Seeya! - arallsopp does the LEL
- Thread starter arallsopp
- Start date
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OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Tuesday 2242hrs: 500 miles. Sanctuary.
We check in with the desk, brevet cards disintegrating even within their plastic bags. The field is wrecked. 20 riders have stopped. 33 are missing. We are locked down, schedules marred by the storm. Ahead of us, riders have been blown off the road at Alston. Behind us, nobody is leaving Traquair. Blankets are borrowed and wrapped around the few straggling arrivers. Cyclists sleep under tables, on chairs, perched on window ledges, as they queue. A single heater in the middle of the room struggles under a complex shanty of wet clothes. My hands don’t work. I will not stop shivering. The floor is lost under puddles wrung from drenched lycra. Riders and joists buckle under the onslaught. We are spent.
Senses are mugged by barbed aroma combining damp clothes, sweaty bodies, and muscle rub. It has the smell of ginger beer and menthol, tastes like gravel, sounds like a shrill whistle. Through the onslaught, Rimas makes his way to our table. Exhaustion deprives him of language. Denise arrives maybe 5 minutes behind. She is visibly shaken. Pale as a two year old, now sobbing with relief. There are not enough blankets. We put her near the fire, but nobody is warming up.
Tom has slumped onto the table. It is near midnight. One of the volunteers approaches me.
“I have a room. A spare bed. Are you together?” She motions towards Denise.
“No”.
“I have another bed. Its only a single. You could sleep there.”
[I’ve lost the power of speech]
“I’m sorry. Its not as comfortable.”
[Comfort is relative]
“What about him? The older gentleman?” now gesturing towards another shivering rider.
Over the next few minutes, she coaxes a handful of us towards the door. Although the promise of a warm bed beckons, movement still takes too much energy to do with any waste.
“How far is your house?” asks Denise.
“3 doors down. Its very close. I have radiators. I can dry your clothes.”
The storm continues outside. Cold fingers pull at wet laces. We struggle to force swollen feet back into rain saturated shoes.
“I can’t.” says Denise.
“Here, wear mine”
And with that, our unknown rescuer leads us from the village hall, barefoot through the storm to her house, rigs hot drinks for Denise, Roy and myself, apologises again for the lack of space, sets the heating to max, and makes up beds for all three of us.
Roy and I are in the spare room. There is a single bed, and whilst I’m happy to sleep on carpet (dry, warm and soft, it looks perfect) she insists I allow her to unfold the padded massage table. This done, she briefly exits the room to collect a set of sheets, and I clamber up onto it, going to sleep immediately.
Our host quietly moves our clothes to the radiator, checks in with Denise as to what time we need waking, throws a sheet over me, and pads back, barefoot to the heaving control, where she spends the rest of the night making drinks, providing food, and collecting riders.
Her voice wakes me some hours later. I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by Tibetan curiosities, floating high above the floor. My clothes are dry, my shoes stuffed with newspaper. I can hear the rain continue outside. Within the shelter of warm covers, it’s rhythm is reassuring.
I slowly lower myself from the table, and gain momentary confusion as I attempt to locate my socks. I recall trying to dry them at the control, but haven’t seen them since. If they’re not retrievable from the furnace, I’ll buy some on the road. Manners restored by a few hours rest, I introduce myself to our landlady and thank her for her kindness. As I tiptoe out, careful not to wake the riders now spilling from every corner of her house, she spots my bare ankles.
4 minutes later at the control, she re-appears with a pair of mens socks. In my size. Before 4am. In a village with maybe 20 houses. Unworn and still wrapped. The good people of Eskdalemuir are legend.
Determined to preserve my newly dry state, I claim a couple of bin bags, pink and lightly scented, and put one on either foot before putting my shoes back on. Another gets holes for arms and head, and is called into service as a featherlite disposable gilet. Worn between base layer and windproof jacket, I am now almost waterproof up top. I am learning quickly.
I rejoin Rimas and Tom. The ceiling has leaked during the night. Denise and I have fared considerably better than the riders remaining at the control. We regroup, grab a quick breakfast and resolve to set off as soon as the rain outside quietens a little. At 0420, our opportunity arises.
We check in with the desk, brevet cards disintegrating even within their plastic bags. The field is wrecked. 20 riders have stopped. 33 are missing. We are locked down, schedules marred by the storm. Ahead of us, riders have been blown off the road at Alston. Behind us, nobody is leaving Traquair. Blankets are borrowed and wrapped around the few straggling arrivers. Cyclists sleep under tables, on chairs, perched on window ledges, as they queue. A single heater in the middle of the room struggles under a complex shanty of wet clothes. My hands don’t work. I will not stop shivering. The floor is lost under puddles wrung from drenched lycra. Riders and joists buckle under the onslaught. We are spent.
Senses are mugged by barbed aroma combining damp clothes, sweaty bodies, and muscle rub. It has the smell of ginger beer and menthol, tastes like gravel, sounds like a shrill whistle. Through the onslaught, Rimas makes his way to our table. Exhaustion deprives him of language. Denise arrives maybe 5 minutes behind. She is visibly shaken. Pale as a two year old, now sobbing with relief. There are not enough blankets. We put her near the fire, but nobody is warming up.
Tom has slumped onto the table. It is near midnight. One of the volunteers approaches me.
“I have a room. A spare bed. Are you together?” She motions towards Denise.
“No”.
“I have another bed. Its only a single. You could sleep there.”
[I’ve lost the power of speech]
“I’m sorry. Its not as comfortable.”
[Comfort is relative]
“What about him? The older gentleman?” now gesturing towards another shivering rider.
Over the next few minutes, she coaxes a handful of us towards the door. Although the promise of a warm bed beckons, movement still takes too much energy to do with any waste.
“How far is your house?” asks Denise.
“3 doors down. Its very close. I have radiators. I can dry your clothes.”
The storm continues outside. Cold fingers pull at wet laces. We struggle to force swollen feet back into rain saturated shoes.
“I can’t.” says Denise.
“Here, wear mine”
And with that, our unknown rescuer leads us from the village hall, barefoot through the storm to her house, rigs hot drinks for Denise, Roy and myself, apologises again for the lack of space, sets the heating to max, and makes up beds for all three of us.
Roy and I are in the spare room. There is a single bed, and whilst I’m happy to sleep on carpet (dry, warm and soft, it looks perfect) she insists I allow her to unfold the padded massage table. This done, she briefly exits the room to collect a set of sheets, and I clamber up onto it, going to sleep immediately.
Our host quietly moves our clothes to the radiator, checks in with Denise as to what time we need waking, throws a sheet over me, and pads back, barefoot to the heaving control, where she spends the rest of the night making drinks, providing food, and collecting riders.
Her voice wakes me some hours later. I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by Tibetan curiosities, floating high above the floor. My clothes are dry, my shoes stuffed with newspaper. I can hear the rain continue outside. Within the shelter of warm covers, it’s rhythm is reassuring.
I slowly lower myself from the table, and gain momentary confusion as I attempt to locate my socks. I recall trying to dry them at the control, but haven’t seen them since. If they’re not retrievable from the furnace, I’ll buy some on the road. Manners restored by a few hours rest, I introduce myself to our landlady and thank her for her kindness. As I tiptoe out, careful not to wake the riders now spilling from every corner of her house, she spots my bare ankles.
4 minutes later at the control, she re-appears with a pair of mens socks. In my size. Before 4am. In a village with maybe 20 houses. Unworn and still wrapped. The good people of Eskdalemuir are legend.
Determined to preserve my newly dry state, I claim a couple of bin bags, pink and lightly scented, and put one on either foot before putting my shoes back on. Another gets holes for arms and head, and is called into service as a featherlite disposable gilet. Worn between base layer and windproof jacket, I am now almost waterproof up top. I am learning quickly.
I rejoin Rimas and Tom. The ceiling has leaked during the night. Denise and I have fared considerably better than the riders remaining at the control. We regroup, grab a quick breakfast and resolve to set off as soon as the rain outside quietens a little. At 0420, our opportunity arises.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Wednesday 0424hrs: South again.
I return to the ‘bent. Even in the darkness, I can detect that things the previous night were not merely wet. The entire bottom half of my bike is coated in what looks like river silt. I crack the worst of the silver grey carapace from the chain, get the links moving reasonably freely, and hop aboard for another 60 miles to Alston. Should be there around 1030hrs.
We cross the White Esk exiting the control, tracing its Eastern bank back into the glens. The rain continues, but has lost most of its anger by now. Having survived last night, the ongoing downpour doesn’t seem to register. It might be because I’m wrapped in plastic, or could be because the general lack of sleep from the previous few days now insulate me against most sensation.
The occasional crunch of gravel under tyre punctuates the otherwise monotonous rattling of my chain. The sound is so familiar that I am no more aware of it than I am the sound of blood rushing around my ears. Outside our tiny group, the world is a still frame.
The sun is due up around 4:35, but we don’t see it until the road lifts us another 100m beyond Allangill Burn, offering a view South East that takes in the summits of Carlesgill and Crumpton Hill. 7 miles on, our onward route will pass between these peaks, but for now we drop back down to rejoin the Esk through Bentpath.
Stray fingers of sunlight edge through the valleys ahead, pulling back on the peaks, slowly stretching open the horizon. Laid flat on the ‘bent, a foot from the floor, the experience conjures emotions of deliverance. The sky lightens, my mood is raised.
We continue South East, slowly filtering through glen and dale to arrive in Langholm at 0544. Even at this time, The Muckle Toonfolk are beginning their day’s activities. I had forgotten people did things other than cycle, and am so surprised that I stop and spend 6 minutes just watching them.
A quick exploration of Langholm’s former library gardens reveals little scope for a nature break, but does uncover a discarded arch, completed by a stonemason’s apprentice in the 1760s. Local lad, name of Thomas Telford, apparently. The absolute lack of signage suggests the town enjoys either a dearth of visitors or an abundance of such history.
Exiting on the A7 between Warb Law and Monument Hill, I am done with what Scotland has to throw at me. My mood is celebratory, and the loss of concentration immediately triggers a minor routing mishap, up the eastern bank of Ryehills, on a busy dual carriageway. Inadvisable excursions aside, I get one more short climb into Canonbie, and then its a gentle roll all the way down the hill, to a little brown sign, tucked into the hedge, “Welcome to ENGLAND”.
0639hrs. I’m South of the Border, West of the Sun. The towering giants that have crowded on every side these last few hundred miles finally retreat. Their rain cloaked peaks fall out of sight behind me as the landscape slowly unfurls, restoring the horizon to its rightful place, at eye level, and some distance hence.
I am glad to make it out. 30 miles behind me, riders making their way from Traquair to Eskdalemuir are fighting through the residue of last night’s assault. Photos later shared reveal the B709 is lost under standing water, cyclists blindly feeling their way along the camber at Ettrick, whilst alluvial detritus washes over hub and sprocket.
Mere drizzle for me though. I reel in Longtown, arriving via the celebrated 18th Century bridge, to cross the Esk one final time. From here, she will run West, joining Lyne and Eden, before finally losing herself to the churn of the Irish Sea. I continue South East on long straight roads, on through Smithfield, on through Newtown. Getting a little twistier now as Cumbria regains her confidence. A bleep from the GPS at Brampton offers my first route instruction in England, pitching me into a series of fells and pikes to my right.
A rise in the gradient lifts me to the A69, then snakes, slow and steady to Milton, Kirkhouse, Hallbankgate. I am checking off towns from the way up now. Cold Fell Pike swings up above me as I sneak under Tindale, a sharp climb to Midgeholme, Halton-lea-gate, Lambley. The road clambers around Byers Pike, threading me into a hidden valley alongside the Pennine Way.
I filter South, through Slaggyford and Kirkhaugh, the road pinched in with the South Tynedale Railway by Knarsdale Forest, Grey Nag, and Pike Rigg. Suddenly I’m in Raise, and from there a short hop across the river into Alston.
As I pile onto the cobbles at the bottom of Front Street, I stumble into the back wheels of other cyclists. Our pace aboard the bikes is dismissed as an irrelevance, when it turns out we all walk at the same speed. We trudge up together with only the very occasional die-hard cranking past us at speeds of up to 4mph.
Exiting Alston towards Yad Moss a few moments after 10, the last 3 and a half kilometres of this leg lift me at an average 6% to 420m, the lower me, carefully, into the control some 20 minutes later.
I return to the ‘bent. Even in the darkness, I can detect that things the previous night were not merely wet. The entire bottom half of my bike is coated in what looks like river silt. I crack the worst of the silver grey carapace from the chain, get the links moving reasonably freely, and hop aboard for another 60 miles to Alston. Should be there around 1030hrs.
We cross the White Esk exiting the control, tracing its Eastern bank back into the glens. The rain continues, but has lost most of its anger by now. Having survived last night, the ongoing downpour doesn’t seem to register. It might be because I’m wrapped in plastic, or could be because the general lack of sleep from the previous few days now insulate me against most sensation.
The occasional crunch of gravel under tyre punctuates the otherwise monotonous rattling of my chain. The sound is so familiar that I am no more aware of it than I am the sound of blood rushing around my ears. Outside our tiny group, the world is a still frame.
The sun is due up around 4:35, but we don’t see it until the road lifts us another 100m beyond Allangill Burn, offering a view South East that takes in the summits of Carlesgill and Crumpton Hill. 7 miles on, our onward route will pass between these peaks, but for now we drop back down to rejoin the Esk through Bentpath.
Stray fingers of sunlight edge through the valleys ahead, pulling back on the peaks, slowly stretching open the horizon. Laid flat on the ‘bent, a foot from the floor, the experience conjures emotions of deliverance. The sky lightens, my mood is raised.
We continue South East, slowly filtering through glen and dale to arrive in Langholm at 0544. Even at this time, The Muckle Toonfolk are beginning their day’s activities. I had forgotten people did things other than cycle, and am so surprised that I stop and spend 6 minutes just watching them.
A quick exploration of Langholm’s former library gardens reveals little scope for a nature break, but does uncover a discarded arch, completed by a stonemason’s apprentice in the 1760s. Local lad, name of Thomas Telford, apparently. The absolute lack of signage suggests the town enjoys either a dearth of visitors or an abundance of such history.
Exiting on the A7 between Warb Law and Monument Hill, I am done with what Scotland has to throw at me. My mood is celebratory, and the loss of concentration immediately triggers a minor routing mishap, up the eastern bank of Ryehills, on a busy dual carriageway. Inadvisable excursions aside, I get one more short climb into Canonbie, and then its a gentle roll all the way down the hill, to a little brown sign, tucked into the hedge, “Welcome to ENGLAND”.
0639hrs. I’m South of the Border, West of the Sun. The towering giants that have crowded on every side these last few hundred miles finally retreat. Their rain cloaked peaks fall out of sight behind me as the landscape slowly unfurls, restoring the horizon to its rightful place, at eye level, and some distance hence.
I am glad to make it out. 30 miles behind me, riders making their way from Traquair to Eskdalemuir are fighting through the residue of last night’s assault. Photos later shared reveal the B709 is lost under standing water, cyclists blindly feeling their way along the camber at Ettrick, whilst alluvial detritus washes over hub and sprocket.
Mere drizzle for me though. I reel in Longtown, arriving via the celebrated 18th Century bridge, to cross the Esk one final time. From here, she will run West, joining Lyne and Eden, before finally losing herself to the churn of the Irish Sea. I continue South East on long straight roads, on through Smithfield, on through Newtown. Getting a little twistier now as Cumbria regains her confidence. A bleep from the GPS at Brampton offers my first route instruction in England, pitching me into a series of fells and pikes to my right.
A rise in the gradient lifts me to the A69, then snakes, slow and steady to Milton, Kirkhouse, Hallbankgate. I am checking off towns from the way up now. Cold Fell Pike swings up above me as I sneak under Tindale, a sharp climb to Midgeholme, Halton-lea-gate, Lambley. The road clambers around Byers Pike, threading me into a hidden valley alongside the Pennine Way.
I filter South, through Slaggyford and Kirkhaugh, the road pinched in with the South Tynedale Railway by Knarsdale Forest, Grey Nag, and Pike Rigg. Suddenly I’m in Raise, and from there a short hop across the river into Alston.
As I pile onto the cobbles at the bottom of Front Street, I stumble into the back wheels of other cyclists. Our pace aboard the bikes is dismissed as an irrelevance, when it turns out we all walk at the same speed. We trudge up together with only the very occasional die-hard cranking past us at speeds of up to 4mph.
Exiting Alston towards Yad Moss a few moments after 10, the last 3 and a half kilometres of this leg lift me at an average 6% to 420m, the lower me, carefully, into the control some 20 minutes later.
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Wednesday 1027hrs. 556 miles. Arrive Alston Southbound.
The dominant feeling in the control is relief. At this point, after all, we are two thirds of the way up the final proper hill of the event. There are barely 300 miles left in the route, and nobody I speak to thinks for a second it will be anything less than possible. Horror stories of our last legs are shared, and reports from prior controls filter into our conversation from the brevet desk. Officially, any 0800 starter that isn’t here by now is Out Of Time, but given that the waters at Ettrick are still impassable by vehicle, the organisers graciously extend our allowance by 2 hours. This means little for anyone still caught North of the floods, some 68 miles back, but it seems some flexibility will be offered around ‘catching up the time’ before the final controls.
Glad to have pushed through the storm, I have around 8 hours in hand. This gives me two whole days to get back to London. It is hard not to relax indoors, enjoying the shelter, food, and company. I remove my makeshift waterproofs and settle in at the table. Everything smells wonderful, enveloped in an intricate and warming mixture of sandalwood, honey, nutmeg, clove, saffron, ginger lily. Good thoughts incubate within an ochre halo. All is well.
Twenty minutes later Rimas arrives. Standing out clearly as a grey figure against a backdrop of dazzling Siena, his ashen features betray the differing quality of our prior night’s accommodation. He looks wrecked, and I am reminded just how quickly things can turn.
8 hours is not that long. Too much has been invested in getting me here to risk a knock out by mechanical, and I resolve not to eat into too much of the slack I’ve earned. The bike needs a little fettling. Some oil wouldn’t go amiss. I thank her with a set of new zipties all round. Rich’s has worked its way up the cleat mast, and is now sitting free from the chain. Its presence is re-assuring. I leave it attached.
The dominant feeling in the control is relief. At this point, after all, we are two thirds of the way up the final proper hill of the event. There are barely 300 miles left in the route, and nobody I speak to thinks for a second it will be anything less than possible. Horror stories of our last legs are shared, and reports from prior controls filter into our conversation from the brevet desk. Officially, any 0800 starter that isn’t here by now is Out Of Time, but given that the waters at Ettrick are still impassable by vehicle, the organisers graciously extend our allowance by 2 hours. This means little for anyone still caught North of the floods, some 68 miles back, but it seems some flexibility will be offered around ‘catching up the time’ before the final controls.
Glad to have pushed through the storm, I have around 8 hours in hand. This gives me two whole days to get back to London. It is hard not to relax indoors, enjoying the shelter, food, and company. I remove my makeshift waterproofs and settle in at the table. Everything smells wonderful, enveloped in an intricate and warming mixture of sandalwood, honey, nutmeg, clove, saffron, ginger lily. Good thoughts incubate within an ochre halo. All is well.
Twenty minutes later Rimas arrives. Standing out clearly as a grey figure against a backdrop of dazzling Siena, his ashen features betray the differing quality of our prior night’s accommodation. He looks wrecked, and I am reminded just how quickly things can turn.
8 hours is not that long. Too much has been invested in getting me here to risk a knock out by mechanical, and I resolve not to eat into too much of the slack I’ve earned. The bike needs a little fettling. Some oil wouldn’t go amiss. I thank her with a set of new zipties all round. Rich’s has worked its way up the cleat mast, and is now sitting free from the chain. Its presence is re-assuring. I leave it attached.
[breathes again
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Lol
Sorry to leave you hanging. Work got a bit silly again.
Sorry to leave you hanging. Work got a bit silly again.
Arch
Married to Night Train
- Location
- Salford, UK
This stuff should be on telly. It's more inspiring than any of the celebrities-put-themselves-through-mild-discomfort stuff...
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
(The original poster wishes to make it absolutely clear to any media types reading that he will not be repeating the event next year, on a tandem, with Kerry Katona.)
shirokazan
Veteran
arallsopp said:
Tut, tut, arallsopp. You haven't got time for making jokes, your public are waiting for the next instalment.
nigelnorris
Well-Known Member
- Location
- Birmingham
It's like the Batman TV series. When I was a kid, waiting for all those cliffhangers to be resolved used to kill me.shirokazan said:Tut, tut, arallsopp. You haven't got time for making jokes, your public are waiting for the next instalment.
Mista Preston
Veteran
said it all at the weekend Mr A. A great read that needs to be read by more than just CC readers. Keep it coming !.
Have a good week and let us know if you make it back in time for a ride on Thursday Night
Have a good week and let us know if you make it back in time for a ride on Thursday Night
OP
OP
arallsopp
Post of The Year 2009 winner
- Location
- Bromley, Kent
Thanks all for your ongoing support. It is very much appreciated. If I had the time between meetings, I'd stop and thank each and every one of you. For now though, I think the best thing is to use any spare time to tell you about the next leg... 
