Nipping out for Irn Bru

I find it hard to squeeze in enough training for ultra-cycling so I try to multi-task whenever I can. We were visiting friends in Edinburgh this weekend, so while Olga boarded a plane I took the opportunity to get some miles in. My preparations were typically last-minute, attending the Assos 40th anniversary event the evening before (more on that soon). Packing, food prep and route planning followed, late that night. I chose to largely follow the established London-Edingburgh-London route, which probably isn’t the fastest route but has the benefit of having had lots of thought already put into it by other people.

“We were visiting friends in Edinburgh, so while Olga boarded a plane I took the opportunity to get some miles in.”

After two hours sleep and a big vat of my ‘Bounty’ porridge I closed the door at 4:45am and clipped in for the 700km ride to Scotland. The Garmin 810 crashed a handful of times before I’d even crossed the Thames and I also heard the hiss of a puncture just 50m after setting off. Last week’s puncture has sealed itself but the ‘plug’ had worked its way loose under the pressure of pumped tyres and a loaded bike. The fresh sealant now went to work and closed the puncture within a few seconds. It would take a few more miles before the Garmin had been reset enough times to start working. I knew where I was going but it irked to know that my ‘longest ever ride’ would be cheated of the first few kilometres.

The temperature read 12C but the air was heavy with moisture and it was a cold start to the day. I decided to cover the early miles using the A10 out of London. Even in the early hours it’s still a bit unpleasant so it was a relief to reach Ware and finally peel off onto the quieter lanes of the official LEL route.

In the space of a few minutes the battery indicator on my eTrex went from four bars to one bar. I stopped to put fresh ones in but my frozen hands fumbled and mixed the old and new. Whatever set I put in died within an hour so I was on the lookout for a petrol station or village store to buy some fresh AAs. I passed through so many villages but not a single one had any kind of village store. Petrol stations were tiny independent things that were either derelict, closed or didn’t sell batteries. I spied one petrol station in the distance called ‘Power’, but that turned out to be a lie.

The first 160km of my route, between London and Peterborough, was very familiar. It’s a ride I’ve done half a dozen times before, though usually in the other direction. I enjoyed a tailwind leaving London but that soon changed to a headwind as I reached the open terrain of East Anglia, confirmed by the forest of wind turbines all pointing north. By mid-morning I was travelling on the same straight roads we’d been racing on just a few days earlier, on the Tour of Cambridgeshire. In this wind I was pining for the shelter of a racing peloton, but today I toiled alone at a much slower pace. As I passed Crowland I sent my friend Pops a quick selfie outside his parents’ house, just to weird him out on a Thursday morning.

Fenland-style Polish polish

My new hydration discipline and the cold weather conspired to demand three nature breaks in the first four hours. I normally pride myself in my camel-like qualities, peeing only on Tuesdays, so this was a worry. Was I unwell? It may also be the fresh pair of Ashmei bibshorts I was wearing, now in a smaller size. They have a strong compression effect but they also need breaking in, which I hadn’t had time to do. This was probably squishing things and encouraging more stops than I’d normally make.

Approaching my first planned stop the saddle had tilted up, as it did on the way to Bilbao. I didn’t want to risk damaging my knees so I rode out of the saddle, thinking I was just a couple of kilometres to go. That turned into 10km, but I seemed to cope quite comfortably with that.

Propping my bike up against a Costa coffee shop I was quickly accosted by security. Apparently it was against the rules to bring bikes into this open-air pedestrianised shopping area and they’d gone to red alert when they’d seen me approaching, with one guard radioing through to have me stopped. I double-checked that they weren’t just taking the piss, but it seems they were quite serious. Explaining that I would be here for no more than three minutes had no effect. “Rules are rules.” We’re not in Kansas any more Toto! I found a Subway elsewhere and tackled a pulled pork foot-long as I reset my saddle and seat post.

Back on the road and I started to look at the world as one big sundial. I was riding due north for the first half of the journey, so I watched as the shadows moved from left to right, picking out the middle of the daylight hours when my shadow was directly in front of me. I’d already ridden the stretch from London to Hull as my first ultra-distance ride back in November, so I knew what to expect for the afternoon. There are no real gradients in this part of the world but the ‘invisible hills’ can be very punishing in the wide open landscapes. I stopped noticing the headwind after a while, until my route briefly turned south and the bike rocketed down the road with only the lightest tickle of the pedals. That’s always a wonderful feeling – how Popeye must feel after his can of spinach – but it’s balanced out by the moment you turn back into the wind and almost stop dead.

I was determined that this ride would be an efficient one. I wanted to reach Edinburgh in an impressive time, despite the headwind, to prove to myself what I was capable of. Five minutes at a level crossing felt like an eternity, but I tried to take advantage of it to eat some food and stretch some achy bits. The aches, stiffness and general tiredness was catching up with me by now. Crossing over the Lincoln Wolds added a bit of climbing to the route but kept things interesting. I stopped for another comfort break and then paused for a moment to lean against the gate and indulge in the scene. Just for a moment. I really longed to lay down in the balmy afternoon sun and just steal 20 minutes, but that doesn’t fit the racing theme. It made me jealous of those riders who tour rather than race and I wonder how strong my will might be on the longer ride to Turkey?

12 hours after leaving London I was crossing the Humber Bridge, with 300km logged. Everything beyond here was new territory and the promise of the unknown gave my spirits a boost. I was running short of water but I wanted to make the next stop count and grab a decent meal. Nothing was looking promising at all and I hadn’t familiarised myself with this part of the route. An hour later I came across a local rider, enjoying his 30km training ride in the beautiful weather. We rode together for 20 minutes, side by side on the deserted lanes, shooting the breeze. He suggested I’d find supplies in the larger town of Market Weighton, a few miles up the road and offered a quiet detour to my route that would be much more pleasant than the primary roads I had planned to take. He bid me good luck as we parted company and I continued on to Market Weighton. There were no tempting meal options so I raided a convenience store for supplies and cracked on.

Approaching Castle Howard the glorious weather took a turn and the heavens opened. Lightly at first, tempting me into riding it out, but eventually it became seriously heavy and I regretted not layering up sooner. I dived under a tree to add my arm and leg warmers. The Ashmei shorts are too tight on the thigh to roll them up so the leg warmers have to go over them, which makes a daft outfit look even more ridiculous. I left my full rain jacket in the bag and rode in my gilet. The only part of my body not now covered in a wind-resistant layer was the top of my arms, which quickly felt cold now that the rain was lashing down. It was bearable but what I hadn’t considered was that my gilet only had a mesh back to it and so my back and everything in my pockets was getting soaked through. My oversocks and neoprene Toe Thingys were quickly overcome by the rain and my sodden socks squelched with every pedal stroke.

This was too soon to stop and I knew there would be more wet weather to follow, so there was little else to do but keep pedalling. I’d only get colder if I stopped. Two hours later I reached Thirsk, 400km from London. It was 22:30 and my last opportunity to find some food before the morning. I meekly waddled into a Chinese restaurant and apologetically asked if I’d be welcome inside dressed like this. As it happens I was the only customer and was greeted with enthusiasm. Crispy chilli beef and a big bowl of char siu rice was quickly delivered and promptly devoured while I dealt with a dilemma.

If the weather was OK I had planned to bivvy out for the first time. Clearly, the weather was less than OK. I was soaked through and was dreading the thought of setting off again and how cold I would be. I also knew in the next couple of hours I’d start the climb over the North Pennines, which would take several hours and I couldn’t be sure if I’d find any shelter there. I opened the booking.com app on my phone and found a cheap hotel just around the corner. I could test the whole bivvy thing another time. A pang of shame coursed through me and I compromised by pledging to do a lap of the town first, to see if I could find some shelter, before pressing ‘confirm’. As always, the hardest part of the process is simply getting started. Once I was rolling for a few minutes I’d decided to apply some Rule #5 and just get on with it.

“A pang of shame coursed through me as I opened booking.com and found a cheap hotel just around the corner.”

For the next two hours I scoured the landscape for some shelter but came up empty. Villages that I passed through were too small to have proper bus stops or covered church entrances or anything else that might do. The first possible spot I found was a bench on a village green. It wasn’t covered but it was at least off the ground. I remembered the advice that you should never pass up a ‘good’ bivvy spot in search of a better one, but decided to do one lap of this village before settling as it was the biggest village I’d passed since Thirsk and I was hopeful of finding something slightly better.

I’m really not sure what led me down a cul-de-sac but at the end of it I found a playground with that rubberised flooring that helps clumsy kids to bounce. I figured that would be a little warmer than the bench and I could also shelter from the rain underneath the slide. Although it was 1:30am I still tried to be discreet but I froze in my tracks several times when I heard movement across the road, convinced I was being watched. It took about ten minutes to realise it was wildlife making the noises, of course.

A 1-star audax hotel, which did at least benefit from running water.

“Thankfully nobody would see me plodding around a playground with my junk out, setting up my bivvy”

I got out of my wet cycling clothes and tried to ring them out, without success. I kept my shorts on but pulled them down to deal with hygiene and then let things get some air. Thankfully nobody would see me plodding around a playground with my junk out for the next five minutes, setting up my bivvy bag and wrapping my soaking kit in my jacket to form a pillow. I settled down and wondered if I’d be able to sleep. A few minutes passed and this was looking doubtful. Then I woke up. It was already brighter but only 90 minutes had passed and it was a little after 3:00. I closed my eyes for what felt like a blink and my alarm was going off. I struggled to rationalise this as it really felt like seconds had passed, but I’d committed to not thinking too hard and just getting on with things.

The air was thick with damp and if anything my kit was now wetter than when I took it off. Climbing back into it was a grim affair. I forced down some flapjacks as I packed my bags, taking far too long. I tried to stay on autopilot and not dwell on the situation. There was really no advantage to wallowing; the distance still had to be covered and hopping a train was out of the question. Or was it? Actually, maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. No point in making yourself ill and compromising your… STOP! Harden the fuck up and get pedalling!

“One of the laws of the bivvying cyclist is that you’ll always find a significantly better spot just a mile down the road the next morning.”

A 4-star audax hotel, complete with bedtime reading material

I was on the road by 5:00 and within minutes I’d passed a glorious example of the Audax Hotel that made a mockery of my playground shelter. It had bedtime reading material and everything. Apparently this is one of the laws of the cycling hobo, like toast always landing on the floor butter-side down.

Progress was glacial. My legs were heavy and I couldn’t find a way to get my cadence above 70rpm, in any gear. I’d hoped for an inspiring sunrise to gee me along but all I got was murky gloom and deserted Sleepy Hollow roads, which made it harder to fend off an attack of the yawns. Barnard Castle was the first town large enough to have any facilities for me this early in the morning. I pulled up outside a Costa coffee shop at 6:45 and waited for 15 minutes for them to open. I took a soft armchair in a quiet corner and considered bagging myself an extra 30 minutes of shuteye.

Some hot food and a moment of down time made all the difference.

There was still a sense of guilt when I thought about sleeping so I just rested – eyes open – for a time instead. Clearly I needed more sleep than I’d given myself this past few days. Almost an hour passed, plus the 15 minutes spent waiting, but it was ‘essential’ time. I popped a caffeine tablet before setting off and the difference was like night and day. Instantly back to 85-90rpm and a more respectable pace. It seems there is a sleep threshold below which it’s simply not efficient to drop. Lesson learned.

The Whorlton Suspension Bridge

The old toll list

Things began to get lumpier as I entered Cumbria and started crossing the North Pennines. The A66 cut an efficient path and despite being a fast dual carriageway it was wide enough that traffic was never an issue, even in rotten weather conditions. It was a shame to be robbed of what I imagine to be spectacular views, with the world still shrouded in thick fog.

Old school touring and modern ultra-cycling

Not today, thanks.

A KFC lunch in Carlisle would be my last stop before Scotland and I was now on the Land’s End to John O’Groats route towards Lockerbie. The A6 tracks alongside the faster M6, keeping it fairly lightly trafficked. It also benefits from a proper bike lane, though not always with a great surface. Apart from a few standard exchanges with cashiers and militant security guards I’d barely spoken a word in the past 24 hours, so it was unusually exciting to catch up to a pair of LEJOG cyclists. We compared notes on bikepacking styles and our old school and new school approaches. I was a little envious hearing tales of the touring life, with the ability to indulge in detours, whims and side stories without the cloud of a timer hanging over them.

The Scottish Borders

Scotland welcomed me and I soon swapped the A6 for the scenic route across the Scottish Borders between Beattock and Edinburgh. This would be another lumpy piece of terrain, but the finish line was palpably close. Scotland is one of those places that suits harsh weather well. The clouds tumbling into mountain bowls and the curtain of fog that surrounded me only reinforced the myth and mystique of Scotland’s wilder parts.

Nearing the highest point of the Borders the heavens opened up and it became torrential. I wrestled with the decision to stop and layer up or press on first to the summit. I was close enough and, critically, wet enough already that I just carried on. At the summit I added all my wet weather layers and put my headphones in for the final stretch.

This could’ve been the worst part of the ride, descending through this most barren landscape in driving rain and cold temperatures, but somehow it became the highlight of the entire journey. I’d tackled the last real obstacle before Edinburgh and had altitude in my pocket. The landscape was brutal and the weather completely unforgiving, but it just elevated the experience. This was unfiltered masochism. I was Rocky, running in the rain. I rode faster and faster, defying the worsening conditions and proving to the world – to myself – that I was tough.

There’s nothing quite like music for amplifying an experience. The song ‘Outro‘ by M83 shuffled onto my playlist and right into my soul. The music is grand, ethereal and matched the time and place to perfection. The lyrics are pure poetry:

“I’m the king of my own land.
Facing tempests of dust, I’ll fight until it’s the end.
Creatures of my dreams, raise up and dance with me.
Now and forever, I’m your king.”

I urge you to listen to that song, look at these pictures and imagine yourself in that moment, at the end of an epic ride, mastering nature and yourself. These are the flashes of nirvana that I live for. The wave of endorphins carried me all the way to Edinburgh.

The final kilometres were marred only by the slipping of my seat post, which had held firm for most of the ride but was struggling through the worst of the rain. Again I rode out of the saddle, to a petrol station where I found my Irn Bru, before resetting it. There was no way I wanted to risk my knees now, after managing them all this way. The Castle was closed when I arrived and no amount of charm or persuasion was getting me close enough for a good photo, so I cheated and propped the bike up against one of Edinburgh’s many stone walls to grab something for checking in on social media. Riding through the wet cobbled streets of the Old Town felt like a victory lap and I finally settled at my friends’ apartment, my journey complete.

[Strava]
Distance: 715km
Climbing: 5,279m
Moving time: 28 hours
Stopped time: 11 hours