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

Tuesday 0635hrs: Leaving Alston: Back on the road.

Climbing back up to the main road, it is immediately obvious that the prior few hours have not given my knees time to repair. Being distracted by hallucinations and exhaustion, I’d somehow forgotten that they were really hurting. In the cold light of morning, every crank slides another freezing dagger under the patella. I consider getting off and walking the remaining 200yds to the ongoing route. This is not good. At all.

I make a left at the top of the path and begin to roll down towards the town. I’m hoping another few minutes rest stolen from the incline will see some improvement. I let my feet hang in the pedals, but when I resume it feels even worse. I decide that the only way to keep sane is to maintain a low and easy cadence whilst coasting.

I opt to walk down the cobbles, which keeps me from the attentions of the puncture fairy. Many have blogged on this part of the route. Estimates vary from 14 to 20% incline. Let’s just say “its steep”. If pushed, I’ll add “and bumpy”. On the outbound route, its not a problem anyway. Particularly if walking. Knees don’t hurt so bad when I’m not pushing pedals.

Roll over the bridge, and begin to climb towards ‘Raise’. This is less than a mile into my day. Pedalling is on the edge of prohibitively painful. I determine that with my current chain configuration, the cranks are mechanically inefficient. It would be far simpler to just grind cartilage from my knees directly into the bottom bracket as a paste. I push as far as I can, then come to a halt. I sit for a few minutes.

The beauty of LEL is that you get the chance to really test yourself. You take yourself to a point where your body screams STOP. Your brain provides all kinds of reasons as to why you shouldn’t go on. I’m sat at the edge of a cold grey road, listening to myself reason that continuing in this state might do enough damage to take me off the bike permanently. That there’s more at risk than some arbitrary distance and time. That this pain might be something that never goes away. I’ve been in this position before. It is not a happy place.

For all her apparent cruelty, LEL will always do her best to protect you by ensuring these moments happen 50 odd miles from the nearest station. Whilst eminently desirable, dropping out now is only a hypothetical discussion. If I can’t go on, I’m stuck at the side of this road forever. If I can go on, I damn well will.

Sitting with a foot on the pedal, I can sense that it hurts ‘less’ if I extend my leg further, rocking back on my heel. Same for the other foot too. Hmmmm…Given it’ll make no odds if I’m pushing the bike anyway, I resolve to extend the boom a little. I grab the Allen keys from the seat bag, and relax things by two full turns. The previously millimeter perfect adjustments are discarded as I simply push the boom out with my foot clipped in until it feels “about right”. Maybe an inch and a half. Give it a wiggle until the derailleur mast is aimed loosely skywards, then set about re-clamping it. No manufacturer’s specific torque wrench settings for me. Two full turns back, and I call it secure. Stand bike upright, realize ‘skywards’ is relative to the lean of the frame, redo it to the 12 o’clock position, clip in and wobble away. Hurts less. Seems good. Stop. Remember to close the seat bag. Go again. All good. Yes.

The road from here ambles up and down between 250 and 300m, refusing to settle on the valley floor through Slaggyford and Knarsdale. Knees are hurting less now, but I know the clock is still closing on me. I envy the river, which now sits to my right, idly checking off a schedule that features a single entry, some 5000 years from now; “Ox-bow lake?”

We part company at Lambley. She wanders on for a bit, before ambling East to Newcastle, whilst I swing due West to meet her baby sister in Midgeholme. The valley opens out at Hallbankgate, and the wind lets up long enough for me to spot a nice gradient. Legs are getting better now, and I speed through Milton and on to my first route instruction in 30km. By the time my GPS chimes in, I’ve completely forgotten that I’m even on an Audax.

Brampton sees a brief climb to Newtown (knees OK) and I’m in flat lands again. Without the GPS altitude read out, I’d swear I’m on top of some huge plateau. The winds are constant, the air seems thin, the pale sun does nothing to stave off the cold. Considering I’m sat at only 15m above, I seem to have got very short shrift from the descent.

I am literally making mountains out of molehills, and battle up and down a glass flat surface to Longtown. The reduced pace, and Spartan route instructions (3 for 60km?) mean I’ve been taking in more of my immediate environs. Road signs over the last few miles have been just getting funnier, “Carlisle”? “Gretna”?, but six miles along the A7, I spot a real winner “Welcome to Scotland”.

I can’t resist pulling over and trying to revive my phone. A text gets through to those at home,
“41hrs. 28 mins. That’s what it takes to ride from London to Scotland.”

This gives me a good psychological boost. I could stop here and get a great sleep, and still roll into Scotland within 48 hours from home. On a bicycle. Whatever happens from here on in, that’s a hell of an achievement, and I can go home with my head held high.

With ego secured, I set about closing on the hills up ahead. As the valley sides steepen around me, I find myself tracing the Esk northwards, crossing Skippers Bridge just before 10am. I’m still elated, but sense that the river beneath me is grey and angry. Surrounded by a blackened tree line, lumps of rock are churned up and spat out by the livid currents. The weather has beaten the colour out of everything. Houses, foliage, earth, even stone are no match for these hostile hinterlands.

With trepidation I pedal onwards, through Langholm, then North West with the river to Bentpath. Although I’m climbing as I go, this is nothing compared to the intimidation of the landscape around me. Bullied some 18000 years back by the retreating ice age, one gets the feeling Scotland has never quite gotten over it and is out for revenge on anyone not quite smart enough to bring shelter and an engine. If this turns, it is going to get majorly ugly, very quickly.

Penultimate instruction now (Potholes, Cattle Grids, Animals) translates to a long drag up along a timber route. The evident scarring to the landscape is a wake-up to me. Back in the south, we buy our wood in flat-pack Scandinavian kits, planed and packaged to carefully conceal anything as base as a tree in its origins. The damage doesn’t stop at the edge of the road either. Its integrated into the surface. Discarded chips, branches, bits of bark, loose gravel and crumbling corners are all present. Given we’re less than 65 miles East of John Macadam’s birth-place, I’m suspecting he never took a wander this way.

Huge and sudden climb when I’m about 3 miles out, then drop back down to 200m and roll into Eskdalemuir. Cross the river once again, and there’s the control on the left.

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.