Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL

[arallsopp]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

come on andy, next installment please

 

[Crackle]

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

 

[Auntie Helen]

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