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.
and thanks so much 
