Auntie Helen
Ich bin Powerfrau!
- Location
- 47906 Kempen, Germany
Yes, do. None of this messing about in meetings, get writing lad!
Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL
- Thread starter arallsopp
- Start date
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OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
.
- it's so good.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
darkstar said:
You just waded through this entire thread in one sitting? That's proper endurance. RAAMs got nothing on it
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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’.
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
Married to Night Train
- Location
- Salford, UK
Superb, that bit about the Lancaster nearly had me in tears!
Alf
Guru
- Location
- Penicuik, Midlothian
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
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
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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:
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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
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
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
zigzag
Veteran
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
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
