cycling. It wasn’t training anymore, just enjoying being outside and making the most of the hard-earned fitness. It helped keep me sane(ish) whilst the world went mad, a convenient way to blow off steam and a great way to immerse in nature. Roads, gravel, mud and everything between, I averaged roughly 200 miles and 20,000ft elevation gain every week. Sometimes fast, often slow but always hilly.
The Hell of the North West was put to the back of my mind.
August arrived and brought the first post-lockdown event to pique my interest. Billed as an unsupported, 2-day bike-packing time-trial, the Yorkshire Dales 300 (YD300) is a 300km mountain bike challenge, covering some of the hardest and hilliest terrain outside of the Lake District.
Most competitors choose to ride over the full weekend and camp somewhere along the route for a few hours. I decided to ride non-stop, through some mixed and challenging weather, and finished 23 hours later. That was my first time racing a bike all through the night and I loved it!
Then the re-scheduled Dales Divide was given the green-light to go ahead on the August bank holiday weekend, following an earlier Covid cancellation.
This was a different beast altogether and once again, challenging what I believed to be possible. The format was much the same as the YD300. An unsupported mountain bike race where the clock never stops. I entered.
The main difference with the Dales Divide race is its twice as far as the YD300. From Arnside Pier on the west coast, across the Dales and Wolds to Scarborough on the east coast, then back again over the North York Moors and Northern Dales. So that’s a non-stop, 600km off-road mountain bike race from coast to coast to coast…
I rode hard, slept little, (woke in a frozen bivvy bag in the corner of a field one morning) and finished 56 hours later. Tired but elated.
Having managed to wring 2 successful ultra-cycling races from an otherwise disappointing year, I was reasonably content. Summer was fading, the weather getting cooler and the days shorter. Motivation usually starts waning a bit but there was something niggling away.
The Hell of the North West was rescheduled for October. As much as I’d tried to forget it, it was unfinished business, and the thought of it still triggered feelings of fear and self-doubt. I told myself that I’d only attempt it in good weather, to do otherwise was foolish and would make something seemingly impossible, outright dangerous.
The forecast: Storm Alex! Saturday October 3rd was to become the wettest single day on record. It’s a day I won’t forget in a hurry.
But actually, the ride would start on Friday, and Fridays forecast was good. Sundays forecast looked OK too. So, even though Saturday looked apocalyptical, if I could survive Saturday it may be possible. Undoubtably unpleasant, certainly difficult and probably dangerous, but possibly possible.
A cunning plan was hatched. The earliest permitted start time is 1pm Friday, the latest is 5pm (no mass start this year, cos Covid). So, start early, ride as far as possible before the storm hits, continue to ride through said storm without dying, then carry on riding once the storm has passed.
The challenge here being staying alive, so rather than packing light and fast, I went with safe and warm. Luggage rack, mud guards, dynamo lights, a pair of waterproof Ortleib panniers, spare clothes, 3x pairs of gloves, head-to-toe waterproof clothing, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, lightweight tent. Cunning indeed.
The ride
Registration is from the Green Jersey bike shop in Clitheroe. I’m the first rider to arrive and its basically grab and go. Whilst swapping a few words with the organiser, Dan, I find he’s expecting a maximum of 15 riders. How’s that for low-key? He wishes me look as we bump knuckles and waves me off on my merry way.
Around the corner and straight up Pendle Hill towards the ski club. I decide to stop for a second and take my hearing aids out. I only wear them to help with conversation and I’m not planning on talking to anyone for a long time. The weight of the fully loaded bike is felt immediately, and I’ve quickly run out of gears. My heart rate rises and the legs begin to burn. This is the simple bit now and I smile. I’ve everything I need, I’m feeling strong and the bike I built feels good. ‘Just keep pedaling, stay relaxed and look after yourself’. That’s my basic mantra, along with ‘don’t be sh*t’.
The miles click by, hill after hill, corner after corner. First, heading north through the Forest of Bowland, then back south towards Rivington Pike. I stop for a photo and grab a cheese and onion roll from my bag. This isn’t a race, not a proper one anyway, but I check the Random Adventure Facebook page to see which other idiots riders have started.
There’s a pair of brothers riding together and they look to have absolutely no gear with them at all. It’s bugging me as I set off and it bothers me for quite a while. I can’t help but think I’ve over packed. My bike weights 23kg fully loaded and these fellas are running race bikes. Moreover, they can draft each other to share the work, and without luggage, I guess they’re not planning on stopping. I spend the next few hours doubting my strategy, occasionally looking over my shoulder and expecting to be overtaken by the Wykes brothers. I know they will be going faster than me, but I resolve to finish ahead of them. It wasn’t a race but it is now. It’s nothing personal, Just me proving to myself that I’ve taken the right approach.
Travelling east through the more familiar South Pennine’s, darkness closes in around 7pm. Tiredness comes in waves but we’re not stopping yet. My sights are set on Keighley at the 100 mile mark, and getting there before the Co-op shuts at 10pm, the last supply point until sometime the following day. I decide to grab a takeaway pizza in the town center and put some warmer clothes on while its being prepared. A quick check on social media suggests a total of 4 other riders have started, the BBC weather app confirms why. No point worrying now though, just scoff the pizza and head towards the Yorkshire Dales.
I’m glad to leave Keighley and recall a few lines of a poem:
‘I’ll tell you now and I’ll tell you briefly
I don’t never want to go to Keighley’ John Cooper Clark has a point, its unpleasant experience.
Towards the Dales and into the night I find peaceful solitude on the quite lanes. Pedaling endless circles with the smooth buzz from the drivetrain and the dim light from dynamo light, things couldn’t be much simpler. It’s a hilly route and I can feel the strain in my legs.
Climbing Malham moor, my thoughts turn to getting a little sleep. Its 1am and I’ve been on the road for 12 hours, but I have a word with myself and keep pushing onwards. At 3am I decide to take a rest. With 157 miles and 16,000ft ascent behind me, I’m understandably tired, and the thought of pushing right through the night into the coming storm doesn’t seem wise. Assuming the visitors center at Aysgarth Falls should have some sort of shelter, I pull into the carpark and look around.
There’s is a locked disabled toilet which is easily unlocked with my multi-tool. Its clean enough to make myself at home for a short while, and large enough to fit my bike inside with enough space on the floor for a nap. A quick sort out of gear and I’m laying in comfort in my sleeping bag. I brought a foam camping mat along but cut it down to about 2ft x 1ft. It’s just enough to keep my torso off the floor when lying on one side but to keep my legs warm, I’ve emptied a pannier and pulled it over the bottom of the sleeping bag. It’s everything I could wish for. I’m happy here, everything is going well and I drop into a deep sleep.
BeepBeep – BeepBeep – BeepBeep… Phone alarm. 90 minutes sleep doesn’t seem long enough but should see me through the next day. The rain has started so I get fully kitted out from head to toe in “waterproof” clothing, pack up my bed and head out at 5am to make friends with ‘Storm Alex’.
There’s no sunrise today but the sky gradually changes from black to grey and visibility improves slightly. Passing the Tan Hill Inn (Highest Pub in the British Isles at 1732ft ASL) it’s about 7am, as bleak as you could imagine, just light enough to see without lights, and its banging it down. My waterproofs are no longer waterproof and I’m soaked to the core, but they’re helping to retain some body heat. Its miserable but its not a surprise and it’s only going to get worse. I don’t mind though, I’m not here for an easy life.
I had planned to stop at Shap to re-stock on food but there’s still enough in my bag for a few more hours. I need to minimise the stops to keep warm and save time. I’m feeling OK but progress is slower than I would like. The bike is still heavy, flapping waterproofs are not remotely aero, and the roads are running like rivers. Leaves, branches and gravel are strewn everywhere and there’s huge patches of fallen acorns that feel like riding on marbles. Of the few priorities I have right now, not crashing is pretty high up there, alongside avoiding hypothermia. It’s difficult to ride fast enough to stay warm but careful enough to stay safe. The situation is grim and I’m treading a fine line.
There’s a Tesco Express in Ambleside which is likely the last chance to re-stock between here and Keswick. Before that though, is the Kirkstone Pass. The highest road in the Lake District is a tough climb at the best of times, but today it’s a slow process. It takes me about 30 minutes to climb to the summit and I notice some feeling returning to my cold hands and feet. They’ve been numb for hours but its short lived. The decent down ‘The Struggle’ saps any excess heat from my body and I’m thankful to arrive safely outside Tesco for the first stop of the day.
Once my bags are stuffed full of pasties, sandwiches, donuts and flapjacks I take a few moments to reflect, whilst standing in the rain and shoveling a tub of pasta down my neck.
I’ve only managed to cover about 80 miles since departing the toilet-hotel, and its 24 hours total since leaving Clitheroe. I’m not quite halfway and there’s still a long way to go. I’m absolutely soaked through and shivering now I’ve stopped, but overall, I think I’m OK. I’ve been eating well, have no real pains or worrying injuries, and I’ve enough supplies to see me though another 12 hours or so. I’m concerned about hypothermia, so I need to get moving again. I don’t know how I’m going to see the night out with so much wet gear, or if I’m ever going to feel warm and dry ever again. It’s a distant thought and not worth worrying about just yet. Back on the bike to try and warm up, and pedal towards Langdale in the relentless downpour.
I’ve got GPS issues again. A few hours ago I experienced similar, when my loaded route tried taking me along a bridleway over Askam Fell and cost me about 30 minutes. I prayed it was an isolated incident, but here we are on the edge of Grizedale Forest and the GPS is trying to send me round the mountain bike tracks. I can’t say I’m happy about it and I’ve no idea why it’s happening, but it’s really annoying. I try re-loading the route from my phone but it’s taking ages because file is too large, so it keeps crashing. Try again, crash, try again, crash. I’m trying to shelter under some trees but its not really helping and my phone is dripping wet through. If that breaks, then I’m in even more trouble so it goes back in a plastic bag. I try to navigate from memory until I’m back on the correct line at the other side of the forest. I hate technology sometimes.
The southern Lake District is beautiful, but the conditions are making it difficult to enjoy. The climbs around Broughton and Duddon are extremely tough but my real frustration is the descents. With so much debris and water on the roads, just staying upright is a challenge and my thoughts turn to how much more of this I can manage without becoming a danger.
There are a few options. The next 50 or so miles ahead have some of the most exposed, steep and difficult roads in the country. I would really like to have this section completed today but its not looking likely. It would take me beyond midnight to reach Keswick and I’m concerned about safety. I have a small tent with me but the thought of pitching it in this weather and then dealing with the layers of sodden kit doesn’t fill me with joy, add the thought of putting it all back on again and packing up a few hours later, and it’s even less appealing. Covid restrictions mean pubs must close at 10pm, and it may take a while to find somewhere with vacancies. If I want to find a room and dry out, I’d have to start looking soon, which would mean cutting the days riding short.
After dragging what seems like the worlds heaviest bike up the Hardknott Pass and descending the treacherous 30% broken tarmac hairpins on other side in the fading light, I make up my mind to find a room. The rain is absolutely bouncing down and it’s no exaggeration when I say it hasn’t stopped all day. At all. Every single second of every minute of the whole day it has been raining and after 15 hours I’ve had enough of it.
I peel off my sodden gloves outside the first pub I see in Eskdale, and they literally fall apart. Whatever glue was holding the liner together must’ve washed away in the days deluge. The pub is warm and the food smells amazing, but they have no vacancies.
The kind lady on reception offers to ring around on my behalf as I’m stood shivering and dripping water all over the reception floor, but call after call and the answer is the same “sorry, we’re full”. I’m starting to feel hopeless and thinking through pitching my tent at the roadside, it’s a sad thought. She doesn’t give up easily though and finally finds me a room up the road in Grosmont. It’s a miserable 30-minute ride away without gloves in the bucketing rain, but the Pub is actually on my route and they’re serving food until 9pm. That gives me about 15minutes to get my act together, hang a million soggy bits of kit on the radiators, have a shower, get a table and place an order.
Sitting in the restaurant feels strange. Dressed in my still-wet waterproof trousers, wet cycling shoes and a tatty down jacket I use for sleeping in, I feel like a King. The feelings of hopelessness and disappointment at not covering the distance I wanted disappear with the first gulps of San Miguel, and the hot soup starter goes down a treat. I wasn’t planning on any luxuries and it feels like I’m cheating but sod it, perhaps I’m being a bit soft, but I’m content for now.
There’s very few ‘rules’ for a ride like this. However, for rider safety and tracking, we’re required to check-in with the Random Adventure Event Team at set locations, at around 50 mile intervals, by uploading a photo to provide proof of passage. I upload a photo of my pint and check how the other riders are getting on.
Brothers ‘travelling light’ Wykes had spent a cold night in a disused tyre shed near Keighley, pressed on into the storm but bailed at the Tan Hill with serious bodily water damage. Their make-or-break approach with ultralight kit didn’t work out and sadly they broke – hands literally falling apart. I’m not surprised though and recon they did well to get so far, today was hard and I feel happier about my own approach.
Fuzz managed a little further with well proven gear, but scratched east of Shap mid-afternoon. A decision forced by the freezing cold and dangerous riding conditions that saw him nearly crash on a few occasions. This is sad news to me as we had a few social media exchanges during the previous week. I’d expressed doubts about riding in the conditions forecast but Fuzz’s positivity convinced me to start. I’m glad to read he is safe.
There’s only one other man left standing and that’s Tom. He’s still in the game and thankfully he is reported to be safe and well, holed up in a heated camping pod for the night. I can’t help but feel sorry for him though, he’s almost 100 miles behind me and I imagine he’s had a seriously tough time to get that far. He’s got the hardest still to come and I feel bad for thinking it but, I doubt he’s going to finish.
So where does that leave me? I’m onto my second pint and the fish and chips arrive. That’s proper nutrition for you. I’ve covered 285 miles and have 240 miles left to go. The biggest hills still lie ahead, I’m behind my own schedule, but feeling OK considering what I’ve been through. There’s enough food left in my bags for a few hours riding and my gear should be dry by morning. The weather forecast looks good for the following day, which leaves me feeling positive. All that’s required is to keep on pedaling. And don’t be sh*t. Then I remember I’m sat in a restaurant and start feeling guilty, ‘Am I being sh*t?’ I should probably be outside riding in the rain. I feel like a wimp and head for bed. Could I have done more? It’s long way from finished.
I wake at 4am and need the toilet. I’m knackered, stiff, and my knee has swollen, my head is fuzzy from the beer and I feel like I could sleep for days. My thoughts turn to Tom, what if he’s riding already? I remember a quote from Mike Hall “If you don’t ride, someone else will.”. That’s it then, I sort my kit, demolish the complementary coffee and biscuits, and head out into the night. It’s still raining.
The sky lightens around Loweswater and the rain has stopped. I feel great! Climbing Whinlatter pass is a joy and the sunrise at the top is beautiful. This is why I do this! I’m in my element here. Newlands Pass is amazing and there’s a Buzzard flying alongside me, landing atop the fence posts ahead then flying again. It’s a beautiful creature, a beautiful day and life couldn’t be much better.
I’m thankful for stopping where I did last night so I can enjoy the Lakes at its best. It doesn’t feel like Hell anymore, Heaven of the North West? I’m the spoilt guest of the North West and loving this! I stop at the top of Honister Pass for a photo and a leftover custard donut, before cruising through Borrowdale towards the Co-op in Keswick. It’s Sunday so it doesn’t open until 10am, I’m slightly early but happy to wait a few minutes, pretty good timing to say it’s a complete fluke.
The road alongside Bassenthwaite is flooded in places which reminds me of the previous days deluge. I’m carefully riding through the shallowest parts in attempt remain dry. Its working well until an oncoming car plows through our shared puddle and covers me head-to-toe in freezing, murky water. Cheers pal.
Caldbeck is stunning and its warming up enough to lose a layer. Then there’s a flattish, fastish section between the Lake District and the North Pennine’s. Its clear enough to see the next set of hills from miles away and I know the next proper climb is a long slog up to Hartside Moor and Alston. The thought of the climb occupies my mind for a long time but once it arrives, I enjoy the gradient and the smooth switchbacks. It’s a long climb and it’s raining enough on the top to add a jacket, but it’s easy on the legs.
I’ve done about 100 miles by the time I stop at Alston.
I check in on myself: How are we feeling? OK I think. Tired, but I think I’m OK. I’ve been trying not to think about a schedule too much, but the reality is there’s 140 hilly miles still to go. My average speed is a slow 11mph and likely to drop, but I’m doing very little stopping. If I push myself, I may be able to ride right through the night and finish early Monday morning. This will be the last chance to refuel, so I buy 15 hours worth of food and enough water to last a while. I can re-fill from a stream if need be, there’s enough of them in spate.
So that’s the plan. Its raining quite heavy now so I add layers of clothing, shove some more food down the hatch, and set off over the North Pennine’s. I’ve never cycled up here before and I recall a social media post from the event organiser saying this was the hardest part of the ride, if any section would break a riders spirit, it’s here.
I decide to not be that guy and set about enjoying the bleak, brutal but beautiful landscape.
Arriving at Barnard Castle I note how stunning it appears, lit up in the dark like something from a fairytale. I’ve got brain-fog and cant recall when darkness came, but I know there’s less than 100 miles to go. I decide to call Kirsty back home before it gets too late. She’s been following my progress and isn’t surprised when I say I’m planning to ride straight through the night. She believes I can do it which is all I need to hear. I’m knackered and secretly question my own ability, but Kirsty believes in me and I trust her. ‘Don’t be sh*t’
Its been raining for quite a while when I get to Reeth. I’ve already got most of my layers on up-top and my waterproof trousers have been on and off a few times. Faffing with kit is frustrating and hindering progress, but I’m determined to look after myself and see this through.
By the time I reach Gunnerside, it’s bouncing down and the rain seems to be sapping the heat from my body. This wasn’t in the weather forecast and I can see why people develop trust issues.
I’m aware of the route from here and although the hardest miles are behind, the next climb is over the high and exposed Buttertubs Pass and the weather is serious again. I’m a fell runner at heart and I’ve a fair bit of mountain experience. I think I’m capable of good mountain judgement and I understand the consequences of poor decision making.
Heading over this pass, at this time of night, in these conditions, whilst so fatigued, seems a poor decision. I still have a tent though which is about as much insurance as I can wish for, should anything go wrong. I pull on the waterproof pants again and tackle the climb. It’s steep and slow but the rain eases off and I warm up nicely.
The run over high moors is actually enjoyable and it’s a lively decent into Hawes. The roads are greasy and dodging darting rabbits and prickly hedgehogs requires concentration. I think I see the white flash of a barn owl in the shadows but can’t be sure. Strange how quickly you can transition from a fairly dark place, to moments of joy amongst the creatures of the night. Most folk will never experience this, and I feel thankful.
Leaving Hawes my brain is a bit scrambled. Its sometime after midnight and although I’m riding well enough, my mind is playing tricks with the shadows and mild hallucinations are setting in. Its nothing too serious, just the occasional skeleton at the roadside or dark figures in the shadows. I know its in my head, so I try to ignore it.
The bike feels strange too. I think the seat post has slipped at first because the handlebars feel too high. The seat post can’t have slipped though because my legs seem to be bending the right amount. That must mean it’s the bars that are too high. I’d spent a lot of time dialing in the bike fit before the ride and making it fit my body and the bars haven’t suddenly grown. It doesn’t feel to fit now though and its really annoying me. The bars even feel too wide and the grips too thick.
I think I’ve shrunk! In fact, I’m sure of it. I’ve put my body through so much that I’ve actually shrunk! It seems logical, it happens to old people after a lifetime of hardship, and I recon I’ve just accelerated the process. I’ve been through a lot and wanted it to be hard but didn’t really expect to shrink. Is it common? Will I ever go back to normal? I hope my hands don’t stay really small because that would be weird.
My mind is quite occupied with working out how to make the bike fit better with minimal faffing. I’m thinking about stopping to flip the stem to help with my shriveling torso. Ignoring the skeletons isn’t working out so well either, and although it’s not scary, it’s a bit distracting. There’s rows and rows of raised vegetable beds appearing along the banking’s too. I think I prefer the imaginary allotment to the skeletons
In surprise I swerve hard away from the verge. That was a bloody witch opening the gate! I’m wide awake now and in shock. I need to reason with myself, witches aren’t real. Maybe it was just a crooked old woman in the dark, in the middle of nowhere. Definitely not a witch. I keep pedaling the funny shaped bike and try to stay away from the verges.
By the time I reach Wray I know I’ve got a problem. I can no longer ride in a straight line, I’m falling asleep in the saddle, and the bike feels like a clowns bike from a circus.
I decide to have a sleep in a bus shelter. With only 30 miles to go to the finish, it’s not an easy decision but I can’t carry on like this. I get my mini foam mat out, set a short alarm and lay down on the bench.
30 minutes later the alarm wakes me and I’m freezing cold. My body feels paralysed but my head is clear enough and know I need to get moving. I force myself to my feet, put the mat away in my pannier and eat the last cheese and onion pasty. Helmet on and off I go, straight up another hill.
I feel much better! The sleep monsters have gone and most importantly, the bike fits again. I’m sure I haven’t grown, so I guess it was the fatigue. Although it’s a bizarre realisation, it’s a relief and I have a little laugh at myself, strange man. I’m glad my hands aren’t really small.
The sky is clear now and a full moon shines bright. It’s a beautiful night and it feels like someone has turned the lights on. It’s still chilly but at Quernmore I decide on one last adjustment of layers. Knowing there’s some tasty climbs ahead and dawn isn’t far away, I stop to strip off the waterproofs and tuck them in my panniers for a final time. I’ve one last photo check-in at the Jubilee Tower, then it’s a lovely ride through the Trough of Bowland. The hallucinations come back from time to time but much milder and more distant. Dinosaur skeletons this time but they’re on the hill tops, far off statues from a museum, merely observing and not causing any harm. I’m enjoying their company.
One last climb up Waddington Fell as the sky is lightening. It’s all downhill from the summit back to Clitheroe and I can see the lights shining in the valley below. It’s Monday morning and starting to get busy on the roads, as the normal folk rush back to work after the weekend.
Its more or less over and my emotions are mixed. There’s something special about being alone for so long and pushing personal, mental and physical boundaries. I sometimes have moments of wishing to be at home, enjoying a comfortable life with Kirsty, settling down on the sofa or taking the dog for a walk in the woods. I enjoy these things and I miss them when I’m away, but I know when I’m comfortable, I long for adventure, challenges and exploration. I stop at the top of the hill for one last photo and decide to put my hearing aids back in. I’m heading back to reality now, back to civilization, and there’s a chance I’ll have to speak to someone.
I needn’t have worried. The whole appeal of these events is the self-supported philosophy. There’s no support, and validation of success relies heavily on the integrity of the rider. There are no prizes, so no reward for cheating. Nobody cares who ‘wins’, so it’s no surprise that the Green Jersey is closed when I arrive at 7am. There’s nobody here, no tape to break or cork to pop, just another photo check-in to prove I finished, then back to my van on the roadside for a coffee. Just how I like it.
I upload the data from my GPS to Strava. The total stats add up to 527 miles with 54,000ft of ascent, in 66 hours. It looks like quite a journey on the map, but the cycling is the easy bit if you’re fit enough. It’s the self-management that’s the real challenge and the conditions add a lot to that.
I never thought about stopping and never thought about quitting. I learn with sadness that Tom also scratched, which means I’m the only one to complete the ride. Did I win? I finished last but I think I did OK, I’m content. I wasn’t sh*t.
