The ride started less than well. After arriving in Bristol, I realised that my cycling boots were still wet from my ride the week before, the insoles that I had removed were still at home as was my battery to keep my Garmin going as well as my batteries that I had carefully recharged during the week. Much of the time I had hoped to rest before the ride was spent restocking some of these supplies. Just before starting the ride, I managed to drop and stand on my glasses- good start!
We were off! Following a stream of riders and red lights after some rain I arrived at the first control. Too much of a queue for drinks- but a quick toilet trip as I had been waiting since the start as the line was so long for the one toilet in Bristol.
On to the second control, the lights now occasionally appearing down the road in front of me and bright lights behind me. A drink of coke and portion of chips in McDonalds whilst listening to a Welsh rider recounting his PBP experience before continuing on into the night.
The quiet calm night now enveloped me. Quiet- few cars, the swish of tyres through standing water on the road. Ringwood- I had camped here last summer. I heard a muffled cry in front of me and looked up in time to see a deer silently crossing the road through the beam of our lights. The rain restarted and I stopped so my new riding partner, James, could put on his jacket under the bright garage forecourt lights. We must be near the sea. I was thankful for his conversation to keep me going through the night.
Down by the sea, threading through barriers, a few hardy souls were walking next to the beach and it looked like one group were digging in the sand. Were my eyes playing up? I certainly thought so when the darkness was shattered by a huge blue and white Christmas tree on the seafront. I remembered the warning beware of the sand on the path. I slowed down, anxious not to take an involuntary tumble. I could no longer see the lights in front of me. How much further could the scout hut be? Had I somehow passed it? Reassured by a couple of riders, more courageous than me, who flew past either side. Surely not far now. The promenade finished. What relief I had survived the sand. How much further? Turning down a potholed gravel path I cyclists coming towards me and the the hut in front of me.
The door was opened and I was flooded with light. Bikes were lent up against the interior walls. Tired riders were sitting at tables eating and drinking. Soon I was replenishing the burnt calories with sausages, mushrooms, beans and toast all washed down with a couple of mugs of sugary tea. Bottle refilled, a new layer of chamois crème applied I was ready for the off. At that moment a rider staggered in. He looked bedraggled and he announced that he had come off. He was upset at the holes in his new jacket and tights, although his injuries were not as bad as first thought as the red angry marks were not bruised and broken flesh but tattoos. I enquired if he had come off on the sand on the promenade. He had turned off the main road onto a steep lane, lost control on slippery leaves, and come off. He decided to call it a day and to return with his broken bike and bruised body on the next train to Bristol.
Spooked by his fall, I delayed leaving the control for a while until daylight. After taking a sunrise picture by the shore as evidence of my ride, and a brief conversation with another rider in highly reflective tights I rode on glad to be in the light but wary of slippery leaves.
Beautiful daylight, wonderful views. And now hills. A building on a hill which must be Glastonbury. Beautiful villages. My solitude broken by having a conversation with another rider who told me about his LEJoG last summer, the benefits of steady riding, and the virtues of rainlegs. At this point I realised my speed was continually decreasing, and it slowly dawned on me that my front mudguard was shaking. Further investigation revealed that a mudguard stay bolt was no longer attaching it to the front fork. Fumbling in my bag I fished out a roll of tape and bodged a repair.
Podimore Services- a free control. As I was now feeling a bit sick, what should I do? I decided on a sandwich and a drink would keep me going. I was not convinced I would make it back before the cut off. Why do these rides always involve so much maths? So may kilometres left- convert the distance approximately into miles. I set my self targets, after the next so many kilometres/miles I would take my hat off/gloves off/ put my gloves on. The distance counted down oh so slowly. Passing riders with punctures, riders passing me who I didn’t recognise but whose bikes I remembered from the night before. The shame of being overtaken by a lady on a mountainbike out for a ride with her son!
“I don’t like the Strawberry Line. I’m going to take the road,” another now familiar rider called out. The old trainline was on my Garmin so that was the way I was going, so we parted ways. Besides a trainline must be flat and easy going right? Sloshing though gloopy leaves and mud I attempted to pick the least squelchy line. My wheels were rubbing so a suitable stick was sought to help them turn more easily.
“Your lights really stand out,” commented a passing rider. I wondered if that was really a comment about my lights or more a comment that I had just stopped for a pee and my lights had caught me out. Such sweet relief.
Eventually Yatton Station, the next control appeared. Behind metal fences bikes were propped on the platform. Slowly my numb brain worked at the riddle of how to get around the barriers and park up. I just wanted to get a stamp and continue. Waiting in a long line I could feel my impatience grow as I inched my way forward. She seemed unwilling to stamp cards unless a purchase was made. I handed over my card with another customer and I was free to once more be on my way.
Yatton, just where was Yatton anyway? Another bike path next to a train track, this time overtaken by a kid on a BMX, and with the speed of a slug I realised I was in Long Ashton. Bristol, suddenly so many people, so many cars. The suspension bridge towered above me. After a confusing labyrinth of cycle paths, car parks, dead ends, bridges, graffiti sprayed walls, only a few hundred meters to go. This must be it – the adventure playground. I had made it. I joined others slumped at tables and was offered food.
A few days later back at work I was asked about my weekend. I t was a struggle to articulate my experience in few enough words without losing the interest of the inquirer beyond, it rained, I saw a deer, I went to Bournemouth, it was long.
There wasn’t really the opportunity to talk about the fact my Garmin hadn’t crashed, nor had I crashed, the lack of punctures,the calm solitude of the night, friends made on the ride, the stunning villages, flooded drainage ditches, riding through the mud on a disused railway line, the sudden re emergence into the city of Bristol, the unimaginable fact that some people finished in almost half the time that I took...
“How was yours?” I asked.
Thanks to the organisers and all the friendly faces along the way!