A serialisation by arallsopp (starts here)
— Buy the book here —

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 pedaled 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.

… continued here.