Middle Road 600: 29 September 2007I signed up to do this ride on (the only) sunny morning in Paris. Spirits were high, morale was up, lunacy was in the air, and a certain Mr Teethgrinder appeared, like the tempting demon of medieval folklore, brandishing entry forms for the Middle Roads 600. I DNF’d my first attempt at a 600 (the Three Coasts, in point of fact more like the Constant Coast due to the route being
somewhat damp) and, with a few 2’s, a 3 and a 4 in the bag, quite wanted to have another stab at a 6, despite having vowed to myself post-Coast that there was nothing I would like less.
In the weeks following France, as my clothes dried off, and the scent of petrol no longer accompanied my morning brew, I began to worry about what I had let myself in for. I had done little distance since June (the Dun Run, a handful of 100km social rides, and commuting). I was no more prepared and certainly no faster or fitter. But I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain in the form of a shiny SR badge, and so it was after work on a Friday that I found myself lycra-d up and on the way out to Milton Keynes with Charlotte and Juliet. Arriving chez Teethgrinder, we had a cuppa while he geared down (95” being a tad high
) and settled in for some sleep before the ride.
We were up at 5am and ready to head out for 6, but MattC was caught in the webby fingers of the Milton Keynes road system. We finally set out at about 7 and headed out towards Oakham. I should probably mention that I had – quite deliberately – not taken the precaution of looking at a map, on the basis that I didn’t want to scare myself. At Oakham we found the Co-Op control, and consumed mass amounts of beans on toast to fuel up for what lay ahead. The first 100k was rolling, but not stupidly so, and the next bit through Leicestershire to Lincoln was decidedly hilly. A minor disaster when my chain committed hara-kiri by throwing itself into my spokes, but some brute force and coaxing got it out, and I was off again (not using my granniest gear, just in case). We were keeping up a decent pace, and I was enjoying myself. It was a nice day – cold but not too cold, and not raining, which was the important thing!
From Lincoln, the countryside levelled out to become flat, but windy. I spent quite some time wheelsucking to avoid the wind. At about 250km, my knee went ping – not a surprise, as this always happens on long rides, since I was SMIDSYd in March. Although I know it happens, and I bring ibruprofen and knee supports, I always forget between rides quite how much it hurts when it happens. :
I slowed down at that stage and fell off the back of the group, and by the time I caught them up was feeling decidedly sorry for myself – it was dark, I was miserable, cold and tired and my knee hurt.
I decided to wait until I caught the group before trying to find my ibruprofen, as it was too dark to be rummaging in panniers and I could still see their lights in the distance. I stopped in a pub car park, pretended that I wasn’t crying really, and had some ibruprofen. I knew there was only 120km (ish) to get to the Travelodge where we were stopping, and I knew that my knee would last that long, but the next hundred k were a bit of a trial.
Crossing the Humber was quite a landmark – partly because it was nearly the “halfway point” and partly because looking out over the water, I could see the reflection of the waxing moon, and a spattering of streetlights from nearby towns. It was almost entirely silent, and the effect was rather nice.
We stopped in Howden, where we were just in time to pop into the shop to get sandwiches, and then went over to the pub where we sat and had some much needed coffee and warmed up. Some friendly locals sitting outside (in that cold – I hope they’d had sufficient alcohol that they weren’t feeling it!) to smoke, and were very encouraging when they asked how far we’d come.
Howden back down to the Travelodge was definitely the worst part of the ride for me. I was tired, despite the caffeine, and tiredness makes me slow and dispirited. My legs hurt, and although my knee pain had dulled to a manageable ache, it was enough to really begin to make me question my sanity. We stopped at the petrol station in Lincoln again, where I put on my final layers and went into the station. I had a coffee and bought a pack of jelly babies. The man in the petrol station took one look at me and brought a stool out for me.
I sat on it sipping coffee and eating jelly babies until my hands stopped shaking, and then – reluctantly – headed back out.
Lincoln to Gonerby Moor was cold like I have never ridden in before. In a way, it was very pretty, but really it was too cold to enjoy riding. I had brought extra layers thinking I wouldn’t need them, but I did – and even so, my face was numb. I wanted to stop at one stage – just for five minutes off the bike – but there was no way. The air was thick with fog, and the droplets of moisture in the air were icy. At that point, if I had seen a train station I would have stopped at it, no question. Charlotte was tired too, and kept riding off the road. Enormous kudos to Teethgrinder, who kept both of us awake, on the road, and managed to cheer me up with an impressive stash of really, really bad jokes. (I can’t believe I fell for that chin-nuts one – I must have been tired!)
I was very relieved to see the services in the distance and to collapse into a bed with Charlotte and Juliet. Sticky, smelly and still fully clothed, I awoke after an hour and a half…. feeling surprisingly good! Someone had made coffee, which I drank without even asking, and I had a muffin. A quick shower and change of shorts, and I was ready to go again. Depending on whose computer we were looking at, we had covered 370 or 380, leaving 220 or 230 to do in fourteen hours. The sun was up, and it was a beautiful crisp autumn morning – just my kind of weather. My knee was much better for the rest, and I was feeling confident and enthusiastic. I know I can cover 230 in fourteen hours, and the headwind we had suffered on the way up had ceased (although it was now a crosswind, not being kind enough to keep up and be a helpful tailwind).
We hadn’t gone terribly far when we hit a hill and my knee went again. Only this time, it didn’t just go ping, it imploded. Some form of tendon or ligament or
something sort of chewy popped out from under my kneecap, and was popping in-out-in-out with every turn of the pedals. The pain was like nothing I have ever felt before – even breaking a wrist wasn’t this bad. I stopped the bike (well, the bike stopped and I stumbled off it) and walked up the hill to where the others were waiting for me. By the time I got there, I was crying again – only this time it wasn’t my usual attacks of getting teary through tiredness, frustration or despair, it was real pain. I don’t think I’ve actually cried through pain since I was a child. It wasn’t good. My suggestion – gimme a route sheet, get going, and I’ll see you if I see you – was kindly but firmly rejected by the panel. Charlotte fed me one of her Tramadol – and by golly, do those things work. I set off again – gingerly – and after ten or fifteen minutes, the pill kicked in. I could still feel the pop-pop-popping going on in my kneecap, but it didn’t hurt any more. Nor, come to that, did any of the rest of me. Down to Oakham for another Co-op stop and more beans.
To be honest, I don’t remember a lot of the part post-Oakham. I remember knowing we had to get to Billing, then Thame, then back to Milton Keynes. Billing, Buckingham, Thame, Back, became like a mantra. I know that Oakham to Billing was hilly, and I had to walk quite a few of the hills (those Tramadol are good but not infallible, and I didn’t want to risk it.) I became slightly obsessed with doing the mental arithmetic of how many km we had left, converting it to miles and back again, and working out how many miles / km per hour we had to cover. At Billing, the Billing Mill appealed to me (sounds like my office, chortle chortle). We stopped at another petrol station (I think) and I had another Tramadol (I think). I forced down a tuna sandwich and a smoothie, neither of which I wanted, but I knew that not eating would just about finish me off.
The last part of any ride is usually quite smooth for me, but by the end of this one I just wanted it to finish. The painkillers had made me even more tired than I already was (a trade-off for not being in pain – there was no question which was worse). We weren’t going to stop at Buckingham, but make it straight through to Thame and then hit the finish, but as we pulled out of the climb to Buckingham, I fell apart. Charlotte had heaved up the hill and was waiting at the top. I got off my bike, burst into tears, stumbled over to Charlotte and declared that I wasn’t going any further. At that stage I didn’t care that there were only 80km to go. There were only four hours left (I didn’t know about the extra two at that stage) and it may as well have been 800km for all the chance I felt I had of covering it. The exhaustion, the knee, and the mental stress of being barely in time were all combining to look good for a DNF. Between them, Charlotte and Teethgrinder calmed me down, waited for me to get a grip again, and reassured me that I would make it. I pulled myself together, but I still wasn’t really functioning. Teethgrinder told me that the best thing to do was not to get down, but angry, and just attack the rest of the ride. I was still in too many pieces to process this rationally, which would have led to the conclusion that he was either insane or a sadist, so I tried it – and whaddyaknow. He’s right. I sat on his wheel for the next 40k to Thame, at some tremendous pace (for me) and the increased speed and different mindset really worked. I pushed the pain in my knee (which was starting again) to one side and just went for it (memo to self: do not let the doctor hear of this) and somehow pushed my pace right up, with the result that when we got to the petrol station in Thame, the others were still there.
I was very, very tired by this stage but beginning to feel again that I might make it. I knew I was tired because sitting on Steve’s wheel, I’d begun to have imaginary conversations with his panniers, which I was convinced looked like a kitten face, with the reflective patches as ears and the red rear light as the nose. I’d also begun to see things – imaginary rabbits running across the road, which I kept swerving to avoid before realizing they weren’t there, and huge, imposing sentries which turned back into road signs as I got near to them. I was really grateful for Steve and Charlotte’s patter of conversation, anecdotes and jokes, which were keeping me focused and sane.
From Thame we had just over two hours to do the 40km back, which was still tight. Again, I was dozy, and I was alternating between feeling that I could definitely do this, and that I definitely couldn’t. With hindsight I should have had another painkiller at Thame, but something convinced me I shouldn’t. I don’t know why. I had to stop again at the top of a hill, as I was feeling sick, but I managed to avoid actually being sick, and continued. Then it was just a case of pushing on, keeping to Teethgrinder’s wheel where I could, and hoping that we were nearly there. We seemed to be 35km away for at least 15km…
At about 10.45, I asked how far off we were (again – I must have sounded like a manic, overgrown child:
“are we nearly there yet?”) and Teethgrinder said it was about two miles. Right. That was it – I had not cycled 596km to arrive out of time. Charlotte was slightly behind me at this stage, and I hung back, selfishly, to ask if she’d mind if I just sprinted for it. She didn’t, and I did.
As it happened, we all sprinted for the finish, arriving at 10.57, with three minutes to spare for a 40-hour limit (and two hours 3 minutes for the actual limit! :
)
I was quite overwhelmed to have made it. It’s only just sunk in, really – I did this thing, yes, me, the slightly “curvy” bookish one with the violent abhorrence of exercise in all its forms. At the time I just felt relieved to be finished, slightly disoriented and really, really grateful to my riding companions for all their help and encouragement – especially Teethgrinder.
On the train on the way home, I fell asleep, sprawled like a drunk over three train seats. The next day I woke up, dehydrated, sore, with inexplicable bruises on my legs and a serious craving for a fry-up and pints of strong tea. I briefly wondered: did I really cycle 600km or did I just have a major night out?
I am still slightly shell-shocked that I made it round, but so very pleased. I am particularly pleased that it was the last weekend in September – exactly two years since I first climbed astride a bicycle as an adult (my faithful Ridgeback Comet, with a ladies’ frame and knobblies, because I was scared of crossbars and narrow tyres.) I’m also very chuffed that I’ve managed an SR series in my first season of audax. My first audax was the Golden Tints 100 in October 2006, and I remember looking at the people doing the 200 and thinking “I’d never be able to do that.” It’s largely thanks to the support, encouragement and gentle pushing of others on this forum that I managed to do anything more than a 200 this year, never mind anything as silly as an SR series. I swore most of the way round this ride that I wouldn’t do it again next year – but now that the agony is abating, I’m already thinking of working on my hills and my speed, and maybe aiming for a 1000km brevet…
Plaudits etc to Juliet & Rich for their first SR too – I hope you guys enjoyed it, if that’s the right word, as much as me – and to Charlotte for losing her marbles sufficiently to ride it fixed. But man of the match is Teethgrinder for taking this weekend “off” to guide a group of beginners, and for the encouragement, help, anecdotes and appalling jokes. Here’s one for you: why do gorillas have big nostrils? Because they have big fingers.