Less a ride report, more an extended whinge.
Yesterday, I was nagged constantly about my decision to ride today. My mum threatened to give me food poisoning, on the basis that hiding the bike wasn't very grown up.
I therefore, to placate the worriers, I agreed that Mam would take my car, and if I had any concern about my knee I would bail and be rescued.
So first thing this morning, my mater indulged in the kind of passive agressive behaviour we generally associate with the latter stages of relationship breakdown, and we didn't leave until 20 minutes late. Then we couldn't find the start. Mother started saying things like 'I think the world is trying to tell you something'... and at half past 6 (that's depart + 30 mins) Mr Harrison passed us on the road, stopped, and directed me to the start, saying my brevet card was waiting for me.
So at 6.45 I left the arrivee, having filled bottles, been to the loo and tetchily bid farewell to mater.
I had 45 minutes to get the 22km to Ryton. I didn't make it. I missed the turn to the Newburn bridge and ended up in Scotswood, thinking, well this might be a jolly reverie, but it aint right... I back tracked and hammered it and got a call from Hugh 'where are you?'
'I'm at the top of a hill in Ryton but I'm not sure it's the right road'
'Don't worry, follow the signs to Hexham and you'll be back on track. You're only just too late, so I'll tick you off'
So on to Hexham. The last time I rode along here I was still in short trousers and wearing pigtails (plus ca change, eh?) and I did enjoy remembering childhood rides along the Tyne Valley. I caught on the back of a trio of chaps out from Newcastle for a run up to Alston. O, it was lovely chatting with Geordie lads, and they towed me along till they went right and I stayed left to Allendale. The sun was shining, my knee was beahving and I really thought, hey, it'll be OK, I can do this.
Into Allendale, and a VC167 shirt heading towards me! I had despaired of ever seeing another rider on the route, but here was Sleepy, bored of waiting, coming out to see if I was left on the wayside. Escorted to the tearooms, and entertained and fed, I began to have fun. Being presented with a Seekrit Stash of Crinkly Flapjacks certainly helped! It didn't last though. Somehow, around about Bearbridge, I became overcome with my Real Life Issues (TM), and almost succumbed to Total Despair. Mustering all my resolve I managed to ride on, telling myself I'd re-assess at the top of Hartside. As the wind was powering behind me, climbing the 1200ft was (o ho) a breeze, and when I paused to admire the (fecking impressive) view, I did regain some mojo, so carried on to Penrith, internally sneering at the many many folks struggling up into the wind in inappropriate clothes or on inappropriate bikes, and then kicking myself for being mean. I had a while to do this as the descent was lengthy and swoopy, and quite a lot of fun. Before I knew it, Penrith was on me, and supplies obtained. The chap in the garage kindly told me I was 'at least an hour' behind the others. Thanks. I noticed as I returned my water bottles that I was without a pump. Hmmmm. You know what happens then, don't you? Taking Sleepy's Top Tip of strolling through the town centre rather than fighting round the one way system, I spied a bike shop, and honoured them with my custom- a new (and obviously, surplus to normal requirements) pump.
Out North, then, and attacked by the wind. I put on the bangin choons and put my head down, hoping to man up and fight it. It was a losing battle, and despite the gorgeous roads, the combination of rolling terrain and howling gale started to wear down my Vit I defended knee, and at Brampton I discovered I'd managed a whopping 15kph for the preceding 2 hours. Not really winning pace that, is it? Giving myself a firm talking to, I carried on, retracing the steps of my 1982 trip home to Newcastle from the Solway, pausing to admire Lanercost Priory and gradually coming to the conclusion that I was not going to make it. Somewhere along the moor, in glorious sunshine, I lost control of the bike and was blown off the road. That was that. I threw my toys firmly out of the pram and walked the bike along, self pity-ing sobbing and ignoring the (approx 30) cyclists being blown the other way and all asking if I was OK. So clearly not!
I texted the good Org to let him know, and like Superman, within 5 minutes he was at my side. To be honest, if you're acting like a 5 year old at the side of the road, you don't really want a sympathetic audience, so I swiftly pulled myself together and passed on my admiration for the route, and apologies for not being man enough for it.
At Bewcastle I admired the Cross, Castle Church and sheep, and awaited rescue.
My knee is fecking killing me.
Don't you hate it when your mother is right?
