It is one of the many fantasies of the married man that his wife will leave him with a promise to return in nearly six weeks time with her love for him recharged. As she prepares to leave she pleads with him not to fall apart on account of her absence but to do all he can to keep himself together by making a life for himself whilst he is deprived of his one true love. Cast adrift in such a manner he seeks solace in the only friend he can rely on and one morning in early July he opens the garage door and pedals off into the darkness and uncertainty that is the lot of the abandoned male.
Saturday 11 July
Scottish 50 miles time trial championship.
Trip to Inverness and beyond for the Championship at Invergordon. Strong headwind from the east resulted in several very fast (and very slow) legs. 2:02:02 for 16th.
I visit the Culloden battlefield site and take a particular interest in the Jacobite graves, in search of money. These guys owe the family for shoes taken and not paid for during their recent visit to Dumfries in 1745.
Camping out in the car for a lovely recovery evening overlooking the Moray Firth at Cromarty, I cook a meal on my camp stove – without vegetables.
Sunday 19th July
100 miles time trial at Aberdeen. Up to Aberdeen to face the distance that had wiped me out physically and mentally last year. It was to be a case of the same distance on a different day. I felt good throughout and sadly still fresh at the finish. 4:14:19 was a PB and ten minutes ahead of my time last year. A good weekend of cycling and catching up with people.
Saturday 25th. London Edinburgh London
A Tale of Time Spent in Not Altogether Fitting Company.
At last the point in time arrives and I am on the way to London. The bike fully assembled, has been accommodated well on the train by the free booking service. At Euston I meet Robert McCreadie of Inverclyde Velo (no relation to Steve but still had that strange kind of look). Two of the seven Scot’s are accounted for. I cycled with Robert through London to Victoria and then onto the train for Cheshunt. At the station we meet a fellow from Hampshire who is also there for the event. His bike was spectacularly beaten up and the way he spoke, he seemed to specialise in just finishing within the time limit. This was later confirmed when waiting in the sign on queue.
At Cheshunt, I choose to join the queue and register early. This was the only part of LEL that was badly organised. I queued for an hour and at the end of that experience all I was given was a number and instructions to join the second queue. An hour and a half later I am at the head of the second queue and have my brevet card, two sets of earplugs, reflective bands, and a souvenir bidon with the name of the secret control on it. On reflection, perhaps I could have offered to help in resolving the problem and this might have speeded up the queue and allowed me to cut a deal to get away early. I was not keen to lose my place in the queue however.
Back to my brother’s for seven p.m. This was perfectly timed to allow him to get away to a party without me and to allow me to watch the Ventoux stage of the TdF. Peter seems keen to see me and returns at 8 to persuade me to go to the party. A good move in part that allowed me to meet my brother’s extended family in London but perhaps a bad move in keeping me out of bed on the night before and for getting my face into a couple of pints of Guinness. Back at 11:30.
Preparing for the off
What is the motivation for undertaking a trip of 870 miles in less than six days? I have no answer to this apart from it is a challenge that exists, one that has the attractions of a back-roads trip between two of the countries capitals, and one that promises a degree of hardship, adventure, and lots of the unexpected.
I first came across LEL in 2001 when a colleague asked what all the bikes were doing passing through Langholm. I had no idea but was intrigued. In 2005, I did a brief stint helping out at the control at Canonbie and on that warm summers night, I wanted to join the riders as they headed south into the night. Whatever the motivation, I have wanted to meet this challenge for four years.
The motivation to get out of bed at 6a.m. for 90+ miles every Saturday and in the garage through the week was not a problem. I like riding my bike, I like seeing the countryside, and to achieve the objective in the time that is available to a man with a family, job, and other stuff, I need to do the miles in the wind and in the rain to build up the stamina over shorter distances. The motivation to spend money on training equipment and a shiny bike is without difficulty.
My decision to do as much of the training as close to home as possible and within a long and short distance BAR competition season was on reflection, perhaps stretching things a bit much and I hardly competed at the “10” distance and much of the season was spent recovering from the on-going efforts. The on-going racing and training and the delays in getting my bike properly sorted prevented me from testing equipment fully over a useful fraction of the time that would be required on LEL. The only long distance that I was able to complete (475k) highlighted some equipment problems that I had to hope that I had solved. My home-grown 500k however confirmed in my mind the great pleasures of long-distance and in particular overnight cycling on a warm dry summers night.
Sunday: Left Behind Already
So the day arrived and I am at the start. Nerves get the better of me and I head for the toilet with 15 minutes to go. With ten minutes to go I, and about 30 others are stranded at the wrong side of a railway crossing. We watch the first group of 100 riders head off under police escort through Cheshunt and out to wherever is past Cheshunt.
The railway crossing left behinds are soon on their way and with Garmin equipped bikes to the fore, we are soon out of town. The LEL adventure has begun………
I quickly spot two Scots women leaving three more Scots to find. I settle in with Phil Crale from South Carolina and we are destined to be together on and off through the night of the first day to Coxwold. Whilst Phil is easy to talk to he is easy on the ears and at times he drops back into his own space. He is slower than me but he has a Garmin and amongst the maze of roads that are soon to be in darkness, he is my friend.
‘ot Foot and a pain in the hands………
At 60kms something is very wrong. I have a problem with my feet. They are sore, pretty sore, questioning whether they have another 13401kms in them sore. I changed my shoes just prior to the event due to a small amount of the same problem in my previous shoes. I bought the same shoes but one size bigger to take a sorbethane insole. This problem is clearly not solved. I begin to think of what I will say on my return to Dumfries having failed to get the length of the average club run.
By the first control (Thurlby: 151km) the tea volunteer diagnoses that I am suffering from “’ot foot”. It takes me a while to recognise that this is ‘ot as in ‘elp, ‘otel, and ‘elicopter. So there was the diagnosis, and the solution that finally delivered was getting into a pattern of asking for scissors and a cardboard box and making a supply of cardboard insoles that are piled into the shoes at each stop for food or to remedy foot discomfort. Discomfort seems to start when the cardboard becomes compressed and throughout the ride, no cardboard insoles are removed, only more are added. Final measurement is that by means of cardboard insoles, I am an inch taller at the end than I was at the beginning.
The reach on the bike reach becomes uncomfortable early on and throughout the ride I am adjusting the bars up and down, rotating up and then down. This goes on throughout the ride. The back end of the bike is very comfortable and the Brooks saddle, and ASSOS shorts and cream are fabulous. The other new purchase of Montagne waterproof is a blessing.
Keeping going into the night
As we approach Thorn (Doncaster: 321km) on the first night, the rain is torrential and it is cold, very cold. At the control I meet Scots person number five. He is shivering uncontrollably from the cold or DTs but he is determined to drink the pint that he has promised himself. He is unable to steady himself for this most basic of tasks and I find myself arguing with him that he has to put on the clothes that I am lending him. I also meet for the first time, Mr Bleak. Mr Bleak (probably not his real name) always had a negative answer to how things were going for him. As the ride went on when our paths crossed I would seek him out to ask him how things were going, purely for my own entertainment.
Leaving Thorn in the middle of the first night, I feel that I am leaving the south behind and onto the next stage of the journey that is across the Humber, through the flat lands of the West Riding and into Yorkshire and Tees-side. The scenery so far has been mixed but fairly flat. I have seen rural England, travelling by roads that will be difficult to find and recognise again.
At Coxwold (411km), Phil heads for some sleep but with dawn only a couple of hours away, I have less worries about route finding and head off alone into what remains of the night. Sleepiness becomes a problem and in the dark near to Middleton Tyas (Darlington) I see a big cat in the road that is not for moving. With a few seconds to go before evasive action is required, the “cat” looks up to reveal itself as an owl that is unhappy to be disturbed.
I begin to fall asleep on the bike and as the head drops, the bike pushing forward as a consequence of the redistribution of weight wakens me. I have ten minutes sitting dozing in a field and continue to Middleton Tyas where I recognise that in 24 hours I have covered 463 km without any real sleep, and in very mixed but never warm weather. The problems with my feet are eased and I am confident that I have found a solution that will get me round. Staying with Phil and the feet problems have taken from me any thought of going for a “time”. I consider the extent to which the distance is untested by me and opt to continue as well as I can and to enjoy what ever comes my way.
Monday, Day 2: Help arrives just in time…..
Near Middleton Tyas I meet my sister by the roadside. I hop into her car for a pre-arranged hour on the airbed. It is not to be an hour of sleep unfortunately and I am on the road again within the hour. Isabel accompanies me and gives much support to the tiring mind and body. The stretch to Alston is tiring and annoying. The bike begins to make a noise that takes some time to trace to the mudguard. Once traced it is easily sorted. Isabel gets a puncture and the stop/start continues. Isabel recognises that I am struggling and not thinking straight, and insists on a food stop at Middleton Teesdale. This was a wise instruction and I am fuelled for the climb to the top of Yad Moss where I say goodbye to family for a while and I continue alone to the Alston control.
At Alston (539 km), I continue to struggle. I meet Graham from work who is one half of the two northern motorcycle escort crew. Graham accedes to my request for a cuddle and I drag my wet and cold corpse for food and a sleep. Whilst food appears instantly, sleep does not come and after two hours at the control, I am on the road again and still on my own.
Part of a gang……..
Some fifteen miles out of Alston I come across a mixed crew who funnily enough are heading the same way as I am and I join in. Ed from Shropshire, Jim and Martin from Derby, Drew and Andrew from VC167, and Martin from North Yorkshire. We will stay together until the final night.
Between Longtown and Canonbie we see the first rider heading south and as we head through Eskdalemuir (633km), other groups are appearing. The run across the familiar territory from Brampton to the Gordon Arms feels short within the group and across the well-known ground. I am well into previously untested distance.
The second night over the Wiss and then the Moorfoots is a delight due to the quiet night, the lack of traffic and the company. After a midnight feast at the secret control near Traquair of cake, porridge, cake, porridge, cake we continue towards the long descent into Dalkeith. Half way – less than two days – no sleep so far, and 716kms.
At Dalkeith, I understand that sleep is essential but there is no room at this particular inn. The church is full of sleeping people and the control is a mixture of bodies everywhere, people coming and going, and eating and talking. There is no-where for me to lie down. I resort to trying door handles and to my surprise I discover a deserted changing room. There are benches along the wall and I climb aboard. The reason that they are deserted is immediately obvious. The benches are too narrow for the average person. The body fits but not the arms. I need to sleep and find the answer by streamlining the body by means of putting my arms down the legs of my shorts. They cannot therefore flop around but I am promised a face plant if I fall off the bench. The only falling I do is asleep and I wake fresh after a wonderful three hours.
Halfway there. Breakfast in Edinburgh. Now the catastrophic return journey is about to begin. Rain and high winds that were to follow during the day left about 2-300 cyclists stranded in Eskdalemuir and Alston. I was lucky to get over Yad Moss before dark and to leave the worst of the weather and most of the cyclists behind before it caught up with me at Coxwold.
Tuesday, Day Three: The Road Home
The start of day three finds me and my new found friends on the long climb out of Edinburgh. The weather deteriorates and it is jackets on to Eskdalemuir (799kms) and beyond. I get a cuddle from a colleague at Eskdalemuir and refuse one from Neil Henderson. Neil provides instead a preferential service for food and water and some encouragement.
Down through Langholm in the rain to Alston. It has been raining consistently for much of the day and as we leave Alston at 7p.m. it is raining quite heavily. I regale the group with stories of my last trip over Yad Moss “where it was so bad……..” At the top of the climb I offer that this was as bad as my last trip over the climb. It is truly foul. As we descend, the weather improves and the temperature rises. We arrive at Middelton Tyas (969kms) in the dark at 10:30p.m. I call my sister who comes and picks me up. A camp-bed awaits and I have no trouble sleeping for a whole five hours.
Wednesday, Day Four: The final day – well almost.
The group assembles for a 7a.m. start and we are off towards Thorne where in my mind, we leave the north behind for the final leg to the finish. We hear from the control, tales of abandonments and crowds stranded at Eskdalemuir by severe weather and floods. We understand that the organiser has allowed a whole extra two hours for completion of the event.
The weather is dry as we head south but it appears that this was just to tempt us from our beds. As we cross the West Riding it is windy and wet. The flat lands give no shelter from the wind and the sections of busy road, no respite from spray. It is truly dreadful summer weather but I celebrate the success of my new jacket to the extent that I resolve to thank the manufacturers. The food at Thorne is plentiful and provides great comfort. I meet Mr Bleak again who lives up to his name and appears to be thankful that some-one is taking an interest in his misery.
We ride out into the night and it is wet to the extent that we are temporarily defeated and take shelter under the canopy of a closed filling station. I am cold and riding on is the only option. Thankfully, we outrun the rain and the night is fresh. In the middle of the night we reach the Thurlby control (1250km) and the group decide to call it a night. I resolve to go on and finish.
Day 5, Thursday: The Final leg
With my ride colleagues resting, I team up with Daniel from Brazil. Daniel is riding in shorts on a Cervelo race bike and with a small rucksack on his back. He is good company but as dawn signals the end of the night and the relatively traffic free roads, he is tiring and falling back. I plough on alone an hour before the last control but on a bright morning.
I have the final control at Gamlingay (1340kms) to myself and I am made aware that there are a large number of abandonments from the 540 who started (later confirmed as 70). It has been a tough test, over a long and hilly route, in foul weather. In my mind it is well and truly cracked and in a couple of hours or so I will have met my challenge.
The Finish
I finish at 10:15 a.m. on the Thursday morning, four days and just over two hours from the start. Four years of thinking about the event and almost a year in from the planning, purchasing, persuading, and training that has gone into it, and it is finished. I feel good, and in my mind I could have carried on for another session. I am too tired to feel other than moderately satisfied and although I did not expect some kind of feeling of rapture of fanfare of trumpets, my mind is not sure what to feel. An achievement of that size immediately begins the question of “what next”. My body does not question and within five minutes of sitting in my brother’s car, it has called for a time out and I am asleep.
In Conclusion.
London Edinburgh London was a great experience. It was long and it was tough and there is some perversity in triumphing over such awful weather and with so little sleep. There was the added and quite unnecessary challenge of coping with equipment that I did not test adequately. There are no crowds at the side of the road to encourage you as there are in Paris-Brest-Paris but there is fellowship on the road and at the controls. I am grateful to Phil, Ed, Martin, Drew Andrew, Jim for their friendship over the four days, to Graham, Jill, and Neil at the controls, and to my sister Isabel for getting me through a bad patch, and brother Peter and sister in law Sue for picking me up at the end and feeding me back into life. In the preparation I was particularly grateful for the advice of PBP veterans Les and Ian and amused by the bewilderment of others. Biggest thanks to my better half for somehow and most of the time being able to tolerate her husbands many obsessions.
For all the things that LEL was it is all summed up in the audacious madness of four days of hard physical work with only eight hours sleep, cycling distances that leaves non-cyclists disbelieving, and the joy of cycling in the stillness of a summer’s night (even with appalling winter weather).
Whilst Paris-Brest-Paris is now firmly on the radar, the question in my mind is already, “and then what?”
