A lot of things can happen in 600 km. Partnerships form and break apart, suicidal tendencies come and go, the landscape changes dramatically, and of course so does the weather.
Aptstarfish on Yad MossIt was an easy start - Danny Merlik and I led the group out of Aldbrough. It was probably the most complicated bit of routefinding of the weekend, but along roads so familiar to me that the routesheet was mainly decorative. It was a chance to catch up with Danny Merlik, but I couldn't keep up for long, and I peeled off near Cotherstone and never saw him or Mike Thompson again. It was a dry, fairly still, overcast but not unpleasant day, and I was at Newcastleton by 12 noon. I'd brushed the edge of a hail shower, which was the most percussive precipitation I've ever experienced. It chimed off my steel frame. Just as I rolloed into Newcastleton, I felt a few drops of rain, and looking up the long, straight high street, I saw that the north end was glowing wet - I sprinted for the cafe and made it under the canopy before the rain started. Smug and happy, I sat down with jo and aptstarfish and ordered my food. I was to pay for that smugness later on.
when I got to the border
before Newcastleton: the shape of things to comeSleepy flicked us the V's from the back of the tandem as they passed in the rain. Jo nipped off when that shower eased, and it had just about stopped by the time we left. It didn't stay dry for long, we were soon putting rain jackets on and struggling into the wind on the climb over Wauchop Forest. In a ride which had hills and flat bits but wasn't especially hilly or flat, the Newcastleton-Jedburgh stretch was the only section I found quite tough. The rain probably didn't help. I tried to maintain a sunny disposition and probably got on Alex's nerves with my relentless optimism, but even that mask slipped when the cafe we found in Kelso was probably colder than being outside. At one point I commented on how much brighter it had gotten, but then I realised that it was just because I'd taken off my shades.
It was quite chilly, too - more like March than June, but I resisted putting on my long-fingered gloves or leg-warmers, as I wanted to save something for the night. However, I was wearing everything else. We stopped at Tesco in Gala as I'd promised Alex warm air from the heaters, but it was obviously far too tropical outside for that, as they were pumping cold air into the shop. We did what we could with the heater in the loo. My suggestion of feigning interest in the automatic dryers at the Comet over the road and getting our stuff dried as a pre-purchase test was, sadly, vetoed.
I didn't take my phone out much, so there aren't any photos of the shite weather and rain. Use your imagination. It wasn't that bad, except for being unusually cold. And persistent. I can't have been the only one who considered getting an extra layer in the shops. Thankfully it eased and had stopped not long after we left Gala and continued our ride along the Tweed. We were with the Tweed for a long time, all the way to the source, which, since it forms so much of the border, makes perfect sense. We didn't do much looting or pillaging on this ride, and the only thing I managed to fetch back was a Scottish tenner. We rode past Smailholm Tower, the ruined victim of previous border raids.
You might think a stretch of 40 km on the same road with no navigation would be easy, but since the run over the Devil's Beeftub and through Moffat on the A701 coincided with my darkest moments on the ride, it was mainly an opportunity for the demons of doubt to emerge from their corners and tell me to quit. I was honestly sick of feeling shite on these rides, since I felt that I'd been fighting illness on every audax I'd ridden since the middle of April, and I was pissed off and just wanted to stop. I did get as far as imagining the owner of a particular cottage letting me in to sleep for the night, and driving me to the nearest station the next day, where I'd get a train home, but it wasn't the unlikeliness of the scenario which kept me going - it was the fact that I'd still be miles away from my cosy bed, and wouldn't get back until Sunday night. A magic door home was what I wanted, and since there wasn't one available, I carried on.
I stopped a mile or two from the top of the climb over the Devil's Beeftub (yes, it really is that long) for some of CrinklyLion's cake and some cheesy flapjack. I'd been feeling nauseous since at least Kelso, and I hadn't eaten for about 100 kms, so as well as feeling nauseous and hating the cold and pissing rain, I felt knackered, so I was wet and cold and nauseous and knackered. I'm used to listening to my body during these rides, and I've never suffered appetite issues before, and the mixed message meant I didn't eat. A bit of food cheered me up and strengthened my legs and got me to Annandale Water, where sleep was the priority.
Actually, riding over the Beeftub in (just) daylight was wonderful, too. That was my main target - Beeftub in daylight. OK, it was a bit dusk-y and twilight-y, but I could see the scarred hills and the Beeftub itself, which was more than I had two years ago, in the dark.
Aptstarfish met me at Annandale - which surprised me, as he'd ridden away from me ages before. Turns out, he'd thought we needed proof of passage in Moffat, so he'd stopped and met the my-dad's-a-better-audaxer-than-your-dad bloke. Surreal moment down the interminable B-thingummy from Moffat to Annandale, where I saw cyclists coming the other way, just as I had on the Lanchester 400. Not phantoms of my imagination, but riders on the Only for Softies 600. I asked if they'd been through the same rain we had, and was viciously pleased to hear they'd had a good soaking too. Misery really does love company.
The night was quite warm - much warmer than the day had been, in the cold rain. Aptstarfish had ridden on and I'd grabbed half an hour's kip with my head on my arms at the services and felt fine to carry on. Something had woken me up, as I snapped upright from sleep like a meerkat, prompting the kind coffee-bringing lady at the services to ask if I was OK. I was alert enough to ask her to fill my bottle - not daft, you see.
For the next 150 miles or so, we were following the motorways, well kind of. Certainly from Annandale to Gretna the route paralleled the M74, which was incredible. Juggernauts with lines of lights along their sides and roaring, grunting engines growled past, and neon signs lined the route like markers on the road to hell. It was flat, too, so I made good time once I'd stopped by the arc lights outside the sawmill to get my shit back together and dig out my head torch.
mist above PenrithThe sky started to lighten as early as 1.30, and it was accompanied by a slowly rising mist. As the day dawned it made for stunning landscapes - above Penrith, the Lakeland fells rose like islands from a sea of mist. It was unbelievably cold, though, and I was starting to need sleep again, so I lost my bus shelter cherry in Low Hesket, but after ten minutes or so I shivered myself awake again and had to carry on.
Hugh Harrison and sleepyI dossed in the 24 hour garage at Penrith, which still wasn't warm, but the coffee and as much chat as I could manage perked me up briefly. Just to warm up a bit, I rode along the wrong side of the road in the sun along the A6 south of Penrith, but I was flagging again, and took a kip on a stile, which was amusing but impractical, so I found the driest spot of grass against the wall and got my head down for maybe half an hour. That did the trick, even though I was still slow through Shap village until Sleepy and Señor Harrison caught up with me on the tandem, which spurred my legs into life. Must be the competitive instinct.
Lune GorgeI followed sleepy's excellent suggestion of breakfast at Tebay services, as it was still too early for sleepy ol' Sedbergh to have come to life on a Sunday morning. I should have had the beans, but my brain wasn't functioning that well, and the extra fried bread, black pudding etc didn't do me any harm. The nausea had vanished somewhere along the way, as you may have gathered.
Hugh and Sleepy climbing out of TebayDid I mention, Sunday morning was stunning? The sun was burning off the mist, but it still lingered in the bottoms of the valleys while the sun kissed the tops of the hills. After Tebay, the Lune Gorge was gorgeous. It was that perfect hour of the morning when the sun's still low enough to cast deep shadows into the sides of the fells, and even the brutal infrastructure of the motorway didn't seem too obtrusive. It had stopped raining, all the niggles and snottiness and nausea which had affected me and made me curse my ill luck seemed to have vanished, I'd rediscovered my mojo and I was enjoying this long distance cycling lark again. Even the perpetual fucking headwind which always hits over Garsdale didn't affect my mood much. The miles were ticking by quite pleasantly.
Lune ViaductIt's probably not coincidence that my cheerful mood coincided with the return of a few hills, as well as sunshine. You couldn't fail to be inspired by the Howgills in sunshine, or Wensleydale and Garsdale on a quiet Sunday morning. I had to walk a few bits, mainly out of fear of over-stressing my knee, but that bothered me not at all.
Moorcock ViaductMy opinion changed a bit after Leyburn - the A6108 gets the job done. but it's an unrewarding road. Hills with no views and impatient drivers. And that headwind, though I was right in assuming that it'd be a tailwind on the way back.
I was flagging again. I tend to find that my mood comes in waves, depending on caffeine/sugar/food consumption, external inspiration by view or company, or by some other weird alchemy of happenings, and on this occasion I fought off a bit of drowsiness with double Pro Plus in Masham, then at the garage in Ripon I realised that I could stick it to The Man by putting an extra espresso shot into my coffee, but only declaring a single black coffee at the counter. Take that, Man.
I think the potent combination of sleep deprivation and excess caffeine sends me a bit loopy, but in a good way. Also, there was a 10 km stretch of road where the route doubled back on itself, and seeing other riders on there before I got to Ripon cheered me up immensely, Grinning like a loon for most of the 55 km back to Ripon in rain which became heavier and heavier was probably the best coping tactic. As the bridges over the A1 were closed or possibly closed, Nigel had come up with an alternative route back to Aldbrough which was far better than the usual schlep through Kirklington and Leeming Bar. The lanes past Thorp Perrow and through Crakehall, Hackforth were lovely. Shame that we had to go through Catterick, but not even Nigel could organise an extra crossing of the Swale.
Mike Thompson was just getting out of bed when I got back, having finished about five and-a-half hours earlier. We sat and chatted in Nigel's conservatory while listening to the rain, and I opined that his 90-mile drive home was likely to be worse than my 8-mile ride home. Since it had still been dry and sunny when he'd finished, I only had slight sympathy. I didn't hang about to see the others finish (since I reckoned they were at least an hour behind me) - I wanted to get home, and dry, and drunk. I'd qualified, and I'd actually enjoyed one of these damn things for the first time in what felt like an age. Randonneuring - it might yet catch on.
