Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL
- Thread starter arallsopp
- Start date
Page may contain affiliate links. Please see terms for details.
andyfromotley
New Member
- Location
- Otley, west yorks
Truly awsome. Chapau
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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
Married to Night Train
- Location
- Salford, UK
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
Guru
- Location
- Belfast, Northern Ireland
But does he get the girl in the end?
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
Arch
Married to Night Train
- Location
- Salford, UK
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.
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
New Member
- Location
- Errol stuck between Perth and Dundee
Great one. Hopefully the tech that sorted the bodge for you will get a nice message from ya!
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
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.
Mista Preston
Veteran
well done sir great write up ! (now get it published)
