# Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL



## arallsopp (24 Jul 2009)

*Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL - NOW WITH VIDS*

Righty ho, off I go. 

Lea Valley Sunday morning, and again some time Thursday night. Will miss you dearly in between. If all goes well, I shall be a very happy boy.

If all goes elsewell, stories will be generated.


----------



## iLB (24 Jul 2009)

bon voyage andy, its not quite the loire valley like i was enjoying but i suppose it will have to do  good luck


----------



## Auntie Helen (24 Jul 2009)

Good luck!


----------



## Aperitif (26 Jul 2009)

2 hours before the off - not quite the leisurely breakfast you dream about Andy...take care and write soon!
McMouseketeer...


----------



## arallsopp (26 Jul 2009)

Blimey Ape. You're up late. Or starting early. 

I'm setting off from home shortly. Got a 2pm slot for start, which I suspect means ride through afternoon, night, morning, and very probably afternoon if I want to maximise daylight riding.
Hopefully that'll net me something to the tune of around 600km by bed, which puts me in good standing for some sleep.
It will be a mouseketeer ride though, and all plans are normally best left at home, along with the maps

Ok all. See you on the other side.


----------



## Auntie Helen (26 Jul 2009)

Have a brill time, Andy!


----------



## arallsopp (26 Jul 2009)

Thanks all.

And special congrats to you AH for your new found peak average. Up by a third is one hell of a jump. Well done


----------



## John Ponting (26 Jul 2009)

If you're still around - I may see you somewhere between Lee Valley and Gamlingay. I'll be the blue Triumph Tiger with bright orange yacf jersey. I should have my camera so make sure you smile.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Jul 2009)

Excellent. 1050 or the 955i? 
I'll be on an acoustic, of course


----------



## arallsopp (26 Jul 2009)

Aw snap. Return idler just disintegrated. Can't steer without throwing the chain. I'm out.
Damn. Damn. Damn....


----------



## iLB (26 Jul 2009)

out? for good?

no, no, no...


----------



## arallsopp (26 Jul 2009)

Not our year, brother. Not our year.

I know what you're feeling, mate. 
How I am now, is just how I was when I heard about Gibraltar.

I don't know what sh1t Karma has in store for us down the line, but it better be frickin good, cos I don't remember being an evil little fck any time recent.


----------



## iLB (26 Jul 2009)

what are the chances? c'est pas juste  

chin up though, remember the adventures you've had getting ready for it, massive dissapoinment though


----------



## Aperitif (26 Jul 2009)

Bad news Andy - sorry to hear it.


----------



## arallsopp (27 Jul 2009)

Hooooooooha! Update: Scraped through Thurlby on my last zip tie. Just rolled into Washingborough with an idler made from chewed up plastic and an old shoe. Pretty, it is not. Going, I still am!
Bike resplendent in normal clunkiness and wobbles. All that's missing now is red shorts and a tail.
Make it to morning, and I can see whether its fixable.
Next stop Wragby...


----------



## Auntie Helen (27 Jul 2009)

Text message from Andy:

"Howdo. No data service here, but still rolling.
Start 14:44
Break bike
Thurlby 22:45
fix bike
Washboro 01:53
Wragby?
Thorne 07:10
Coxwold 13:40
411km thus far"


----------



## topcat1 (27 Jul 2009)

Good going Andy keep it up.


----------



## Mista Preston (27 Jul 2009)

still going then.... well done Andy, the power of zip ties ! keep going


----------



## iLB (28 Jul 2009)

he's now in scotland


----------



## Kirstie (28 Jul 2009)

...someone's going to have to fill me in on what he's doing cos I've totally missed the thread but now I'm all curious...


----------



## iLB (28 Jul 2009)

he's doing LEL (London-Edinburgh-London) Audax thingy


----------



## Kirstie (28 Jul 2009)

ilovebikes said:


> he's doing LEL (London-Edinburgh-London) Audax thingy



ooh! cool!


----------



## Auntie Helen (28 Jul 2009)

Had a text about an hour ago to say he's 27 miles from the halfway point!


----------



## Aperitif (28 Jul 2009)

Well done Andy - for a while we all thought it was ar allstop...pleased that you are McMuddling through that hiccup.

(© User3143)


----------



## ChrisKH (28 Jul 2009)

Well done Andy. Makes my long trips look like a very, very, short commute.


----------



## dellzeqq (29 Jul 2009)

amazing (if slightly alarming) stuff.

Is there a scheduled return time?


----------



## iLB (29 Jul 2009)

dellzeqq said:


> amazing (if slightly alarming) stuff.
> 
> Is there a scheduled return time?



some point tomorrow afternoon/evening i believe


----------



## mr Mag00 (29 Jul 2009)

holy hell!


----------



## redjedi (29 Jul 2009)

mr Mag00 said:


> holy hell!



I think that pretty much sums up my feelings as well.

Good luck Andy, looking forward to the write up and pictures.


----------



## Wigsie (29 Jul 2009)

I am becoming more and more suspicious that the one they call Arallsopp is not actually human... 

He is infact a T1000, a Terminator composed entirely of a mimetic metal alloy, rendering it capable of monumental mile munching, near-perfect mimicry and rapid resistance/recovery from damage. Furthermore, it can use its ability to quickly liquify and assume forms in innovative and surprising ways, including fitting through narrow openings, morphing its human legs into solid metal tools for cycling immense distances!

I am right, I know I am!


----------



## Fab Foodie (29 Jul 2009)

Gripping yarn!

Allez allez!


----------



## ianrauk (29 Jul 2009)

A Faska Marmite top wearing terminator



Wigsie said:


> I am becoming more and more suspicious that the one they call Arallsopp is not actually human...
> 
> He is infact a T1000, a Terminator composed entirely of a mimetic metal alloy, rendering it capable of monumental mile munching, near-perfect mimicry and rapid resistance/recovery from damage. Furthermore, it can use its ability to quickly liquify and assume forms in innovative and surprising ways, including fitting through narrow openings, morphing its human legs into solid metal tools for cycling immense distances!
> 
> I am right, I know I am!


----------



## Aperitif (29 Jul 2009)

Wigsie said:


> I am becoming more and more suspicious that the one they call Arallsopp is not actually human...
> 
> He is infact a T1000, a Terminator composed entirely of a mimetic metal alloy, rendering it capable of monumental mile munching, near-perfect mimicry and rapid resistance/recovery from damage. Furthermore, it can use its ability to quickly liquify and assume forms in innovative and surprising ways, including fitting through narrow openings, morphing its human legs into solid metal tools for cycling immense distances!
> 
> I am right, I know I am!



This sounds remarkably like the description that Andy gave when he went out for a ride with dellzeqq - when 'arallsopp' first joined CycleChat.
If you can be bothered, read back through Andy's first posts to see what I mean.
But he is mad - agreed. He's like the horse whisperer and Coco the clown rolled into one...eh Andy?


----------



## summerdays (29 Jul 2009)

Anybody know where he is now... and I take it that it's bound to be raining there.


----------



## Wigsie (29 Jul 2009)

Aperitif said:


> This sounds remarkably like the description that Andy gave when he went out for a ride with dellzeqq - when 'arallsopp' first joined CycleChat.
> If you can be bothered, read back through Andy's first posts to see what I mean.
> But he is mad - agreed. He's like the horse whisperer and Coco the clown rolled into one...eh Andy?



I now feel like a stalker but I found it.  the circle is complete, he has become what he was once in awe of!


----------



## Aperitif (29 Jul 2009)

Post 10# - sweet innocence of youth...


----------



## iLB (29 Jul 2009)

mr allsopp is now headed south been through middleton, yorkshire, next stop cowold. good news he has even linked up with brian superstar of fnrttc fame


----------



## Auntie Helen (29 Jul 2009)

Message just received:

"Update from here: cockpit shot to sh1t, rear derailleur stuck in top, gremlins in the cables, starboard engine on fire. Coming in low and fast over North York Moors. Clear the decks!!!  "


----------



## iLB (29 Jul 2009)

Auntie Helen said:


> Message just received:
> 
> "Update from here: cockpit shot to sh1t, rear derailleur stuck in top, gremlins in the cables, starboard engine on fire. Coming in low and fast over North York Moors. Clear the decks!!!  "




oh dear andy, keep going


----------



## summerdays (30 Jul 2009)

That doesn't sound too good..... but is that normal for this event anyway?


----------



## summerdays (30 Jul 2009)

Thanks for that I know nothing about the event at all but interested since a cc'er is doing it.


----------



## Aperitif (30 Jul 2009)

Here summerdays take a look if you have time.

I'm keeping an eye out for the trails of black smoke belching out from Andy's collapsed undercarriage...


----------



## summerdays (30 Jul 2009)

But what I want is a little map of his progress and showing me how I can track him... I find the lack of information frustrating and there is nothing on that website showing how people are doing (or have I missed it). Would anyone have finished by now or is that a bit unrealistic? Do they cycle in groups or is it really spread out as each person goes at their own pace? I can't wait for the after event write up.


----------



## John Ponting (30 Jul 2009)

First rider back to Lee Valley at 0125 Wednesday morning followed by Four Italians arrived Lee Valley 04.55

Not bad for an 0830 Sunday start; Cheshunt to Dalkeith and back.


----------



## longers (30 Jul 2009)

I saw him this morning at somepoint, he ate, we mumbled, he left. He shouldn't be too far off now. Chapeau to all who entered - it was a bit grim for them.

There's some proper nutters out there


----------



## Will1985 (30 Jul 2009)

Is he back yet???


----------



## John Ponting (30 Jul 2009)

Not reported home yet but has NOT dnf'd by 1000 this morning. On his way.


----------



## iLB (30 Jul 2009)

his ETA is 02.00hrs tomorrow i think


----------



## arallsopp (31 Jul 2009)

Is early. 

Got round in 107:06.

Hello.
Bed.


----------



## John Ponting (31 Jul 2009)

Excellent. After your bad start followed by appalling weather it's good to get back within limit.

WELL DONE.


----------



## summerdays (31 Jul 2009)

Well done - looking forward to hearing about it ... after a well deserved sleep I suspect.


----------



## Auntie Helen (31 Jul 2009)

...and how many miles will he have done? What's going to happen to the Cyclogs Leaderboard?


----------



## HelenD123 (31 Jul 2009)

That's fantastic! Well done.


----------



## Aperitif (31 Jul 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Is early.
> 
> Got round in 107:06.
> 
> ...



RING RING! RING RING!RING RING! RING RING!

Come on Andy -time to get up. You can't be tired as you have been sitting down for ages. Get thee a quill i t'hand and dip in inkwell.
Hyde Park Corner, tomorrow, 07:45am - you need to get out more...
Welcome 'home' to CycleChat.


----------



## ianrauk (31 Jul 2009)

Well done Andy.. what a great achievement


----------



## Kirstie (31 Jul 2009)

Amazing! Well done!!


----------



## Landslide (31 Jul 2009)

Well done nutter!!!


----------



## GrumpyGregry (31 Jul 2009)

well done you total nut job.


----------



## Aperitif (31 Jul 2009)

And well done St Brilliant Brian of Addiscombe ( I presume he made it home?) - another veteran of the Friday Night Rides tt Coast - who, incidentally, is to blame for everything involving 'a quick ride back'!


----------



## hulver (31 Jul 2009)

Well done arallsopp.

Bad news AH, it's approx 870 miles. You'd have to go some to catch him up this month.


----------



## arallsopp (31 Jul 2009)

Am very happy to concede the jersey to Aran and Ianrauk, for their continued and steadfast mile eating.
Yellow jersey should not go to a one hit wonder

I'll happily settle for a little yellow stitching on my pillow, a key fob, and sore knees.
Thanks all for your support. You'll never know how important it is to me.


----------



## Aperitif (31 Jul 2009)

About time you showed up.

Well done mate.



Yes...



...nutjob.


----------



## arallsopp (31 Jul 2009)

Didn't see Brian this morning. Last I caught him, he was sporting a back wheel that looked like a child's drawing.
...Of an egg.

Was getting sorted by the very excellent volunteers at the next control though. I'd imagine he rolled in somewhere around 3 this morning.
Lea Valley was all funny walks and dismantled bikes, and he may have been in the fray.


----------



## 4F (31 Jul 2009)

Indeed well done fruitcake


----------



## Wigsie (31 Jul 2009)

Can only echo the praise (and nut job statements) of those on here, well done... legendary effort! 

Too soon to enquire about what you are going to do to top that?


----------



## Crackle (31 Jul 2009)

I'll just added my generally astonished praise at your effort, especialy in light of the mechanicals: Amazing.


----------



## Auntie Helen (31 Jul 2009)

Well I suppose I could mention here that I'm vaguely planning doing a CycleChat group ride along the Mosel River in Germany in mid-May (probably 2 weeks, could possibly squeeze it into 1 week if necessary). That wouldn't be very far per day (50 miles) but being in Foreign Parts might count for something!


----------



## Baggy (31 Jul 2009)

Arallsopp, all I can say is "chapeau"


----------



## arallsopp (1 Aug 2009)

Hey! The ride has just been made 'official'. Evey advises we are about to depart for IKEA.
Knew there was something missing from a post ride fug. 

Starting to shuffle thoughts into a ride report. Family time first, then semi disposable flat pack assembly, then sleep, then write up.
Is it wrong to wear a S/S LEL jersey with jeans when shopping? Its clean, if that helps.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

Right. Enough of this. I'm starting to forget the ride. This is not good with no ride report in place. Time to address things... Normal service will be resumed shortly.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*LEL: Day 1. A late start*







1030hrs Sunday morning, and I'm loading the bike onto the roof of a friend's car. He's agreed to whizz me around the M25 to the kickoff at Lea Valley, Cheshunt. Evey, Teddy, and the inlaws follow in our car (which is roomy enough for the bent and us, but not with the extended family along for the ride). This bit goes like clockwork. 1300hrs I arrive at Cheshunt and refuse to be utterly freaked out by the national teams present. The Greeks look friendly. The Italians have an entourage of support vehicles and mechanics. The Dutch are mostly horizontal. Excellent. The field of around 600 riders will set off in two tranches, one centred around 8am, the second at 2pm. I'm due to set off around 1415hrs, so there’s plenty of time to play with Ted, try to relax, have a worry wee, etc.

I spend a few happy minutes wandering around Lea Valley, checking out kit. I’m keeping an eye out for people I might know who are on the ride. GerryC is one, who I met on the FNRttCs . No sign. I do find a bent with a yacf buff aboard, and a little detective work in their forums soon puts a name to Rich Forrest. 

Looks like Gerry set off in the 0800 slot. Oh well, I’ll join Rich when my time comes. Lovely. Fast forward 10 minutes. I'm in the loos, and I hear the 'clack clack' of a cleated rider on tile enter behind me (fnarr if you must). That's odd... Why am I not making the same noise? Look down. TRAINERS! Sh1t. Bad bad bad. Right. Exit loo. Find family. Explain.

1330hrs, and I'm holding the baby, entertaining the inlaws, and watching buddy and wife plough through a cloud of dust and tire smoke. The repmobile surges forwards in a manner entirely unlike a big grey Honda, and once the gravel settles, has gone.

45 minutes to get to Bromley and back. Hmmm.. Took us an hour and a half to get here. This may not be an auspicious kick off. I wander over to the official start with Ted, and watch massed groups set off in 15 minute intervals. After 1400hrs, each group gets considerably smaller. By 1440hrs, its just me, a group of Catalans (Catalonians?) who outnumber their bikes, and (belatedly) a long haired scouser who seemed to think the massed ride would set off at 3. I take some confidence in this. At least I knew what time I was supposed to leave, even if I’m running late  

I look up to see an indiscriminate family saloon get airborne on the level crossing, maintain speed whilst turning into the station car park balanced solely on the driver side front wheel, brake late, and fling open the doors. I'm expecting Starsky and Hutch, or at least Mssrs Clarkson and Hammond, but the first figure I pull out of redshift is my wife. In her hand, my shoes. This is suddenly looking better.

Their arrival garners a round of applause from the remaining onlookers (cyclists cheer a car for erratic driving? Got to be a first!) and I grab the shoes, point the bent at the starting line, collect the aforementioned longhairedscouser, and set off.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Sunday 1445hrs: Miles ridden: 0. Your time starts NOW.*

OK. Off the line. LongHairedScouser in tow, GPS working lovely, few too many speedhumps for my choice of route, but its drawing me out of town and towards Edinburgh. Suburbia drops somewhere behind us, and the countryside steps in to welcome us aboard. Everytime I glimpse at the GPS, I see we’re moving at 16+mph. The sun is shining. This is good. LongHairedScouser and I are in pleasant conversation about navigation (he admits to being utterly lost already, and is happy / requiring to follow me and the GPS to the first control). 

_Now, a quick word about recumbents. They’re very comfortable. They can be very fast. They *all* have issues with chain management. In the RWD Furai, this role is supplied by a set of jockey wheels routing the chain line up and down, following the frame. One in particular (the foremost return idler) has the delightful job of keeping the chain out of the front wheel. 
_

So, 9.4 miles in, and my eye catches a wobble in the guide fixed to the foremost return idler. I can stop and sort that. Tiny bit of plastic. Probably just worked loose. 

PING! Sh1t! Its come off. 

CRACK!! …and gone straight under a car. That’s bad. Ok jockey wheel still there. Never seen the chain mount the guide. Probably just there for aesthetics. Still, let’s stop and check.

PING! 

Sh1t. That was a retaining guide then. Jockey wheel gone now. Doing 20mph. Best throw on the anchors. 

SCHLLINGGG! 

Cr@p! chain is in the front wheel. Can’t steer. Can’t pedal. Unclip. Get ready for crash landing. 

SKKKCRRRANK! 
[Chain catches spoke and brings rider and bent to a very rapid halt].

Stop. Breathe. Relax. Ok. You’re alive. That was bad. Am I in traffic? No. Ok. Good. Where’s my longhairedscouser? Up ahead. Looping back. Ok. Good. Let’s check bike over. Hmmm.. In place of jockey wheel and two retaining guides, I seem to have a bare spindle. Damn. Can I balance the chain on it? 

No.

Damn. Try again. Damn. No. Ok. Can I fix this? Erm. No. 

10 minutes pass, whilst the longhairedscouser and I try to work out where on the route sheet we actually are. I momentarily consider loaning him my GPS, as it looks like I’m out of the running. Damn. On second thoughts, I’ll need it to find a station. Sh1t. Not happy. Best ring wife and buddy. See if anyone is still in the area, or whether I’m lugging this thing back on the trains.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Sunday 1522hrs: Miles ridden 9.5. Walking to the station.*

Ok. Well I seem to be in Hertford. That sounds like it’ll have a station. Wonder what their Sunday service is like. Best go find out. GPS guides me to station road. I sit kerbside, and post an update to various forums. Buzz! Goes the blackberry. A reply has been posted to a topic you are watching… the text of the reply is shown below.

_“If you have some big zip ties [I ask tentatively!] you might be able to bodge a workaround - just make a loop for the chain to pass through. Might be a bit noisy, and you might have to replace the ties every now and then, but it could get you on your way.”
_

No. That won’t work. Will it? I’ve got 10 in my bag. Worth a punt. 9 yards later SCHLLINNNK BANG. Ok. No. Hmmm.. Cut it loose. Try again. One zip tie over the spindle. Another zip tie around the frame. Back pedal. Hideous noise. Lift the rear and try forwards. Seems to work. Catches on the power links, but otherwise good. Retrace my steps. Get back to the route. Check the ties. Hmmm. Chain is slowly sawing through. Hope to hell there’s someone who’s set off behind me, who happens to have more zipties. Ties in the bag: 7.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Sunday 2200hrs: Miles ridden 79. Miles walked 6. Stolen materials.*

Ok. My apologies to the owner of the lost cat in Upton. Your sign may not be as neatly retained as it once was. 

On the plus side, I’m now rolling again. Ran out of zipties about 8 instructions back. Its raining. Deep suspicion that I’ve managed to miss the optional stop at Gamlingay, and now fair worried that I’ll be out of time for the next one. I daren’t look at the clock. Sun is down. Can’t be more than 10 miles from here to the checkpoint. Maybe I’m still in the game. Come on baby, hold together…

The ground has levelled out now. 6 hours in the rain hasn’t dampened my spirits (yet). My dynamo lights were less interested by a pedestrian pace, so the new tie is very welcome. Walking darkened lanes has given me plenty of time to mentally review the task in hand. 

From my office prep when the year was young, I’m pretty sure Thurlby closes at 20:35hrs. I guess I set off a little late, but I’m not sure this is going to wash with the officials. Thurlby is a mandatory check point, so if I don’t show my face there before the cut, I get a DNF. Until I ran out of ties, I was doing 20mph sprints for 5 mile blocks. I daren’t push too hard on the last tie.

Its been dark for a while. An oncoming estate car flashes its lights as it passes me, swings round in my rear view mirror, pulls alongside momentarily, then sits infront at 17mph. The cat’s owner? Damn. This bike is conspicuous. 

No. 

Worse.

The sag wagon. 

Not now. Surely. I was almost there. 

Well I’m not stopping without hitting at least one control, even if it’s closed. Exhausted, I follow it. 2 miles later, red tail lights turn off the main road, down a high street, into a side lane, onto a car park. Looks like this is where it ends.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Sunday 2244hrs: Miles ridden 88. Miles walked 6. Arrive Thurlby Primary School.*

“Howdo. Sorry I’m late. Are you still open”
“Oh yes. We’re not shutting for a good few hours yet. 544 right? You’re the last in. Give us your brevet card and I’ll get you stamped.”
“Stamped? I thought the last stamp was half eight.”
“It is, if you set off at 8am.”
“….”

Big smiles. Note to self. Remember brain stops working when sugar is low. Ok. I have almost 4 hours in the bag. This is far from the plan, but its workable. I’m very wet. I’m very hungry. I’m going to lose a lot of speed once the going gets hilly, so its imperative that I don’t give back any of the spare I’ve just bagged. I’m figuring its flat(ish) from here to Middleton Tyas, but then I’ve got a very nasty 6 in a row of Alston, Eskdalemuir, Dalkeith, Eskdalemuir and Alston again. That’s Cumbria, Northumberland, Scottish Borders, Midlothian and back, and is going to cost me considerably. Must not stop here any longer than necessary.

Right. Grab a warm drink and a plate of food. Thaw out the brain, then set off. ASAP. 

This works. The volunteers manning the control are excellent, service is top notch (well, I am pretty much the only rider there), and I’m even beginning to dry out. 14 mins after arriving, I'm feeling human, am back out the door, am looking for my bike.

An entirely unexpected tech interrupts my search to say “I’ve fixed her up as best as I can. Bunged a new tie around the axle. Couldn’t find a jockey wheel or replacement part, so I’ve fashioned this, out of a cleat back.” Under torchlight, I see the old spindle, now cased in fresh zipties, with a suitably low tech protuberance bolted onto the side. The chain sits snuggly on the ball race, with the frame blocking its exit left, and the cleat back right. Blimey. Its ugly. But it holds. 

We spend 10 mins refining the positioning, and as the food kicks in I suddenly feel full of confidence. The road onward is dark and remote, but the next check point is only 40 odd miles North of here. I can be there by 2am. In a tradition continued by volunteers at every control from here on in, he gives me a bag of ties and waves me on.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Sunday 2311hrs: On through the night*

Right. Next up, Washingborough. Set the GPS, get a lock, and go. Lound, Edenham, Elsthorpe, Bulby, flat lands stretch out infront. Steadily northwards. Kirkby Underwood, Aslackby, Sleaford. Long straight roads. Never realized there was so much countryside left.

Navigating on an Audax is an odd experience. In many ways, you’re utterly integrated into the environment. Its dark. You’re dark. It rains. You get wet. Birds call as you approach. Rabbits scurry in your wake. There’s nothing between you and them. _‘Them’_ is grass, animals, families, trees, clouds, gravel, hedges, white lines, tarmac. Its immersive, more like swimming through a photoalbum than sitting atop a bike. In another part of your head, your brain is actively stripping all this redundant data away, to better compress the journey into a handful of turn instructions. If you’re the kind that panics about missing turnings (I am) you come to appreciate those that offer additional information. L is tough. L:T (T being T-Junction) will resolve itself when you run out of road. L:TL (traffic lights) you’ll even see coming.

Somewhere the wrong side of 1 AM, I’ve just left the village of Ruskington behind me, and the next instruction (R:TL) isn’t for 12 miles. Digby, or Branston, perhaps. The rain has let up. The road is straight and flat. I’m not likely to miss a set of traffic lights, so this is a good chance to get some real speed underway. The tarmac resolves to a low hum, cranks spin, the wind drowns the complaints from my rattling chain. After what seems like a few minutes, I can already pull out the red filters on the junction ahead. Making good progress. 10 minutes later and I’m seemingly no closer. Through Digby, but the red lights are still way up the road. I’m more tired than I thought. Can’t seem to close the gap. 20 minutes later, and I see both lights suddenly swing right. A moment of revelation. Cyclists!

I’ve found the back of the pack. Minutes later, I roll into the Washingborough checkpoint. There’s a tech on the gate, and he’s got a bag of zipties. 

“I read your post!”


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0151hrs: Arrive Washingborough. Miles travelled 135.*

Feeling good. The tough stuff is momentarily out of the way. Aboard a recumbent, I knew I’d be riding some of the sections on my own, but I hadn’t prepared for 130 odd miles without sight or sign of another rider. It feels good to be in a room with other cyclists. Hard to be downbeat surrounded by spandex. 

My new found confidence tempts me to stop and sleep a while. I’m 19 hours into my day, but I’m well settled in my routine. The bike is behaving and I still have a handful of ties in the bag from Thurlby. I’ve refined their application, and am getting up to 20 miles out of each now. At this rate, I’ll end up in profit 

I review the brevet card, and see that the next checkpoint is pretty close. The minimum pace dictates that I keep an average of 7.5mph, *including* any time spent off the bike eating, resting, sleeping, et al. Already I can sense that the needs of the soul are going to need careful balance against biology. With the visible lift I’m getting off the surrounding randonneurs, I know there’s no way I can do this alone. These are the backmarkers though. People who suffered technical problems, routing mishaps. Much as I hate to leave their camaraderie, I’ve got to head on.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0225hrs: Into the darkness.*

Nice flat run out through Booths Branston and Potterhanworth. The ground has dried up. Only a few hours ago, I was convinced I’d been routed through a ford. Now the sky is clear, the air is light. There may even be a tailwind. I begin to see blinkies up front again. Over the river and through Bardney. The road begins to snake left and right around fields, each turn reveals another set of lamps to chase. I’m slowly moving into the pack. Its beginning to feel like a FNRttC. Through Kingthorpe and I see the unmistakable altitude of a recumbent lamp upfront. I chase it down to find an American on what looks like a front faired Rans. Nice bike. Fields give way to houses. Streetlamps spring up. I’m 3 instructions from Washingborough, in Wragby, and the control is upon me.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0315hrs: Arrive Wragby. Miles travelled 148. Time elapsed 12.5hrs.*

Either I’m speeding up, or that was a very short leg. The Rans arrives a few minutes behind me. The control is positioned under traffic lights and is recognizable by a few stationary cyclists, a parked car, a phonebox, and a motor home alleged to be full of snoozing Italians. 

I’m definitely catching the field. No time (or place) to stop here though, and the next checkpoint is 50+ miles North. I glean a few minutes conversation, get my brevet car stamped, water the wall, and set off again. The plan is resolving towards riding through the bulk of 24 hours before sleep.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0322hrs. Meet the pack.*

Wragby drops behind me, long straight roads, continue. Instructions are few and far between. I chase down more cyclists as the road traces around field boundaries between Holton cum Beckering, Lissington, Middle Rasen, Osgodby, Kirkby. I’m starting to pick out hills on my right, but the road up ahead looks flat as Bb minor. Oswersby South and North drop away. I’m running out of country to the East, and the route responds by flirting at the border of North Lincolnshire with tentative stabs alternately West and Southward. I stay West through Thorton le Moor, South Kelsey, and Waddingham before finally slipping across the border a few miles outside Kirton Lindsey. From here, the land seems to get a little hillier. Its only gentle rollers though, and I continue NW inland, presumably routing for a narrow point on the Humber.

Messingham brings a sunrise and a nice downhill stretch with a long run off. I take the chance to claim a few more blinkies before they're switched off. Just before 6am I hit a big river at East Butterwick, and am surprised to find it’s the Trent. To me, this means Nottingham, but in my addled state, I can’t work out if I’m north or south of it (45 miles North, it later transpires). I’m surprised to find myself keeping pace with a homebrew FWD recumbent I’d spotted at Lea Valley. Enormous front ring and square-section tubing, this is a serious piece of kit. The German at the helm probably weighs less than it does, but at the rate its rusting my guess is they’ll even out somewhere around Alston. Adding insult to (very probable) injury, he seems to have brought a suitcase on the rear rack. He’s fast though. As traffic builds, he drops infront with ease before swinging back to continue our conversation. Given that we’re rolling at 16mph all the way, I’m guessing he’s been able to convert some of the slack he must have earned into sleep.





Recumbents are great for en-route snapping. Here's one of me from him.

I stay with him along the East bank up to the bridge at Gunness, where we clamber back South through ‘thorpes Al and Derry. Entering Beltoft I am very grateful to my wife for reading through the routesheet with me on the Saturday night. As each town comes up, I can hear her voice counting off its name. Continue East through Belton, Westgate, into South Yorkshire. Schoolboy geography tells me to expect hills, but there’s even a canal here. The German and I cross it together and roll into the rugby club on the edge of Thorne.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0708hrs. Miles travelled 200. Arrive Thorne.*

Down a little concrete ramp, round the corner, and the first thing I notice is that there are *lots* of bikes here. Some look seriously fast. Admittedly, their owners may have been indoors getting 8+hours kip by the time I rolled in, but I now definitely feel part of the gang again.

I go inside to grab some food and a hot drink. As suspected, the room is full of dormant randonneurs. Entirely unexpected, 90+% of them are simply lying on the floor. Maybe 10 have blankets. The rest look like ruined statues, heroic legs broken, lying wherever they fell. I freshen the zipties on the bent, grab some food, then start looking for a 2ft x 6ft section of floor that I can reach. I’ve been up for over 24 hours now, and am starting to lose focus. Sleep is clearly going to be of varying quality, and with the light outside (and in) I know that I can’t waste too much sunlight simply lying down. I roll up my spare jersey, pull the buff over my face, set my phone alarm for 90 minutes, and curl up around it like a baby.

The noise slowly fades, and I’m long gone by the time someone takes the opportunity to snap me.






Just after 9, I wake up. Breakfast is a welcome, but bewildering process. Body and mind are still unsure why we aren’t still asleep. You know the feeling of walking out of a cinema into sunlight? Its like that, but the sunlight is fluorescent tubes. Nothing is quite real, and everything is just slightly green.

Stomach is kick-started when breakfast lands, and sends the fuel out in search parties to look for a brain. My eyes are drawn to a rider across the room. Something about his jersey. Retro, or bargain? I’ve seen it before. Looks like Brian from my first FNRttC. Can’t be sure until I see his bike. No recognition in his eyes as yet. I approach. No. It *is* him. Major confidence boost. I finish my coffee in happy conversation.

Watch this on YouTube (08:35): Start to Thorne.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 0955hrs. Minutes slept 90. North again.*

Brian is in a small group about 6 mins ahead of me. I give chase through Moorends, and catch him mid way through the Dutch landscape into Rawcliffe. Curiosities of the FNRttC mean that I have only ever spoken with Brian when I haven’t had enough sleep. Today will integrate nicely. 

We ride side by side for a while, Brian, his mate, and me. Brian takes exception on crossing a second canal (the Knottingley and Goole at Rawcliffe Bridge) and begins to rant at the lack of hills. This is classic Brian really. I sympathise, but have no empathy at all. In my book, hills are A Bad Thing™. 

Brian is right though. As we skirt along the River Aire, then over the Ouse, even I will admit that its hard to get a sense of progress when the landscape refuses to offer anything other than a horizon.

On through Howden, Highfield (presumably ironically named, as its at the same elevation as everything else within 50 miles), Sutton upon Derwent, Elvington. We skirt anticlockwise around York, 5 miles out, to the South East, then due North. I pass places I visited with my school when I was 14. Seems very strange to be here on a pushbike. On the way out we are rewarded with a few bumps, which Brian tears into with enthusiasm.

Its just after midday, and the sun is out in force. Layers are removed and the group separate. As I pass Strensall Camp, I begin to detect serious hills up front. We alternate North and East around long shallow hedges, but there is no doubt they are getting closer. Exiting Stillington, one in particular looms up in front. Given the relative level of its immediate environs, it looks for all the world like the fields are a patchwork quilt laid over a bed, only someone’s left an umbrella stand on top of the mattress. The next instruction on the route sheet sends us directly towards it.

I’m looking at the GPS, which is telling me I need to make an L in 1.3 miles. I can see a suitable turning just before the bottom of the hill, and I’m desperately trying to gauge the distance. Looks about right though, and I ride on watching the “distance to next” slowly count down. Too close to call. We’re either going around, or straight over the top. The miles tick away very slowly. A mile later, I reach the outskirts of Crayke, and the bottom of the hill. I swing left out of blind hope, but the GPS bleeps at me until I give in and loop back. I pitch myself up, and when I do finally reach the L, find the road climbs even higher behind the houses. After a morning of being between 0 and 20m above sea level, 140m all at once is quite a hit. 

I take my reward in the undulations following the descent, but climbing into Oulston I can see its going to be pretty bad from here on in. One final descent drops me from Newburgh Grange to Coxwold, and I arrive at the control full of smiles.





Can you spot Crayke?


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 1336hrs. Miles travelled 256. Arrive Coxwold. Unnecessary and enormous hills traversed 1.*

This is good. It’s a beautiful day and cyclists are milling around the car park enjoying the warm sun on their skin, and some time off the bikes. I spy Rich Forrest’s ‘bent and head indoors to look for him. At the queue for food I recognize Brian’s shirt once more.

“Suppose you think that was funny, Brian?”
“Bit steep, neh? Nice to have something to push against for a while though.”

The man clearly has issues.

I find Rich, and am saddened to hear he’s unable to continue. Shorts had gone renegade and were attacking him all the way from Washingborough. Complexion of raw bacon in places you really don’t want it. Nearest sensible bail is his brother’s place at Wetherby, so he’s still 30+ miles from comfort. I lighten his load by relieving him of some zipties, and wish him luck.

Returning inside, I discover I’ve caught up with a friend of my training buddy that I’ve traded a few texts with through facebook. He’s been here since they opened, and has spent the interim in undisturbed slumber. That beats the hell out my 90 minute snatch, and I am very envious of his apparent freshness.

As the 24 hour mark rolls around, I can see that the battle against the clock is going to be won or lost in controls. I’d love to stay and talk with the stream of cyclists arriving, but am already aware that at least 3 shifts have run through and left whilst I’ve been milling about. I also recognize that my original plan to ride in the day and sleep at night is wildly out of shape. I figure I’m good for 2 more controls before I drop, and hope that this will sync me up loosely to what was once a circadian rhythm. Been out of the saddle for an hour now, time to get going.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 1447 hours. Time elapsed: 24 hours. Miles travelled 256. Day plans abandoned 1.*

Serious hills to the North, and I’m grateful we skirt west around the worst of them. Gradual climbs from Sowerby, pulling first West then directly North. South Otterington, Newby Wiske, Warlaby, Yafforth, Sweden Sykes. Hills to West and East, but North clear for the time being. Through Langton, Kiplin, Bolton on Swale, Scorton, slowly gaining height. 

The road starts to climb considerably as we enter the final few miles, and I’m tickled to see the North Yorkshire villages of Moulton and Brompton are less than 2 miles apart. Twenty odd instructions have taken me to Middleton Tyas, and I swing into the school that is hosting our control.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 1710hrs. Miles travelled 290. At Middleton Tyas Control.*

Odd how the controls retain their character. The purposed architecture bleeds into the mood of the riders and volunteers. Controls in community centres are noticeably chatty environments. Those in village halls are slightly more formal, with structured morals underpinned by dusty austere hierarchies. 

Middleton Tyas is in a school. We are efficiently ticketed, served a plate of food, and set out in rows. At this stage, being ushered around like a 5 year old is very comforting, and accurately matches my inability to process information independently. Within 30 mins, I’ve been processed and am headed back to the bike. 

10% of my brain tells me I really need to sleep before trying to tackle the Pennines. 90 mins kip in 35 hours is neither conducive to stamina or concentration. Another 10% says I need to go now or risk steering for the Yad Moss summit in the dark. If the clock wasn’t ticking, I’d get my head down now and set off just before first light. Stopping however, is not a luxury I have. 

I wait a few minutes to see if the remaining 80% of my mind has an opinion either way, but its locked up mumbling something about my knees. I decide to ignore it until it can at least be more eloquent.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 1743hrs. Pennines, Cattle Grids and Sheep (oh my).*

Looks like it’ll be a sunny evening. I lower myself delicately back onto the ‘bent, and set the GPS for the route ahead. From the overview screen I see that where I sit is only 20 miles from the East coast with the North Sea. 27 instructions later I’m going to be less than 15 from the Irish Sea, due North of Carlisle, and on the other side of the country. Between there and here are The Pennines, Yad Moss, Cumbria, and the highest market town in England. All of these fall in the next leg. 

Of course, later on I’ll be steering for Edinburgh, back on the East coast, the wrong side of the Southern Uplands, and in an entirely other country altogether, but it doesn’t pay to dwell on these things. Looks like its going to get bumpy from here on in.

This then, is the stage I’ve been fearing the most. A long drag into the hilliest terrain I’m likely to ever encounter on a bent. Thus far, I’ve been bumbling around between 20 and 100m above sea level. This one will take me to 600m above, before trying to descend on cobbles. Hills always thresh the recumbents out from the uprights, and I've been riding on my own through the worst of the terrain to date. I don't fancy this one alone.

Come on. Its only going to get darker, so lets’s off. Duck under the A1. Climb to 150m through Melsonby. Field bordered undulations through Forcett and Caldwell play with the top 50, robbing it from me, then throwing it back into my path repeatedly. 

At Whorton, the road suddenly pitches down into a deep ravine. The tarmac manages to hold on as the GPS alerts me of a ‘Care: Wooden Bridge’. As I roll onto it, I can imagine this would get pretty slippery in the wet. Not for me though. The low sun treats us* to a river reflecting pure gold. The shadows are long, and the green of the countryside responds in beautiful swansong. It’s a wonderful sight, and utterly distracts me from the imminent climb. Very imminent, as it turns out. The bridge meets the other side of the ravine some way short of the top and a horrendous switchback makes sufficient demands on legs that I have to take more than one run at it. Until I finally steam into the village my world is inverse cambered sharp turns ON steep climbs.

With Whorton safely behind me, I’m riding into the sun through Westwick and Barnard Castle. Climbing out to Lartington, through Cotherstone, I’m reviewing a wide choice of peaks up front, trying to work out which is Yad Moss. The climb is steady and scenic. I make a note to come back here with Evey one day, though preferably in a car. Sharp rise before Romaldkirk, and I’m fenced in by summits. 

Mickleton, and Middleton in Teesdale line me up for a big climb, but the route swings left before I can really get stuck into it. We* hang onto the side of the hill and gradually haul ourselves up to Newbiggin (250m) and Forest in Teesdale (376m). Just past Langdon Beck, the gradient really commits and lifts me to 450m. I’m still perched on the left hand edge of a huge rise, and am trying to trace the tail lights of support vehicles as they make their way past me and onwards. Does the road go right up this thing? Is there a bigger hill ahead? Am I even on Yad Moss yet? 

Broad warnings of cattle grids and animals in the road keep me on my toes, and I vow that I’ve got to reach the safety of the control whilst there’s still some ambient light. Rolling across a grid at 12mph mightn’t be fatal, but this is really not the place for a puncture. 

High force is simply stunning, and I am moved by its raw beauty. I’m tracing back up the river Tees, its speed raising as mine slows. 

I seem to be climbing as quickly as the sun is setting, and spend an hour in perpetual twilight. There are plenty of false summits as the road winds left and right, but the distance to next “YM: Peak” shows the climb will end imminently. The wind picks up as I winch myself to 597m. The horizon opens out, and I am evidently on top of the world.

The road sheds light, warmth and altitude rapidly, and I am utterly depleted. I night ride enough to know when I’m done, and I’m feeling it now. The road isn’t lit, there are animals on it, frozen fingers clutch at brakes, and I edge down erratically between 26 and 10mph. I daren’t let the bike roll free, and am concentrating on keeping her in the middle of the road. Reactions are well down, and there are soft verges with long drops. 

As the road snakes back down, tiny spots of white appear in my mirror. Angels, perhaps? They get closer, and I’m treated to a fly-by. How sophisticated: Angels on bicycles. 3 or 4 of them, I think. Must try harder to end my time in heaven. 

I ease off a little, waiting for the treachery of cobbles, and see the angels suddenly swing skywards up ahead. Looks like there’s one more climb before I join them. My guess is they roll it on momentum alone, but I’m doing 7 mph and have to crank up on my knees.

Just before 10pm, I’m waved left off the road, and arrive at Alston control. 
The angel’s bikes are parked up around the side.

* For any moderately hilly section, _'we_' is me, and the bike. Us is me, and my knees.

*PROFILE*





*VIDEOS:*
Previous section: Day 1, Part I (Start to Thorne)
This section:Day 1, Part II (Thorne to Alston)


----------



## arallsopp (26 Aug 2009)

*Monday 2202hrs: Miles Travelled 334. Alstons arrived 1. Cobbles encountered 0.*

The angels have been here for 10 minutes or so. We trade stories. They’d had to sit on their brakes until I was going straight enough to pass and hadn’t pedalled at all for the last 6 miles. They also seem to be able to coordinate legs and arms, and are in considerably better shape than me. Turns out they even noticed that whilst checkpoint and cobbles are both in Alston, the control comes first. Important distinction, and probably added 20+ mins to my time on the way in.

No bother. Grab some food. Wash it down with sugary tea. Lovely. By the time I’m done, its gone 11. The tiny dining room is now absolutely full of cyclists, and I’m eager to slip away before the competition for sleeping space gets critical. 

Whispers move through the group. I hear fables of an upstairs lounge, a concealed staircase above the kitchen, a hallowed Shangri-la of scattercushions, carpet and sofas. I edge away from the eaters, making my way towards the exit as discreetly as possible. 

Dropping out of sight, I clamber up. When I finally emerge into the vista at the top, I feel like a disillusioned backpacker who has roamed through the jungle for 3 days to get off the beaten track, only to emerge into a clearing featuring a McDonalds and a Butlins. 

The room looks like a scene from The Somme. Body parts splay unnaturally over every horizontal surface, legs rest up against walls, their owners buried under the combined detritus of tired randonneurs. The occasional strobe flashes the room as another cyclist piles in behind me, head torch still on, seeking out an inch of carpet. Childhood skills learnt playing ‘Operation’ and ‘Kerplunk’ are called into action trying to get across the biomass. 

Midnight passes but sleep eludes me. The kitchen continues in full flow downstairs. Provision of food seems to be mediated through loud percussion. Pans slam together to an accompaniment of shouting. In 4 hours I will have breakfast at their grace, but even knowing it is a terrible thought, I dearly wish they would just shut up. 

This is the hardest bit, with no doubt. I revise the alarm to give me 180 minutes sleep, put my ear on the blackberry, and try to drown out the snores. I am so tired I can actually hear the whine of my brain drying out. 

After an age, I retreat into the climbs of this morning. The road ascends in sunshine, under trees. White lines reach out to me, passing under my wheels with a light hum. Eventually, the space between the lines grows. The tree cover robs more of the sunlight. The hum becomes constant. Wind noise dies away. I coast along a grey road of sleep.


----------



## iLB (27 Aug 2009)

come on andy, next installment please


----------



## Crackle (27 Aug 2009)

Yep, good reading, epic & inspirational stuff. I await the rest.


----------



## Auntie Helen (27 Aug 2009)

Yes, it's a brill read, keep it up!


----------



## arallsopp (27 Aug 2009)

But I'm bl33din knackered and don't remember the rest of the ride!


----------



## Headgardener (27 Aug 2009)

arallsopp said:


> But I'm bl33din knackered and don't remember the rest of the ride!


Oh no just as it was getting interesting. If someone else did the run and remembers Arallsopp could they please fill the gaps.


----------



## akaAndrew (27 Aug 2009)

Darn it! I was waiting for the account of the wind and the rain in Scotland on the Tuesday night! 

I've read a blog that said the wind was gusting to 60mph, I knew it was strong but not quite in that region.


----------



## iLB (27 Aug 2009)

arallsopp said:


> But I'm bl33din knackered and don't remember the rest of the ride!



fine i'll quiz you on the fourth


----------



## longers (27 Aug 2009)

Bloody good memory to remember all that!


----------



## fossyant (27 Aug 2009)

Well done - surprised you managed that distance on a collection of zip ties....


----------



## ianrauk (27 Aug 2009)

he had it easy, sitting on his arse, deckchair like...


----------



## nigelnorris (27 Aug 2009)

This is an awesome tale, the best thing I've read in a long time. You have a gift for words and a story to match, can't wait for the rest.


----------



## Aperitif (28 Aug 2009)

nigelnorris said:


> *This is an awesome tale, the best thing I've read in a long time. You have a gift for words and a story to match, can't wait for the rest.*



Yes.
Change your batteries and switch on when you are ready my friend...


----------



## arallsopp (1 Sep 2009)

Right. Popped back through the thread, littering it with profile images and videos. Am having to use the GPS logs now to bumpstart my memory. Let's take a stab at the next leg...


----------



## arallsopp (1 Sep 2009)

*Day '2': Tuesday 0418hrs. Ski Hire?*

I wake just before the alarm sings out, silence it, and spot a soon to be vacated bit of sofa. I wait. Quietly. Wake no one. Drop in behind the departing cyclist immediately on exit, and grab a much needed hour’s kip. Clock rolls around to 05:15, get up. Sys check says things are OK. Probably got around 3 hours sleep. Self test brain over breakfast with attempt do the maths on arrivals versus closing times for controls on my brevet card. 


1hr 15mins down at start
Either out of time, or irretrievably lost at Gamlingay
3hrs 51 up by Thurlby
6hrs 9mins up by Washingborough
6hrs 30mins up by Wragby (short leg)
9hrs 37mins up at Thorne
10hrs 39 in Coxwold
11:25 at Middleton Tyas
12:53 up on arrival to Alston.
That’s good. I made time, even on that last leg. If I can keep that pace going, I need only keep about 4 hours in the bag to deal with punctures, zipties, and mechanicals. Assuming nothing too daft, I can take a fairly relaxed breakfast, or better still, grab a sleep somewhere on the way out from Scotland. My legs are probably even fresh.

By the time I’ve processed food and figures, its coming up 0630. Just under 4 and a half hours in the bag. Still safe.

I exit by the side door, noting the sign for ski-hire. Ski-hire? Surely a clear indicator that this is not an intelligent place to arrive by bike…


----------



## arallsopp (1 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 0635hrs: Leaving Alston: Back on the road.*

Climbing back up to the main road, it is immediately obvious that the prior few hours have not given my knees time to repair. Being distracted by hallucinations and exhaustion, I’d somehow forgotten that they were really hurting. In the cold light of morning, every crank slides another freezing dagger under the patella. I consider getting off and walking the remaining 200yds to the ongoing route. This is not good. At all.

I make a left at the top of the path and begin to roll down towards the town. I’m hoping another few minutes rest stolen from the incline will see some improvement. I let my feet hang in the pedals, but when I resume it feels even worse. I decide that the only way to keep sane is to maintain a low and easy cadence whilst coasting. 

I opt to walk down the cobbles, which keeps me from the attentions of the puncture fairy. Many have blogged on this part of the route. Estimates vary from 14 to 20% incline. Let’s just say “its steep”. If pushed, I’ll add “and bumpy”. On the outbound route, its not a problem anyway. Particularly if walking. Knees don’t hurt so bad when I’m not pushing pedals.

Roll over the bridge, and begin to climb towards ‘Raise’. This is less than a mile into my day. Pedalling is on the edge of prohibitively painful. I determine that with my current chain configuration, the cranks are mechanically inefficient. It would be far simpler to just grind cartilage from my knees directly into the bottom bracket as a paste. I push as far as I can, then come to a halt. I sit for a few minutes. 

The beauty of LEL is that you get the chance to really test yourself. You take yourself to a point where your body screams STOP. Your brain provides all kinds of reasons as to why you shouldn’t go on. I’m sat at the edge of a cold grey road, listening to myself reason that continuing in this state might do enough damage to take me off the bike permanently. That there’s more at risk than some arbitrary distance and time. That this pain might be something that never goes away. I’ve been in this position before. It is not a happy place. 

For all her apparent cruelty, LEL will always do her best to protect you by ensuring these moments happen 50 odd miles from the nearest station. Whilst eminently desirable, dropping out now is only a hypothetical discussion. If I can’t go on, I’m stuck at the side of this road forever. If I can go on, I damn well will.

Sitting with a foot on the pedal, I can sense that it hurts ‘less’ if I extend my leg further, rocking back on my heel. Same for the other foot too. Hmmmm…Given it’ll make no odds if I’m pushing the bike anyway, I resolve to extend the boom a little. I grab the Allen keys from the seat bag, and relax things by two full turns. The previously millimeter perfect adjustments are discarded as I simply push the boom out with my foot clipped in until it feels “about right”. Maybe an inch and a half. Give it a wiggle until the derailleur mast is aimed loosely skywards, then set about re-clamping it. No manufacturer’s specific torque wrench settings for me. Two full turns back, and I call it secure. Stand bike upright, realize ‘skywards’ is relative to the lean of the frame, redo it to the 12 o’clock position, clip in and wobble away. Hurts less. Seems good. Stop. Remember to close the seat bag. Go again. All good. Yes.

The road from here ambles up and down between 250 and 300m, refusing to settle on the valley floor through Slaggyford and Knarsdale. Knees are hurting less now, but I know the clock is still closing on me. I envy the river, which now sits to my right, idly checking off a schedule that features a single entry, some 5000 years from now; “Ox-bow lake?”

We part company at Lambley. She wanders on for a bit, before ambling East to Newcastle, whilst I swing due West to meet her baby sister in Midgeholme. The valley opens out at Hallbankgate, and the wind lets up long enough for me to spot a nice gradient. Legs are getting better now, and I speed through Milton and on to my first route instruction in 30km. By the time my GPS chimes in, I’ve completely forgotten that I’m even on an Audax.

Brampton sees a brief climb to Newtown (knees OK) and I’m in flat lands again. Without the GPS altitude read out, I’d swear I’m on top of some huge plateau. The winds are constant, the air seems thin, the pale sun does nothing to stave off the cold. Considering I’m sat at only 15m above, I seem to have got very short shrift from the descent.

I am literally making mountains out of molehills, and battle up and down a glass flat surface to Longtown. The reduced pace, and Spartan route instructions (3 for 60km?) mean I’ve been taking in more of my immediate environs. Road signs over the last few miles have been just getting funnier, “Carlisle”? “Gretna”?, but six miles along the A7, I spot a real winner “Welcome to Scotland”. 

I can’t resist pulling over and trying to revive my phone. A text gets through to those at home, 
“41hrs. 28 mins. That’s what it takes to ride from London to Scotland.”

This gives me a good psychological boost. I could stop here and get a great sleep, and still roll into Scotland within 48 hours from home. On a bicycle. Whatever happens from here on in, that’s a hell of an achievement, and I can go home with my head held high.

With ego secured, I set about closing on the hills up ahead. As the valley sides steepen around me, I find myself tracing the Esk northwards, crossing Skippers Bridge just before 10am. I’m still elated, but sense that the river beneath me is grey and angry. Surrounded by a blackened tree line, lumps of rock are churned up and spat out by the livid currents. The weather has beaten the colour out of everything. Houses, foliage, earth, even stone are no match for these hostile hinterlands.

With trepidation I pedal onwards, through Langholm, then North West with the river to Bentpath. Although I’m climbing as I go, this is nothing compared to the intimidation of the landscape around me. Bullied some 18000 years back by the retreating ice age, one gets the feeling Scotland has never quite gotten over it and is out for revenge on anyone not quite smart enough to bring shelter and an engine. If this turns, it is going to get majorly ugly, very quickly.

Penultimate instruction now (Potholes, Cattle Grids, Animals) translates to a long drag up along a timber route. The evident scarring to the landscape is a wake-up to me. Back in the south, we buy our wood in flat-pack Scandinavian kits, planed and packaged to carefully conceal anything as base as a tree in its origins. The damage doesn’t stop at the edge of the road either. Its integrated into the surface. Discarded chips, branches, bits of bark, loose gravel and crumbling corners are all present. Given we’re less than 65 miles East of John Macadam’s birth-place, I’m suspecting he never took a wander this way.

Huge and sudden climb when I’m about 3 miles out, then drop back down to 200m and roll into Eskdalemuir. Cross the river once again, and there’s the control on the left.






It may not look so bad, but check out the scale.


----------



## arallsopp (1 Sep 2009)

*1106hrs. Arrive Eskdalemuir: 390+ miles. 44 hours. 21 minutes. What no Buddhists?*

I’ve been looking forward to this control, as the photos from the 2005 LEL suggest it is either inside or adjacent to a Buddhist temple. I am confronted by what appears to be an utterly typical village hall.

I mask my disappointment, and allow myself an hour to fill water bottle and stomach. Tired fingers fumble at laces. Want to be out just after midday if I’m going to make the 100+ mile run to Traquair, Dalkeith and back. I’m still pulling around 17mph on the flats, but these are now few and far between.

Life is a little confusing. 

I check the zipties, freshening one that is wearing through, replacing another that dropped off somewhere on the last descent. I am pleased to see one of Rich Forrest’s ties has made it with me all the way from Coxwold. Still going strong, so I leave it in place as a good luck charm.

Despite heroics of the few, the bag is once again running low. I am extremely surprised when just before leaving I am confronted by Mal Volio(?), who gives me another 100. These forumites get everywhere! 

Trusting that these will now see me good for the remaining 48 hours and 500 odd miles, I set off for Traquair.


----------



## arallsopp (2 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1209hrs. Depart Eskdalemuir for Traquair.*

Quick review of where things are on the GPS before I set off. This should be a quick one. At 30 miles, its half the length of the previous stage, and looks to be similar terrain*. I’m figuring I’ll be in Traquair just after 2.

*Worth noting here that my GPS is the ‘Legend’ and does not have the altitude graph of the Vista.

A closer zoom reveals the route ahead is peppered with regular 90 degree zig zags, 3 miles on a side. This is exactly the strategy I would take if I were sailing into the wind, or trying to avoid Uboats. On land however, it means hills. Lots of hills. 

Best get off if I’m going to keep schedule. Less than a minute along the road, I’m spotting ribbons tied to occasional trees. These give way to the formalized spacing of Tibetan prayer flags; carrying blessings of compassion, wisdom, strength, and peace with the wind. Shortly these are overtaken by the Liberation Gate of the Kagyu Samye Ling Tibetan Centre. Under a grey sky, the view is positively other-worldy. A statue of Nagarjuna floats in a lake, under a giant snake. Guru Rinpoche is seated upon a lotus flower. The Victory Stupa reaches out to the passing cyclists, transforming any negative energies and restoring balance to all who pass. A very useful trait on a recumbent. My mantra of gratitude, "Left Pedal. Right Pedal."

Climb up to Davington, cross the White Esk, bridge myriad sike and burn to emerge on the North bank of Loch Tima. Continue North East along Tima water, the ridges towering 100m above me to left and right. North again, across the ford at Ramseycleugh to Ettrick Water, then follow the valley floor to a sharp West turn with Tulshielaw Burn. Do not stray from the river. As I winch my way up, the broken lands of “Black Knowe Head” and “The Wiss” swell two hundred metres above me in a 45 degree slope. It feels like being buried alive. Before coming to Scotland, I have never felt claustrophobic outdoors. The horizon continues to push in on me, and I am relieved when I finally exit the pass at Yarrow Water. Crossing the A708, the pattern repeats. The routesheet is as barren as the landscape. As the hills build up again, I am left with absolute wonder that Traqauir is settled at all. The confidence or conditions required to push people North through this are incomprehensible to me.

Although the instructions are simple (follow the B709 from the last control to next) without the GPS I would certainly be lost. It is she that puts names to places, captions to peaks, labels on rivers. In cataloguing them, ownership is implied. Mankind has stamped his authority on the landscape, and I no longer feel that it will take me.





Zoomed view of midway point.

Spotting a radio mast at Mountbenger, civilisation sprints 500 years forwards and I discover I have phone reception for the first time since crossing the border. I struggle with the battery and manage to get an SMS through to David at LaidBackBikes of Edinburgh. He replies, offering to meet me at the Dalkeith control with a replacement idler borrowed from one of his stock bikes. I begin to feel human, just being momentarily in contact with someone.

The sun comes out as I climb the final hill. Suspicious of the clock, I switch zip-ties and push hard to reach the descent. As the road first levels, then tilts down, I close the remaining miles to the control at an average 27mph.

*PROFILE:*


----------



## arallsopp (2 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1418hrs. Arrive Traquair.*

A Scotsman in a kilt stands in the middle of the road waving me in. I park up, grab water bottle and brevet card and head indoors. There are a handful of riders sprinkled around the tables. This close to the half way point, people are not hanging around. There are two microwaves on the stage, a LEL cake, and numerous bowls of porridge. A young boy picks up a bowl and hands it to me. “Salt or Whisky?” 

I deny either, giving it a liberal dose of sugar intended for tea. Alcohol does not seem a good idea right now. I am surprised how hungrily I wolf down the porridge, given I stuffed myself silly only a couple of hours earlier. This terrain burns a lot of calories. With a nod to the clock, I’m standing outside in bright sunlight 15 mins later, clambering aboard the bike once more and targeting Dalkeith.


----------



## arallsopp (2 Sep 2009)

*1436hrs. Depart Traquair*

I claim a goodbye wave from the be-kilted and am dazzled by the transformation to mood that a little sunshine and food will do. Looking around, I find I am in a hidden valley, 160m above sea level, surrounded by stunning peaks.

There are barely 25 miles between me and Dalkeith, and whilst the hills close in once again on the tiny road as it winds Northwards, I am amazed to find myself crossing a near perfectly level Innerleithen Golf Course. The closely flanking slopes surely prevent a ball straying too far from the fairway, but there is no doubt that the rising breeze is making it hard going for the handful of players.

I remember checking this leg before I left, and know there are two big climbs up ahead, one around 370m, the other above 400m. Two miles out, the first climb begins. The valley narrows, the little road is bounced around wildly between domineering bens, the valley floor is pinched down to a river's width, then slowly raised skywards.

8 miles in, I hit the top of the first peak. The wind continues to rise, and I am down to ~7mph going full tilt. Although the next 2 and a half miles are a pretty steep descent, the wind forces me to push hard on the pedals just to keep moving. The thought of coming back on this road a few hours hence, with the wind behind me, keeps my spirits up. I am also gaining a much needed mental lift from the increasing numbers of returning riders greeting me on the road. I have spent much of the last 420 miles on my own, and it is wonderful to be in the company of other riders, even if we’re passing each other at a closing speed of 30+mph. I spot GerryC in a group of 4 or so, and not far behind them, my LongHairedScouser. 

One more climb in a strong sidewind, and I am finally rewarded with a view that takes in Lammer Law, West Lomond, Arthurs Seat, Leith, Dunfermline, and the Firth of Forth. Somewhere beneath me is Dalkeith, and (even better) there are 10 miles of freshly surfaced tarmac to reel it in.

As the descent opens up my mood begins to change. For the first time in the last two days, I start fearing the return leg. I've been dropping like a Stukka for 5 miles now, hovering around the 37 mph mark, and watching Southbound randonneurs blip past me on the climb. No more waving. This is white knuckle all the way.

It is stunningly beautiful, but I cannot even begin to consider how I'm going to get back up. "All downhills must be earned" rings in my ears, and I know I definitely prefer to pay in advance.

As countryside slowly concedes its grip, I hope to hell that Dalkeith will come soon. I join the A7 and am treated to yet another sickening plunge, way down, down past the mining museum my wife has a bookmark from, down between lorries and buses, down through road markings, bus stops, streetlamps, a series of roundabouts. My ears pop against the city's roar, I am building speed all the way. 

The GPS beeps with 500ft to go and I brake heavy to slide into the control at 11 minutes past 4.

*PROFILE*






*VIDEOS:*
Previous sections: 
Day 1, Part I (Start to Thorne)
Day 1, Part II (Thorne to Alston)

This section: 
Day 2, Part I (Alston to Dalkeith)


----------



## arallsopp (7 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1611hrs. 446 miles. At Dalkeith Control.*

Definite air of relief indoors as we reach the half way point. The motorcycle support riders are here too, and the camaraderie is evident. Its sunny outside, and we know there will be no surprise hills on the route back South. The organisers have allowed entrants to arrange a small bag drop at Dalkeith. Mine has a change of clothes, some energy bars, a couple of inner tubes, and a few gels. It is testament to the quality of provisions at each control that I do not need to replenish anything I have brought with me. I even consider shedding the 6 cereal bars I've carried the last ~450 miles, but decide these don't weigh much, and might just save me later on.

I grab some food and allow myself to process the previous 50 hours since leaving Lea Valley. I'm ahead of schedule, and have around 2 days, 18 hours to get back to London. Curiosities of the routing around Gainsborough mean my return leg will be almost 20 miles shorter, and I consider adding to the 40 minutes I've already spent here with a few hours kip and a wash. 

Once again, I'm caught by the lump in my schedule that is night fall. It'll take at least 3 hours to get through Traquair, and maybe another 2 to get to Eskdalemuir. Whilst the sun and I are high in the sky now, it is almost 5pm. After sundown the pass is going to be pretty cold. As an option, Alston is maybe reachable by 2am, but I daren't tackle Yad Moss in the dark again. Best bet will be to head out of here in the next few minutes, get myself to the next control and make a call on it. If its dry, I can push on and sleep at Alston until sun up. If not, I'll grab whatever I can at Eskdalemuir and head off a couple of hours before dawn. This all sounds suitably achievable, and I trek back out to the 'bent once more.


----------



## arallsopp (7 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1702hrs. Exit Dalkeith. I’m coming home.*

As I clamber back up the A7, I am treated to the confidence inducing sight of Northbound riders coming my way. I almost definitely started *after* each one that I see, and remember passing many of them in prior stages. The mood is friendly and waves float towards me from each group. Audaxing is not a competitive event. 

I know from the ride in that the next 10 miles will see me climb to 400m, and I pitch myself into the hill with renewed legs. Over the next 5 miles, my 17mph at the bottom gradually drops to a little over 6. It’s all miles clocked off though, and I am also finding this is the most sociable part of the ride so far. Whilst a loaded recumbent isn’t ideal for hill-climbing, the advantages of lower wind resistance mean I’m climbing at about the same speed as the uprights. As the headwind continues to rip into us. I spend a happy couple of miles trading places in a two man chain-gang. No words are spoken. All energies are directed towards the pedals. Although the going is easier I know this is slower than I would travel under my own power, so with some regret I pull away from my only riding partner of the event so far, and force myself up the remaining slope alone. 

Just before a quarter past 6 I reach the second peak. Cresting as the road kinks left then right, I am greeted by the wind rushing up the southern side of the summit. The force of it near stops me in my tracks, and I wobble to a halt dropping another couple of gears.

The view to the South across the Moorfoot Hills is equally impressive, not least because most of it is downhill. This time, I descend into an emerging valley, losing altitude to the continued peaks that flank me. The wind is alternately behind me, to the side, slamming into my front, pushing me off the road. I greet oncoming randonneurs with shouts of “one more hill!” but their replies are stolen by the gale.

Short climb at Dewar, then descend to join Leithen Water at Colquhar. I know I’m almost there when I see the golf course, and take the chance, once again, to marvel at the tenacity of players now hacking their way up the back nine, 40 yards at a time. More oncoming cyclists as I cross the river on the approach to Innerleithen, and again on the way out. The wind whips the sunshine away to drizzle, and a few minutes later, I am huddled at the edge of the road, clambering into the Traquair Control for shelter.


----------



## arallsopp (7 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1914hrs: Traquair Again.*

I know the routine by now, and manage to grab my own porridge. The bulk of riders here are headed South, but all are beginning to look a little ragged. One lady introduces herself to me by way of “Do you have any pro-plus?”

As I’m packing a box of 48 in the seat bag and have only used 4, I tell her I likely have a few outside she can take. I am a little taken aback when she takes this response to mean “Please dive into my bag and rummage through until you find what you need” but understand that necessity outranks protocol. I take a few minutes to sort the bag back into some semblance of order, which affords me discovery of an additional 5 zipties that had filtered their way out of sight. This reminds me... I didn’t manage to arrange to meet David with that idler. Damn.

Oh well, the ties have held thus far, and I know how to fix them if something happens. I’m happy to rely on the current solution a while longer. Right. Where’d that lady go? 

I trail my caffeine supply back to a table indoors, and get a proper introduction to Denise and her companions, Tomsk of Yacf and a Lithuanian who might be called Rimas . I join the conversation and discover that Denise was an early starter, and is thus facing a curfew some 6 hours earlier than mine at Lea Valley. She’s in a bad way, and with only 2 hours grace cannot afford to rest here. Tom seems committed to getting her through the next few stages, and I hear that they plan to hit Alston before sleep.

Outside the wind has continued to build, and those with time in hand are opting to wait in and see if it blows out. I’m not so sure its going to do much else but rain for the night, and figure if I’m going to get wet anyway, might as well do it in the light. That said, the light is fading fast, and I take a ‘safety in numbers’ approach of joining the exiting pace-line whilst I can.


----------



## arallsopp (7 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 1936hrs: Depart Traquair. Into the storm*

As we set off, I first try to stay with, then within 200 yards of the group. I’m happy to take my time at the front, but low slung on the ‘bent, I’m not offering much shelter to the person behind me. Tom and I are tackling things at about the same speed, and its only when he pulls in front that I realise... he’s riding FIXED!

South through Kirkhouse, trees to my left, fields to the right. Sunlight dies in shades of grey and the pack huddle in for the climb. An inky blackness steals the stars.

_...Meanwhile, to the South East, the Met Office issues Cumbria with a severe weather warning. Residents are advised not to make any unnecessary journeys...
_
We drop into Mountbenger, then climb due East towards Crosslee. Our phones are dead. Its slow going. The GPS is unlit, only waking itself up for the occasional turn. The rising rain is beating into our faces, but we figure we can push through. Less than 30 miles to go. The deluge builds. A Cimmerian curtain cloaks us. As I stop beside Tom and wait for the others, we realise water is beginning to fill the valley.

_...To the North West, a tornado hits Stornaway. Windows are smashed, cars are flipped, the grid fails.
_
Between the two, our little troupe. Time stops. Everything becomes meaningless. I read afterwards that the headwind was pushing us back at +60kph, gusting at twice that. For the moment, we are blind, pedalling against a solid wall of rain. Prayers stolen from Kagyu Samye Ling crash through the valley, tearing at our faces before being lost to the maelstrom around us. For two hours I focus only on keeping with the rider in front, little red lights dancing like bubbles of oxygen, just out of reach. White dragons unfurl behind our wheels, formations of white chevrons tailing us. Nobody dares slow down. Nobody dares stop. 10 feet apart, I see no one for 20 miles. 

At twenty to eleven, we catch the flicker of electric light to our left. The control is upon us. We pull up, exhausted, hypothermic, drenched through. Hands fumble, limbs fail. We stand in the rain because we can’t remember to get inside. In a moment of horror, we find we are only two. Somewhere behind, Rimas and Denise continue to fight their way through the dark towards us.


----------



## Scoosh (8 Sep 2009)

nigelnorris said:


> This is an awesome tale, the best thing I've read in a long time. You have a gift for words and a story to match, can't wait for the rest.


+ 1 - this is awesome stuff, absolutely gripping.

I know you make it .... but .... HOW


----------



## arallsopp (8 Sep 2009)

S'alright for you. You *live* in Edinburgh. You'd have known what to expect. 
Here was me, in a lightweight windproof jacket and a base layer, thinking 'how wet can it get' 

Now I know. Thanks for reading along. Its very cathartic to write this stuff down, but even better to know that its being read


----------



## Auntie Helen (8 Sep 2009)

Oh, it's being read alright, even from smoky internet cafés in the Fatherland... (though I'm back now!)


----------



## 4F (8 Sep 2009)

A fine read as well, I check daily in the hope of the next instalment


----------



## arallsopp (8 Sep 2009)

Right. That's it. I'm off to write the next leg. 

Blimey I've got mood swings today. I've got my "stalked by a grand piano" look on.


----------



## Auntie Helen (8 Sep 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Right. That's it. I'm off to write the next leg.
> 
> Blimey I've got mood swings today. I've got my "stalked by a grand piano" look on.


I've got a grand piano but it seems to still be in the lounge. Is it any particularly grand piano stalking you, or just a general thing that pianos like to do?


----------



## arallsopp (8 Sep 2009)

I try to stay far enough ahead to be unsure, but from the rumble of a low F, I'd say it was a Bsendorfer Imperial.


----------



## Auntie Helen (8 Sep 2009)

I think you're missing one of these:

ö


----------



## arallsopp (8 Sep 2009)

Auntie Helen said:


> I think you're missing one of these:
> 
> ö



No, I've got plenty of screamy shouty people here thanks.


----------



## Headgardener (8 Sep 2009)

Blimey Arellsop you would make a good thriller writer. Everybody is on the edge of thier seats in anticpation of where the other two have got to.


----------



## iLB (8 Sep 2009)

chop chop andy


----------



## Origamist (8 Sep 2009)

Gripping stuff. More please...


----------



## yello (8 Sep 2009)

If it's to be anything like my experience from there on in, it became an exercise in mental strength. Having ridden over half way, and through biblical rain fall and howling gale, you knew you HAD to finish!


----------



## arallsopp (12 Sep 2009)

*Tuesday 2242hrs: 500 miles. Sanctuary.*

We check in with the desk, brevet cards disintegrating even within their plastic bags. The field is wrecked. 20 riders have stopped. 33 are missing. We are locked down, schedules marred by the storm. Ahead of us, riders have been blown off the road at Alston. Behind us, nobody is leaving Traquair. Blankets are borrowed and wrapped around the few straggling arrivers. Cyclists sleep under tables, on chairs, perched on window ledges, as they queue. A single heater in the middle of the room struggles under a complex shanty of wet clothes. My hands don’t work. I will not stop shivering. The floor is lost under puddles wrung from drenched lycra. Riders and joists buckle under the onslaught. We are spent.

Senses are mugged by barbed aroma combining damp clothes, sweaty bodies, and muscle rub. It has the smell of ginger beer and menthol, tastes like gravel, sounds like a shrill whistle. Through the onslaught, Rimas makes his way to our table. Exhaustion deprives him of language. Denise arrives maybe 5 minutes behind. She is visibly shaken. Pale as a two year old, now sobbing with relief. There are not enough blankets. We put her near the fire, but nobody is warming up. 

Tom has slumped onto the table. It is near midnight. One of the volunteers approaches me. 

_“I have a room. A spare bed. Are you together?”_ She motions towards Denise. 
“No”. 
_“I have another bed. Its only a single. You could sleep there.”
_[I’ve lost the power of speech]
_“I’m sorry. Its not as comfortable.”
_[Comfort is relative]
_“What about him? The older gentleman?” now gesturing towards another _shivering rider. 

Over the next few minutes, she coaxes a handful of us towards the door. Although the promise of a warm bed beckons, movement still takes too much energy to do with any waste.

“How far is your house?” asks Denise.
_“3 doors down. Its very close. I have radiators. I can dry your clothes.”
_
The storm continues outside. Cold fingers pull at wet laces. We struggle to force swollen feet back into rain saturated shoes.

“I can’t.” says Denise. 
_“Here, wear mine”_

And with that, our unknown rescuer leads us from the village hall, barefoot through the storm to her house, rigs hot drinks for Denise, Roy and myself, apologises again for the lack of space, sets the heating to max, and makes up beds for all three of us. 

Roy and I are in the spare room. There is a single bed, and whilst I’m happy to sleep on carpet (dry, warm and soft, it looks perfect) she insists I allow her to unfold the padded massage table. This done, she briefly exits the room to collect a set of sheets, and I clamber up onto it, going to sleep immediately.

Our host quietly moves our clothes to the radiator, checks in with Denise as to what time we need waking, throws a sheet over me, and pads back, barefoot to the heaving control, where she spends the rest of the night making drinks, providing food, and collecting riders. 

Her voice wakes me some hours later. I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by Tibetan curiosities, floating high above the floor. My clothes are dry, my shoes stuffed with newspaper. I can hear the rain continue outside. Within the shelter of warm covers, it’s rhythm is reassuring.

I slowly lower myself from the table, and gain momentary confusion as I attempt to locate my socks. I recall trying to dry them at the control, but haven’t seen them since. If they’re not retrievable from the furnace, I’ll buy some on the road. Manners restored by a few hours rest, I introduce myself to our landlady and thank her for her kindness. As I tiptoe out, careful not to wake the riders now spilling from every corner of her house, she spots my bare ankles.

4 minutes later at the control, she re-appears with a pair of mens socks. In my size. Before 4am. In a village with maybe 20 houses. Unworn and still wrapped. The good people of Eskdalemuir are legend.

Determined to preserve my newly dry state, I claim a couple of bin bags, pink and lightly scented, and put one on either foot before putting my shoes back on. Another gets holes for arms and head, and is called into service as a featherlite disposable gilet. Worn between base layer and windproof jacket, I am now almost waterproof up top. I am learning quickly.

I rejoin Rimas and Tom. The ceiling has leaked during the night. Denise and I have fared considerably better than the riders remaining at the control. We regroup, grab a quick breakfast and resolve to set off as soon as the rain outside quietens a little. At 0420, our opportunity arises.


----------



## arallsopp (12 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 0424hrs: South again.*

I return to the ‘bent. Even in the darkness, I can detect that things the previous night were not merely wet. The entire bottom half of my bike is coated in what looks like river silt. I crack the worst of the silver grey carapace from the chain, get the links moving reasonably freely, and hop aboard for another 60 miles to Alston. Should be there around 1030hrs.

We cross the White Esk exiting the control, tracing its Eastern bank back into the glens. The rain continues, but has lost most of its anger by now. Having survived last night, the ongoing downpour doesn’t seem to register. It might be because I’m wrapped in plastic, or could be because the general lack of sleep from the previous few days now insulate me against most sensation.

The occasional crunch of gravel under tyre punctuates the otherwise monotonous rattling of my chain. The sound is so familiar that I am no more aware of it than I am the sound of blood rushing around my ears. Outside our tiny group, the world is a still frame.

The sun is due up around 4:35, but we don’t see it until the road lifts us another 100m beyond Allangill Burn, offering a view South East that takes in the summits of Carlesgill and Crumpton Hill. 7 miles on, our onward route will pass between these peaks, but for now we drop back down to rejoin the Esk through Bentpath. 

Stray fingers of sunlight edge through the valleys ahead, pulling back on the peaks, slowly stretching open the horizon. Laid flat on the ‘bent, a foot from the floor, the experience conjures emotions of deliverance. The sky lightens, my mood is raised. 

We continue South East, slowly filtering through glen and dale to arrive in Langholm at 0544. Even at this time, The Muckle Toonfolk are beginning their day’s activities. I had forgotten people did things other than cycle, and am so surprised that I stop and spend 6 minutes just watching them.

A quick exploration of Langholm’s former library gardens reveals little scope for a nature break, but does uncover a discarded arch, completed by a stonemason’s apprentice in the 1760s. Local lad, name of Thomas Telford, apparently. The absolute lack of signage suggests the town enjoys either a dearth of visitors or an abundance of such history. 

Exiting on the A7 between Warb Law and Monument Hill, I am done with what Scotland has to throw at me. My mood is celebratory, and the loss of concentration immediately triggers a minor routing mishap, up the eastern bank of Ryehills, on a busy dual carriageway. Inadvisable excursions aside, I get one more short climb into Canonbie, and then its a gentle roll all the way down the hill, to a little brown sign, tucked into the hedge, “Welcome to ENGLAND”.

0639hrs. I’m South of the Border, West of the Sun. The towering giants that have crowded on every side these last few hundred miles finally retreat. Their rain cloaked peaks fall out of sight behind me as the landscape slowly unfurls, restoring the horizon to its rightful place, at eye level, and some distance hence. 

I am glad to make it out. 30 miles behind me, riders making their way from Traquair to Eskdalemuir are fighting through the residue of last night’s assault. Photos later shared reveal the B709 is lost under standing water, cyclists blindly feeling their way along the camber at Ettrick, whilst alluvial detritus washes over hub and sprocket.

Mere drizzle for me though. I reel in Longtown, arriving via the celebrated 18th Century bridge, to cross the Esk one final time. From here, she will run West, joining Lyne and Eden, before finally losing herself to the churn of the Irish Sea. I continue South East on long straight roads, on through Smithfield, on through Newtown. Getting a little twistier now as Cumbria regains her confidence. A bleep from the GPS at Brampton offers my first route instruction in England, pitching me into a series of fells and pikes to my right. 

A rise in the gradient lifts me to the A69, then snakes, slow and steady to Milton, Kirkhouse, Hallbankgate. I am checking off towns from the way up now. Cold Fell Pike swings up above me as I sneak under Tindale, a sharp climb to Midgeholme, Halton-lea-gate, Lambley. The road clambers around Byers Pike, threading me into a hidden valley alongside the Pennine Way. 

I filter South, through Slaggyford and Kirkhaugh, the road pinched in with the South Tynedale Railway by Knarsdale Forest, Grey Nag, and Pike Rigg. Suddenly I’m in Raise, and from there a short hop across the river into Alston.

As I pile onto the cobbles at the bottom of Front Street, I stumble into the back wheels of other cyclists. Our pace aboard the bikes is dismissed as an irrelevance, when it turns out we all walk at the same speed. We trudge up together with only the very occasional die-hard cranking past us at speeds of up to 4mph.

Exiting Alston towards Yad Moss a few moments after 10, the last 3 and a half kilometres of this leg lift me at an average 6% to 420m, the lower me, carefully, into the control some 20 minutes later.


----------



## arallsopp (12 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 1027hrs. 556 miles. Arrive Alston Southbound.*

The dominant feeling in the control is relief. At this point, after all, we are two thirds of the way up the final proper hill of the event. There are barely 300 miles left in the route, and nobody I speak to thinks for a second it will be anything less than possible. Horror stories of our last legs are shared, and reports from prior controls filter into our conversation from the brevet desk. Officially, any 0800 starter that isn’t here by now is Out Of Time, but given that the waters at Ettrick are still impassable by vehicle, the organisers graciously extend our allowance by 2 hours. This means little for anyone still caught North of the floods, some 68 miles back, but it seems some flexibility will be offered around ‘catching up the time’ before the final controls.

Glad to have pushed through the storm, I have around 8 hours in hand. This gives me two whole days to get back to London. It is hard not to relax indoors, enjoying the shelter, food, and company. I remove my makeshift waterproofs and settle in at the table. Everything smells wonderful, enveloped in an intricate and warming mixture of sandalwood, honey, nutmeg, clove, saffron, ginger lily. Good thoughts incubate within an ochre halo. All is well. 

Twenty minutes later Rimas arrives. Standing out clearly as a grey figure against a backdrop of dazzling Siena, his ashen features betray the differing quality of our prior night’s accommodation. He looks wrecked, and I am reminded just how quickly things can turn. 

8 hours is not that long. Too much has been invested in getting me here to risk a knock out by mechanical, and I resolve not to eat into too much of the slack I’ve earned. The bike needs a little fettling. Some oil wouldn’t go amiss. I thank her with a set of new zipties all round. Rich’s has worked its way up the cleat mast, and is now sitting free from the chain. Its presence is re-assuring. I leave it attached.


----------



## Scoosh (12 Sep 2009)

Thank you  [breathes again ]


----------



## arallsopp (12 Sep 2009)

Lol
Sorry to leave you hanging. Work got a bit silly again.


----------



## Arch (13 Sep 2009)

This stuff should be on telly. It's more inspiring than any of the celebrities-put-themselves-through-mild-discomfort stuff...


----------



## arallsopp (13 Sep 2009)

(The original poster wishes to make it absolutely clear to any media types reading that he will not be repeating the event next year, on a tandem, with Kerry Katona.)


----------



## shirokazan (13 Sep 2009)

arallsopp said:


> (The original poster wishes to make it absolutely clear to any media types reading that he will not be repeating the event next year, on a tandem, with Kerry Katona.)



Tut, tut, _*arallsopp*_. You haven't got time for making jokes, your public are waiting for the next instalment.


----------



## HelenD123 (13 Sep 2009)

Amazing write up arallsopp. Keep it coming!


----------



## nigelnorris (13 Sep 2009)

shirokazan said:


> Tut, tut, _*arallsopp*_. You haven't got time for making jokes, your public are waiting for the next instalment.


It's like the Batman TV series. When I was a kid, waiting for all those cliffhangers to be resolved used to kill me.


----------



## Mista Preston (13 Sep 2009)

said it all at the weekend Mr A. A great read that needs to be read by more than just CC readers. Keep it coming !.

Have a good week and let us know if you make it back in time for a ride on Thursday Night


----------



## arallsopp (14 Sep 2009)

Thanks *all* for your ongoing support. It is very much appreciated. If I had the time between meetings, I'd stop and thank each and every one of you. For now though, I think the best thing is to use any spare time to tell you about the next leg...


----------



## Auntie Helen (14 Sep 2009)

Yes, do. None of this messing about in meetings, get writing lad!


----------



## arallsopp (14 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 1235hrs: Miles 554 to 600. Yad Moss and Middleton Tyas*

The little control marking civilisation drops out of sight as I hug the gradient around a left hand corner. Onwards, into the wind, towards the peak. 

The clunkiness in the chain is enhanced by a worrying stiffness in the gear levers that has been developing since Eskdalemuir. I lost access to the granny ring when I pushed the boom out, but with a 39/34 gear available from the middle ring, I’ve not been missing it too much. Now though, I don’t seem to be able to reach the big rings at the back. With both hands, I can just about force it onto a 39/13, which is pretty hard going for this terrain. My knees are begging me to crank the shifter a little further, but a cable snap here will mean trying to climb the remainder of Yad Moss on the hi-limit screw. This is not a plan I favour. 

Tufts of grass hunker down against the gale, little flickers of silver reflect from suddenly exposed undersides as the wind beats them flat against the gradient. Solitary randonneurs recreate the scene in macrocosm, heads down into the wind, onwards and upwards.

As the road straightens, I begin to feel pretty exposed on the lonely hillside. There are no trees, no cars, no other cyclists. I measure my progress against scattered piles of cold rock. Its bitterly cold, and I wonder if i should have put the bin bags back on before I left Alston. In this gear, stopping at the roadside is really not an option. 

I’m quietly confident though. In daylight, its hard to reconcile the landscape with my frenzied descent some 30 hours earlier. The gradient is the same, but going uphill, into the wind, its somehow easier. There’s very little here, and certainly nothing I haven’t ridden before. No sudden surprises. No unexpected climbs. No reason to do anything other than keep pedalling. I resolve to push a little harder, just to keep warm. 

Working hard to cross the picturesque bridge at Ashgill Force, I am again comforted by the ardent aroma of the last control. I can’t place the root. Sesame? Citrus? Pomegranate? It feels like climbing into a warm bed. I look around for the source, but there is little flora to generate such a spell. It stays with me on the bare roadside, climbing first to 500, then 600 metres. A cattle grid takes me from Cumbria to County Durham, and two and half miles later I hit a waypoint marking the peak of Yad Moss. The wind has been doing more to slow me than the gradient, but I am glad to know there is no more climbing.

Knowing where the cattle grids are takes the edge off the descent. I marked most as I ambled North, but the odd few that I omitted are easily recognised by the closing fences on either side of the road. As a dedicated suburbanite back home, these things are learnt on the road. 

Contrasting with the downshift, the gear lever slots easily into top. I take advantage of the gradient, shedding 200m and descending rapidly through Harwood and Langdon Beck. Up ahead, I can trace a view between the peaks that will drop me to North Yorkshire, and my eventual destination for this leg. The Tees Valley slopes away on my right, offering an uninterrupted vista running to Meldon Hill and Mickle Fell. A mile down the road, I’m still accelerating. A tiny Methodist Chapel marks the passing of Forest in Teesdale, a sign for High Force, Low Force screams past me like its been rear-projected, added as an afterthought in post production. Another 100m lost. I try to keep it below 30mph. The boulder strewn bed of the Tees appears in the valley below me, playing hide and seek behind my front brake lever. New Biggin screams past, I brake hard for Middleton in Teesdale, and finally swing across the river to mark the end of a 25 minute descent that has carried me over 10 miles. 

There’s a short climb on the other side, but battling to get out of top gear I have little option but to power up on momentum. I’m still rolling fast when I cross the Lune, the road running parallel to a disused rail bridge taking ramblers along the Pennine Way.

On through Mickleton, Romaldkirk, dip and rise to Cotherstone before settling into a long and lazy climb to Lartington. The pace eases off a little, and I use the increased stability to attack the gear levers with exploratory vigour. It alternates between very crunchy on the front rings to complete lock up at the rear. 

My guess is the cable outers are fouled. Water ingress via the upturned bar end shifters, or river crud from Scotland. Until I can fix it, I’ll be running as a twin speed. 53 / 11 for the flats. 39/11 for the hills. 

Two miles down the B2667, I find sudden distraction when Barnard Castle abruptly looms above me. On the way up, I distinctly remember this town as “left, at a roundabout”. On the way back, the market place roundabout remains, but there is also a very evident and enormous ruin, built in aureate stone, perched atop the Tees gorge with a commanding view of every road within a good few miles. 

I know from my marathon days that the first casualty to exhaustion is peripheral vision. In London 2004, this made finding the faces of my family in the crowd hard. In Barnard Castle, it has obscured an entire 12th century acropolis.

As if to underline my omission, the road wraps me around three sides of its sandstone tower, never out of sight, dominating even the 14th Century Great Hall that flanks it. Still within its gaze as I pedal East out of town, I stumble directly into the landscaped gardens of the Bowes Museum.

If the castle was the jab, then the museum is the cross that floors me. The gold topped ironwork of its ornamental gates give an unexpected glimpse of Versailles. Behind the formal parterre planting, the edifice of a magnificent 19th century chateau rises, built in the grand French style, as incongruous in scale as it is in manner. I’m left, wobbling along the tiny road to Westwick, wondering if I’m hallucinating it, or its hallucinating me.

I’m still tugging on the gear lever through Westwick and Whorlton when I recognise the switchbacks dropping me down to the wooden bridge. I manage to crunch my way to the front middle ring in anticipation of the gradient on the other side, but find my way blocked by a bunched group of cyclists. We struggle up together as an orchestra of grunts and knee cracks.

The climb levels out as we crest over Wycliffe, and our reward is evident in the flatlands ahead. The route becomes a series of straight roads linked by 90 degree turns, their spacing determined by hectare and acre rather than gradient. The regimented rhythm of agronomic division carries me through Caldwell and Forcett, climbing to Melsonby, duck under the A1M just North of Scotch Corner, and drop into the control, on the left.


----------



## arallsopp (14 Sep 2009)

*1643hrs. 602 miles. Arrive Middeton Tyas.*

Once again, we gather on the outskirts of town, in the hall of the newly built primary school. The building is slightly schizophrenic in its setting. Constructed to a modernist design in steel, brick, and artificial stone, it gives the impression that it annexes a lively and progressive business community. An entry on Wikipedia has this to say about it:

_"Middleton Tyas is a village and civil parish in the Richmondshire district of North Yorkshire, England... The village had a post office and shop but it closed in April 2003.” 
_
That said, the population are out in force, and they lay on an excellent service. A gratefully received sports massage restores my legs, whilst mechanics emerge to bring life back into the ‘bent’s gearing. We manage together to get some reliability on the two front rings, but the rear remains adamant that top gear is the only option. After two hours effort I have to agree, and at 7pm, I make my way back to the road. 

In top.


----------



## arallsopp (14 Sep 2009)

Still in the office. How sucky. Here's a little treat to take you through the night.






1 x less than optimal front return idler, rendered in zipties and bits of old shoe.

Please note how the underside of the chain is polished smooth and shiny by the gentle ministrations of the plastic. This contrasts nicely with the sides of the chain which are, well, less so.


----------



## darkstar (15 Sep 2009)

wow i completely missed this thread, i have to congratulate you on this achievement dude, it is just amazing, your a great writer as well!
RAAM next? haha


----------



## Scoosh (15 Sep 2009)

Now we reach a very awkward time. He's getting towards the finish .... and the end of this amazing, wonderful, poetic account .

I want to read the rest and enjoy it BUT ... I don't want it to end  - it's so good.


----------



## arallsopp (15 Sep 2009)

darkstar said:


> wow i completely missed this thread, i have to congratulate you on this achievement dude, it is just amazing, your a great writer as well!
> RAAM next? haha



You just waded through this entire thread in one sitting? That's proper endurance. RAAMs got nothing on it


----------



## arallsopp (17 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 1902hrs. Bomber Command*

A rolling start (courtesy of a diligent volunteer manning the stage) sees me back onto the road, and I immediately get lost in a series of lanes. Thus far, the GPS has been doing very well to keep me out of trouble, and the little green line I’m trailing extends some 600 miles back without more than a couple of dead ends. The problem is, I’m now trying to distinguish between the verdant thread I weaved on my way up, and the near identical twine running ahead of me to the South. Every time I pick the wrong one, the issue is compounded by another stroke added to the map. After ten minutes of near blind trial and error, Middleton Tyas looks like a spaghetti painting. I have diligently coloured in almost every road in the area to create a Gordian knot of route and track. I pull up, staring with bewilderment at the GPS as competing instructions fight for real estate on its tiny two inch screen. 

I zoom out a little, see that the general direction I need is South East, and set about chasing my shadow out of town. 20 seconds later, I stumble back past the entrance to the school, gratefully tag onto the rear wheel of a departing rider, and follow him a full 100 metres down the road to our first route point. 

I am clearly more tired than I thought, and all this stop-starting in top is not helping.

We wind down the hillside, East out of town, then swing South into gently undulating countryside. The middle ring isn’t particularly keen to hold onto the chain, so I’m pushing along in top. Cruising flat lanes at 22mph, I soon drop my rescuer. The road kinks a little to break up the distance. Through Moulton, Uckerby, long way round The Green at Scorton. An 8 mile stretch without instruction takes me through Bolton-on-swale, Ellerton, and Kiplin. The hills of the North York Moors National Park come into view ahead, and with fear, I know I’ll touch them before I pull into Coxwold. 

As I catch sight of the river at Great Langton, I recognise a tail light up ahead and find myself catching Rimas. We ride together in the fading light, out and around Sweden Sykes, through Yafforth, over the A684 into Warlaby. I’m surprised to find him ahead of me, but know I lost a fair amount of time resting up at the last control. “Have you stopped?” I ask. 

_“Not much time”_

Its 8pm now. He’s been up since 4, got maybe 2 hours sleep the night before, and has ridden through the day. 

“Have you slept?”
_
“On Yad Moss. Pretty fast.”
_
“You ok?”

_“Woke up with front wheel on grass. Stopped before wall.”
_
That was a 30mph descent, over cattle grids, in the middle of the day. Waking up with the handlebars under your palms is scary enough. Doing it on a major gradient through very remote terrain must have been horrendous. 

“You ok now?”
_
“Am ok”.
_
For the early starters, Coxwold closes just before sundown. I figure he’s got about an hour to close 15 miles. He’s moving at maybe 10. 

We ride together through Newby Wiske, but I’m finding it hard going at this speed when the way ahead gets bumpy. The general trend has been downhill, but 8 miles in, we’ve bottomed out, and the route ahead is peppered with short and sharp 15m climbs. Powering up in top on these legs means hitting each rise at a minimum 20mph. At half of that, the cadence is going to destroy me.

We cross the Wiske together on the approach to South Otterington, but the rollers on the A167 soon see Rimas lost to my rear mirror. 

On through Newsham, trace my way back over the railway, then idle out alongside Thirsk Racecourse. As the sky begins to darken, I catch another glimpse of hills ahead. Closer now. 

The road onward takes me through the North Yorkshire equivalent of suburbia. Thirsk and Sowerby join hands in an uninterrupted chain of houses. As Sowerby Road gives way to Front Street, I find myself in a wide tree lined avenue. Its an estate agent’s dream. Mature trees shelter grassy islands flanking both sides of the road. The canopy catches the last of the sunlight, basking me in a warm chromatic glow, some 35 metres wide. Ahead, long shadows run from my front wheel, stretching out to the horizon before being slowly consumed by the cold burn of my front light.

Under the A168, and I’m edging fields again. The going gets hilly as I approach Little Thurkleby and settle into the last half hour of this leg. I’m climbing steadily, trying to keep the pressure on the pedals. My right knee has developed a nasty creak, and I’m battling to keep the ‘bent moving forwards at anything less than 15mph. Still battle damaged from Eskdalemuir, the ‘bent and I are locked in desperate partnership. She needs me to get her home. I need her to get me there. The brake lines are crusted up. The gears don’t work. We’re climbing low over the English countryside, and I begin to feel like the pilot of a Lancaster bomber, on a desperate run home. In dire need of support, I send an update to my loved ones.

“Cockpit shot to sh1t, rear derailleur stuck in top, gremlins in the cables, starboard engine on fire. Coming in low and fast over North York Moors. Clear the decks!!!”

I’m tugging uselessly on the gear levers, but can’t get out of top. I know this stage ends with a big climb. I’ve got to build speed. Hit it fast. Trees close over the road again, and I push through the darkness, swooping up to 95m. The control is on the top of a hill. I crest at 16mph, knees screaming, but there’s only darkness. As the road pitches downward, I can see it runs out with a sharp rise on the other side of a small valley. Need more speed. I start a second dive. 19mph. 20. 21. Pedalling hard now, counting pedal strokes. A church with an octagonal tower blips past on the right. I recognise it too late. This is Coxwold! I look up. A man stands in the road, waving me in with a torch. I’m less than 10 metres from him and closing fast. I have just enough breath left to give a warning yell.

A second later, the ‘bent and I slide sideways under his outstretched arm, just about keeping the bike upright as the road kicks and buckles for grip underneath. As the bike comes to a halt, the GPS flashes up ‘CTRL R’.


----------



## Arch (17 Sep 2009)

Superb, that bit about the Lancaster nearly had me in tears!


----------



## Alf (17 Sep 2009)

I have just come on this thread and read from the start in one sitting. Excellent writing, Andy, and how do you manage to remember so much? Did you take notes? At some stage, I would like to ask about your GPS, being a relative new-comer to GPSs. Did you put the route in as a series of 'routes' or as 'tracks'. And then did you use track-back to follow it?

Sorry I shouldn't distract you from your magnum opus!

Very disconcerting to hear about these gear failures. I wonder how many riders suffered major mechanicals as a result of that weather.

Funny thing is I came across this thread by doing a search on 'Mickle' because I had just seen this mysterious Mickle method in a thread on chains. This one came up because of the mention of Mickle Fell. So glad I stumbled on it!

Looking forward to the next bit,
Alf


----------



## arallsopp (22 Sep 2009)

Thanks Arch 

Alf, welcome. Good questions, all. I didn't really have the time to take notes, but its been reasonably easy to piece memories together using SMS logs and GPS tracks. I tend to turn through phrases as I pedal, revising the words in my head as I pass through the route. Various things will trigger the memory. A town name. A hill. The odd particular junction. Regards the GPS, my approach varies based upon the ride. For an audax (where the route is given beforehand as a series of turn instructions at known distances apart) I tend to trace the path as a track, add waypoints for each instruction, then set the GPS to follow a 'direct' route between them. The result is I always have a count down to the next turn, and gain an audible alert (+ backlight if its dark) when I reach the relevant junction.

My Etrex shows the track OVER the route, so I can always zoom in and check that I'm still on the road I was aiming for. Its a bit hard to describe in words. If it helps, I've just edited my prior leg to include an image of the routing screen (zoomed out considerably). 

What you're seeing is:

A blue line (the track that I traced in mapsource)
Green dots (the waypoints, prefixed M01 - M22, and containing the instruction)
A pink line (the direct route bewteen these waypoints)

Although I can be a few miles off the (direct) route at any one time, I'm generally still facing towards the next waypoint. This works for me, and has the advantage that it forces me to study the path beforehand. Just knowing the rough names of towns along the way will go a long way towards restoring confidence in a dark night.

Right... Lets get the next leg up.


----------



## arallsopp (22 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 2120hrs: Arrive Coxwold Southbound. 635 miles. Hours in the bag, 5 and a half.*

I lean the ‘bent up around the back of the control, and head inside to collect the obligatory proof of passage. The continued pace has transformed Coxwold beyond recognition. Monday afternoon, cyclists milled around the car park, taking a little rest for the route ahead. Indoors, the bubble of easy conversation flowed bountifully over sun lit tables, nervous energy surfacing in garrulous oration. I struggled to bring myself to leave. Its Wednesday evening now, and the focus is solely ‘stamp, fettle, fuel, go’. Schedule dictates I get back to Thorne before my final sleep. 

Do this, and tomorrow will bring the finish within a 180 mile day. Fail, and its closer to 250. 

I cannot do another 24 hour ride at this point.

All of this noted, its cold outside, and the volunteers at Coxwold are making lasagne. Fresh batch in 6 minutes. I can wait. 

I fill my time squatting by torchlight outside the door, eyeing up the rear mech. Worryingly, the derailleur moves just fine, but the cable remains locked tight. If I can’t get inside to clean it, I’ll be needing a new cable and outer. Of course, its routed internally through the frame, so will not be a trivial fix. I manage to free the brakes a little, which restores some semblance of safety. Crud in the cables. My ongoing ministrations attract the assistance of a volunteer, who begins a series of diagnostics on the bike. A call comes out from the kitchen, and I am ushered back inside.

I allow myself a 40 minute turnaround. Reviewing the route indoors, I can see I’m almost home. Ok. I’m still North of York, but significantly , I’m back on the East side of England. No more crossing the middle, no more crazy climbs, no more fells, bens, lochs, pikes, glens. Maybe one vale, but that’s flat. This is good. Its an almost direct line South from here to London, and I have barely 400km to go. 

I return to the bike a half hour later. Fresh water in the camelbak. Banana sitting atop lasagne. Fuel that will close the 60 miles to Thorne. Its dark, but in range.


----------



## arallsopp (22 Sep 2009)

*Wednesday 2213hrs: Depart Coxwold. Bed in 60 miles*

No joy with the cables, so its a very slow start as I unwind myself from 3 sides of the building before exiting back to the crossroads. Once on the open road, I know I will only have a short sprint before the climbs get underway. I’m pushing hard to make the most of this tiny flat.

Left at the crossroads, and the Howardian rollercoaster begins. Down to the bottom of the village, up and over in darkness, dip into Newburgh Grange, accelerating hard. Long climb now, past the priory, away from the warmth of town, tired muscles digging hard into the hillside. 70m above, 80, 100, 140, 148, 150. I crest under trees, blind to the view ahead. 

Pass Oulston on the drop, lose the moon as I fall, but keep the speed, pushing on into the shadows, always swelling, up and down. The road writhes left and right, but I stay with her, clattering towards the double summit at Crayke. Back down in the 70s now, 80, 90, 107. That’s the first. 90. 100, 105, 110, and I’m done. Down and out, braking hard for the T Junction, then a long run out into the Vale of York. 

The moon is restored. Long flat roads take me through Stillington, Strensil, Towthorpe. 

Its dark out here. 90 degree turns steal rear lights from sight. The cold bites into my legs, slips under the waistband of my windproof, edges along my wrists. Silvery fingers trying to take hold of my core. I begin to feel very vulnerable. I miss the high hedges of Kent, cocooning my training rides from the wind and the unknown. The road out here is bordered only by darkness, heather moorlands extending to my left, black fields that run right up to the roadside.

A lonely streetlamp offers a shallow pool of light, and I dive in, seeking reassurance. Rather than warm me, I am instead reminded of the opaque shadows that crowd its frail little arc. I lean forwards and angle the Cyo up, but this only gives me a better view of the void.

The route onward becomes a slightly panicked run from lamp to lamp. I will myself not to think of An American Werewolf in London, and in doing so, fail utterly. A zip tie fails, and I spend a few minutes in total isolation, fumbling in the middle of an unlit road. Cold sweat clamps my movements. I can hear my heartbeat...

After 3 minutes, I have not been eaten. A group of randonneurs swing into sight and soar past, freewheels chattering like crickets. At the back, what looks like Darth Stuart’s Ratcatcher. Eager to avoid being left in the dark, I quickly patch up the chainline, and give chase.

They have maybe an 8 minute headstart. As I begin to put in some serious effort, I find myself again washed over by the sweet scent of Ashgill. No, deeper than that... Alston. My subconscious is whirring, legs doing the thinking. Where have I smelt this? Fruits. Citrus. Not so much the aroma that’s distinctive, as the warm feeling of contentment it conjurs. Deep in the middle of this dark, dark, night, I find myself transported to a sunny August day. The heady sweetness of cider, spilt from glasses raised in friendly salute. Ice chilled pools evaporating from the unpolished wood of coarse pub furniture, baked dry by a high sun. 

I can almost hear the glasses chime as they bump together. But no. Something else. Deeper still. They’re not glasses. Fishing floats? No. Jam jars, chinking together, in a bath-tub. Where have I seen this? 

Eskdalemuir. Suddenly, it comes back to me. A memory in third person perspective. Our host for the night apologising about her bathroom. The tub decommissioned by floating jam jars. Soaking off the labels. Re-using the little glass pots to bottle massage oils. She made her own.

...And the padded table I used as a bed was their theatre. In those few blissful hours, whilst I grabbed some much needed sleep, my body restored itself, drawing flavours from the foam, absorbing their scent. Skin once macerated by the storm now lovingly wrapped in essential oils. Every time I build up a sweat, out wicks some more. As the night turns to drizzle, I realise I am not only scented. I am waterproof.

I am still laughing as I pass through Warthill, up onto a little ridge at Holtby and earn a very brief dash along what feels like a proper road. Defined borders tame the moors, and my new found confidence carries me off to the East, through the darkness to Dunnington, Elvington, chasing tail lights over the river and into the East Riding of Yorkshire. 

Mid way towards Sutton upon Derwent, I finally catch the group infront, introducing myself to the recumbent back-marker, Patrick. He’s on fine form, but the war between schedule and sleep has left him a little wobbly. I figure its about half twelve now, and rough calcs at the last control suggest we’ve probably got another two hours to go. If it was hard to measure progress on these roads by day, its almost impossible by night. We ride together for company. For encouragement. For protection.

The pack are suffering mechanicals, and pull up under a lamp post marking a right turn. I’m still stuck in top, and have to choose between riding on alone, or stopping at the roadside knowing my only exit is via a 53/11 gear. I give a few exploratory pedal strokes, but the black void of the road ahead threatens to suck me in. 

I decide that if the spirit of audax is self sufficiency, it needs a footnote to say, “best served in groups”. I spend the next few minutes scribing loops onto the tarmac, chasing the cyo’s little orb back and forth at 2mph. It is a good test of balance.

When we resume, there are five lights driving back the cavity. We pedal in unison for the next ten miles. Distances measured relative to each other. In the small hours, we come across a group of Americans, clustered together under the light of a substation. It is reassuring to think of these pockets of riders, dotted along the route. They keep their own pace as we bump onwards over the level crossing at Howden, but there is never more than 500 metres between us for the rest of the leg.

The darkness retreats as we approach the Ouse at Boothferry. The artefacts of humanity begin to spill across the landscape once more. We cross the river on a 1920s swing bridge, steel girders breaking the moonlight into morse code. Downstream to our left, we can pick out the silhouette of an even greater structure, concrete spans lifting a mile of the M62 some 30 metres above the river. Man is king once again. Although we take the smallest road from the roundabout on the South bank, I know that I’m no longer scared of the dark.

As we approach Airmyn, Patrick’s rear light betrays a kink in his trail. I drop back momentarily, assuming he is repositioning in his seat. The pattern repeats a couple of times, and then ever so smoothly, he drifts towards the left hand side of the road, connects with the grassy verge, and bails onto his side. He goes down without a noise, without even a break in his cadence. We pull up around him, front markers looping back, but he’s already getting up.

“Fell asleep”.

We regroup, and set off again. Tiredness masks the distance. The roads here are a little big for navigating like this. Back along the Aire, through Rawcliffe, under the motorway, across the canal, out of East Riding and into Doncaster. When we reach the level crossing at Moorends, I know we are almost there. A mile later, playing grounds appear on our right. Follow them, right, right, right again, Thorne Rugby Club.





Routesheet for this leg


----------



## arallsopp (22 Sep 2009)

Oh, and thanks everyone for your ongoing support. We made the blog!


----------



## zigzag (22 Sep 2009)

Hi Andy,

So glad I have stumbled upon this thread and your remarkable writing! I'm that lithuanian guy in your story) It was my first audax and first long trip, the longest one before being charity ride London-Brighton. My strategy was to go slowly to preserve knees and achilies, therefore sacrificing sleep time. I slept only 7 hours combined and staying awake was not that easy in last two days. Maybe using Pro-Plus and energy gels would have helped, but I didn't even know about these things before the ride! Anyway, it was a great experience, great people and whole atmosphere. I have finished with a bunch of other guys (mainly from YACF, also 2 belgian riders) at 3:30am on Friday, completing the distance in 114 hrs. It helped that my bike worked like a swiss watch, didn't need a single adjustment. I'm now considering 1001Miglia audax in Italy next year. 20km of climbing vs 9.5km in LEL.. Should I or should I not?..

Best regards
Rimas


----------



## arallsopp (22 Sep 2009)

Rimas! Fantastic. Well done for finishing. I lost sight of you somewhere shy of Gamlingay, and didn't know if you'd made it back. I have the biggest smile on my face right now. Bam! Instant friendship! 

Edit: Back story now corrected for misspelling your name. Sorry


----------



## Arch (22 Sep 2009)

More! More!

I love the jam jars bit....


----------



## Scoosh (22 Sep 2009)

More tremendous stuff - and I have often thought one of the dangers of 'bents would be falling asleep, cos it's so-o-o-o comfy 


Went for a demo/trial 'bent ride with David Gardiner yesterday - great fun and very informative  !
Tried Challenge Seiran SL, Nazca Fuego and Raptobike - an interesting mix 

Now how is the piggybank


----------



## Headgardener (23 Sep 2009)

Arellsop all this talk of doing the LEL on a 'bent has made me think of getting such a mode of transport, maybe one of the tricycle types. Good on yer, keep writing.


----------



## psmiffy (23 Sep 2009)

I am sitting in my sleeping bag in Poznan Poland having knocked out around 8000k over the past few months feeing quite proud of myself - im not in same leauge - pop out for weekend and knock off 1200k and then write such a briliant account - absolutely wicked - well done - Ive not managed to read the whole lot (tentonet is not that quick) but when i get home it will be a must


----------



## Scoosh (25 Sep 2009)

Arallsopp - I'm near dying of asphixiation, I've been holding my breath so long .

Tell your employers that you need some time to keep your reading public happy - I'm sure they'll oblige .

PLEASE, PLEASE can we have the next instalment ???


----------



## Alf (27 Sep 2009)

Thanks for your replies about the GPS use, Andy. Will have a go with your approach to see how I get on with it.

Stuck in 53/11, only 400Km to go - all over bar the shouting! 

Surely he must get these gears fixed. You can't do 400Km in 53/11!


----------



## Scoosh (2 Oct 2009)

Copied from a different forum, Arallsop writes:


> I've got a couple of legs left on the ride report, and can't remember for the life of me what time I arrived where.
> 
> Didn't help that I backed the GPS up to a USB key, which the other half then used as a disposable data caddy.
> 
> Ack...


... so, until such time as he gets his act/memory together brevet card returned to him, we all have to bait our breath a bit more ... and wait


----------



## arallsopp (2 Oct 2009)

Lol. Its coming. There is a magic spreadsheet floating around the web that has anonymised times logged on it. I was a conspicuous starter, so could find my row very quickly. Much assistance from the other place.
Now to get those bl00dy employers out of the way...


----------



## Scoosh (12 Oct 2009)

From YKW:
[quote author=Danial Webb link=topic=24338.msg436167#msg436167 date=1254310223]
*If anyone wants to know their recorded intermediate times, drop me a line.*
[/quote]

 ...  ...  ....


----------



## Greenbank (13 Oct 2009)

Top job Andy!


----------



## arallsopp (14 Oct 2009)

Afternoon all. Right, as its my birthday, I've locked myself into a meeting room and promised I won't leave until I get one more leg written up... Here it comes.


----------



## arallsopp (14 Oct 2009)

*Thursday 0301hrs. Arrive Thorne Control. Miles travelled: 690. Miles to go: 186. Sleep.*

I park up against the railings, grab the water bladder from my bag, unwrap the brevet card, and stumble indoors. Things are ok. I’ve ridden over 190 miles since leaving Eskdalemuir and am now ready for a good sleep. If I can do again tomorrow what I’ve done today, I should finish in time.

First I need fuel. My brain has been resisting the maths, but I force it through anyway. It takes me an hour to work this out:

Lea Valley checkpoint closes at 1040am Friday… 
_(Eat some food)_. 

190 miles today has taken me almost 24 hours… _
(Try to pour a drink. Use both hands. Still miss)_. 

I have the same distance to go.
_ (Wander back outside. Check zip ties)_.

I need to keep at least 4 hours slack in case things go awry. 
_(Amble back inside… Start looking for a bit of floor)_. 

I need to be out of here whilst there are still 28 hours to go. 
_(Slump towards carpet. Do NOT close eyes)_.

10:40am Friday, minus 28 hours (count backwards on fingers)… 06:40am Thursday. 
_(Can I inflate my camelbak to use as a pillow?)_.

Knock 40 minutes off to grab some breakfast... 

I need to wake up at 6.

I turn on the Blackberry to set an alarm, and find its already gone 4.
Necessity trumps commitment. I set it for 7.


----------



## arallsopp (14 Oct 2009)

*Thursday 0700hrs. Homeward Bound.*

This is it then. My final day. The first thing I see is the phone’s snooze button, dancing in and out of focus in a seductive waltz of amelioration. I resist her charms, knowing I’ve already traded an hour from the schedule. Trying not to think too much, I unwrap limbs and haul myself outdoors.

The sun has a 2 hour headstart on me, but hasn’t used the time to much effect. Riders stumble around in the grey light, with the odd gait of those who spend a lot of time at sea. I’m not quite awake. Eyes are operating in low polygon mode. Nobody seems to be casting shadows. 5 deep breaths. Go get breakfast.

Word indoors is the meteorologists aren’t done with us yet. The MET office has issued a Severe Weather Warning for the entire East side of England. The casualty report of yesterday runs at 64 abandons, with still more missing in action. We’re going to be in the thick of it again.

Honestly though. This is England. Verdant pastures. A green and pleasant land. Even when its bad, its little more than inclement. Scotland has recalibrated my tolerances, inuring me against foul weather and permanently waterproofing my spirits. I’m nearly home. It’ll be fine. Get back to the bike. Next time that sun rises, I’m done. 

As I pour myself on to the seat, I am grateful for the supine layout of the bent. All around me, DF riders perform a delicate ballet of contact points, trying to pull away whilst simultaneously keeping weight off handlebar, saddle and pedals. As I move to join them, it rapidly becomes obvious that the losses in ergonomics have been traded for huge gains from physics. Press-ganging the mass of the earth into the war against inertia, they stand straight legged, letting gravity pull their weight down through the pedals. Horizontal, I have no such luxury, and at 0737 I perform a knees only exit, wobbling unconvincingly forward, still wedged in top.

A few minutes from the car park, I am pretty much up to speed. I find myself approaching a stationary rider, held motionless at a junction, arms stretched out like a scarecrow. I drift to a halt alongside and ask if he’s ok. He doesn’t turn toward me, and I begin to dread some Stephen King style reveal. Seems I get jumpy when I’m sleep deprived. In broken English, he explains he’s lost a page from his routesheet and is trying to retrace his steps Southward over the next 50 miles from memory. Paranoia aside, this is not a good thing. Firstly, we’re at the first instruction on a 30 line page. Second, we’re not going back via Wragby, so 90% of the next leg is going to be new ground. I explain as best I can, and am granted a simple utterance in return.

“I follow you.”

Seems to be a statement of intent rather than a request, but fair on, these roads are flat and featureless. A little company will make life easier. We head off together, crossing the railway, then the canal. The landscape remains unchanged as Yorkshire’s East Riding first gives way to Doncaster, then North Lincolnshire. On the approach to Sandtoft, we swing right into territories new, due South on a road so straight that we’re in Nottinghamshire by the time we make a turn. The promised rain is holding off, but the wind sits heavily against our chests, pulling at our shoulders, pushing against us in a constant wall of enervation. Without tree, turn, or town to vary the strain, its hard going just to keep the pedals turning. All the way, my silent companion sits 10 inches from my back wheel. I’m pretty sure that two bikes travel faster than one, but it sure would be nice if he’d take a turn at the front for a while.

Or just speak. 

Doesn’t even have to be English. 

I know I’m running out of sugar when resentment begins to build. Why won’t he go infront? The road doesn’t even have any turnings for the next 2 miles. Even then, it’s a SO:X. I pull towards the verge, motioning him around me. He slows, still on my back wheel, and waits. I stop.

Ok. Time to raid the stores. I take a few good mouthfuls of water, and wash down an energy gel. Take off the windproof. Stretch my legs. He’s going to follow me all the way. Might as well get on with it.

Back on the bike, waddle it up to speed then hook into the pedals. Push hard to keep momentum, swing South over the Idle, through Misterton, and over the canal as we exit. Passing under the railway, I spy a handful of riders up ahead, air pressure binding them into tight pelotons. Walkeringham, Beckingham, we pass each little group, but the wheelsucker stays with me. 

We leave via a roundabout on the A631, joining the dual carriageway to approach Gainsborough. By the time we cross the Trent into Lincolnshire proper, we are resplendent in haulage and motorway style crash barriers. We get our first dose of rain as we climb Foxby Hill out of Gainsborough, slowly building as we tick off Somerby, Upton, Kexby, Willingham, Stow, Sturton.

Another long straight drag extends South East over the Till, tipping upwards at the end to reveal riders waiting to turn right along Lincoln Cliff towards North Carlton. Tucking in behind, we are rewarded with a view that extends back into Nottinghamshire. 60 metres up, over this kind of range, I can clearly see the weather system gathering strength. As we continue South towards Burton and over the A46, the heavens begin to open.

The steep descent into Lincoln sees our rising pace matched by an equivalent increase in the ferocity of the weather. We’re in full on cloud burst by the time we reach edge of town. I’m feathering the brakes as I go, pulling back on the levers when either wheel has traction, easing off whenever we start to drift. Peaking 23mph, I follow the GPS and routesheet into Yarborough Road, and am suddenly confronted by industrial size kitchen bins blocking the route ahead. I brake heavy, and claim the gentlest of nudges from the rear. Suffice to say that by the time I’ve scrambled a 3 pointer, my mute shadow is giving me a little more space on the road.

Lincoln city centre has diversion signs out. He and I spend the next few minutes taking exploratory stabs into cul-de-sacs of varying depth. Having collected a wet cyclist from each dead end, we eventually reach a critical mass where the wisdom of crowds comes into effect. Tendrils of the group slowly unravel towards the high street. We’re now moving at a far more pedestrian pace, and our rising numbers are gathering attention from the roadside.

“Why would you go for a ride TODAY?” _(Hmmm… How to explain this? Technically, we went for a ride on Sunday…)_

“Where are you going?” _(The most credible answer seems to be Washingborough. We tried ‘London’, but people didn’t believe us.)_

“Is it a race?” _(I’m assuming they’ve spotted the numbers taped to our frames, as our pace is less than expeditious.)_

We leave the heavier rain in Lincoln, heading due South on a very industrial looking Broadgate. Its dual carriageways take us over Pelham Bridge, the motor traffic increasing in velocity and frequency as the road widens. The raised pace better suits my gearing, but the weight of traffic is becoming nothing short of frightening. Fenced in by guardrails and ‘get in lane’ signs, there is little option to reconsider, until, just when I decide its clearly all gone wrong, the pack swings left onto a quiet lane, towards Canwick. 

The change is instant. Traffic noise mutes immediately. The pace slows. Bird song. We idle along the hillside above the cemetery, claiming our first proper view of the imposing medieval cathedral, rising across the valley over Lincoln. As we descend under the railway, a scattering of houses spring up on our right. Less than a mile later, reversed by our new approach, the control appears on our left.


----------



## yello (14 Oct 2009)

You've just reminded me off that downpour. It was indeed of the biblical type proportions, with added wind. We (myself and Simon of the Moulten) were on the worst stretch of road I encountered the entire ride; narrow and solid with trucks, really hairy and dangerous in those weather conditions. I wondered why we'd been routed down that way because even in decent weather it would have been unpleasant. We sheltered under a bridge for 10 minutes to allow the worst to past. I reckon I was around a couple of hours ahead of you at that point... and slowing!

Lincoln was a bit of a pain to navigate, my Edge pointing wistfully in a general direction that seemed to require me to ride up the side of overpasses etc. It was, as you say, an oasis of calm once out of it.

From your accounts, I think I was in Eskdalemuir southbound at the same time as you. Though, that said, there were quite a few people there Tuesday night/Wednesday morn!


----------



## arallsopp (14 Oct 2009)

Howdo Yello. 

....ah the storm that kept on giving. I think it pretty much followed us down the country from there. Friendly little bugg3r it was too

Looks like the Etrex and Edge have the same chipset or something, 'cos mine was adamant that if I would only continue a quarter mile through a few misplaced buildings and a railway track, all would be fine.


----------



## Scoosh (14 Oct 2009)

HAPPY  TO YOU  and THANK YOU 











I think you can leave the room now ....


----------



## arallsopp (14 Oct 2009)

Thanks Scoosh! I'll get me coat.


----------



## Scoosh (14 Oct 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Thanks Scoosh! I'll get me coat.


NO ! NO! 

P-L-E-A-S-E stay and finish it off .... [but there again, it IS your ]


No, decision made 

Go home and have a great  dinner - you deserve it !


----------



## arallsopp (21 Oct 2009)

*Thursday 1105hrs: Arrive Washingborough. 23hrs 35minutes left, and 137 miles to go. Still stuck in top...*

There’s a fair amount of duck and cover going on in the control. The capricious distribution of sunshine and monsoon has left the pack dominated by rumour and superstition. All eyes are on the windows as the landscape outside is alternately baked and drenched by the whims of weather. The viciousness of the deluge is tempered only by its tight focus, and each batch of arriving randonneurs demonstrate an inverse bell-curve of bone dry or sodden. One brave soul sleeps outside on a bench, whilst other side of the building rattles under the downpour. 

Departing riders gather against the glass, trying to gauge their exit to avoid the frequent stripes of heavy rain. As I approach the brevet desk, I hear my wheelsucker chance his routine on another of our number. I duck out of sight, wondering if he’s been doing this all the way…


----------



## arallsopp (21 Oct 2009)

*1157hrs: Depart Washingborough. Targeting Thurlby.*

The sun is reflecting brightly off the still wet tarmac, as I leave on roads now recognizable from the way up. I’m back on the main drag, and making good time. The route South from here will toy with the Eastern edge of Lincoln escarpment, rolling us up and down the limestone ridge, scribing a sine wave of some 30m amplitude into my GPS. The terrain suits my gearing and mood perfectly, push hard, gather speed, blast down, hit the next one still rolling.

My lightweight windproof jacket does little to keep out the rain, so I’ve stashed it in my seat pack along with my gloves. This leaves me with a thin baselayer worn over the short sleeved commemorative LEL jersey, and a buff. This is my preferred costume for day rides. Its reasonably cool in direct sun, acts like a wet-suit in pouring rain, and dries rapidly whilst still in place. What’s left in the ride, after all, is little more than a day’s effort. I’ll put the extra layers back on if it gets cold after nightfall.

Just as I start to climb into Branston, the storm comes back in force. Looks like I’ve timed this all wrong. Thick and greasy raindrops hurl themselves into the floor around me. A mad percussionist in the cloud above bends pavement into snare drums, cars into a steel pan orchestra.

Waiting at the crossroads at the top of town, I can see heavier clouds coming in from the North, dragging rains across the junction directly in front of me with the clatter of dropped cutlery. The temperature drops a few degrees, and the hail begins. Stretched out on the bent, I’m a tempting target for the avalanche, and have to quickly manoeuvre myself under the protective portico of a handy Euronics store. 

I’m barely tucked in, my right arm is drenched, but at least it doesn’t hurt any more. The tiny white exocets bounce comically onto my chest, unable to hit me with any force. I stay here for 3 minutes. A wall of freezing rain marks the tail end of the storm fringe, and I realise that if I’m going to outrun this thing I need to get ahead of it. I don’t wait for the rain to stop before pulling out and giving chase.

The landscape opens up as I clamber up towards Metheringham. I’m pushing hard at 17mph, and can clearly see the maelstrom edging along the steep Western scarp of the Cliff a mile or so to my right. The road ahead will take me South for another couple of miles, before swinging me directly across its path. Passing Blankney, we’re about neck and neck, but as I plunge through Scopwick the winds are already starting to whistle around me. 

I begin to appreciate why the geography curriculum commits so much time to the architecture of weather, and so little to learning where things actually are. Cars, and to some degree my GPS, have reduced navigation to simple fuelling choices, but knowing what that storm will be doing ten minutes from now could change everything. 5 miles under those clouds will take more effort than 40 in the dry.

I’m blinded by glacial rain on the approach to Digby, but daren’t slow down. Pushing on into the wall of hail, the storm swallows me once again. Crosswinds batter me. Twisting updrafts drive freezing water into my skin. I’m laid back, taking most of it on my chest and thighs. A two inch puddle has formed in my seat. A primal scream drives me onward.

I push on as fast as I dare, head tucked into my chest against the hail. I’ve got the buff pulled up tight under my eyes, and am trying to exhale downward to keep my glasses from fogging. The exertion is making it hard going, and I’m frequently losing sight of the kerb to my left. Deciding that the overhang of my helmet will protect my eyes from the worst of it, I tuck my glasses into my shirt instead. 

Just past Dorrington, I finally graduate into warm rains, and from there into sunshine once more. The dark amaranthine threat above shrinks in my mirror, finally losing ground behind me. I speed on to Ruskington, pushing hard to extend my lead as the road takes me East through the town. I want some space between me and another dose. I’ve been on the road for an hour, and have already been drenched twice.

On momentary high ground, I can see the road ahead curving lazily around Leasingham Moor, taking me West into Sleaford. I’ll lose time cutting across country, and am likely to pick up a third soaking before this one dries off. Surfing the front of the storm is going to see me repeatedly dunked, but I’ve no idea how far back the storm reaches. If I wait for it to pass, I could lose hours. Besides the underpass of the A17, there’s no protection to hide me anyway. No. The next control is probably no further than 25 miles away. I can get there, and either skip on or sit it out with some food and company. Its not that bad.

Just as I’ve resolved to keep going, I’m brought to a sudden halt by an explosive burning in my right eye. Bug strike! A direct hit at 25mph. I lose a few minutes at the side of the road, squatted down, waiting, eye folded tight against the pain. Should have put my glasses back on. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The pain doesn’t recede. My rocking figure attracts the help of a rambling couple, who kindly dab at me with tissues. My eye is streaming effusively, but they can find no evidence of the bug, nor shrapnel from its tiny body. I resolve that the burning is probably more the result of ingress by massage oil, and crack open the seat pack to get my medi-pack and swabs. Although the aeropod is sold as water resistant, it clearly wasn’t expecting things to be this wet, and I find I’ve been carrying a puddle with me for the last few days. The first item I remove from its depths is a travel pack of tissue, which has been melded by the rain into a giant stogie of cold wet paper. To be honest, this is pretty much ideal, and I keep it held against my eye for a few more minutes whilst I locate the saline pipette.

After waving a handful of randonneurs past, I make my way back to the road. Again I’m indebted to my wife for purchasing (and insisting I bring) the first aid kit. 

Rimas sails past on the descent, and I give chase. My eye is still burning, so I pop the right lens out of my glasses and allow the drizzle to cool it. This has hidden benefits, as not only am I now entirely fog proof on the remaining lens, I also have one eye for drizzle, and one for hail. 

I push on to through Sleaford, over the level crossing, and am embraced by the storm once again. I recognise the pattern as the road swings right, breaching concentric walls of freezing rain, hail, and spray. This time, its cooling effect is entirely welcomed and I push through without complaint. I emerge on the road South to Stow, chasing a tandem couple up and down over the bumps. 

I catch them on the outskirts of the village, and spend the next few miles in very pleasant company. Turns out they hail from Costa Rica, but their UK base is on my daily commute. We’re pretty much matched for speed over this terrain, so have plenty of time to agree we’re all about to get drenched again. I stay with them until just after 2pm.

Rounding the corner towards Aslackby, I start to hallucinate tiny figures in the verge ahead. Not sure if its exhaustion, rain playing havoc with my vision, or some bizarre after effect of the bug strike, but I’d swear there are pixies lining the right hand side of the road. As I get closer to the junction, I can clearly make out impish faces tucked under bright coloured caps. There’s maybe 5 of them, beady little eyes watching me, each figure ranging between 8 and 16 inches tall. They’re actually quite realistic looking...

As I slow up to wipe some of the rain out of my eyes, I realize that there is a hidden trench running under the tree coverage on my right. Laid up within it with only their heads visible through the grass is a small platoon of riders. Better than that, I recognise the front and rear markers as Gerry and Brian. They invite me into their makeshift shelter, and I gratefully accept. 

I am introduced to Greenbank and Xavier, and we happily pass ten minutes, speculating over the weather, watching the rains build again, waving at the Costa Ricans as they diligently plough past. Gerry very kindly offers me his jacket, but the thought of putting dry over wet seems pointless. We opt instead to celebrate with a photograph.


----------



## arallsopp (21 Oct 2009)

*Thursday 1422hrs. Diversionary tactics*

From our verge side camp, all seem pretty confident the storm will move West. The feeling in the group is that we should wait here for the worst of it to pass, then tuck in behind and nip down the ‘alternate’ route of the A15 to Thurlby. Its 9 rather than 12 miles, and is significantly faster road. Best of all, it stays due South, and will keep a few miles between us and the projected path of the rain. 

This is my first Audax, and I’m not entirely sure that what we’re about to do is within the rules. I hang back as the group set off, looking to Brian for advice. My dithering nearly dismounts a few of us, and turns out to be entirely wasted when Brian announces he’s taking the A15 too. Good enough for him is good enough for me. Not in top gear at 5 mph though... I push hard and get rolling.

We part with the received route at a crossroads, and an infectious mood moves through the group. The sun is out, the surface smooth. I begin to feel like a truant schoolboy, errantly bunking double geography. 

We turn due South, get a little dip, and then plough straight into a climb. There’s a long crest, but I can see the pattern repeats ahead at least twice more. Consistent with every hill since Yad Moss, my compulsory gear choice demands I hit each summit at a fair lick. The traffic is fast moving and this is not the place for a wobbly ascent. We’re travelling at about 20mph on the downs, maybe 12 on the ups, but my forced cadence is going to kill my knees if I try to climb at less than 15. I need to take advantage of the gradient whilst its still in my favour. 

Of course, I can’t just break away, as my navigation has been reduced to following a rear wheel, off-piste on a route sheet that relies on dead reckoning. As we begin the next dip, I ask the wheel’s owner for confirmation of the route ahead. The call comes back “Just head down 20 miles or so, then swing right!!!” 

Seems simple enough. I push ahead, and shoot past the front marker doing about twice his speed. By the next summit, they’re gone from my mirrors, lost on the other side of the hill. I’m treated to a solo climb around some woodland, then the ground begins to level out. The road curves right to pass between Hanthorpe and Morton, past Cawthorpe still moving fast. I take advantage of a section of flat road to pull up the waypoint marking the next control on the GPS. With some surprise, I note that its less than 10 miles away. I’m moving faster than I thought.

20 seconds later, I hit the outskirts of Bourne. The diversion loses a few cleverness points when I discover the main road through town is being dug up. With the traffic slowed to near standstill, I edge gingerly through the queues, determined not to get stranded here in top. I spent 5 minutes happily trailing a white people carrier, claiming waves from the occupants of the rear seats.

As I clear the roundabout marking the Southmost extent of town, the rollers begin again. I get another short climb, resolving in a nice descent through Northorpe. I’m leaning in hard for the countering swell when the GPS sends me right on a tiny residential road that I recognise from the way up. Last time I was here I was chasing the sag wagon. Now I’m 780 miles into my ride, and only a hundred miles from home. 

I’m going to make it. 

I greet a few cyclists as they depart the control, all of whom are most surprised that I’m facing the wrong way.


----------



## arallsopp (22 Oct 2009)

Goodness! That was a long one. Sorry all. Looks like my subconcscious is determined to hold onto this report.
Will try to be more concise with the last legs.


----------



## yello (22 Oct 2009)

Ah ha! I passed the assembled mass on that very grass verge! It looked to me as if they'd all run off the road in a mass pile up! You may well have been amongst them, though I don't recall seeing a recumbent. 

I was riding with Simon of the Moulten at that point. We were both suffering; he with wounded knees, me with swollen ankle and inflamed achilles. Our progress was slow and steady and we'd been playing leapfrog with that yacf posse for some miles. I seem to recall one of them lost their cap and then came trundling back to find it.

We lost them after the grass verge so I assumed they'd taken the A15 alternate. Wise move I reckon. The route sheet version was probably a little more taxing!

Reading your reports is bringing it all back to me. I'm actually beginning to feel quite nostalgic, even kindly towards it! At the time, it was hell!!


----------



## Greenbank (22 Oct 2009)

It was very comfy in that ditch (that's me in the ACF shorts in that photo). I could have stayed there for hours but I knew that the Thurlby control was only a bunch of miles down the road (it may have been me that said 20 miles!) and the food there was excellent on the way up.

P.S. Belated hello to Rimas, I was in the YACF bunch that you finished with.


----------



## Scoosh (22 Oct 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Goodness! That was a long one. Sorry all. Looks like my subconcscious is determined to hold onto this report.
> Will try to be more concise with the last legs.


It's BRILLIANT 

More concise ? - don't you dare 

Your loyal supporters demand grovellingly request more 

It's also great to read the input from Yello, Greenbank _et al_, who were there as well and are so much part of this amazing, fascinating account.

Thanks, guys - though I still think you are completely bonkers


----------



## iLB (22 Oct 2009)

thanks for the continued report andy, this stuff is convinving me to partake in the next one...


----------



## iLB (22 Oct 2009)

User3143 said:


> The PBP will come around before the LEL...



but i'll still be a poor student then, much rather do it as a poor post grad...


----------



## yello (22 Oct 2009)

PBP.... hmmm...... if you'd have asked me 2 months ago then the answer would most definitely have been NO!!!! But, I dunno, time heals all achilles!

Yep, come on arollsopp, we know you finish, it's the way it's written that is enjoyable!


----------



## Telemark (22 Oct 2009)

Another fan here ... I read the whole thread start to finish last night  - until well past my normal bedtime ... great stuff! I guess I've been spoilt as I haven't had to wait for a new installment until now ... PLEASE can we have more? And soon? 

But I have to agree - bonkers doesn't quite do you and your fellow LEL- ers justice . I've read plenty about ultra running (e.g. West Highland Way Race, go to "previous" & "race tales" - 95 miles), this is the first time I've seen something similar for bikes ...

T


----------



## Arch (23 Oct 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Goodness! That was a long one. Sorry all. Looks like my subconcscious is determined to hold onto this report.
> Will try to be more concise with the last legs.



Forget concise, keep the style going.

I'm sorry, but I giggled over the 'one eye for drizzle, one for hail' bit.


----------



## Scoosh (31 Oct 2009)

*** PING ***

Your readers await the conclusion 


Does he make it ? 
Is he still in one piece ? 
Are we getting tired of waiting ? 
Is he working too hard ?


----------



## arallsopp (31 Oct 2009)

I'm sorry Scoosh. Its coming, really it is. Have some time out next week, and hope to be able to bring this to a close. Today was rather lost as I spent midnight to 3pm riding around deepest Kent on a recumbent dressed as a spectre (the bike, not me), and every subsequent minute between arriving home and now dressed head to toe as a gorilla (me, not the bike).
Halloween is kinda cool at ours. 

It'll come. Really it will.


----------



## Scoosh (31 Oct 2009)

arallsopp said:


> I'm sorry Scoosh. Its coming, really it is. Have some time out next week, and hope to be able to bring this to a close. Today was rather lost as I spent midnight to 3pm riding around deepest Kent on a recumbent dressed as a spectre (the bike, not me), and every subsequent minute between arriving home and now dressed head to toe as a gorilla (me, not the bike).
> Halloween is kinda cool at ours.
> 
> It'll come. Really it will.



I'm not intending to pressurise you - we value the articles (and you, of course ) too much for that 

Enjoy riding around in the gorilla suit - tad warm, though ?


----------



## arallsopp (31 Oct 2009)

Riding in a gorilla suit? Do you take me for a fool?
Nay, I rode dressed as a ninja, and restrict monkey suit use to parties and 10k runs. 

Honestly. Anything else would be just silly


----------



## Scoosh (31 Oct 2009)

^ ^ ^ ^ ^


----------



## arallsopp (7 Nov 2009)

*Thursday 1502 hrs: Arrive Thurlby Control.*

An unknown bystander waiting outside the primary school does a double take when I roll past stretched out all horizontal. I guess they don’t have many recumbent shops up this way when he asks “You made it?”

I get this question a lot on my commute, but its far more common on my other bent. I’ll concede that most laid back bikes have more than a little of the Heath Robinson about them, but this one hardly looks home brew. I am, after all, sitting atop what is pretty much state of the art engineering: a lightweight single piece butted split tube aluminium frame, air-shock suspended and tricked out with a seat, boom and crankset knitted from dinosaurs. This is a serious bit of kit, and after all we’ve shared, I feel quite protective of her.

“No, it’s a Challenge Furai SL-II” I manage to splutter in defence, whilst he chuckles at my evident exasperation.

“No… You made it _round_.”

Ah… Slight embarrassment. To be fair, he probably has had quite a lot more sleep than me, and it was dark last time we met. This is the tech who got me rolling with the cleat plate on Sunday night. I owe him my event. I park up and eagerly give him the 20 second version of adventures shared since departing Northbound.

He ushers me indoors towards food and rest, and I quickly find myself surrounded with familiar faces from the last few legs. It looks like we’re in sync now, and I’ve finally found my pace group. The Costa Ricans are here. Rimas is stumbling around sleeplessly. Gerry, Greenbank, and Xavier roll in together not long after, bashfully confessing their directions may not have been entirely to scale. They appear quite relieved I made the turn. 

Gerry displays enviable control of his body by first checking its OK with the others, then falling asleep instantly. The ambulant remainder sit down to join me as I finish my food. Conversations suggest they might spend a couple of hours here before heading on. Refuelled and rested, I’m eager to take on the few miles that are left, even if it means setting off on my own. The rains seem to be settling down outside, and I resolve to claim the next bit of sunshine for my departure. 

I hook up with Brian in the foyer on my way out. His bike is inverted, rear wheel all skewed, tracking like a second-hand VHS tape. Techs inspect spokes, rim and tyre, fingers swarming over buckled surfaces like insects on a tin of syrup. The quality of care we riders receive is nothing short of exemplary, especially considering that the organisers made no promise of mechanical assistance. Everyone here is volunteering their time and expertise for free. 

My already high thoughts are further compounded when I return outside and find that for the first time in over 200 miles, I have a full choice of gears on the rear cassette. My rescuer waves me off with a grin and the pear drop smell of fresh WD40.


----------



## arallsopp (7 Nov 2009)

*Thursday 1646hrs. Ever Southwards.*

Back on the A15 towards Baston, this feels more like a victory lap than a last desperate stand. There’s a fair amount of mind play to riding long distance, and my normal strategy in the closing quarter is to discard the cumulative miles. Facing incomprehensible distance, I treat the final leg as a standalone venture. In training rides, this would see me 190 miles in, desperately floundering against a target 250. Discard the log. You’re 60 miles from home. Simple distance. Ride it.

As I head South of Thurlby, I’m having the opposite issue. I’m 90 percent done, and with the prior 780 miles branded viscerally on my brain, cannot help but see the remaining hundred as a mere triviality. I know I’m underestimating things, but I just cannot take it seriously. 

Heading into open countryside, the landscape is tamed into gentle risers. The surface is smooth. There are road markings, even. I leave the A15 at Kate’s Bridge, following the canal South to the horizon. With the exception of a small kink at West Deeping, the road is almost perfectly straight. Without turn or feature to distract me, I can finally force myself to acknowledge the task at hand. Yes, there are ‘only’ a hundred miles left, but setting off for a hundred miler at 5pm is always going to be a serious undertaking. Especially if you’ve only had two and half hours’ sleep, and have already spent 10 hours on the bike today.

On the plus side, it looks like it'll be plain sailing. The storm is erased from mirror and mind by the time that same road carries me into Peterborough. The sun is high on my right shoulder, floating in an uninterrupted sky that is at least twice the size of anything I've seen in my native Kent. Without ridge, cliff or knoll to stir up the heavens, I can expect a very pleasant 4 hours of balmy evening ahead.

Not far past Lolham, two railway crossings, and the march of pylons across my path provide the unmistakeable evidence of a return to inhabited territories. A short climb lifts me towards Upton, gently feeding the road through a small series of hills before lowering me to the Cambridgeshire borders. With the luxury of gears, the inclines pass un-noted. 

Emerging to turn West above the Nene, the I am whipped up to speed by heavy traffic on the A47. Although only a single carriageway at this point, it feels (and is driven) like a much bigger road. There are lay-bys and everything. Ahead of me, the ongoing route climbs to a fairly busy looking roundabout with what is very probably the A1.

Scrolling up-screen on the GPS, I watch the dotted line swing South again in about a mile. To my eye, this is the same distance as that roundabout, at which I seem to have an E01. Panning back down, I note a small service road on my left combines with the 90 degree exit ahead to make a right angled triangle. One too many cups of tea in Thurlby means I am in fairly dire need of a comfort break anyway, so I take the opportunity to cut the corner. Not only do I get to avoid the junction, I’m also raising my chances of finding a discrete bush.

A gently sloping bank drops away to the river. A row of silent vehicles warm slowly in the sun. I resolve to push past the elevated cabs of the sleeping HGVs, trusting provenance to deliver more privacy further from the main drag. I spin out a few hundred metres short of Wansford, my planned route neatly bisected by the Great North Road. This was not the plan.

With no more road ahead, and the river barring my route South, there’s nothing else for it but to retrace my steps. I cruise slowly along the ceaseless array of vehicles lining the verge, wondering whether this is an innocent rest stop, or the dogging capital of The East. Necessity builds, and finding a gap where the rooflines of the cars are a little lower, I take the opportunity to park up, shuffle down the bank, and hopefully remove myself from sight. 

The requisite arrangements are complicated by my wearing cycle shorts under my usual longs, and on inspection, the rain soaked fabric is clearly beginning to rub. Three days of perpetually damp layering threaten to make the remaining miles very uncomfortable, and with a nod to Rich’s fate at Coxwold, I opt to remove the offending articles as soon as possible. I slide a little further towards the riverfront. If this isn’t just a lay-by, I don’t want to get pulled up for false advertising.

Up at the roadside, my bike is beginning to attract attention. Two men are looking over it, and I can’t tell from here whether their interest is appreciative or covetous. With eyes firmly on the ‘bent, I quickly change out of my shorts, knowing there’s very little I can do in my intermediate state if either decides to suddenly lift it into a vehicle. As it turns out, my more immediate issue is the family aboard the narrowboat, hushed engine announcing its arrival all of twenty feet from me. With nothing between me and the Nene, I suspect they get a more corporeal view than might be reasonably billed. With one and a half legs in my longs, I do a quick rendition of the hopping man before falling headlong up the bank, scurrying back to my bike, and departing to a chorus of whoops and jeers.

With distance, decency and comfort restored, it’s a sunny and pleasant afternoon. I track back to the main road and climb up to the first, and pivotally second roundabouts. First exit at number one carries me safely over the A1 by means of a bridge. The same instruction at the second sends me South into Wansford. The confidence I gain from being back on the route is knocked slightly when I note exit two is signed to Leicester. This proves a sufficient reminder that I am not nearly home, and I resolve to treat the remaining miles with a little more respect.

One minute after 6pm, I leave Wansford and Peterborough behind me, crossing the Nene into Cambridgeshire. The new county brings everything I expect of Tuscany, and nothing I expect of England. Fields of golden grain sigh under crystal clear skies. Bridges built in Siena shades. A palette of ochre and raw umber below the horizon, cobalt and Cerulean blues above. 

The gently rolling landscape has something of the battlefield about it. Although entirely idyllic in its contemporary setting, I know these are the same roads that nearly broke me on my way up. Sleeping riders dotted at the roadside provide gentle remembrance of the ongoing combat. Souls continue to be torn. Spirit, body and machines pushed to the absolute limit.

I follow a ridge through Sibson, discarded carcasses of aircraft providing the perverse advertising board that all rural airfields seem to favour. The sun casts long shadows, but loses nothing of its warmth. Elton, Morbourne, peregrinate road dancing a hedge’s breadth from Northamptonshire. The swells begin to build again as I plough through Great Gidding, Winwick, Old Weston. 

Since rejoining the route, I have been gradually catching and passing other riders, but on the approach to Catworth I find myself utterly scalped by the rapidly disappearing colours of a St Neots rider. Not happy with this, I give chase.

“No fair. You’re local.” I offer, catching his back wheel on the ascent. 

_“I’ve just finished my weekly training run!” _he offers in defence, but doesn’t slow up.

We push along neck and neck for the next few miles, happily trading conversation. Whilst neither of us is prepared to let the other edge in front, we’re both happy to keep the effort level where we can still talk. Two foot to his starboard side, he has a clear view of the mechanics of the ‘bent, and the carbon crankset is catching his eye. I want him to know I'm worthy of her.

“Gotta get her back to London tonight.” 

_“Its too far, you won’t be back until midnight”_ (I stay quiet. His timings are pretty optimistic).
_“Did you ride up from London today?”_ he asks, re-evaluating my rig as a long distance speedster.

“No… I set off on Sunday” (he nods sagely), “but I have been to Edinburgh and back since.” 

He knows I roll faster than him on the descents, but also that I’m speaking a lot less on the climbs. The varying gradients keep things competitive as we whistle through Kimbolton, drop under Stonely, and charge through Staughton Highway. After a near flat out sprint into Hail Weston, he suddenly announces “This is my turn” and swings left. We keep our front wheels level until he is lost to sight behind houses.

In the dying sun, I cross the A1 and the Great Ouse once again, coasting into St. Neots town centre. The road South from Eynesbury is shrouded in darkness, but already I can detect the increasing trespass of city lights on the skies above. Knowing this may be my final chance to enjoy the Empyrean heavens, I spend the final seven miles to Gamlingay with my head tilted back, eyes lost in a sky that looks like talcum powder spilt on black velvet.


----------



## Arch (7 Nov 2009)

More! More! So nearly there!


----------



## Scoosh (7 Nov 2009)

Arch said:


> More! More! So nearly there!


It's BRILLIANT 

"peregrinate" after all those miles ?

Respect, Sir  and thanks so much


----------



## arallsopp (7 Nov 2009)

Lol. In my defence, the road was ambling along, dipping into towns and bounding across fields in a most itinerant manner. After 800 miles, one runs tight on synonyms


----------



## iLB (8 Nov 2009)

arallsopp said:


> I treat the final leg as a standalone venture. In training rides, this would see me 190 miles in, desperately floundering against a target 250. Discard the log. You’re 60 miles from home. Simple distance. Ride it.



so, so true


----------



## Scoosh (18 Nov 2009)

Remember us ???


----------



## arallsopp (18 Nov 2009)

No fair.... I wrote some more last night, and now it'll look like I'm only posting when you remind me


----------



## arallsopp (18 Nov 2009)

*2114hrs. Arrive Gamlingay Control. 4 days, 6 hours and 29 minutes in... 40 miles to go.*

Entirely on autopilot, I follow the GPS into the car park, dismount, and join the line of riders at the controller’s desk. 2.4 million years of evolution repurposed into a device for collecting brevet stamps. I have no faculty outside of progress. Clouded figures shift around me, chiaroscuro faces moving in soft focus across the plane. The shapes and noises are familiar, comforting.

After a hot drink and some food, the resolution slowly begins to improve. I become aware of others as discrete identities, can zoom out enough to find myself in the scene. 

Over time, slow revisions to the cast of our little enclave are enacted. The ensemble mask of enervation is maintained through a mechanic of inverse erosion. New players display absolute exhaustion. As each slowly becomes more purposed, he or she is replaced. I become aware that I am moving towards the head of the queue. I am seeing in colour. Soon I will remove myself. 

I prepare to leave, feeling like a free diver waiting to tumble from the skiff. Long deep breaths. Another world waiting below. A final dreamlike descent into darkness. I won’t be coming back to this boat. I centre myself, focussing tightly on the tiny core that remains me. I can defend it against the perpetual eclipse of ongoing miles. I will make this.


----------



## Scoosh (18 Nov 2009)

arallsopp said:


> No fair.... I wrote some more last night, and now it'll look like I'm only posting when you remind me


  







  




nudge, nudge


----------



## andyfromotley (18 Nov 2009)

Truly awsome. Chapau


----------



## arallsopp (19 Nov 2009)

*Thursday 2214hrs: The final leg.*

Giving up the warmth of the control, I exit left on the main road, South out of town. The lights of Gamlingay fade in my mirror as I begin to climb a wash of gentle risers. Emerging cyclists appear on the road behind me. Pinpricks of light, periodically clipped from view by the changing gradient.

No county wants to take ownership of the road. Over the next few miles the shires of Bedford and Cambridge volley us back and forth. At Guilden Morden, they finally combine efforts and spike us over the bump into Hertfordshire.

The passing towns are tiny. The fields are enormous. Always we swell. Up and down. Beyond Ashwell, the rhythm changes. Descents get shorter. The climbs begin to stretch out. Two steps up and one back, I slowly ascend to 140 metres.

Crossing the A505, I can once again see flashes of red ahead of me. The shrill scarlet of LED lamps reflecting on wet gravel. From the patterns they’re making, it looks to be a pretty big group. I push hard to catch them, closing as they slow for a sharp climb out of Rushden. Crossing Cromer Heath at midnight, we bring our own light to supplant the setting moon.

Travelling with twenty or more in the pack, our numbers are sufficient to block the increasingly small roads. Crank to crank, serried knees dance like oil derricks. A warm micro-climate of companionship keeps the drizzle and distance off my mind. I hang off the back of the group through the flatlands to Walkern, letting the hypnotic blink of rear lights guide me ever onward.

As we wind back into field bordered lanes, I can detect the gradients sharpening. Strong riders at the front rise clearly above the group, pulling us through Benington, Burn’s Green, Whempstead. Navigation points route-marked as towns seem to offer little more than occasional farmsteads. We start to snake. The surface quality drops away. Hedges close in.

The group responds by filtering into long streamers, rear markers slowing up as the formation re-shapes around us, extrusion pushing us back as chains extend ahead.

Potholes are called out. Navigation is automatic. With nothing in the foreground, my mind stumbles back to a conversation shared with Rich at Coxwold. Sat on a wall in a sun drenched car-park, he told me that almost every Audax he’d been on featured an unnecessary hill. That he’d lost count of the number of times he’d seen a ‘Church Hill’ on a route that would otherwise be flat.

With 850 miles of my first audax now under the belt, I begin to further formalise these rules.


If there’s a choice of turns, and one goes up a hill, its that one.
If the road you’re on has traffic, road markings or street lamps, and you pass a side road that doesn’t, that’s your turn.
Ditto for flood defences, signage, or any kind of maintenance plan.
Extra points will be awarded if the road is unsuitable for vehicles.
An optional bonus may be redeemable if the road is closed.

As it happens, the increased bunching up front is caused by exactly that. The pack filters to two streams, now passing either side of a ‘road closed’ sign, and continuing along the broken surface without breaking pace. Unable to de-weight the bike, this becomes a notably technical section and I begin to lose ground. Although there is more room at the back, the increased rattling masks the fact that I’ve worn through another zip tie, and I soon throw the chain.

Stood in the dark, I am reminded that this is not a Friday Night Ride to the Coast. The ‘leave no man behind’ rule does not apply. The group ascend another hill, and are lost from sight. I perform a quick fix by torchlight, and set off in chase.

I don’t catch them again until we hit the A602. The pack has slowed up, with some discussion about the route going forwards. There’s been an accident up front. Rumour is an overseas rider traced his northbound GPS track the wrong way around a roundabout and came into contact with a vehicle. He’s okay, but there’s a diversion in force whilst the scene is subjected to the necessary administration. Although we’re less than 20 miles out of London, road choices are still slim pickings, and we have no idea how far we may get sent off course.

Phone calls are made. Advice is sought. The routesheet wants to send us West, back through Hertford and Brickendon on rural tracks. Staying with the 602 will put us off-piste, but repair will be massively straightforward. There’s no doubt we’ll soon see the Great Cambridge Road, and following that will deliver us on an urban dual carriageway straight into Lea Valley.

We opt to stay with the bigger road, riding the rollercoaster South through Bengeo Rural towards Ware, and joining the slipway of the A10 at a major roundabout some two miles later. 

Turning onto what I know is the road home, I gain a valued emotional lift. I can see the outlying ‘burbs of London laid out beneath me, and a ribbon of clear tarmac weaving me directly through it. 

In another world, on a Sunday morning, I nervously wrote instructions for my wife on how to get to the start. I know the youth hostel is at the Cheshunt exit, barely two miles North from the M25. I have no idea how far up the A10 I am now, but I’m facing the right way and closing fast.


----------



## arallsopp (19 Nov 2009)

OK. Its gone midnight, and I've gotta catch some Zzzzzs. The office is empty and I'm still a 20 mile cyclo-commute from home. Is it very rude to leave you here?


----------



## Arch (19 Nov 2009)

arallsopp said:


> OK. Its gone midnight, and I've gotta catch some Zzzzzs. The office is empty and I'm still a 20 mile cyclo-commute from home. Is it very rude to leave you here?



Just one chapter and an epilogue to go then....


----------



## dmoan (19 Nov 2009)

But does he get the girl in the end?


----------



## arallsopp (22 Nov 2009)

*The A10*

These then, are the final closing miles. I've done it. I've cycled from London to Edinburgh, and back. Just to be entirely safe, I ask the GPS to build me a route to the final control, and take some comfort from the resulting figures. 8.5 miles to the next instruction. Just under ten to Lea Valley. The backlit clock tells me its just gone 1am Friday. It’ll all be over by 2. 

The screen fades, and won’t light up again until it needs to flag my turn. Although I’m confident I won’t miss my exit, I’m glad to have the GPS along. These roads aren’t built at a human scale. The brutal authority of the tarmac subjugates the landscape, removing all indication of gradient, distance, and time. Even the stars are lost to me, replaced by a flat grey light, the colour of orange juice mixed with cheap cola. There’s no sense of progress, and I keep my eyes firmly on the turning cranks, just to assure me I’m still moving.

At the Rush Green exit, I get my first real scare. Going slow on the concealed climb, I watch as the dotted line slowly unzips the safety of the hard shoulder. Cars slip by, left and right, at speeds in excess of 60mph. I’m too tired to be safe, and am not sure how long my confidence will hold out. I try to harness the passing lights to get interim measurements on the GPS screen, but am unable to pull out any figures. I’m still moving. Can’t be more than 6 miles left. Close it. Finish.

The second exit drops away on a bluff above Stanstead St. Margarets. Another long drag, another long slip road opening. I’m losing speed, and beginning to get angry. Why are the exits always on a hill? Are things not hard enough? Oncoming vehicles spear my eyes on white hot blades of halogen and Xenon. The central reservation offers no protection to the recumbent eyeline. I can barely see.

Roadside signs approach in pairs, but resolve into single silhouettes as they come near. I can’t hold focus. My glasses are either damaged, dirty, or fogged beyond any kind of use. I reach up to remove them, but my gloved hand makes contact with bare skin. I blink tight against the fog, but dry tears scratch at my lids. I’m nearly done in. I can’t pace myself. I need to know how much of this is left.

A new paranoia washes over me. Have I missed the turning? What if the GPS ran out of batteries before it could light up? I daren’t reach forwards and try to revive it. In this traffic, its enough just to keep the bike straight. Sodium spills vandalise the cloud cover, but offer me no usable light. It can’t be far. I must keep going.

My legs tell me that I’m climbing again as I approach the third exit, to Hoddesdon. Again my speed drops. Again I’m cast away from the protective solace of the kerb. As the gradient tops out, a series of lane closures send me further from its commission. Crossing the lane markings, I feel stranded in the middle of a motorway. Huge voids stretch between the raised lips of white paint to underline my laggard pace. This same surface will sound as a drumroll to cars coming over the rise behind me. No way to check my rear light is still on. I hope they are paying attention. 

I filter through the roadworks, overhead arc lamps assuring me that the GPS is still alive. The numbers are still going down. I’m on track. Its hard going on roads like this. I remind myself I'm a Mouseketeer at heart. Big A-roads are supposed to be our declared route of preference. The end can’t be more than two miles from here, and I am not going to let this event simply trundle to a close. A descent to the Turnford exit gives me the impetus I need to get moving. 

I will sprint finish. I redouble my efforts, pushing hard on the pedals, bringing my cadence up to a blur of shoelace and toe cap. I am bombing it. Soaring along. The wind is tearing at me, but this time I’m in control. It is my velocity, and not the weather that brings the roar to my ears. 

Even though I know I can't miss the turn, I'm still wondering whether that Garmin is working. I'm absolutely flying down the road, but still the GPS hasn't chimed in. Come on. Give it some. Finish big. The little screen is still dark, but I know I’ve got to be closing fast. It can only be a few seconds away. Full tilt boogie, I’m a recumbent missile.

Streetlamps rocket overhead, orange trails extending into stroboscopic blur of pure velocity. Houses and signs spring up. The North Cheshunt slip lane swings off and above me. As I roar under the roundabout, the GPS bursts into a brilliant display of information. I’ve cleared 38 miles since Gamlingay; my turning is a few hundred yards away; its 1:42am, and I’m closing at... 3.5 mph?!

What frickin’ gear am I in?

No time to worry now. I'm less than a couple of hundred feet from the crossroads. Shops on either side of the road tell me I’m in Cheshunt proper. I roll to a stop, and gladly pull left off the A10. The GPS sends me along a short section of the official route, but keeps me from the speedhumps. I can see Windmill Lane.

After days of carefully preserving the batteries, I can finally ease up and toggle through the Garmin’s displays. The numbers mean nothing to me. One hundred and seven hours since I was last here. Eight hundred and seventy something miles, six of them on foot. Two days, eighteen hours, and fifty three minutes on the bike. An average speed of eight point one five miles per hour throughout, raising to twelve point nine seven if you take off nine hours of sleep, all the eating, fettling, and wandering around in a daze...

The bump of the level crossing jolts me back into the present. I tumble onto my feet as the front wheel hits the gravel car park of the Youth Hostel. The loose surface crunches underfoot as I trudge towards the bike stands, wheels scoring S-lines as I drag the bent beside me.

Parked up, I trace my way back to the double doors of the final control. The lights are on inside. I’m done.


----------



## arallsopp (22 Nov 2009)

*Friday. 0151hrs. Lea Valley Youth Hostel. Finished.*

On faltering legs, I approach the desk, and hand over my brevet card for its final stamp. 

“Thank you. Well done” comes the response. I stand, dumbstruck as the controller files my card into a little drawer, exhaustion and propriety putting it firmly out of reach. I have carried this little piece of paper like a letter from a sweetheart. It has been within a foot of me all the way. Has accompanied me into each control. Has checked on me through long dark nights. My constant companion. My raison d'être.

He hands me a bag of trinkets in exchange, and motions towards the continuing corridor. I’m still standing there twenty seconds later, when he says “there are probably sofas upstairs.”

Turns out, this is the information I need to finally remove myself. I peer into the bag, pulling out a tiny golden key fob as I shuffle away. “London Edinburgh London. Rider 544 / 620.”

With the dying bars of my phone battery, I send a text to my wife to let her know I’m back safe. Lying in the dark upstairs, I manage to post to the forums, then, eyes fixed firmly on the little medal, descend below a glorious and impenetrable wall of sleep.


----------



## ttcycle (22 Nov 2009)

Well done arallsopp - what an adventure!!! Great write up - as if we're all there with you!


----------



## Arch (22 Nov 2009)

oh gosh... I mustn't...



Seriously, I'm blubbing. Not helped by the fact that at the precise moment I read the final lines, the documentary on the radio was playing 'Land of Hope and Glory'...

Well done. I'm in awe.


----------



## SilentSoulDragon (22 Nov 2009)

Great one. Hopefully the tech that sorted the bodge for you will get a nice message from ya!


----------



## arallsopp (22 Nov 2009)

Yep. Every rider has their own story, but the common thread throughout is the amazing work behind (and infront of) the scenes that makes this event possible for so many of us.

The hardest thing about it is never being awake enough to collect the details of the people that touch you personally.

There are many I owe thanks to.


----------



## HelenD123 (22 Nov 2009)

An epic write up of an epic ride. Amazing.


----------



## Crackle (22 Nov 2009)

I'm almost sorry to finally read the end but I echo everyone's sentiment of an amazing ride and story and did I read that was your first audax, your first, you chose the LEL as your first audax! Incredible.


----------



## Mista Preston (22 Nov 2009)

well done sir great write up ! (now get it published)


----------



## Scoosh (22 Nov 2009)

Crackle said:


> I'm almost sorry to finally read the end but I echo everyone's sentiment of an amazing ride and story and did I read that was your first audax, your first, you chose the LEL as your first audax! Incredible.



+1

Truly an epic ride and epic ride report. 

THANK YOU


----------



## Telemark (22 Nov 2009)

Brilliant! 2 epics, one on the road and one in the writing! 
Agree with others on getting it published ...

Are you going to do an epilogue for us? Please?
I would be very interested in how quickly (or slowly) you recovered from this amazing physical and mental effort. And what you might do differently [whisper mode] if you were to do something like this again [/whisper mode]

T


----------



## zigzag (22 Nov 2009)

Wow - what a story!! I am fascinated how you were able to capture so much detail, to remember all that! My memories were quite simple: need to eat, need to sleep, up the hill, down the hill, nice view, rain again, noisy achilles etc. Your story took me back to the event in a different dimension - I re-lived it once again with every fine detail, images, sounds, smells. Thank you - absolutely fantastic!

R


----------



## arallsopp (22 Nov 2009)

Thanks all for such kind words. I'm so glad to have had the opportunity to share this with you. I'm actually really going to miss having this hang over me.


----------



## ttcycle (22 Nov 2009)

No doubt you will miss it so much it won't be long before you sign up for something similar - it's mouse blood in those veins!! Well done - great achievement!


----------



## 4F (23 Nov 2009)

Excellent write up Andy, a cracking read.


----------



## jay clock (23 Nov 2009)

+1 for a great read. I had seen the title a few months back, and for whatever reason mentally had it as you were doing a tour to Scotland and back over a couple of weeks. I had not twigged it was "the" LEL. 

What is even better, is if you read here http://www.cyclechat.co.uk/forums/showthread.php?t=21413 then you will find that back in October 08 arallsopp was only doing 10 miles a week!


----------



## jay clock (23 Nov 2009)

Having read some arallsopp's other posts I found this amazing video by him of a trip France - superb


----------



## arallsopp (23 Nov 2009)

jay clock said:


> If you read here http://www.cyclechat.co.uk/forums/showthread.php?t=21413 then you will find that back in October 08 arallsopp was only doing 10 miles a week!



LOL! Thanks for reminding me of that. Amazing how 'normal' baselines just shift isn't it 

Personally, I'm amazed Greenbank put up with me. If not for the asinine questions beforehand, surely for mistaking him for a pixie during


----------



## Arch (23 Nov 2009)

Telemark said:


> Brilliant! 2 epics, one on the road and one in the writing!
> Agree with others on getting it published ...
> 
> Are you going to do an epilogue for us? Please?
> ...



+1 on the epilogue! it would be great to have a view from now, just to tail it all off.

Excellent stuff, is all I can say.


----------



## Greenbank (24 Nov 2009)

arallsopp said:


> LOL! Thanks for reminding me of that. Amazing how 'normal' baselines just shift isn't it
> 
> Personally, I'm amazed Greenbank put up with me. If not for the asinine questions beforehand, surely for mistaking him for a pixie during



And, as you found out, all you need is a big bag of HTFU. 

Better a pixie than a tramp (I heard one women tell her child to "keep away from the tramp on the bench" whilst I was having a mid-morning doze on an Audax once).

Good work on the report. You should pull it all together and post it on one page when you're done with the epilogue...


----------



## arallsopp (24 Nov 2009)

Sorry bud. There's a character limit to each post, and even a few single legs fouled it before splitting
I may push it all into a PDF and link that though. Despite the efforts of a few die-hards, its a lot of text to sift through in a forum.


----------



## dmoan (24 Nov 2009)

Thank you so much for taking the effort to post your reports. It is so inspirational to follow your journey - you had me holding my breath at some points, willing you on to the next stop for some food and a little sleep! Bet you never look at cable-ties without a sense of deep-felt appreciation now!

It was a fantastic read, beautifully written and a phenomenal achievement - chapeau, Sir! Chapeau!


----------



## MacB (25 Nov 2009)

Fantastic Andy, the most entertaining write up I've enjoyed, but came to an end too quickly.................now when you're writing up your round the world trip that should give us a bit more to sink our teeth into


----------



## Arch (25 Nov 2009)

arallsopp said:


> Sorry bud. There's a character limit to each post, and even a few single legs fouled it before splitting
> I may push it all into a PDF and link that though. Despite the efforts of a few die-hards, its a lot of text to sift through in a forum.



I'm happy to cut and paste it all into a word document, if you like, which I could then email you (I'm not sure I can make PDFs at home). In fact I have an unexpected day off tomorrow.

I'll even throw in a free professional proof-read. Although I don't think it needs it.


----------



## arallsopp (25 Nov 2009)

Arch said:


> I'm happy to cut and paste it all into a word document, if you like, which I could then email you (I'm not sure I can make PDFs at home). In fact I have an unexpected day off tomorrow.
> 
> I'll even throw in a free professional proof-read. Although I don't think it needs it.



Arch. YGM 
(actually its a PM)


----------



## Arch (25 Nov 2009)

Um, no I haven't. Well, not yet....

Maybe resend?


----------



## Browser (25 Nov 2009)

I knew night shifts were good for something, and this is it, reading epic posts like this in one sitting. Absolutely mind-blowing mate, the best post I've read since joining this forum, no question.
I was especially interested at about page 20 as you described the run from Thurlby South along Kings Street past West Deeping to Peterborough. We moved to Market Deeping (about 4 miles East of West Deeping, original heh?) in '77 and I now live in Crowland, 6 miles further East. I couldn't help reading your post about seized cables and thinking about the hydraulic cable oiler in my garage, and the fact that it would have had you sorted in a few minutes, had I but known you were passing so close.
I doubt I'll ever have the fortitude to try anything like this, but I am sitting dreaming about what it would be like. Painful, from your account, I think!

Hats off to you sir!!


----------



## arallsopp (27 Nov 2009)

Ok all.

Again, massive thanks to YOU for encouraging me to do something with this.

A couple of nights back, I was finally pushed over the edge. There WILL be a book.

I already have a debt of gratitude to Arch (proof reading) and Auntie Helen (typesetting).

Now I need you.

What on earth do I call this thing?

Andy.


----------



## dmoan (27 Nov 2009)

There and back again (150 cableties later...)


----------



## Arch (27 Nov 2009)

dmoan said:


> There and back again (150 cableties later...)



"There and back again" is good.


----------



## dmoan (27 Nov 2009)

Blatant Tolkien rip-off, though!

I won't tell if you don't!


----------



## Keith Oates (29 Nov 2009)

Like many others here Andy I've been following and amazed at the ride and the report, both of which are worthy of seperate and high praise. I also thank you for giving a distant ex pat a few hours of relaxation and pleasure in getting such an insight of what it takes to complete an L - E - L!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


----------



## Tynan (29 Nov 2009)

excellent work fella

to do this is amazng enough but to do it in ever diminshing gears and bad weather and barely working drive train is just silly

bravo


----------



## Auntie Helen (30 Nov 2009)

Howzabout:

Laid Back LEL. 
From London to Edinburgh and back in six days... on a recumbent bicycle.


----------



## arallsopp (30 Nov 2009)

Oops! Looks like I've got behind with my correspondence. 

A few days tidying up, a quick spin to the coast in the rain, and suddenly I'm way behind on this thread. Apologies.



dmoan said:


> Thank you so much for taking the effort to post your reports.



Thank you kindly. Your glowing comments may have just earned you a place on the back cover of the forthcoming print edition 



MacB said:


> Fantastic Andy, the most entertaining write up I've enjoyed, but came to an end too quickly.



Ah.. Mac. Missed you on Friday. If you're a fan of things that go on almost indefinitely, you'd certainly have loved the Brighton run. I think we got there at about 9am! Character building stuff 



Browser said:


> I knew night shifts were good for something, and this is it, reading epic posts like this in one sitting. I couldn't help reading your post about seized cables and thinking about the hydraulic cable oiler in my garage, and the fact that it would have had you sorted in a few minutes, had I but known you were passing so close.



Well done for making it through in one go. If I'd known you were local, I'd have dropped in. Stamford Road, Stowgate Road, Station Road, Crowland. 9 mile detour from the route, but oh so worth it 



Keith Oates said:


> Like many others here Andy I've been following and amazed at the ride and the report, both of which are worthy of seperate and high praise. I also thank you for giving a distant ex pat a few hours of relaxation and pleasure in getting such an insight of what it takes to complete an L - E - L!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Thanks Keith. Very much appreciated. Wahey! I'm being read in Vietnam. 



Tynan said:


> excellent work fella
> 
> to do this is amazng enough but to do it in ever diminshing gears and bad weather and barely working drive train is just silly
> 
> bravo



LOL. You're not wrong. To be honest though, I don't know any other way 

*OK. And now onto the titles.
*



dmoan said:


> There and back again (150 cableties later...)



I quite like that. But you're already on the back cover. Can't have you on the front too 



Auntie Helen said:


> Laid Back LEL.
> From London to Edinburgh and back in six days... on a recumbent bicycle.



Helles, your maths is awful. 
From London to Edinburgh and back in _4 and a half_ days... on a recumbent bicycle. 

Hmmm... We're gonna need a bigger spine 

I'm still favouring something slightly abstract and snappy for the main title, with a necessary and descriptive subtitle to round it out for the unfamiliar.

I think paraphrasing Lee's post, then combining yours might just do it:

*...Barring Mechanicals.*

From London to Edinburgh and back, on a recumbent bicycle.​


----------



## iLB (30 Nov 2009)

a book you say? nice one , of course a forward will also be necessary in that case, just to add to your work load... 

as for the title, how about 'quite a ramp up...' as you put it in your first post on the topic in this thread ??


----------



## Scoosh (30 Nov 2009)

ilovebikes said:


> a book you say? nice one , of course a forward will also be necessary in that case, just to add to your work load...
> 
> as for the title, how about '*quite a ramp up...*' as you put it in your first post on the topic in this thread ??


I quite like that one ....


----------



## arallsopp (1 Jan 2010)

Hey! Thanks all. We just made Post of the Year!!!

...and, the forthcoming book is in final draft, pending at the print house. 

Hell of a year. Thanks all for the support and encouragement.

Andy.


----------



## Mista Preston (1 Jan 2010)

arallsopp said:


> Hey! Thanks all. We just made Post of the Year!!!
> 
> ...and, the forthcoming book is in final draft, pending at the print house.
> 
> ...



Looking forward to the book. In my opinion the title should be called "a laid back adventure" (for nutters)  only kidding but suggest some form of health warning on the cover....

Keep us posted on when the book gets to print !


----------



## arallsopp (1 Jan 2010)

Lay back, and think of Scotland


----------



## Scoosh (2 Jan 2010)

arallsopp said:


> Lay back, and think of Scotland


Surely it would need to be:

- Lay back and Thought of Scotland

- Laid Back and Thought of Scotland

- Laid Back and Thinking of Scotland


.. and the Laid Back bit would be nice for David G


----------



## redjedi (2 Jan 2010)

Excellent work Andy

I can't believe I've only just got around to reading this thread properly. I was up until 3 am reading it last night, and finished it off this morning.

I must have been really tired last night, as I was having thoughts of participating in the next LEL. Luckily I came to my senses and went to bed 

A well deserved post of the year, possibly of the decade.

I am looking forward to your next adventure.


----------



## gbb (2 Jan 2010)

Spellbinding read arallsop...i never venture intoT&E (amongst other sections) so had no idea about this till i saw the Post of the year result. Just read it from start to end...brilliant. I'm in awe


----------



## arallsopp (11 Jan 2010)

Afternoon all. Mrs arallsopp just rang to say the review copy of the book has arrived through our letterbox. One afternoon of work left, then its a quick dash home to check it through. Assuming I haven't done anything daft with colour management on the cover or hideous typos, I reckon it'll be available on the digital shelves very promptly.

Thanks again for all your encouragement and feedback.


----------



## ttcycle (11 Jan 2010)

Brilliant!

Look forward to seeing it! Well done again!


----------



## arallsopp (12 Feb 2010)

Ladies and gentlemen,

After considerable sacrifice from my family, much effort and encouragement from the cyclechat community (and not a few hours spent at the keyboard tapping things into shape) I am pleased to announce that 'Barring Mechanicals' is now available to purchase from the digital shelves at: lulu.com.

It will, of course, also remain on this thread and the cyclechat blog, but if you want the exclusive pics, typographical corrections, and the opportunity to read it in the bath, you're just going to have to buy it 

Thank you to everyone who had a part in bringing this one to life. I couldn't, wouldn't, and likely shouldn't have done it without you.

Andy.


----------



## HelenD123 (12 Feb 2010)

Nice zip ties. I hope it becomes a classic. You certainly had us all gripped.


----------



## Scoosh (12 Feb 2010)

arallsopp said:


> .... and the opportunity to read it in the bath, you're just going to have to buy it
> 
> Andy.


Ordered  ... for reading in the shower, surely, to get the full LEL experience .


> Thank you to everyone who had a part in bringing this one to life. I couldn't, wouldn't, and likely shouldn't have done it without you.


.. and a lovely reminder of why we all loved reading it and for what is in store ...


----------



## Telemark (12 Feb 2010)

congratulations!!!!!! I am very tempted, even though I've already read it ... 

So who will do the 1st review online? 

T


----------



## scook94 (13 Feb 2010)

Awesome, ordered...


----------



## Headgardener (14 Feb 2010)

I will be ordering that as soon as funds become available, I look forward to reading it in one go rather than as Andy had time to post the stages.




< Reached my 1000.


----------



## Arch (14 Feb 2010)

Headgardener said:


> I will be ordering that as soon as funds become available, I look forward to reading it in one go rather than as Andy had time to post the stages.
> 
> 
> 
> ...



Well, I read it as he posted it, and then I proof read it and know I have a copy and last night I sat and read it from cover to cover, in one go. Every time I find another gem I didn't quite notice before.

And today I sat on the trike, and pulled away from the lockup and thought... Hell, I could do that.

Thanks Andy



Well, he had under a year to train. Next LEL, 2013, that's 3 whole years.

40 miles today. Just have to do that, 22 times.

Oh god, what am I thinking....


----------



## Scoosh (17 Feb 2010)

Delivered 1300.

Out on bike 1330 - 1515. 

  

Finished 2225.

Brilliant ! 

Thanks to all involved in bringing the epic tale to book form.


----------



## dmoan (20 Feb 2010)

Arch said:


> And today I sat on the trike, and pulled away from the lockup and thought... Hell, I could do that. [...] Oh god, what am I thinking....



My copy arrived yesterday - where you as chuffed as me to see your name in print on the back cover? Fame by association is strangely satisfying!

I had exactly the same thought as you. If you are actually serious, I would be up for joining you on the ride. In fact, we should contact everyone listed on the back cover and ride in honour of Andy's achievement...

I can't wait for Mrs dmoan to read to book - I want her to be as excited as I was the first time I read the reports!


----------



## Arch (20 Feb 2010)

dmoan said:


> My copy arrived yesterday - where you as chuffed as me to see your name in print on the back cover? Fame by association is strangely satisfying!
> 
> I had exactly the same thought as you. If you are actually serious, I would be up for joining you on the ride. In fact, we should contact everyone listed on the back cover and ride in honour of Andy's achievement...
> 
> I can't wait for Mrs dmoan to read to book - I want her to be as excited as I was the first time I read the reports!



Yes, I was chuffed. Even in these days when we are all 'publishing' ourselves on the internet, there's something about seeing your name in print.

As for am I actually serious? Assuming no major changes of life, disability or imprisonment... Yes, I think I am. We have 3 years to decide I suppose, but hey, it pays to be prepared. It would be fabulous to do it with someone, or as part of a group, even if it didn't work out that we stuck together.

If you're up for it, I am. I know at least other person on here who said they were also having thoughts.

Now, I wonder about Andy....


----------



## Arch (20 Feb 2010)

Oh, and I've raved about it so much, my Mum wants to read it. I don't think she quite understands the bit where I say I'd kinda like to do it to...


----------



## arallsopp (20 Feb 2010)

Arch said:


> Now, I wonder about Andy....



Hey. People have been wondering about me all my life  

I'm so pleased to have been able to share this with you all, and only slightly worried about what I might have kicked off. Oh, and huge thanks to whoever posted a review at lulu that wasn't my mum 

Andy.


----------



## Mista Preston (20 Feb 2010)

hey Mrs Preston is up to page 44. I havent even had a chance to read the book yet !


----------



## GrumpyGregry (20 Feb 2010)

finished the book last night. brilliant. inspiring.


----------



## ttcycle (20 Feb 2010)

Andy, I hope to order a copy when the funds permit..that is if there is still a copy to order! Well done again!


----------



## dmoan (21 Feb 2010)

Arch said:


> If you're up for it, I am. I know at least other person on here who said they were also having thoughts.
> 
> Now, I wonder about Andy....



We are on!

The idea has passed the Mrs dmoan test (after much laughter!). I have reserved the time in our July/August 2013 calendar and, by then, I'll have my all-titanium Enigma dream-machine to tour on. I have the full range of CycleChat kit ready and waiting to cope with all weathers...

Shall we aim for the prize of the longest ever forum ride?


----------



## Arch (21 Feb 2010)

That's sorted then!

As for longest ever forum ride, you realise whatever we do, some mouseketeer will do it, and then ride the 100 miles back home....

I think I'll start a thread... Frankly just keeping a thread going that long will be an achievement! (well, one not about tea...)


----------



## arallsopp (22 Feb 2010)

Arch said:


> If you're up for it, I am. I know at least other person on here who said they were also having thoughts.
> 
> Now, I wonder about Andy....



Sweetheart. People have been wondering about me all my life, but (momentary trepidation...) "yes." If there's a cyclechat contingent joining the ride next time, I'll come along. I've already got a pass card for the week (I was planning to volunteer at a control) but it's probably transferable should I find myself the other side of the desk.

It'd be great to ride with you all. Even better if one of you will take notes 

The other thing I was wondering was whether we could pull together a 'best of cyclechat ride reports' book each year. There are more than enough excellent writers on these boards, and it would give us a good readership base for the 2013 sequel....


----------



## arallsopp (25 Feb 2010)

I know I was the last person to post on this, but I just felt compelled to offer you all my continued gratitude for your interest in the book. I was hoping to reach 50 copies by today, and we just sold our sixty second! 

Even discounting those I suspect my mum bought, that's still at least two! 

Andy.


----------



## Arch (25 Feb 2010)

You deserve it!

I've been raving about it to my Mum, and she wants to read it, I told her the line about the river ticking it's way to a single entry in its schedule in 5000 years time. "ox bow lake?" and she thought that was superb!

I'm not sure she'll be quite so thrilled at my ambition to emulate you, although riding to her house could be a useful training run.... The scary thing is, riding to my sister's (5 hours on the train!) also looks like a useful bit of training!


----------



## ttcycle (25 Feb 2010)

Well Andy, it's just that it's such a good read...and despite our existence as an online community with the odd pleasurable foray into real life it's nice to have something tangible that can be held in material form, something that you can smell the ink off the freshly printed pages and ultimately something solid that was more portable than a laptop. 

How many copies are there? I haven't purchased mine yet and may not be able to for some time - don't want them to run out without having a copy!


----------



## Arch (25 Feb 2010)

If I understand it correctly, it's print on demand, so there is no set number in stock - you order it, they print it.


----------



## arallsopp (25 Feb 2010)

Arch said:


> If I understand it correctly, it's print on demand, so there is no set number in stock - you order it, they print it.



Exactly right. There are a finite number of trees though, so don't wait too long TT


----------



## hulver (26 Feb 2010)

Well I bought a copy, but then Lulu took my money and cocked up their order system. They took the money from my paypal account, but their web site said it was "waiting payment".

I raised it with them, and they just deleted my order from the system without refunding my money (eventually 3 days later, their help desk system is shockingly awful).

So I'm reticent to send them any more until it gets sorted out.

Shame, because I enjoyed all your entries and I've never had a problem buying stuff from Lulu before.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Feb 2010)

hulver said:


> Well I bought a copy, but then Lulu took my money and cocked up their order system.



Mate, I'm really sorry to hear that. I'll try flagging the concerns from this end too, and with two of us at it, I'm sure they'll manage to sort it soon. To my knowledge, this is the first problem we've had.


----------



## arallsopp (26 Feb 2010)

Hulver. You have PM.


----------



## Telemark (23 Mar 2010)

A mystery parcel arrived today - containing THE BOOK . I wonder how many copies have sold so far? Those of you waiting for it to be offered on the CC book exchange, carry on waiting, this is one to keep I am afraid . 

I can't wait to read the story yet again (3rd time)  and will buy another copy for somebody's birthday present in the near future.

T


----------



## arallsopp (24 Mar 2010)

Howdo Telemark. Really glad to hear you're enjoying it. Cheers for posting.

With thanks owed to the good folk of these forums, we're currently totalling 83 copies sold. I'm sure that's small cheese compared to almost any other book published, but its certainly *my* number one best seller, and I'm oddly proud of it 

Work is getting extremely possessive of my time right now (prohibiting family, food, sleep, et al), but when I get a gap, I have been pushing to get the readership up. So far the payoff has been a (hopefully favourable) mention in this month's Velovision, and also a review in the next edition of Arrivée. 

For those with a lot more free time than me, there's a blog for the book at: http://barringmechanicals.blogspot.com/. 

Thanks again to all,

Andy.


----------



## HelenD123 (24 Mar 2010)

Andy - I'll see if I can find somewhere on Crazyguyonabike to give it a plug. I think you more than fit the title!


----------



## Arch (27 Mar 2010)

arallsopp said:


> Work is getting extremely possessive of my time right now (prohibiting family, food, sleep, et al), but when I get a gap, I have been pushing to get the readership up. So far the payoff has been a (*hopefully favourable*) mention in this month's Velovision, and also a review in the next edition of Arrivée.



Nah, I said I hated it...

BTW, are you a subscriber? I can probably send you a couple of extra copies once I'm back at my desk next week.

I was telling my bro in law about it. He told his boss at work, who's a bit of a keen cyclist and has egged a load of them to enter a sportive in July. Apparently the boss said it was 'barmy'....


----------



## John Ponting (28 Mar 2010)

It's taken me a while to get around to ordering but at last PayPal to Lulo today.

Enjoyed following your antics over the LEL weekend - now to sit down and enjoy it all over again.

Cheers


----------



## arallsopp (30 Mar 2010)

Thanks for this John. Let me know how you get on with it 

Hey! Just been notified that the book is on Amazon.com! 
Wonder if I can convince Tollers to get the ball rolling stateside


----------



## threebikesmcginty (30 Mar 2010)

Ordered a paper copy yesterday (just noticed it in the sig line) - I'm assuming the few days delay is to allow for an ancient tree to be chainsawed to the ground. 
I too will look forward to reading through this 'jolly' again!


----------



## John Ponting (31 Mar 2010)

due to a shaky hand and a recalitrant paypal, I today received 2 copies of an excellent paperbag. Quality is really high. A copy for home and a copy for work sounds just about right to me. Read the forward at work today - enjoyed it so much I'm just about to read it again while I wait for year end processing to finish. At least I'm logged in from home right now.


----------



## threebikesmcginty (4 Apr 2010)

Just finished it!

Read this mainly as a bedtime book and think the recumbent reading position really helped. 

The thread was terrific and a deserved POTY winner but it was nice to read this in a paper format. A lovely writing style where the book almost reads itself. 

Great stuff - the riding and the write up!!!!


----------



## Telemark (4 Apr 2010)

threebikesmcginty said:


> *recumbent reading position*



 good, isn't it, I did the same with my paper copy!

To Mr Allsopp ... have you been approached by any agents yet, wanting to represent you and make you a best seller? 

When we can expect the next epic? ... your readership is waiting! Of course that might mean you have to go and have another adventure to write about  ... 



T


----------



## arallsopp (6 Apr 2010)

threebikesmcginty said:


> Just finished it! The thread was terrific [...] but it was nice to read this in a paper format. A lovely writing style where the book almost reads itself.


Thank you. I'm very glad you enjoyed it. Cheers for posting back on this. Its a lovely thing to come back to on the first day of work after the Easter break.



Telemark said:


> have you been approached by any agents yet, wanting to represent you and make you a best seller?


LOL. Its already a best seller. Well, _my _best seller anyway. Which is to say, this has already shifted more copies than anything else I've published. Or more accurately, there's nothing else I've published that has sold more copies. Or more succinctly, there's nothing else I've published. 

I'd love to see it properly distributed, to be honest. The feedback has been really strong, and there is a tiny part of me that says "chase it!" Balancing that and work is tricky though, and I can't give it the time (I hope) it deserves.



Telemark said:


> When we can expect the next epic? ... your readership is waiting! Of course that might mean you have to go and have another adventure to write about  ...
> 
> 
> 
> T


It may sound daft, but I'm hoping the next epic comes from someone else. If barring mechanicals achieves anything, I'd like to think it goes some way to show that everyone has a story, and that the extraordinary is far more available than might be immediately apparent. I'm sure there are enough talented cyclechatters to make a book of 'ride reports', and really hope that this isn't a one off.

As for adventures... well, Tomsk and I are due to try something a little special in September this year. There might be a world record in it. Time will tell.


----------



## Telemark (6 Apr 2010)

arallsopp said:


> It may sound daft, but I'm hoping the next epic comes from someone else. If barring mechanicals achieves anything, I'd like to think it goes some way to show that everyone has a story, and that the extraordinary is far more available than might be immediately apparent. I'm sure there are enough talented cyclechatters to make a book of 'ride reports', and really hope that this isn't a one off.


Here's hoping . The more the better as far as I am concerned...
But not everybody has your way with words, if I may say so 




arallsopp said:


> As for adventures... well, Tomsk and I are due to try something a little special in September this year. There might be a world record in it. Time will tell.



Care to expand or is it a big secret?

T


----------



## arallsopp (20 Apr 2010)

It is a big secret. 

In compensation, I do offer the following good news to anyone who's just stumbled through this entire thread but hasn't yet bought a copy of the book.

Lulu are apparently offering a £2.99 discount on shipping costs until 5th May 2010, using the coupon code 'FREEMAILUK305'

If you've sat on the edge wondering whether to buy or not, this might be just about your best chance to do so.

Almost 15,000 views now. Someone's got to want one


----------



## John Ponting (20 Apr 2010)

I've read the forward - enjoyed it so much that I've put the book away.

Actually, I'm saving it to take away with me in May - give me something to look forward to each night with a pre bed whisky.


----------



## Telemark (21 Apr 2010)

John Ponting said:


> I've read the forward - enjoyed it so much that I've put the book away.
> 
> Actually, I'm saving it to take away with me in May - give me something to look forward to each night with a pre bed whisky.



That must have taken some will power  

T


----------

