OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
But I'm bl33din knackered and don't remember the rest of the ride! 
Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL
- Thread starter arallsopp
- Start date
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Headgardener
Armchair Cyclist
Oh no just as it was getting interesting. If someone else did the run and remembers Arallsopp could they please fill the gaps.arallsopp said:But I'm bl33din knackered and don't remember the rest of the ride!
fossyant
Ride It Like You Stole It!
- Location
- South Manchester
Well done - surprised you managed that distance on a collection of zip ties....
nigelnorris
Well-Known Member
- Location
- Birmingham
This is an awesome tale, the best thing I've read in a long time. You have a gift for words and a story to match, can't wait for the rest.
Aperitif
Meme bar
- Location
- ...I don't have much idea - really.
nigelnorris said:
Yes.
Change your batteries and switch on when you are ready my friend...
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Right. Popped back through the thread, littering it with profile images and videos. Am having to use the GPS logs now to bumpstart my memory. Let's take a stab at the next leg...
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Day '2': Tuesday 0418hrs. Ski Hire?
I wake just before the alarm sings out, silence it, and spot a soon to be vacated bit of sofa. I wait. Quietly. Wake no one. Drop in behind the departing cyclist immediately on exit, and grab a much needed hour’s kip. Clock rolls around to 05:15, get up. Sys check says things are OK. Probably got around 3 hours sleep. Self test brain over breakfast with attempt do the maths on arrivals versus closing times for controls on my brevet card.
By the time I’ve processed food and figures, its coming up 0630. Just under 4 and a half hours in the bag. Still safe.
I exit by the side door, noting the sign for ski-hire. Ski-hire? Surely a clear indicator that this is not an intelligent place to arrive by bike…
I wake just before the alarm sings out, silence it, and spot a soon to be vacated bit of sofa. I wait. Quietly. Wake no one. Drop in behind the departing cyclist immediately on exit, and grab a much needed hour’s kip. Clock rolls around to 05:15, get up. Sys check says things are OK. Probably got around 3 hours sleep. Self test brain over breakfast with attempt do the maths on arrivals versus closing times for controls on my brevet card.
- 1hr 15mins down at start
- Either out of time, or irretrievably lost at Gamlingay
- 3hrs 51 up by Thurlby
- 6hrs 9mins up by Washingborough
- 6hrs 30mins up by Wragby (short leg)
- 9hrs 37mins up at Thorne
- 10hrs 39 in Coxwold
- 11:25 at Middleton Tyas
- 12:53 up on arrival to Alston.
By the time I’ve processed food and figures, its coming up 0630. Just under 4 and a half hours in the bag. Still safe.
I exit by the side door, noting the sign for ski-hire. Ski-hire? Surely a clear indicator that this is not an intelligent place to arrive by bike…
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
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.
It may not look so bad, but check out the scale.
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.
It may not look so bad, but check out the scale.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
1106hrs. Arrive Eskdalemuir: 390+ miles. 44 hours. 21 minutes. What no Buddhists?
I’ve been looking forward to this control, as the photos from the 2005 LEL suggest it is either inside or adjacent to a Buddhist temple. I am confronted by what appears to be an utterly typical village hall.
I mask my disappointment, and allow myself an hour to fill water bottle and stomach. Tired fingers fumble at laces. Want to be out just after midday if I’m going to make the 100+ mile run to Traquair, Dalkeith and back. I’m still pulling around 17mph on the flats, but these are now few and far between.
Life is a little confusing.
I check the zipties, freshening one that is wearing through, replacing another that dropped off somewhere on the last descent. I am pleased to see one of Rich Forrest’s ties has made it with me all the way from Coxwold. Still going strong, so I leave it in place as a good luck charm.
Despite heroics of the few, the bag is once again running low. I am extremely surprised when just before leaving I am confronted by Mal Volio(?), who gives me another 100. These forumites get everywhere!
Trusting that these will now see me good for the remaining 48 hours and 500 odd miles, I set off for Traquair.
I’ve been looking forward to this control, as the photos from the 2005 LEL suggest it is either inside or adjacent to a Buddhist temple. I am confronted by what appears to be an utterly typical village hall.
I mask my disappointment, and allow myself an hour to fill water bottle and stomach. Tired fingers fumble at laces. Want to be out just after midday if I’m going to make the 100+ mile run to Traquair, Dalkeith and back. I’m still pulling around 17mph on the flats, but these are now few and far between.
Life is a little confusing.
I check the zipties, freshening one that is wearing through, replacing another that dropped off somewhere on the last descent. I am pleased to see one of Rich Forrest’s ties has made it with me all the way from Coxwold. Still going strong, so I leave it in place as a good luck charm.
Despite heroics of the few, the bag is once again running low. I am extremely surprised when just before leaving I am confronted by Mal Volio(?), who gives me another 100. These forumites get everywhere!
Trusting that these will now see me good for the remaining 48 hours and 500 odd miles, I set off for Traquair.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Tuesday 1209hrs. Depart Eskdalemuir for Traquair.
Quick review of where things are on the GPS before I set off. This should be a quick one. At 30 miles, its half the length of the previous stage, and looks to be similar terrain*. I’m figuring I’ll be in Traquair just after 2.
*Worth noting here that my GPS is the ‘Legend’ and does not have the altitude graph of the Vista.
A closer zoom reveals the route ahead is peppered with regular 90 degree zig zags, 3 miles on a side. This is exactly the strategy I would take if I were sailing into the wind, or trying to avoid Uboats. On land however, it means hills. Lots of hills.
Best get off if I’m going to keep schedule. Less than a minute along the road, I’m spotting ribbons tied to occasional trees. These give way to the formalized spacing of Tibetan prayer flags; carrying blessings of compassion, wisdom, strength, and peace with the wind. Shortly these are overtaken by the Liberation Gate of the Kagyu Samye Ling Tibetan Centre. Under a grey sky, the view is positively other-worldy. A statue of Nagarjuna floats in a lake, under a giant snake. Guru Rinpoche is seated upon a lotus flower. The Victory Stupa reaches out to the passing cyclists, transforming any negative energies and restoring balance to all who pass. A very useful trait on a recumbent. My mantra of gratitude, "Left Pedal. Right Pedal."
Climb up to Davington, cross the White Esk, bridge myriad sike and burn to emerge on the North bank of Loch Tima. Continue North East along Tima water, the ridges towering 100m above me to left and right. North again, across the ford at Ramseycleugh to Ettrick Water, then follow the valley floor to a sharp West turn with Tulshielaw Burn. Do not stray from the river. As I winch my way up, the broken lands of “Black Knowe Head” and “The Wiss” swell two hundred metres above me in a 45 degree slope. It feels like being buried alive. Before coming to Scotland, I have never felt claustrophobic outdoors. The horizon continues to push in on me, and I am relieved when I finally exit the pass at Yarrow Water. Crossing the A708, the pattern repeats. The routesheet is as barren as the landscape. As the hills build up again, I am left with absolute wonder that Traqauir is settled at all. The confidence or conditions required to push people North through this are incomprehensible to me.
Although the instructions are simple (follow the B709 from the last control to next) without the GPS I would certainly be lost. It is she that puts names to places, captions to peaks, labels on rivers. In cataloguing them, ownership is implied. Mankind has stamped his authority on the landscape, and I no longer feel that it will take me.
Zoomed view of midway point.
Spotting a radio mast at Mountbenger, civilisation sprints 500 years forwards and I discover I have phone reception for the first time since crossing the border. I struggle with the battery and manage to get an SMS through to David at LaidBackBikes of Edinburgh. He replies, offering to meet me at the Dalkeith control with a replacement idler borrowed from one of his stock bikes. I begin to feel human, just being momentarily in contact with someone.
The sun comes out as I climb the final hill. Suspicious of the clock, I switch zip-ties and push hard to reach the descent. As the road first levels, then tilts down, I close the remaining miles to the control at an average 27mph.
PROFILE:
Quick review of where things are on the GPS before I set off. This should be a quick one. At 30 miles, its half the length of the previous stage, and looks to be similar terrain*. I’m figuring I’ll be in Traquair just after 2.
*Worth noting here that my GPS is the ‘Legend’ and does not have the altitude graph of the Vista.
A closer zoom reveals the route ahead is peppered with regular 90 degree zig zags, 3 miles on a side. This is exactly the strategy I would take if I were sailing into the wind, or trying to avoid Uboats. On land however, it means hills. Lots of hills.
Best get off if I’m going to keep schedule. Less than a minute along the road, I’m spotting ribbons tied to occasional trees. These give way to the formalized spacing of Tibetan prayer flags; carrying blessings of compassion, wisdom, strength, and peace with the wind. Shortly these are overtaken by the Liberation Gate of the Kagyu Samye Ling Tibetan Centre. Under a grey sky, the view is positively other-worldy. A statue of Nagarjuna floats in a lake, under a giant snake. Guru Rinpoche is seated upon a lotus flower. The Victory Stupa reaches out to the passing cyclists, transforming any negative energies and restoring balance to all who pass. A very useful trait on a recumbent. My mantra of gratitude, "Left Pedal. Right Pedal."
Climb up to Davington, cross the White Esk, bridge myriad sike and burn to emerge on the North bank of Loch Tima. Continue North East along Tima water, the ridges towering 100m above me to left and right. North again, across the ford at Ramseycleugh to Ettrick Water, then follow the valley floor to a sharp West turn with Tulshielaw Burn. Do not stray from the river. As I winch my way up, the broken lands of “Black Knowe Head” and “The Wiss” swell two hundred metres above me in a 45 degree slope. It feels like being buried alive. Before coming to Scotland, I have never felt claustrophobic outdoors. The horizon continues to push in on me, and I am relieved when I finally exit the pass at Yarrow Water. Crossing the A708, the pattern repeats. The routesheet is as barren as the landscape. As the hills build up again, I am left with absolute wonder that Traqauir is settled at all. The confidence or conditions required to push people North through this are incomprehensible to me.
Although the instructions are simple (follow the B709 from the last control to next) without the GPS I would certainly be lost. It is she that puts names to places, captions to peaks, labels on rivers. In cataloguing them, ownership is implied. Mankind has stamped his authority on the landscape, and I no longer feel that it will take me.
Zoomed view of midway point.
Spotting a radio mast at Mountbenger, civilisation sprints 500 years forwards and I discover I have phone reception for the first time since crossing the border. I struggle with the battery and manage to get an SMS through to David at LaidBackBikes of Edinburgh. He replies, offering to meet me at the Dalkeith control with a replacement idler borrowed from one of his stock bikes. I begin to feel human, just being momentarily in contact with someone.
The sun comes out as I climb the final hill. Suspicious of the clock, I switch zip-ties and push hard to reach the descent. As the road first levels, then tilts down, I close the remaining miles to the control at an average 27mph.
PROFILE:
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Tuesday 1418hrs. Arrive Traquair.
A Scotsman in a kilt stands in the middle of the road waving me in. I park up, grab water bottle and brevet card and head indoors. There are a handful of riders sprinkled around the tables. This close to the half way point, people are not hanging around. There are two microwaves on the stage, a LEL cake, and numerous bowls of porridge. A young boy picks up a bowl and hands it to me. “Salt or Whisky?”
I deny either, giving it a liberal dose of sugar intended for tea. Alcohol does not seem a good idea right now. I am surprised how hungrily I wolf down the porridge, given I stuffed myself silly only a couple of hours earlier. This terrain burns a lot of calories. With a nod to the clock, I’m standing outside in bright sunlight 15 mins later, clambering aboard the bike once more and targeting Dalkeith.
A Scotsman in a kilt stands in the middle of the road waving me in. I park up, grab water bottle and brevet card and head indoors. There are a handful of riders sprinkled around the tables. This close to the half way point, people are not hanging around. There are two microwaves on the stage, a LEL cake, and numerous bowls of porridge. A young boy picks up a bowl and hands it to me. “Salt or Whisky?”
I deny either, giving it a liberal dose of sugar intended for tea. Alcohol does not seem a good idea right now. I am surprised how hungrily I wolf down the porridge, given I stuffed myself silly only a couple of hours earlier. This terrain burns a lot of calories. With a nod to the clock, I’m standing outside in bright sunlight 15 mins later, clambering aboard the bike once more and targeting Dalkeith.
