It was finished. I was finished, I didn’t know if it was relief
or disappointment. I had come to the end of my road. I was in Brampton and
couldn’t go on. Pam and I had the conversation about the possibilities and
logistics. The trains could take me but not the bike – some use having a
privatised rail service. Pam would make the three drive to collect me in the
morning. We were both relived from another sleepless night of Garmin
watching. I attempted to clean and dress
my knee and finally went to get some sleep. The volunteers who nursed us
growing band DNF riders through the final hours were amazing, they knew we were
done and helped collect the fallout for no reward.
In the morning I put together a message for my followers on
social media.
The support and emotional responses were overwhelming, and
from very some very unexpected sources. There was a buzz as riders heading south had
begun to arrive, and the very surreal conversations that take place as an
international community of riders attempts to communicate with each other. Such
as the two heavy accented voices who discussed their breakfast at volume.
“Shall we have our food now?”
“No, first I have to have my shit.”
“While you have your shit I shall drink coffee.”
“Then when I have had my shit we will eat.”
Shit was becoming a theme. One rider I met, gave me graphic
detail how the sudden influx of food at a control left him behind a hedge five
miles down the road. Later while I was getting changed, the entire changing
room was treated to a very flat reedition of a trumpet voluntary. The rider
performing was in an adjoining toilet block and separated by brick walls and
doors. He either needed to consult a doctor or audition for an orchestra. The
same went for the night farter. He couldn’t blame the airbeds, the muffled
laughter from those close to his bed gave the game away.
However, it didn’t
change the fact I had scratched. I sat with Dave whose wife was traveling from
Ireland to collect him when Pam arrived. It was final, no getting back on the
road. I changed and said goodbye to those I spent the previous day with, riders
and volunteers. Annat thanked me for helping him through and we departed south.
The weekend in Debden had been so different. The LEL riders
were mainly on Field 4 of the council run campsite. Parties in other fields
rolled on into the night as drunken parents were relieved that their children
could run feral in the woods of Epping Forest. One parent even announced at the
top of his voice that a rabbit had been sighted. News – there is wildlife in
Epping!
Revenge would arrive soon as the early riders were up and
about from about from about 3.30am in preparation for the 5am start. Freewheels
could be heard spinning across the campsite. I stayed in bed as my start time
was 11.15am. Simple – get up, shit, shower and first breakfast (yogurt and
granola), then roll down to Debden for a second breakfast, coffee and the
start. Simple? No, first there had to be the pre-ride disasters. Yesterday I
had lost the van keys, after going through my bags at the ride HQ start several
times, I returned to the campsite to find them under the van. How this had
happened I don’t know. Must have fallen from my bag. Disaster number two was
toilet based. Due to there being more men than women in the event, the school
caretaker was directing traffic in the school sports centre – men could use
unoccupied female toilets and he would clear the room should any female riders
show up. I was directed to the disabled toilet. When I flushed, the handle
broke and rotated in a storm of zip ties around the cistern. It had been bodged
back together and the caretaker gave a knowing look as I told him there was an
issue.
The start happened fairly smoothly, with the expected
briefing about last minute road works and a poke at local club riders. Disaster
number three came less than a kilometre from the start. The roads in Debden are
shocking. I thought Shropshire was bad, but these are in a different league.
When the old concrete road through the housing estate at the start had begun to
fall apart, the local authority had merely placed tarmac over it. Now the two
layers were breaking down at different rates and speedhumps and been added to
the already crumbling structure. Riding as group and unable to alter your line,
does not give the smoothest of rides. The rough passage dislodged my rear light
which landed and smashed in the road. Luckily a passing London bus avoided it
and it would continue to work minus its outer lens.
We rolled out of Debden and headed north to St Ives amongst
some of the most belligerent motorists I’ve encountered in a long time. They
just didn’t care, and it wasn’t just a group of massed cyclists that they took
issue with. One lady motorist approaching a single lane bridge was forced to endure
extended horn blasting for being cautious, this came from a clapped out Impreza
that was driving way above a safe speed. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her
fault, but the opportunity of a junction where I could pull alongside never
materialised.
The road to St Ives just felt long and not particularly
interesting. For a number of miles I teamed up with a rider who had DNF in the
previous edition – ruptured Achilles tendon had finished his ride. I also teamed
up with Mike, a larger than life American who wore the loudest kit possible.
Mike wanted ice, he couldn’t believe there were no village convenience stores
or gas stations – a theme that would develop with other international riders
through the week. Mike had the plan of riding 180-200 miles per day. He didn’t
have the speed for this, and we separated on a downhill section.
St Ives was a surprise. I was amazed at the old town, and it
somehow reminded me of my earlier adventure to Chester. I overtook a middle-aged
slob on a BMX bike as I approached the town. I passed quietly with the quiet acknowledgement
cyclists give each other. I didn’t know, but he had taken exception to this. I
slowed for the narrow bridge into town that is followed by a 90 degree bend. To
my surprise people had heard we were coming and stopped to clap as I rode
carefully through the busy pedestrianised street, the slob saw this as his
opportunity and accelerated off the bridge and down an alley in a moment of
triumph. The shoppers he nearly took out were shocked by his poor manners.
I can’t remember much about the control at St Ives, I must
have been there as I have the control stamp. I also ate there as I remembered
the food at Louth being very similar. Then it was onto Boston and into The
Fens. I had never been in The Fens. Poor road surfaces, mad drivers – “I have a
pick up and know how to abuse it!” Typify the back roads of The Fens. Also, the ever present wind. As the day had
been warm, this was an intense energy sapping warm wind. As one rider put it:
“Like someone is walking in front with a hairdryer turned
on.”
I recorded a new record low altitude of -3 Metres as we
descended off a dyke wall. The whole place had a menace about it. The whole
region is only one leak away from disaster, and if any TV producer wants to
film another dark Sunday night detective drama, then The Fens would be an ideal
backdrop. We did meet some nice people, one lady had her children stationed on
a strategic corner of a village with supplies of water. They were disappointed
that I had plenty and could not take more onboard. My fellow rider at this
point obliged.
Boston, I expected to be modern, having read about its
reputation for murders and flyovers. It was a real traditional port with an
overwhelming smell of fish as the harbour section is dominated by processing
plants. The control was in an old school, with the bike park in an enclosed
courtyard at the rear. This played havoc with my GPS unit and I needed to stop
once back out on the road and in the open. I also met up with Mike for the last
time, he arrived as I was leaving control. We exchanged greetings and I don’t
what became of him after that.
Cyclists are often accused of running red lights. Sometimes
this is for good reason – the lights don’t detect approaching bikes. I had
waited several minutes at a light controlled junction before being joined by
another rider. Before long there were around five of us and no movement from
the lights. Eventually we all agreed to move together and crossed an empty
junction. How long would we have waited for a change? I suspect some Daily Mail
reading expert would have the answer.
I reached Louth at 0145am. This had been a long night and I
was happy to meet the volunteers directing us off the road and into the bike
park. I ate more hot food and sat with a rider who was a teacher in FE. He had
DNF in his previous attempt and was considering pulling at Louth. I tried to
encourage him on with two plans - he could leave with me and would probably
feel better for having company on the road or could get a couple of hours sleep
and see how he felt afterwards. His mind was set, he would sleep and then
probably scratch before heading too far north. It would be easier to get back
to London from Louth than north of the Humber.
I wasn’t tired and headed out into the night. Riders came
and went, one I rode with for quite a while. He accused me of mechanical doping
as he needed to peddle to keep up with my freewheeling on gentle down hills.
The technology of some quality wheels thanks to the mechanics at Plush Hill
Cycles. Dawn broke as I approached the Humber. The bridge was spectacular and
the sunrise to behold. I stopped with a group of Indian riders with whom I
would see more of later in the ride. A number of riders didn’t stop to look and
just powered over the bridge. What does it take for them to look up from their computer
units?
The control at Hessle was crowded and rumours abounded about the absence of the chef. Breakfast couldn’t have been worse. Weetabix, toast and macaroni cheese. That wasn’t for me with my food allergies. Torq bar and coffee.
Hessle saw a
personal revelation. A volunteer came looking for diabetics, turned out that
the test strips for the medic’s glucose machine were the wrong type and was
after someone who might have some that fit. He gave me some great advice about
forcing my doctor into signing me up for a constant readout machine, similar to
the one he used. He said:
“Tell them
you are an endurance athlete.”
“That’s
pushing it.” I replied. “I’m hardly that.”
“You’ve made it here, that means you are an endurance athlete. Even if you were to end it now you
have completed 300km in under 24 hours. That means you are an endurance
athlete!”
This hit me
after the ride. WOW! If only I could slap my old PE teacher in the face with
that one. The arse who once called me a complete spastic. I can’t even excuse
him by saying it was the 70s, it was the 1980s by then and he should have known
better. So, screw you Cov. I am an endurance athlete! I will quote that one to
nursery when we next meet in anger (usually on her part).
The ride to
Malton saw the first hills. Not excessive, but definitely not the Fens. A flood
cascading down a village road also dirtied my immaculate bike. Not happy with that
one. I also joined up with a group of Spanish riders. They ride just like the Spanish
pros I have seen riding in Spain. They attack everything. Hills – pull harder.
Down hills – don’t touch the brakes and standing traffic – why wait? I can
descend a bit, but this was in a different league. I did call, “Vamos!” As one
rider passed me on a downhill bend. The shock of hearing Spanish in Yorkshire
caused him to wobble. We sped into Malton. Traffic was queuing and blocking
junctions surrounding a cheap petrol station that had recently made the news
for selling petrol at un-inflated prices. The town was at a standstill, not the
Spanish road train. It thundered through using whatever free space appeared,
including the pavement and gaps in roadworks. Even the Spanish women showed no
mercy and a determination to push through – especially when cars became
obstinate and insisted on blocking orange checked junctions. We arrived at
Malton, my official check in time was 1122am. I had covered 366.7km
(227.85miles) in 24 hours! After food and a sleep in the sun, it was time for
the long stretch to Barnards Castle – 113.4km and 1215m of climbing. This stage
did me some serious damage and I would see my six hours in hand disappear.
I joined up
with a group of Indian riders. This happened as we all stopped for a break in
one of the villages. It was hot and a quick swig off the bottle wouldn’t be
sufficient, we all needed a long drink. Prem could not believe that the village
shops he thought would be in every village had disappeared.
“What do
people do when they need to buy food?” He asked.
Prem found it
difficult to believe that people were prepared to drive miles to a supermarket.
He had expected Britain to have a shop, pub and post office in every village.
He was shocked by the lack of amenities and wondered how cyclists managed to
survive. I explained that churchyards are useful, if there are flowers on the
graves, that means there is a water tap. Also, that most church porches have
benches and these can provide shelter from the rain and somewhere dry to eat
your sandwiches.
Prem was
incredulous and wanted ice-cream. As an Indian he was accustomed to heat but
said this was different. It wasn’t just hot.
“It draws the
breath from you!”
The next
small town saw a growing band of riders gathering at a service station that had
a minimart attached. We joined them and Prem got his ice cream. The minimart
quickly began to sell out of water as we restocked to the glare of locals who
expected it to be quiet at this time in the afternoon. From then it was out
into the hills. This set were different and steep. I’m used to the 15% + hills
we have in Shropshire, but the Yorkshire Moors had me pushing with the rest.
Prem couldn’t believe how rough the tarmac was compared to India. He was also
sick of seeing landscape – where was the promised culture? A local rider
complained that it was too much. The hills we were climbing he had done as the
highlight of a Sunday club run and it was too much to include them in a 1500km
endurance event.
Izzy who had
joined Pam in dot watching at home is from Yorkshire and watched with
increasing horror as we constantly appeared to head into hills she would have
avoided in a car, let alone on a bike. The picture below shows one of the
villages. The phone camera foreshortens and flattens the picture, to get and
idea of the slope, just look at the position of the feet of the people coming
down the hill compared to the cyclist pushing up.
These were hardened club riders being reduced to pushing. I
did meet some riders who had ridden up but regretted what it had taken out of
them. It was just the pushing that lost
me time. Eventually I was to get my first of three punctures. I had two spare
tubes, but the third? I had wasted hours on this. I tried to patch the third,
the self-adhesive patches didn’t work in the heat. I walked for a while in
order to get a phone signal and managed to reach the emergency number in
London. I didn’t expect help, just thought someone should know I was out on the
moors as darkness started to fall. The volunteers make the LEL, but this one
hadn’t a clue. I understood that there was no help, I just wanted to make sure
someone knew I was up there.
“Find a wifi signal, then download What-Three-Words and call
a taxi.” Was the suggestion. Really? This youth had never been outside London,
it had taken me a mile to get phone signal. Then like a vision in Lycra Guy
arrived. The most welcome sight in the world. Guy was enthusiastic about bikes
and had a set of old-fashioned patches, this worked and we managed to get the
bike back up and running. I can never thank Guy enough for his help. I met him
at the bag drop back in London. He had scratched later in the ride dur to heat
exhaustion. Something not usually an issue on Audax rides.
Guy and I separated as he could descend faster than me – I
really had to take care as the tyre though serviceable, perhaps wasn’t quite as
hard as needed and I couldn’t risk rolling the tube off the wheel. Later I was
flagged down by a car. It was a volunteer from Barnards Castle – Peter Bond.
London had phoned the control to say I was up on the moors. Peter didn’t want
someone left out there alone and had kindly driven up to check out if I was ok.
He had offered to follow me down to Barnards Castle, but this wasn’t necessary,
and I knew I could make it. It was good to know someone was there. My thank you
to Peter on the Facebook group couldn’t express the gratitude I felt at the
time.
The next stop would be the secret control, set at a random
location to prevent cheating. I think this was universally hated, mainly for
being on a dark lane and at the bottom of a hill. I had teamed up with a rider
who had light issues, when the volunteers appeared in the road with torches, we
nearly told them were to go and peddled on thinking it was just some angry
locals. Perhaps it was too secret. The night was long, and riders came and went.
At home Pam was beside herself as the lack of phone signal had meant no track
was being sent by my Garmin, also I hadn’t checked into to a control for hours.
I was not alone in the Garmin issue, there appeared to be a local outage as the
next group I joined had similar issues. All three of struggled to get a
location and directions. One of the riders was also struggling, I gave him a
Torq bar as he was out of food – after twenty minutes I couldn’t keep up him or
the girl who joined us (she was an accomplished climber). I know the product
was good, but this was like he had received something far greater.
After hours around grovelling around country lanes in the
dark I joined up with two new riders and we made it into Barnards Castle. Along
the way we passed some creepy village churches, in one a badger or fox was
rooting around. I did think if it was anything sinister, it wouldn’t be
interested in me with the amount of lactate in blood I would have tasted very
sour. I made it into Barnards Castle at 0147am. Gone were my plans of sleep and
food, my ride was now looking in doubt. I met Guy again, he also had navigation
issues and had arrived about five minutes before me.
The mechanic was fantastic and checked my bike over while I
ate. I’ve never known such service, and from volunteers who are working for no
reward. I was also able to purchase a new spare inner tube. The atmosphere in
the old grammar school was wonderful, halls lined with wood panelling, sports
team memorials and the portraits of significant old boys. I managed to shower
and unpeel my blood soaked shorts. It was worse than expected, not just
saddle-sores, but open wounds. I messaged Pam, she was still awake and now
relieved that I had reappeared. Someone posted on Facebook that worse than
doing the ride was being at home waiting for news. Modern technology is good,
but at times it just adds to the worry when it doesn’t provide the answers
needed and often when it’s most crucial.
I slept, ate, and departed at around 0630am. The town centre
was busier than expected and it was cold. On the climb out of town I stopped to
warmup in the morning sun, as I pulled away my front wheel slid down a deep
pothole. I had no choice but to fall into the road – luckily no traffic. I was
blooded, but the bike was I ok, and I only had skin damage. Close call. As the
morning and the climb progressed it warmed up. I met up with two young riders
(a Scot and a German), they too had stopped to remove layers. The Scot apologised
to his friend for taking too long in performing a routine task. The forlorn
German told him to take his time as he had long forgotten about his time and
the Scot commented how the saddle sore stopped him worrying about his legs. The
hill was getting worse and would exceed our worst visions of hell. More
climbing and long descents, on one downhill I stopped as I could smell burning,
it was my brake blocks. I was also joined by a Japanese rider, we both walked
the steepest sections that were reaching 17%, so much for the early
descriptions that offered hills of 12%. This was all down to a moorland
diversion as the result of repairs to a cattle grid.
After a drink in a popup café we headed back into the hill.
The discussion became when to scratch rather than if. I was ahead of Barry
heading out of St. John’s Chapel, I got off as the hill became serious. I
expected Barry to ride past me, he didn’t and got off before my high point.
Barry’s, bike computer colour coded the hills, until now he thought red was the
highest, he had just discovered purple. So we continued, ride the easier slopes
and push the harder.
Eventually, we made Alston. Barry and I separated on the
downhills due to his disc brakes dealing with the 20% descent better than my
rims. In Alston I joined up with Annat, an Indian who was having nav issues due
to the lack of phone signal. We found Barry at the Coop come service station on
the road out and joined him for a cold drink. It was +30C, very different to
when Pam I had been there during a stormy October and ran from the car into the
store to escape the storm. Annat followed me out of town, but was struggling
due to saddle sores. He could not climb due to the downward pressure being too
painful. Dave and I pulled into the Nook Café, Dave to get water and I waited
for Annat. We couldn’t cycle that slowly and I wasn’t going to leave him. Annat
arrived and went to get water while found him some painkillers from my bag.
After taking them, we went through directions that would get him to Brampton
and set off, but he still couldn’t climb and was quickly dropped. I did wait
for him while changing drink bottles and talking to a friendly local who
couldn’t believe the ride had taken us over Nant Head.
We made it to Brampton and at tea it was mainly the
discussion around getting home. Dave’s wife was coming from Ireland in the
camper van, Barry had booked the nightsleeper from Edinburgh in two days’ time,
and I didn’t see Annat until the following morning.
The volunteers were amazing, they knew what the DNF crew
felt like and didn’t leave us unattended. That was it, my ride was over. Would
I do it again? Not sure. Pam has threatened to chop my feet off if I dare to
come up with another stupid idea, looks like it could be the Para games!
The physical aspect I had trained for, I felt no ache in the
legs and this has been called a brutal edition of the LEL. It was the physical
damage I wasn’t prepared for. Twelve days after pulling out and the feeling
still hasn’t returned to the outer fingers on both hands or the middle toes on
my feet. The knee is healing and the saddle sores have finally scabbed over
after a week of dressing and treating with antibiotic cream. This is the sort
of damage that if it continued, would have left a permanent mark. How does a
rider prepare for it? Or more importantly avoid? I don’t know, I don’t have the
answers. The one thing that I do know is that I am an endurance athlete and may
one day find the answers.
