Rehab Ride

I've written it on this blog before, and it's still true, Die Burger is one of my favourite rides of the year. It's a ride I look forward to immensely, and it has never failed to live up to expectations. The anticipation this year though came with a large dose of reality. I knew from the outset it was going to be a very different ride to last year. At 5km longer, and without the DC-conditioned legs or the strong tail wind chasing us home, it was clearly going to be a significantly slower ride.

With no PBs on offer, and training having been limited by my neck injury, it was important to be realistic about what Die Burger would be for me this year: the next stage of my rehabilitation; an opportunity to push myself and discover where I am at fitness wise using the backdrop of a familiar ride. Those thoughts in mind, I set off in the car just before dawn with a simple set of goals for the event:

• improve my usual poor pacing, go out hard but keep just enough in reserve for the tough stretch home
• push beyond my recent training levels, but without cramping up towards the end
• see if riding without energy drinks avoids the bonks but doesn't leave me out of gas
• don't lose my group as we swing around the back of Paarl - my nemesis section, which almost always sees me struggling alone in the wind as my bunch rides away
• have fun! 

All of the these were looking to have some added help by virtue of starting with several Wannabee team mates.  Around 6 or 7 of us all line up in the chute together, huddling against the cold wind in the dark of the morning. But we were down to just 3 by the time Helshoogte had done it's worst, and strong blasts of head-on South Easter had shredded us on the stretch after towards Franschhoek. Hendrik, Ron and myself then passed each repeatedly down the super fast section towards Paarl - the wind now at our backs, were holding speeds of 45 to 50km/h without really digging into the red zone.

Swinging right off the R301 and into the vineyards, brought up the biggest of the above tests - not getting dropped. And here, riding with Hendrik and Ron really helped. We not only stayed together, but were in the front third of our bunch, at times taking our turns working at the front. What a transformation from the last couple of years. Despite blasting along to this point, the legs had plenty left in them. There was an added reward at the end of my nemesis loop through the vineyards too - I'd broken the jinx, and now we were being treated to a new route. Rather than heading into the outskirts of Paarl, we swung right and the leg into Wellington was through glorious rolling farmland and on freshly resurfaced smooth tar too. Heavenly!

The wind had been blustery and troubling so far, but rolling back onto the familiar route just before Wellington it became a real factor. Climbing up over Windmeul on the R44, I slowly slipped back and detached from both Ron and Hendrik. I wasn't struggling especially, but with the rolling hills and wind I needed to fall back to a sustainable pace for the remaining 45km. The fresh road surface this time was less of a help. Rather than rolled smooth, it was rough and sticky and full of large stone chips. My average speed dropped steadily, but even with the wind and the rough road, I was managing to keep in the 25 to 30km/h region for long stretches. It was all fine, I was having fun.

The cramps were never far away over the final 20km or so, but with a careful choice of gearing combination and cadence I kept them away and finished just a shade over 3:30. Seemed like most friends I spoke too had been 20 or 30 minutes slower than the previous year, so even with limited training, it wasn't a terrible time. Most importantly though, I'd achieved every one of the goals I'd started with. A perfect rehab ride.

A Very Different DC

I haven't written in a while. I haven't ridden in a while. And pictured left is how my DC started this year - with the support drivers breakfast at the Wimpy in Swellendam. So clearly this blog isn't really going to be about riding either, well not entirely anyway.

With the sparsity of blog entries, I need to go back a month and fill in the gaps to explain how I got here. Back to the One Tonner, which was my last ride with our DC Team. It ended badly with a rare DNF for me. Swinging left in Malmesbury the easy 100km were over and the full force of the strong South Easter blasted away the last of my will to finish the ride, triggering severe cramps which were the final ride ending blow. Luckily my friend Peter Nolan was nearby, and I grabbed the last available spot in his car to hitch a ride home. At the time I was angry with my team mates for dropping me, but in hindsight the blame was really all mine - the culmination of a series of misjudgements on my part.

The first of these errors was earlier that day, not being nearly clear or forceful enough with my other team mates about the need to stick together and ride together. With some very strong riders in the squad, we were already broken up and strung out over the first climb of the day. Despite a number of re-groupings after that, the early pace in catching the faster riders soon told in both my legs and those of some other riders. Just over Bothmaskloof my neck started to stiffen badly, and I just didn't have the legs to catch and keep up with the group for a third time. My ride was over.

The real error though had been months back when I'd ignored all my instincts and agreed to take part in the DC. I'd read many reports about it taking weeks or months to fully recover from the physical effects of a ride like LEL. I knew there was a significant chance that I would not be in shape to train properly for a ride as demanding as the DC. My heart over-ruled my head and I found myself committed to a ride and struggling to put in enough time on the bike with my LEL induced neck injury. It was only ever going to end one way, and that end came by the side of the road in Malmesbury.

Over the next few days the team went through a major blow up as I wasn't the only rider unhappy with the fragmentation and lack of group riding spirit on the day. It was a necessary process though, and when passions subsided the team was short of a few riders, but team spirit had been fully restored. The aftermath of the storm had also resolved the long problematic spot of our team support driver. Unable to ride, and with a car almost tailor made as a backup vehicle, it was an easy decision for me to make. I could still contribute towards the team's DC even if my work would not be on the bike.

So here we all were - at the backup drivers breakfast. All Wannabee teams were safely on their way, and we had an hour or more to relax before needing to be at the first team support point, the feed zone in Ashton. William had kindly loaned me his trailer, which was loaded with the rider's coolboxes, water and ice. One of my club mates, Charles Nesbitt, was riding with me as support crew and spotter as we drove towards Ashton. It was a beautiful sunny day, a total contrast to last year.

The team arrived at the support point much later than we'd expected. Marc had suffered a severe mechanical, and they were already down to 11 riders even though the race was only half done. Somehow though, he'd managed to get his bike fixed and was only minutes behind them - he looked shattered and must have turned himself inside out to make up the lost ground.

The remaining 100km of the ride Charles and I followed the team. There were two pre-planned water stops where we packed out the full trailer, coolboxes lined up along the road for easy access. We also had a couple of unplanned stops for mechanicals, and a quick water refill towards the end as the heat kicked in. We got lucky with the unplanned stops in having a decent space to get the car fully off the road - although in one case I nearly misjudged the mass of cyclists all around and only at the last minute corrected my course into the small turn off, narrowly averting disaster.

It was interesting and very different to see the riders from behind, and gave a totally different perspective on the ride. Despite having ridden the DC last year, I was also struck by just how tough a ride it is, especially over those last 50km as legs tired, wind and heat rose, and the killer rolling hills reared up one after the other. It was with some pride we saw the guys still together as a full team of 12 up that last hill - Charles commented that no other team around us still had all of their riders. They'd overcome the divisions from the One Tonner, and a few niggles around the 130km mark and done the impossible. They had become a team, cohesive and working together, and getting each other to the finish as a complete team. Despite not being on the bike, it was great to have been a part of it.

Back on the road

It's now a month since LEL ended, and at last I'm starting to feel like my body is beginning to recover from the battering it received. Two weeks after the ride I jumped back on the bike and went for a DC team training ride. At first, everything felt good - the bike now nice and light with bags and audax paraphernalia removed. It was a grey, cold and wet day with some rain as we rolled into Paarl. Despite the weather, I wasn't feeling too bad as we slogged up the 18km long climb of Du Toits kloof pass - a higher climb than anything LEL had thrown at me. I could definitely feel the strength in my legs from all that long distance training, and I'm pretty sure if I compared my time to the top it would be significantly quicker than on last year's DC training.

All was not 100% though, which I began to realise back down in Paarl as we rolled out from a water and snack stop at the Spa. I wasn't at all comfortable on the bike. My neck and shoulders were beginning to get sore again, my knees were burning, and I was struggling to even keep up our moderate 23 to 25km/h pace. By this stage we had the sweep vehicle all to ourselves, and every now and then I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. It took a mountain of willpower over the last 40km or so not to just dismount and get in. I was hurting, I was cold, and I simply wasn't enjoying the ride even with good company of my team-mates.

The week after I gave in, and finally went to see the physio as Yoli had been pleading with me to do for several days. I'm extremely stubborn when it comes to pain and doctors, but with the joy of riding stripped from my week something had to be done. It took the physio no time at all to sign me off from any further riding or training involving back and shoulder muscles, and that done she proceeded to prod, poke, pull, and push every conceivable point of pain in my neck that could be found. It was agony, but with every stab something also seemed to release. After some time lying with acupuncture needles stuck in me and a hot pack on my neck, I was sent on my way with a batch of stretching exercises and an appointment for the following week.

With great relief, after diligently working on the stretching, at the next session I was cleared to try two sessions on the bike. The first was a short 45 minute session on the indoor trainer. As well as getting me pedaling again, such a short session had the added benefit of forcing me to pick one of the videos I don't often train with: Fight Club - a hectic blur or 16 consecutive maximum intensity intervals, 1 minute each with a minute rest in between. By the end my legs were jelly, my heart rate was up around 180, and I was light headed. But the neck was only marginally sore. The second was a 1 hour road ride, and the weather was truly foul - a proper cold and wet Cape Sunday morning. The few of us who turned up gathered around all hoping the others would give up and either get back in their cars or go immediately for coffee. None of us did though, and so our small band of DC team riders headed out., wheels splashing through puddles and spraying up road grit all over our feet, drive chains, and each other.

Despite the miserable weather, I was sad to turn for home early at Stellenbosch. It was fun to be riding again, even more so because Darren who I hadn't ridden with sicne last year's DC had made the trip out from Cape Town to join us, and Penny's husband Jean had also come along, who I'd never ridden with. I'd preferred to have carried on with them against the physio's instructions, but knew it didn't make sense to pay for advice and then ignore it. I cheered myself up by ripping the road up all the way home. I might have been limited to just an hour's riding, but nothing had been said about how much effort I was allowed to put in. I put maximum effort into every hill, and didn't hold back on the descents. As a result I got back to the car out of breath and sweating, but more importantly I was smiling - there was very little discomfort in my neck. My hands and feet though were still suffering a bit from numbness at the tips, and the cold was not helping with this one bit. I had to remind myself that as this was Spring Day, the weather must surely warm up soon.

It did, on Wednesday for the normal weekday club ride. And after the excellent progress on my two test rides I was given a clean bill of health and cleared to build up to normal training again. Even with that, leaping immediately into a full 100km ride seemed foolish so I limited myself to 50km, and John and Theunis turned back with me. The three of us pushed a decent pace though, keeping the Garmin in the 28 to 30km/h region for long stretches on the way back, alternating turns pulling at the front along the long slog from Gordon's Bay. John led us to an excellent coffee venue too, Snobs Roastery near the Somerset West Mall - perfect spot to end a good mornings ride.

There was one other thing gone from the DC training a few weeks earlier too - no sore knees. I'd had a hunch my saddle wasn't right, even though I'd put it back on at the same height as the tape marking it. A couple of things had made me wonder if it was fractionally off straight, even though it looked right - it didn't "feel" quite right, and I was struggling to balance with no hands on the bars. When Darren also threw this out as a possible cause on the Sunday ride I did a thorough check. It was so close, it was really hard to see, but it did look a millimeter or two out after checking from several angles. Sure enough, on the Wednesday ride, I was sitting balanced and comfortable again, and sitting up with hands off the bars was no issue at all. It's amazing such a small misalignment could have such a significant effect.

A couple of days on, and perhaps helped by the slow warming of the weather, the fingers and toes are also beginning to feel more normal too. Most importantly though, I'm getting that itching sensation when I spend too long off the bike - the road is out there waiting.

LEL - Epilogue

Loughton - sometime before 2am

Before meeting up with Phil on that last stretch, I'd been contemplating what my plan was once I got back to the control. The B&B was only a few kilometres away, but it may as well have been on the moon. There was no way I fancied riding any further, especially uphill along more dark lanes. I'd pretty much decided that even though there was a comfy bed with soft pillows waiting, I'd just have to crash for a couple of hours at the control to recover. There was nothing appealing about poor sleep on another squeaky mattress on the floor though. Phil came to the rescue, or rather his wife did - since it was her now driving us to our respective homes, our bikes lashed to the bike rack and bags dumped in the car.

I suspect she may have regretted it though, although she didn't say anything. It seemed much further away than I'd remembered, or the "it's only a couple of Ks" I'd given by way of re-assurance. Plus my brain had gone absent in my hyper exhausted state, and I kept trying to divert her left at every turn we came too. Luckily Phil had a much better grasp on reality, remembering the way from that first leg five days ago, and pretty soon they realised that the best plan was to ignore any directions I tried to offer.

Before long we came to the pub, and bike, bags and myself were dropped safely off. It's hard to express the relief I felt knowing a real bed was waiting. I had totally forgotten to give Jane the courtesy call I'd promised with a rough arrival time, but I did remember where she said the key would be. Neither of these mattered though, she'd heard the car pull up and leaned out of an upstairs window with a friendly greeting and confirmation my room was all ready.

I forget the exact sequence of events after that. In some order though, I rolled the bike into the garage as quietly as I could, remembering that Michael and Kerri-Anne would be asleep upstairs; dumped bags in my room, and put the kettle and toaster on. Although dog tired, I was also starving and I knew my body needed food before it was allowed to sleep. Jane popped across in slippers and dressing gown to check I was OK - she seemed pleased and a little amazed that I had made it. I apologised for the forgotten call, but she didn't seem at all bothered. Jane also said sorry to me, but in her case it was because she couldn't let me have lie-in in the morning - she needed to get the room cleaned and ready for another guest. I explained that I had a flight to catch, and would need to get myself sorted for it anyway.

I retired to my room with a big mug of hot sweet tea in one hand, and a plate loaded with two slices of toast smothered in butter, one with Marmite and one with marmalade. It was such a luxury to relax off the bike, able to eat and drink. I couldn't immediately pinpoint what it was that made it so special, and then I realised - there was no sound of that clock ticking. It had been silenced. I had silenced it. I could take as long as I liked to eat, and it didn't matter any more. Heck, I could even have a shower. Which, smelling something like an open sewer, is exactly what I did once I'd finished eating. It would have been sacrilege to defile the plush, comfy white sheets and pillows in my shabby state.

Looking around the room, there was clearly nothing which couldn't wait until morning, so I set an alarm for I think around 7:30am, turned the light out, and slid down under the covers. I'd imagined I would be asleep the moment my head hit the pillows but I wasn't. For the 115 hours of my LEL, my knees had not given me a single issue, nothing more than the slightest of aches, and not even that really after the first day or so. But now they complained at full volume. The sharpness of the pain took my breath away, totally eclipsing the soreness of my neck. It was like someone had lit a blow torch under the back of each knee cap. It seemed that there must have been some trouble in there after all, but I guess my mind had been shutting it out. With the release of the ride being over, the pain found it's way to the surface too. I got back up and took an Ibuprofen.  And then at last, the sleep came.

Forest Gate B&B, around 7:30am

I'm not totally sure whether the alarm woke me, or it was the sound of my phone. It took me a few moments to find and answer it, and as I did my head was dull with sleep.

"Well done, you did it." said a female voice at the end of the phone.

"Ah thanks" I replied, and just as I was about to go on, the voice continued

"I don't want to hear about it by phone, I want you to tell me about it, get dressed and get downstairs", and the voice hung up.

I was struggling to piece it together. Yoli had threatened to fly over if I'd made it. But why had she slept in a different room last night, why hadn't she just used the room I'd booked? It was no good, my brain couldn't unravel it so I called her back.

"Where are you?" I said

"At home, why, where did you think I am?"  Yoli replied

"Hold on" I said. My mistake dawned on me, and I quickly looked at the call log on my phone. The female voice wasn't Yoli, it was Emmerentia. The pieces all fell into place, and laughing, I explained it all to Yoli.

"Sorry I couldn't make it over. Go get some breakfast, and tell your friends about the ride. Then get packed and come home." Yoli said as our call ended.

I quickly showered, got dressed, and wandered the handful of steps from my room, through the sitting area, to the breakfast room. I think Micheal and Kerri-Anne were there already and the first to congratulate me, and me them - although the latter seemed something of a formality. I don't think their finishing the ride was ever really in any doubt. Soon after, Emmerentia came downstairs, and with a big smile and a hug passed on her congratulations too. I think she said something along the lines of "Amazing effort" and also words to the effect that they'd been worried about me and weren't sure I would make it.

Over coffee, muesli and pastries we rapidly swapped stories and anecdotes from our rides. We'd swapped SMS on the first day or two, but had lost contact after Emmerentia's last message saying they were at Edinburgh. It turned out that was as long as her phone had lasted. She had managed to stay with the German guys she had left St Ives with all the way around. One of them had been faster than her, and the other slower. This had allowed Emmerentia the luxury of riding at her own pace up the hills, comfortable in the knowledge they'd regroup at the top and not leave her behind. I forget what time she said they'd finished, but I think it was around 4pm the previous afternoon - she had managed what I had failed, to be back in time for a beer before closing time. Not that it mattered really, a beer would have knocked me out cold anyhow.

Breakfast over, I quickly organised a taxi to the company's office whilst I repacked my rucksack. It was a massive relief after trying a couple of firms to find one with an estate car big enough to take the bike. I've still no idea what deranged state of mind I must have been in to think I'd want to ride through rush hour traffic wearing a heavy backpack just a few hours after finishing a 1,400km ride. Luckily I wasn't going to have too. Wheeling my bike out of the garage it was time to say goodbye to Emmerentia, Michael, and Kerri-Anne and to bid farewell to Bell Common and the Forest Gate pub - the start and end of my great adventure.

The rain didn't stop all the way back into central London, and the traffic was heavy. So heavy in fact, that I started to stress about how much I still had left to do before my taxi arrived to the airport. Eventually the car wound it's way through the jams and deposited me, bike, rucksack and bags onto the pavement outside our office on Mansell Street. I couldn't resist looking across the road to the bus lane where six days ago I had started out, wobbling and cursing the lock that hadn't actually made it beyond the first ten meters of the ride. It brought a smile as Justin came up the outside steps and grabbed several of the bags from me. In fact, I think he may have carried the bike down as well.

Ascert's offices, Mansell Street - around 12am

Scattered across the floor of the office was an assortment of muddy and oily bike parts, spread on top of several sheets of flipchart paper to protect the carpet. My lurid green bikebox  was standing open expectantly, as was my suitcase. And on top of one of the desks was a large box full of various bike components and other miscellanea which I'd opted not to take on the ride and had stayed in the office. Surrounded by all the bits and pieces I was suddenly rather tired and overwhelmed. I couldn't quite get my thoughts straight on what to do next. What I did next was head to the kitchen and drain the last of the coffee pot Justin had kindly put on for me. I needed a shot to help get me grounded, ready for one last push to get me on my way home.

The caffeine did the trick, and the various parts of the disassembled bike were soon firmly strapped in their respective places in the box. I was quite surprised that pretty much the contents of both drop bags also fitted in the various remaining open spaces. It was almost as much a surprise as how bad some of them smelt - a strong whiff of ammonia came from a slight opening at the top of one of the clear plastic bags of clothes. I guessed it must have been the first set I had changed in Market Rasen on the way north. I sealed it tight before stuffing it in a gap in the central diamond of the frame, hoping that the airport security dogs didn't take an interest in it. Wasn't anhydrous ammonia one of the ingredients for cooking up tik? I hoped I'd remembered my CSI episodes wrong.

It's surprisingly how quickly two and a half hours passed, but I'd barely returned from the Tesco opposite the office with food than my airport taxi arrived, and I was wheeling bike box and case to where the car was parked a hundred meters up the road. It felt a little rude stuffing my face full of food in a smart, clean executive car. I did it all the same. It felt like I would be eating for a week to catchup the energy I'd used. It felt like I'd need to sleep that long too, if not longer.

I hadn't really been following the driver's route, but we ended up in Parliament Square passing Big Ben, the houses or parliament and Westminster Abbey. The clouds from earlier gone, it was now a beautiful summers day and tourists were everywhere enjoying the sights.. Perhaps it was the thought that the riders who had done the prologue came this way, I'm not sure, but it all suddenly caught up with me. I found myself staring out of the window, a lump in my throat and tears starting to roll down my cheek. I'd done it. A year ago Yoli and I had sat in a restaurant and agreed I was going to give it a try, with the goal of at least getting to Edinburgh to help me decide if PBP was possible. A week ago I'd stared out across East London, literally looking out over my riding route to registration. And here I was, on my way home, with a finishers medal in my rucksack. It didn't seem possible. I'd never really believed I was going to complete the ride, but somehow I had. Fortunately the tourists thronging the pavement were far too interested in their sightseeing to wonder why some guy in a smart executive car was driving pass blubbing his eyes out.

The journey to the airport was uneventful, and as hoped I got there massively early. It was always my plan. I wanted some time to pick up gifts for Yoli and Ben, and was more than happy to wile away a couple of hours in the lounge once  that was done. I did warn the airline staff exactly where I was though, and asked them to send someone to make sure I hadn't fallen asleep when the flight was called. As it happened, catching up on Facebook kept me more than occupied until the flight was called. Yoli hadn't exaggerated the amazing level of support, and it took quite a while to respond to all of the messages. Finally, before I headed towards the gate I posted a quick status message for everyone I hadn't responded to individually.

The tears came, eventually, but not until I was sitting alone in the taxi to the airport and it really sank in. Up until that point it was all just excitement, fatigue, and rushing to get a filthy bike packed up for journey back.

They came again too, just now, sitting in the lounge reading all your amazing posts. Yoli had already told me what tremendous support and encouragement you guys had given, but nothing could have prepared me for reading through them all.

It was a truly amazing experience, and it's wonderful to realise you were all there with me. At times it was pretty much the only thing keeping the pedals turning, especially on that last hot, tough and slow day.

A massive thank you to to everyone for being there and helping me to the finish - with all of you behind me, quitting just wasn't an option!

PS - I will of course write up some proper notes in due course, but I have no idea how to summarize them down into anything that won't take almost as long to read as it took to ride!

As it happened, the flight was very delayed, and although I didn't actually fall asleep in the lounge, I was out cold before we'd left the tarmac. The plane flew through the night. I slept the whole way, and was barely awake when the screech of tires announced our arrival.

Cape Town Airport - Saturday morning



The moment I was through customs and the sliding doors to the Arrivals hall opened, there they were. Ben was waving a wonderful sign he had made, which got dropped as soon as he saw me and ran up to give me the biggest of hugs. Yoli wasn't far behind.

My welcoming party also included Henri Meier too, who'd come with his son to meet the flight and deliver a hefty "well done" hug in person. It was a wonderful thought - Henri and Penny had been absolute rocks during my training. I wouldn't have been nearly ready without them, and finishing LEL was as much their success as mine. Penny had also wanted to be there, but the arrival clashed with family commitments. She was their in spirit though too.

In a flash, the arrivals moment was gone, and we were on familiar roads home, excitedly chattering about the events of the ride. We also agreed to throw a thank you braai for friends and club mates on the following Friday, which conveniently was a pubic holiday.


Somerset West - a few weeks on

The bike has been re-assembled, albeit now largely stripped of the weight of audax paraphernalia. The dynamo wiring and handlebar bag remain for now. I think I've figured what may have gone wrong in my electrical system, and have ordered the official eWerk cache battery. I'd shied away from this originally because of it's low storage capacity and high price, but that now seems like a mistake. Luckily also, Star Bike had it on special at not much above half price too. Once  I've tested out the setup, the last vestiges of LEL will be packed away for a while.

At this point however, there is one question which remains unanswered. What about PBP? LEL was originally intended purely as a test event for PBP. Along the way though, it became it's own challenge - a terrific adventure that massively exceeded anything I had imagined for it. And I'd be lying if I said that managing to complete LEL hadn't slightly taken the edge off the physical challenge aspect of PBP. I know PBP is a tough event though, so I know there would be no shortage of challenge.

So what about PBP then? The passion is still there. The prospect of taking part in the oldest bike ride in the world and savouring that amazing atmosphere still inspires me. And I think, it inspires me enough to go through all of that again - the training week in week out, and the cold and dark 5am starts for long rides that don't end until it is cold and dark again. The only fly in the ointment is my body. I've been back on the bike once in the last three weeks, for a 140km DC training ride. It nearly killed me - my knees ached, and my neck pain was back in full flood by the end of the ride. I've had massages and physio on my neck, and just been signed off from riding for ten more days to give it a chance to heal. And that's not to mention the more minor ailments, my fingers are still somewhat numb and tingly. My toes are partially numb too, and also seem to be on fire at times, possibly some lingering effect from the freezing they got descending Yad Moss before dawn. Recovery from the exertion is slow and painful, which does raise doubts. My mind may be up for another long audax, but will my body cope? Only time will tell I guess.

The immediate focus is to get back on the bike and get out there enjoying my riding again. PBP can wait. Decisions about PBP can wait. That's a future chapter, maybe. For now, LEL is done, aside from the memories. Memories which come back to me all the time, moments that it's still hard to believe I experienced for myself. Did I really ride all of that way? Did the bike myself and William had built really cover all of those kilometers without so much as a puncture? Surely no one can ride to Edinburgh and back, at least not an almost 49 year old who only started riding a few years back. Crazy. Madness. It must have been someone else who did it. Or maybe it was just a dream.

All photos courtesy of author.

LEL Day 5

Market Rasen - around dawn

"Hiya" said the volunteer quietly as I woke up, bleary eyed. "I'm not sure what you wanted to do, but it's 5am. The control will be closing quite soon." 

I thanked him for the support the night before, and for finding a place to leave my phone charging overnight. "I'm not really sure what I'm going to do, get some food then decide I guess" I finished with, as I headed back towards the canteen.

Unfortunately, the phone was looking pretty terminal - it's battery indicator was showing only 7% despite being on charge for several hours. It wasn't close to enough for a call home, and I really wanted to speak with Yoli - her support had been a major part of getting me this far, and I needed to let her know that my LEL might be done. Not really wanting to accost a random rider to borrow a phone for a call to South Africa, I scanned the canteen for a friendly face. By an amazing stroke of luck, one of the Cox brothers was sat at a table - I seem to recall it being Gavin. After a rapid summary of my predicament, he was only too glad to lend me his iPhone. I sat a couple of chairs away at their table and made the call.

I was choking back the tears as we spoke - I knew Yoli would have been able to hear my voice cracking at the disappointment I was suddenly faced with. I explained the events of the night before, that along with my severe neck pain I'd also suffered illness throughout the night. I told her my doubts about being able to carry on, especially with the forecast for a high of 38 Celsius and strong headwinds. It was going to be a tough day in the saddle even without the the small matter of 268km of riding between here and the finish, almost exactly the distance of my longest every ride prior to LEL. Yoli listened, sympathetically, telling me she was proud of me and that whatever I did she knew I'd make the right choice. I signed off saying something along to the effect that I'd promised her I wouldn't risk my health or safety, and that I'd make my ultimate decision with that at the front of my thoughts. Handing the phone back to Gavin with profuse thanks, I went off in search of food.

There wasn't any. A few canteen staff were standing around with folded arms, one of whom directed me towards some muesli, there may also have been some toast, I forget. Funnily enough, it happened to be almost exactly what I fancied. I smothered it in milk, and grabbed two cups of tea, each with three sugars. There being no obvious cutlery around, I hung onto the white plastic teaspoon to eat the muesli with. Returning to the table to eat it, I felt a bit like Alan Sugar on his "small fork" diet. It was slow progress.

I forget whether Gavin told me directly about Gillian suffering some pretty horrendous saddle sores, or whether I overheard him mention it to someone else. Either way, it sounded like I wasn't the only one suffering to battle through this. The food and tea was starting to make me feel whole again and a familiar and friendly face sat down next to me. It was the first aider from the night before. He was about to sign off and head home, and wanted to wish me luck and also get my rider number so he could check in on my progress. C71 I told him. I couldn't be sure of my next move, but we parted with a handshake and my profuse thanks for helping me get through such a bad patch. The wonders of social media came to my aid again after the ride - his name was Peter Davis, and he responded to my Facebook message of praise for how he and the Market Rasen staff had taken care of me through my lowest point.

Sitting there, feeling considerably better, it occurred to me what a pain it was going to be to get to a station and then get back to Loughton via Central London and gather up all my things. It would be easier logistically, if not physically, to simply cycle through to the end, even if I didn't actually manage to do it in time to officially complete LEL. I remembered the wise words from an LEL Facebook forum member posted just before the ride. He made the observation that it was not a rider's job to call time on his own ride - that was the job of the controllers. His view was that as long as the rider weren't mechanically or physically incapable of continuing, he should just ride on, forgetting about the clock until someone else told them they must abandon the ride. The words seemed to fit my situation perfectly - I was a long way short of 100%, but there was nothing really to prevent me from getting back on the bike and riding on. I may be now behind the clock, but that didn't mean I should be declaring myself out of time. We weren't at that stage yet, and that wasn't my decision ultimately.

I sent off a quick message to Yoli with the little phone battery I had left:

05:35 - Rob Walker: 2% battery. I may try ride to Kirton. 

           Should not have too much heat until after. Can judge then. Will see xx
 

I wouldn't see the reply until the next control.

06:02 - Pixie: Ok good luck sweets

I wasn't exactly in top spirits, but I donned my still damp shoes and headed out to the bike park anyway. There were very few bikes and riders left, and those that remained were mostly in various stages of preparing to leave. There was no doubt about it, I was now very much in the tail of the ride. The "bulge" was already down the road on it's way through the last few controls. I pedaled slowly out of the control, my mind already starting to turn over calculations of distances and average speeds.


Time of departure from Market Rasen 05:51 - approx an hour behind the clock

It didn't take long to work out that if I rode sensibly, I still had plenty of time. From the experience of the last few days, I knew that a steady 20Km/h wouldn't take me anywhere into the red zone energy wise, and the lack of any big hills from here home ought to prevent too much added stress on my neck. Despite leaving the control almost an hour behind schedule, at that average riding speed I would have a startlingly large 8 hour buffer before I'd be out of time. Heat and headwinds would eat into that but would only really affect my average speed for around 3 or 4 hours across the middle of the day. I'd need to eat, stop for occasional rests, and keep my faffing and inefficiency at controls in check but, to coin Andy Alsop's phrase, barring mechanicals I should be OK. All I needed to do was ride myself steadily back into this ride.  

I soon came upon almost the perfect vehicle to help me with that. Ahead was a group of four riders, whom I initially took to be Italian from their jerseys and shorts. They rode like a perfectly conducted symphony, meting out an unvarying tempo regardless of undulations in the lane ahead. I was just beginning to imagine comparisons with a well tuned Ferrari when it struck me that their conversation did not actually sound remotely Italian. Whatever phrase they had used for "car back", it had most definitely not contained the word "macchina", or even "auto". If my mental faculties had been more alert I'd probably also wondered why they weren't all riding Campy groupsets. They were in fact Polish, as confirmed by the PL on their LEL which became visible on one of the few occasions I took a turn at the front. Regardless of mostly being a wheel sucker, they didn't seem to mind my presence, even though I don't think they understood me asking if it was ok for me to ride with them.

The steady 21 to 22Km/h paced out over the opening kilometers of the leg worked wonders for my spirits. By the time the guys pulled over for a stop, I'd gone beyond a theoretical calculation showing me I had time, to actually believing I was capable of the average speed needed to achieve it. I also stopped once or twice on the way - one of these I remember was on the outskirts of Woodhall Spa for the last of Vicke's codeine, some snacks, and a drink. Soon after came the enjoyable stretch along the banks of the River Witham, which I remembered well from the ride north. It was still cool, and there was no wind hampering my progress at this stage. I chatted briefly with another rider who was suffering neck problems. He was a generally faster rider than me, but was finding a regular stop and few minutes walk was helping to stretch out the aches. As a result, we passed each other a few times along the predominantly flat and straight Fenland roads.

Before long, I was at the control. I'd need to make a decision soon, but for now I could grab some food and a few minutes relaxation.


Kirton - 09:25, distance ridden: 1,219km

Luckily the Kirton canteen still had plenty of food, and I filled my tray with pretty much anything they had on offer. As always there was pudding with custard, and hot sweet tea. I also remember a large mountain of potatoes, covered in gravy, the rest is a blur - I'm sure there was some form of meat too. I swapped a few words with Leslie too on the way to sit and eat. She sounded tired, mentioning something about Susan being around too, but I forget exactly what.

I sat and ate opposite with my fellow neck-pain sufferer. We swapped war stories, and the benefits of an ice cream stop were recommended to me. I resolved to make that my first leg stretch stop after the control. Too my surprise, I noticed whilst eating that my phone had actually charged up a few percent. I'd connected it back up more out of routine than any actual thought it would revive, but clearly being switched off had meant that the charge available could go in without being used up. For some reason, I thought I had I typed out a short message to let Yoli know I was doing, but it turned out later that either I hadn't, or it didn't get through. I'd struggled with cellphone signal at Kirton on the way up, so perhaps it wasn't just slackness from my tired mental state. 

I really wasn't looking forward to the next leg. The night before, a part of me had considered riding on from Market Rasen to sleep at Kirton, and hence position me for riding the stretch to St Ives in the cool of the morning. Instead, I'd be riding across it in the heat of the day, and with a strengthening headwind. I couldn't have misjudged it more, and was kicking myself for my poor decision making. Recriminations weren't going to help now though, all I could do was deal with the conditions ahead, and I set out to do battle with them.


Time of departure from Kirton 10:06 - back on track, 200 to go!

The good part about the leg to come was knowing that it would be tough, but that once done, the remainder of the ride should be in cooler air and without the wind. The next 80Km really were now the crux of the ride - if I could just slog through them, even at a very slow pace, I should be almost there. The afternoon and night before had done their best to bring me down and end my ride, but somehow I was still in it, the kilometers were still gradually passing by under my wheels. I wasn't feeling much better than I had the day before, but I wasn't feeling significantly worse either - the pain had peeked, and I was finding ways to ride with it and keep going. There was only a Double Century to go now!

I started looking forward to that ice cream - it would make a nice break off the bike. But my recollection of sheltering from a shower at a garage on the way up was clearly faulty - it wasn't on this stretch. There was an old filling station that had now been converted to a carwash though, and that served the job just as well. It turned out the owner had served a steady stream of riders, and knew a fair bit about our adventure. By the time I was standing outside stashing snacks in my bags, sipping coke and eating a Magnum ice cream, there were several other riders pulling in with the same idea in mind.

Predictably, the dead flat stretch along the banks of the Welland was where the wind really started to kick up. An express train of around eight or ten riders blasted by, calling for me to latch on as they passed. Several other riders that I'd seen apparently struggling along solo had joined them, and for a second I contemplated hitching up too. The pace was way too hot though. I might have been able to keep it up for a few kilometers, but the exertion to do so might finish me once and for all. Slow and steady was really the only bet that seemed remotely likely to get me to the end. I watched them disappearing ahead - somewhat envious of their shared effort working against the wind.

Rising up onto the embankment for the last few kilometers before Crowland, there was simply nowhere to hide from the onslaught. My speed was down below 12Km/h at times. I had to keep telling myself it didn't matter, it might be too slow, but it wouldn't be for long enough to do significant damage to my hopes of finishing in time. I was contemplating a stop for a break when a passing rider reminded me that Crowland was not far ahead, with a convenient shop in the middle of the town. It was all the motivation I needed to push on. I focused my vision on the water tower that marked the end of the stretch along the navigation. It seemed to take an eternity to crawl to the distant landmark, but eventually I was there turning left up onto the bridge across the waterway, and winding into the town.


The yard of the shop was mobbed with fellow cyclists - it was a very welcome sight. I pulled over, and headed inside for snacks, cold water and more coke.

Back out by the bikes I emptied several shakes of the ice cold water over my head and jersey. I'd noticed another rider doing it, and it was an instant cooling relief. I also spotted my mistake with the missing phone messages to Yoli.

09:22 - Pixie: Hope you ok. Very worried here. Pls send message to let me know how you are xxx 

She hadn't received anything from me from Kirton. I kicked myself for my mistake, and hastily responded.

12:21 - Rob Walker: Puff puff little train. 6% phone battery. Part.way.to St Ives
12:22 - Rob Walker: Switching off.to try save some life
12:23 - Pixie: So glad you ok
12:23 - Pixie: Super worried
12:23 - Pixie: Ok go for it - not long now

The remaining stretch to St Ives just got kept getting hotter and windier, but I had the most amazing piece of luck along this section. I met up with a chap from Spain in a Madrid shirt, Jose Manuel Andrey. The wind was so strong it had blown his map away. He offered to help break the wind for me if I'd help navigate through the turns and towns. I was really beginning to struggle and it was about the kindest and most timely offer I could have imagined. I also felt a bit of a cheat accepting it too - he'd be working much harder against the wind that I would following a wiggly line on a GPS display. I didn't refuse though, and before long we were chatting away and it was great to also have some friendly company. At some point ESL (Damon) pulled alongside us with his motorbike. With a camera mounted to his handlebar he was surveying how riders were doing as he passed. I mentioned something about this man saving me by breaking the wind, and me route finding in return. I'm sure it was largely unintelligible and went straight to the cutting room floor.

We pulled over for a brief stop, Manuel had some Voltarin gel he thought would help my neck. With yet more generosity, after a good smear, he insisted I keep the jar for later. I pulled out a spare water bottle from my saddle bag to top up Manuel's now almost empty bidon in return. Not far down the road was a shop, and we pulled over to grab snacks - I went immediately for the chocolate milk, more water for my bottles, and I think a chocolate bar or somesuch. Back outside to enjoy the stop, I finally met Phil Whitehurst in the flesh - rider T45. We hastily caught up on each of our rides. I felt rather guilty at having to rush away so soon, but with time ticking I didn't really have the luxury to linger too long. With his T start letter, Phil had at least a couple more hours in hand than I did, and from his anecdotes, it sounded like he was now over his physical adversities and was going well. Wishing each other luck, our paths diverged again.

The rest of the leg was a long slow slog against the wind and the heat. I took some turns at the front - even with my neck pain, I simply could not just sit behind doing none of the work. Rather oddly, I seemed to have plenty left in the legs on the few inclines towards the end of this leg. So much so that it prompted Manuel to comment that my legs were still strong for the climbs. I took the lead over each of the short rises after that, happy to find some part I could pull my weight. We had at least one more short stop to get a break from the hot sun. We found a welcome bit of shade on the verge by someone's front lawn - Manuel sat and relaxed, while I paced and stretched. It strikes me now just how many stops I'd had on this leg, an indication of just how much my body was now suffering, and how tough the leg had been.

Eventually, we pulled into the outskirts of St Ives. I started to believe again. The leg behind was surely one of the toughest, and I had got through it. I mentioned to Manuel that I was contemplating getting half an hours sleep here to allow the temperature to drop and wind to die down before embarking on the last couple of legs. It seemed he'd had exactly the same idea. We parked our bikes and headed into the control, glad to be leaving the heat of the day outside for a while.


St Ives - 15:39, distance ridden: 1,300km

Card stamped, both Manuel and I booked wakeup times with the volunteer on the control desk. I grabbed a drink, and we were shown to our mattresses in the dorm. The hall was warm and a little stuffy, the upside being that I could use the blanket as a pillow rather than needing it for warmth. I tapped out a quick message home.

15:43 - Rob Walker: Struggling but. Trying hard. 38c heat not helping. Made St Ives.

           Getting quick nap. Luv u xx
15:48 - Pixie: Love you, almost home 

Sleep came almost immediately after Yoli's reply.

As at Barnard Castle, the short cat nap was just enough to freshen body and spirits. I lay on the mattress for a few moments after my wake-up nudge, contemplating how far I had come and how little there was left. I resolved to use the time I had in hand and savour as much as possible of the few remaining  kilometers.

Sweeping up my stuff, I made for the canteen to grab some tea and food. I didn't really have a huge appetite, so I opted for light snacks. One of the volunteers also showed me to a hidden stash of bananas and cereal bars. I'm not sure why I'd been singled out for the VIP treatment, but it was very welcome.

Sitting to eat, I resumed my text conversation with Yoli.

16:50 - Rob Walker: Puff puff puff. Little engine filling with tea & snacks to get me on way. 

           Lap of gods now. Have time but Q is whether body & bike can hold out
16:51 - Pixie: You can do this
17:10 - Pixie: The whole world is rooting for you on FB
17:11 - Pixie: Everyone is wishing you well

Refreshed and fed, I headed to the bike. It occured to me I was leaving behind the first ever audax control I had visited. Ahead was really only one leg plus half a leg beyond, barely more than a regular club ride really. As well as reviving me, the nap had done the job for the weather too. Although it was still warm, the edge had gone from the heat of the day and the sun was beginning to dip. The wind had almost completely died too. The leg ahead was going to be much more pleasant riding.


Time of departure from St Ives 17:07 - just an Argus to go!

Almost straight out of the control several of us immediately missed the turn, the route being slightly different to the way in. By the time we reached the main road though, we'd all spotted the mistake, and as a small group we doubled back and swung left back onto the correct route. It took us much more through the middle of St Ives rather than around the town on the way in northbound. Somewhere along this stretch, Susan managed to snap the photo left capturing the beauty of the town.  I vaguely remember seeing similar views when we also rode through, but I was chatting with the riders I'd met outside the control and obviously wasn't paying proper attention.

Once through the town we backtracked for a considerable way along roads from out route northbound, except in the still air and bathed in the light of evening air they looked completely different. For some reason I had imagined that as soon as we left St Ives we would split off onto different lanes from the way north, but it wasn't the case. For many kilometers we passed sights I remembered from the way up: the campsite with closed-down golf shop where Emmerentia and I had stopped to fill my water bottles; and just beyond in the village of Haslingfield was the village shop we'd passed and that I'd wondered whether was open or had water. This time it most definitely was open - and was surrounded by a gathering of fellow LEL riders. A couple of kilometers back I'd ridden along and chatted with a chap who's name I've now forgotten. On spying the shop I called out that I fancied an ice cream and was going to stop. Approving of the idea, he stopped also.

The shop was a treasure trove of treats  - including a freezer with those wonderful little tubs of ice cream with spoons in the lids. I also grabbed bottles of coke and water to drink now, and top up my water bottles.  By the time we'd gathered up our goodies some of the riders outside were setting off again, and there was space on the benches outside to sit and enjoy the ice cream. The village shop was just across from a churchyard, in the middle of this quaint little village, shadows lengthening in the orange glow of the evening. It's hard to convey the perfect serenity - an ideal setting to pause and reflect on everything LEL had been, and savour the moments before they were gone.

Finishing my ice cream, I got up to top up my bottles and head off. As I was preparing to leave, a lady was arriving at the shop. She'd heard that extra help was needed with all the cyclists, and had come to keep the shop open a bit longer. Back on the bike, the road immediately turned right and up the short climb of Chapel Hill. I stopped at the top of the hill, partly to take a painkiller, but also to reassure my doubts. I was beginning to wonder if my GPS track was actually just retracing the northbound route, it seemed like the path should have split by now. Turning the route sheet on my handlebar though, the southbound leg had clear instructions this way. My riding companion from  before the ice cream stop was amused to find me there, checking my doubts. He'd already re-assured me a couple of times we were on track.

Not long after we passed through Barrington again - a few riders were stopped at the pub on the village green, enjoying their last LEL moments. A little further along, the split from the northbound route finally came, in the village of Fowlmere.  Setting out on unfamiliar lanes, the route suddenly became more undulating - and stunning, golden fields of wheat flanking the lanes. The riding wasn't just pleasant, it was glorious.

As pleasant as it was, it was also starting to become rather challenging too - a rolling procession of short steep climbs, followed immediately by descents into dips. I started to feel a bit light headed and nauseous with the exertion and I remembering trying to work out if I was dehydrated, over hydrated, on a sugar high, or a low. My foggy brain unable to come up with an answer, I pulled over to stretch, eat and drink something. As I was stopped, Feline (real name Lara) and her riding partner went past. They had been stopped a little way back, and I seem to recall thinking they also appeared to be struggling along this unexpectedly tough section. The route planners certainly didn't seem keen to let us off easily just because we were nearing the end - in fact at times it seemed like one last ritual that had to be endured before we were deemed worthy. Someone later queried how they had managed to "find the Alps in East Anglia". It was an exaggeration of the size of the climbs sure, but not their impact on tired legs.

Rather worryingly a new ache had surfaced - I was now nursing a rather tight left Achilles tendon. The side of my shoe squeaked as it rubbed on my crank - I couldn't tell if the cleat had slipped, the shoe lost it's rigidity, or my riding position had shifted to mitigate the ever present neck pain. Never having had any issues in this area before, I was unsure if it would just be sore and ache for the rest of the ride, or if it might blow up completely, ending my ride. It was a worry, and I took it especially easy on the uphills - spinning my lightest gears, and avoiding any excessive force on either foot.

The route did at least throw us some stunning sights to go with the challenges, and just before dusk turned to darkness we came across Audley End. Even with an almost dead phone, it was too lovely not to snap a photo. By the time we rode through all that was left of the Ronan Keeting concert was the yellow AA signs for parking. Riders finishing earlier had come through as the concert was in full swing. Poor sods - with tired legs and all the climbs, it would have been tough to get through fast enough to avoid permanent scarring

The light eventually faded with only a few kilometers left of the leg. I put on the Lezyne just in case, but could probably have ridden to the control on the dynamo light alone. Great Easton sat ahead, at the top of one final hill, a beautiful old church floodlit just near the turn into the control.


Great Easton - 22:01, distance ridden: 1,373km


What on earth?

The control was like a kid's party - plates and boxes of sweets, crisps and other treats covered every table. It was all rather surreal, and dreadfully timed on my part. Normally, I'd have been in heaven when faced with an array of salty and sweet snacks, but my contrary appetite just wasn't in the mood. I went to the little canteen hatch to see what else might be available. Even more bizarrely, the offer of fruit salad which would normally have seen me turn my nose up, suddenly seemed to be exactly what I wanted. So much so in fact, that having polished off one bowl, I went back and begged another. A couple of coffees also went down, the sugar count in each now having risen to three - not bad considering I normally don't take any. Fresh ham rolls came out whilst I was there too - a couple of which also ended up in front of me.

Somewhere in the background, one of the film crews was conducting what must have been one of their last interviews. Nearby, Feline and her partner were sitting. I vaguely remember exchanging comments on how buggered we felt after the previous leg, and wondering how to muster the strength for the last small stretch.

Yoli and I swapped a stream of messages whilst I was sitting there enjoying the atmosphere and hospitality.

22:06 - Rob Walker: gt Easton! Poss toughest stage yet. Rolling hills all the way
22:01 - Pixie: Your going to do this
22:02 - Pixie: Only to Stellies and back now
22:02 - Pixie: So Freaking close
22:02 - Pixie: Can't sleep so excited
22:08 - Rob Walker: Yeah. Physically i'm a wreck. Need to sit a bit after those hills
22:07 - Pixie: One last push now angel
22:08 - Pixie: I am so proud of you for keeping going
22:08 - Pixie: Toughest day ever
22:09 - Pixie: I wish you could see all the messages
22:09 - Pixie: I can't keep track
22:10 - Pixie: Guys going nuts
22:10 - Rob Walker: Very special. I've never had to dig this deep 

22:19 - Rob Walker: There's a few of us here that have absolutely nothing left and are wondering how to go on 

           - last 74km were death
22:23 - Pixie: Dig deep sweets
22:23 - Pixie: You will regret stopping now forever
22:24 - Rob Walker: Yep. 2nd coffee & trying to get some food down
22:24 - Pixie: You won't ever get this opportunity again
22:24 - Pixie: You worked a year for this
22:25 - Pixie: So close sweets
22:26 - Rob Walker: Yep. Million thx for support
22:27 - Pixie: Go and kick this things ass
22:28 - Pixie: Phone me when you finished
22:41 - Rob Walker: Will do. Booting up. Let's see if we can close this out
22:45 - Pixie: Kick ass
22:45 - Pixie: Love you always

For one last time, I went through my control departure routine: power up Garmin and select next leg, except this time it was S9, the last on the list; stash brevet card, phone and other bits in bar bag; fill water bottles; and check over bike for anything looking worn, loose, or broken.

With everything in order I checked the state of the Lezyne battery - green for go. It was time for the last leg of LEL. A rather special feeling that I simply cannot find words to describe - a simultaneous mountain of elation and well of sadness, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly opposite. It reminded me of the words of Rudyard Kipling's If :

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

Although perhaps more apropos to my physical condition

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

Time of departure from St Ives 22:46

Just 45km to go, with 4 hours before my cutoff. It was still more than possible to stuff this up with a mechanical, a fall or an injury - heck, even just a deterioration of one of my existing problems. Back home, Yoli was stressing too. She had been watching my speed slowly dropping, and to make matters worse she thought my cutoff time was 2am, when in fact I had almost an hour more than this. Unless the next leg was extremely hard, aside from a catastrophe, the job should be almost done. It felt premature to say it was all downhill to the end. Except, as it turned out, it was almost all downhill to the end. We had overcome the route planners last test, and our reward was a succession of wonderful, easy lanes, mostly downhill. The few times they did rise up, it was barely more than momentum alone could carry us over. 

I remember riding through the town of Great Dunmow soon after Great Easton with the stupidest of smirks all over my face. Luckily the town was mostly deserted by now, so there was no one around to witness this disheveled, smelly apparition, grinning like a deranged lunatic as they cycled through the town. They'd have probably fled in fright if they had. 

Pretty much my only challenge was staying on the bike. I was seriously sore by now, and adopting all sorts of weird riding postures to try and ease the discomfort. It was a lethal combination when mixed with winding lanes in the dark, and occasional rather odd hallucinations caused by the brightness of my lights amongst the tunneled banks of the lanes and arches of trees above them. On several occasions I found myself carrying far too much speed into a corner that I'd seen very late. Ordinarily, I'd just have leaned into the bend, but that's rather hard when you're sitting on the top tube not the saddle.

I was bemused to find some fellow C group riders looking for a place for a nap. We did have time in hand, but oversleeping in a field so close to the finish would not be the way I'd want my ride to end. I tried to perk them up as I went passed, urging them to push on we were nearly there.

I was beginning to think LEL was almost done when it threw one last surprise my way. I still didn't have any distance indicators, but I must have been within the last 10km or so. The road had turned upwards for one of the few rises that actually required some pedaling and a change of gears. Ahead was a rider that I was slowly catching up with on the gradual incline. As the rider number came into view I did a double take - T45, surely not!

It wasn't a hallucination though, as I pulled alongside I heard a voice say "Hi Rob, it's Phil".

I replied with something along the lines of "I know it is, I spotted your number, what a coincidence".

We'd swapped dozens of messages on a whole range of LEL topics. Phil had been partly instrumental in getting me to this point by helping me figure out how to use my GPS effectively, thanks to which at no time had I ever been remotely lost or off track. We 'd only managed to meet up briefly once during the event. And yet here we were, enjoying an easy night time cruise to the finish. And along the way, Phil had unknowingly snapped a random photo of a dorm board that included my number. "Quantum weirdness" was the phrase he used to express this on Facebook. Definitely some form of strange entanglement.

"There's a real treat to come just ahead as we descend off the escarpment" Phil commented

 He wasn't wrong. Quite apart from the rushing descent, which I took much more slowly than Phil, was an absolutely jaw dropping view - the whole of North London lay stretched out ahead, a massive expanse of floodlit metropolis carpeting every space to the horizon. We were almost there.

Before long we were tracing the path of the M11, crossing the M25, and then the M11 itself. And then something I recognised almost at the exact time Phil mentioned it by name, Theydon Bois, literally a kilometer to two to go. For the first time I knew for sure that I was actually going to make this. It didn't seem real - this ride had been in my thoughts for much of the last 15 months, but I don't think I ever really believed I would actually complete it. 1,400km? Don't be crazy! And yet here I was, here we were.

"This is going to sound soppy, but it seems strangely fitting that we would meet up and finish this ride at the same time" I said to Phil as we turned through the last of the suburban streets.

"I was just thinking the same", Phil replied. "Shall we cross the line together?"

It didn't need an answer. With a slight wobble on my part, we shook hands, and rode back into Davenant school where we had left just under 5 days earlier. LEL was finished, we'd done it!


Loughton, London - 01:25, distance ridden: 1,418km

Despite being past one in the morning, there was a welcoming party there to greet us, cheering as we pulled up. Two volunteers caught each rider and bike as they arrived. It reminded me of helpers catching exhausted runners at the end of Comrades. It was a good plan here too, my legs almost gave way as I dismounted.

"Let's get you inside and stamped" the volunteer who had caught my bike offered.

I waited a few seconds for Phil though, who was savouring his own welcome with his wife who was waiting. Before long we were inside getting cards stamped. I almost forgot to snap a photo of mine, hastily asking the volunteer for it back before it disappeared into the massive pile heading off to Paris to be validated. We would get them back at some point, assuming the various postal services didn't manage to lose them. But for now I needed the evidence for my message to Yoli

01:28 - Rob Walker: Job done! 

And in response to my snap of the medal:

01:40 - Pixie: I want a photo of it around your neck pls!

01:40 - Pixie: So Fucking proud of you

I think the photo that Phil's wife snapped really does say it all - this was exactly how I felt at the end. Totally done.

01:43 - Pixie: Now go sleep
01:44 - Rob Walker: Hasn't really sunk in. Thx will do
01:45 - Pixie: You will never forget this

Click here to continue to Epilogue

Photos courtesy of author. 
St Ives and wheat field photos courtesy of Susan Otcenas. 

LEL Day 4

Brampton control - dark o'clock

It was a bit before midnight, and I was wide awake. I remember the advice of all those audax articles I'd read: if you're not actually sleeping or eating you should be riding. Lying here contemplating the ceiling didn't seem to qualify as any of those, so I with a quiet squeek, I slid off the mattress, gathered up my things, and headed out of the dorm. There was an impressive queue for beds, and the volunteers seemed very happy to have mine back a couple of hours early. I made for the canteen.

I was surprised to find it so busy, and even better they had plenty of food on the go. I forget exactly what I chose, I vaguely seem to recall several slices of toast with butter and marmalade, and of course a couple of cups of strong sweet coffee. There was definitely some form of meat on there too - although whether it was sausage or bacon now escapes me. I remember sitting there feeling rather full and happy though. Waking up early had largely preserved by time buffer, I would still have around 4 hours in hand by the time I left. More than that though, I was really starting to enjoy riding at night and was looking forward to climbing Yad Moss in the dark. I remembered from reading one LEL account that there was likely to be a treat in store waiting for me. And later in the day, with luck, I'd be crossing a fairly significant milestone - my Garmin was going to click over to four digits, and I would see it clock up 1,000km for the first time ever. This time last year I hadn't even ridden an imperial One Tonner (156km). It seemed quite incredible how far my training had brought me. I was getting ahead of myself though, there was riding to be done before I could tick off my first thousand.

The reality check didn't dampen my mood though, my body was very definitely sore and aching, especially my neck, but I'd rested pretty well and my energy levels and enthusiasm for the ride were still strong. I was confused though. My fresh lenses were in, but I just couldn't seem to see properly from my right eye. I decided it could be faulty lens, and tried another one. My vision was still blurry, but maybe a shade better. I decided it'd probably settle down, returned my tray to the serving section, and stopped by the snacks and coke machine on the way out.

There was a whole section of cereal bars that I gave a very wide berth. I'd picked up a couple on the way up, and somewhere during between Traquair and Eskdalemuir had bitten into one. The effect was what I imagine it would be like if you bit into a packet of those little crystals they pack with electronics to keep the humidity out - the inside of my mouth and my tongue were immediately stripped of all moisture. I was sufficiently hungry that I ate the whole bar, but it took the best part of half a bottle of water to wash it down. Clearly these were actually cereal, and meant to be eaten with milk.

I headed out via a toilet, to freshen up. I would treat myself with a shower at the end of today, to be nice and fresh for the last day back to London. For now, wet wipes and a spray of deodorant would have to do for keeping the worst of the odours at bay. It was a token effort, but better than nothing - and clean shorts plus a liberal application of Sudocreme would keep my nethers happy. With teeth brushed I was all done and walked through the control out to the bike park. My vision was still blurry - I hesitated, still wondering if it would clear itself. Realising how risky it would be trying to navigate dark lanes and avoid potholes with less than full vision, I turned back into the control and sat at a table to try and resolve the problem. I was about to ditch the lenses completely and fall back to my regular spectacles when I noticed something odd - when I took the right contact lens out my vision was perfect. I was just contemplating whether I had discovered some magic formula for correcting eyesight through long distance cycling when a much obvious and simpler explanation struck me. Whilst in the canteen, I must have put in the new lens without taking the old one out - I had two lenses in one eye. Having removed one from my right eye, there was the confirmation - another one lay beneath it. I smiled, and then laughed out loud, and then told the nearby controllers exactly what a klutz I had been. They laughed too. I might have got enough sleep to be able to ride again, but my mental faculties were, like my vision had been, rather foggy.

For some reason I had imagined I'd be the only one riding at this hour. I was wrong - several other riders were at the water station filling up bottles and preparing to start out. We chatted in hushed tones to avoid waking sleeping riders in the camper vans now parked all around this section of the school. It must have been nice to be a supported rider, but it didn't seem fully in the spirit of the event to me. Canteen food and packed dormitories really seemed as much of the experience as the riding itself. I guess not everyone feels that way though, preferring some home comforts.

In dribs and drabs, riders were wheeling out of the control into the darkness of the early morning. I joined them.

Time of departure from Brampton  00:25 - my earliest start to a bike ride ever.

I passed quite a few riders as the road wound up through the town. For the first time I'd put a thermal vest on, figuring that it may get quite cold on the high ground over The Pennines. At this point though, I was getting rather hot and sweaty working my way up the climb out of Brampton. I unzipped my jacket fully, and then decided to re-attach the zip just for the first centimeter so it could be more quickly zipped back up if the descents proved chilly. At the top of the town I recognised the sharp right turn over the railway crossing. Rather bizarrely, there was a crew of workmen performing some form of maintenance. They seemed just as surprised to see me, and presumably a number of other cyclists out at this hour.

The town behind me, darkness closed in all around the lane, aside from the large pool of bright white light from my two headlights: the dynamo powered Edelux; and the lithium-ion powered Super Lezyne. I was rather pleased how well my lighting had worked out - I could see far ahead, and also pick out road surface details well before reaching them.

"Erghaaa, Erghaaa"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. What the heck was the eerie sounding noise to my right. Luckily the more familiar sound of sheep "talking" immediately answered the question - one of them must have a cold and was coughing repeatedly. Phew, for a moment I had nearly needed to find a place to change my shorts.

I remembered that the road to Alston was predominantly uphill, but aside from a couple of short sharp climbs, the gradient seemed gradual and made for easy pleasant riding in the still and quiet of the morning. Immediately over the top from Brampton we even had a nice stretch of downhill before starting the long haul proper to the distant town, it's lights now occasionally visible far off ahead. A sliver of moon peeped through a bank of white clouds just marking the dark outline of the hills to the left that in around an hour's time I'd be climbing up and over. Along and up the road rose, very occasionally a car passed by, a stark contrast to the heavy rush hour traffic from the journey northbound along this stretch. I passed two or three small groups of other riders along the way, each time with a greeting and some small talk before riding on. In places the road was very wet from the night before. Tempting as it was to splash gleefully through the puddles I took care to steer around them in case they hid lurking potholes. The last thing I felt like doing was trying to fix a broken spoke and true a wheel in the pitch blackness.

Eventually, after one last rolling climb, the tranquility of the lane faded behind me and the yellow sodium glare of streetlights announced my arrival into Alston. Before setting out I'd made two decisions: if the garage was open, I'd stop for a coffee and something to eat; the other was that I wasn't going to attempt riding up those cobbles, I'd treat my legs and walk. The garage was shut, so that was one of the decisions nullified. Dismounting at the bottom of the high street, I clicked and clacked my way up the pavement - my cleats made a deafening din in the silence of the sleeping town. Reaching the market cross, I decided to stop for snacks to make up for the lack of coffee. As I wolfed down a banana and a snack bar, and sipped on my half coke and water mix several of the riders I had passed earlier came through - most of them bravely riding up, albeit most on the pavement rather than cobbles.

Fully fed, I was content to walk the last of the cobbles and the short 14% stretch of tarmac to the top of the town. I didn't feel like trashing my legs for the sake of a hundred meters or so when there was Yad Moss still to overcome. Back on the bike, the steady climb began and within a couple of turns the magical moment I had been looking forward to was right there, in front of me.

The rising moorland to my immediate left had a scattering of cloud over it's top, with dim rays of moonlight peeping through. And up ahead, snaking up it's side was a ribbon of red fairy lights, twinkling all the way to the top of the hillside. The line of lights rose up and up into the sky, it was impossible not to think of the words of Stairway to Heaven looking at the hypnotic dancing lights. It was hard to believe I was actually here witnessing this scene from LEL folklore - except in real life it far exceeded what I'd read about and imagined. A lump formed in my throat, and I felt a dampness in the corner of my eye. Must have been the cold morning air, couldn't possibly have been a tear.

The chain of lights rose up the hill, and one by one the red light at the head of the snake wavered, and then blinked out as it's rider reached the top and swung left. I sat and stoked. The gradient was a little steeper than from the other side, which suited me perfectly - I was enjoying the swifter ascent, pushing an easy cadence somewhere around the middle of the cassette. Before long, the line ahead of me had shrunk to a handful of lights, and soon after it was my turn to flicker and fade across the top of the moor. It was mentioned to me later that I forgot one thing - to look back from the top before descending, and see the same string of fairly lights but this time a dazzling chain of white climbing up from the town below.


The earlier than planned start meant I would be running downhill in the dark after all. A cautious descender at the best of times, I was glad of the new brake blocks. It may have been premature to replace them, but it was one less thing to worry about picking my way slowly down the long winding road. Another drawback of the early hour was that I missed out on the view of the white barn, which I'd stopped beside for a quick pee. Susan's wonderful photo (right) from later that morning shows what I'd missed out on.

Before riding on I ferreted around in my saddlebag for anything warm to put on. The exertion of the climb out of the way, plus a sweaty thermal had left me cold already. At least I had long fingered gloves, but for some stupid reason I overlooked the cycle cap. Most body heat leaves through your head, and this could have made a few vital degrees of difference. It remained unworn though, and I paid the price. The next 20km or so of riding may have been beautiful, as the night slowly gave way and the sky lightened from back through shades of navy to blue. It was mostly lost on me though - I was absolutely freezing. At first it was just my body, but slowly it spread - and by the time we reached Middleton-in-Teesdale again I'd pretty much lost all feeling in my feet. I needed to get to the control to warm up.

I stopped in the middle of the town confused. I turned back a few meters and then spun around again. The GPS track and printed route sheet definitely took us to the right, which also most definitely was not the route we had come northbound. A fellow rider was stopped, and we conferred briefly on the forking path. We agreed that this was definitely the planned route, and so headed off on the mysterious diversion. I alternating standing sprints and sitting pedaling a rapid cadence. My speed picked up, and the pretty lanes and towns flew past. The extra effort started to warm my core nicely, but none of that warmth was getting down to melt the ice blocks that had replaced my feet. It certainly was a very scenic route, and since it followed the river valley towards Barnard Castle, aside from a few short rises, it was considerably less hilly than the route we had taken on the way up. It occurred to me that perhaps the route planners had chosen this route to be easier on weary legs, but a couple more kilometers down the road I came across what I suspect was the real reason for the alternate route. A lovely old bridge crossed the river we had been following and straight ahead was a massive old stone wall with turrets and fortifications. This, I presumed, was the castle from which the town got it's name, and the stunning entrance it made must have been the reason the planners had routed us back this way. Again, thanks to Susan's photographic diligence for capturing the picture I had failed too.

Our different route this time took us back up the main street, going straight over the traffic island by the Market Cross. This time the town was largely deserted though as I rode through and wound up the last hill to the control. I was cold, and my feet were numb. I needed to get inside and get warm.


Barnard Castle - 05:34, distance ridden: 933km

Slipping out of my shoes, I had lost all sensation in my toes. I hobbled inside to get my card stamped. It felt as if I was walking on my ankle stumps - there were no feet there any more, at least none I could feel. I wondered if this was what frostbite felt like. I sat at an empty breakfast table, two cups of hot tea, and a steaming pile of food, hoping at least some of that warmth would find it's way down my legs. Michael sat down opposite me. I had seen he and Kerri-Anne at Brampton the night before, but they had ridden through and slept here for the night. He mentioned something about Kerri-Anne not being ready to get up yet. I sensed he was a little out of sorts, I guess after 900 kilometers and not much sleep we were all a little out of sorts.

We were also short on conversation too. Feeling suddenly sleepy, I bade him well and shot Yoli a quick messagoe to let her know I'd reached the control but was going to have a quick nap before riding on. The dorm staff allocated me a bed, and a wakeup call for around forty minutes time at 7am, and showed me to a vacant spot in the dim light of the dorm. To give some impression of the dorms I've included Michele Bonicelli's photo (right) of the Barnard Castle dorm. It was half empty, I guessed most riders were up and on their way. Sleep came almost instantly, and just as quickly it seemed I was been woken again. The power nap had done the trick though, I felt mentally and physically refreshed. I stopped in the canteen again for a quick coffee. The snacks were rather limited, but I managed to snag a banana and also filled my pockets with Bourbon biscuits and custard creams. I was a little bemused to see Michael and Kerri-Anne were still there, at a different table in the far corner. It made me feel a little better to see I wasn't the only one who enjoyed relaxing occasionally and eschewing efficiency for a good linger over an extra cup of coffee.

Feeling fresher and warmer, I set about the routine tasks in preparation for riding: Garmin on; turning route sheet to next page; stowing brevet card and phone in bar bag; filling bottles; and a final quick check over the bike. I was ready to ride out for Thirsk.


Time of departure from Barnard Castle 07:23 - last leg this side of 1,000km

At this stage the tone of LEL changed for me a little because, aside from a few hundred meters of different route back out of Barnard Castle, every leg south from here until St Ives would be a retrace of our wheel-tracks north. It took away a little of the adventure of not knowing what sights lurked around the next corner, but in return it brought a different reward: the joy of seeing the scenery again, but from a different perspective. Knowing that the Bowes Museum or the wooden bridge would be coming up again soon did not detract from the beauty of seeing them for a second time.

I was struck too by something that I had noticed on the way north - how often the lanes through this part of County Durham and North Yorkshire took sudden right angled bends. One of these many turns occurred at the top of the road after crossing back over the wooden bridge. I imagined that the course of these lanes must be following the lines of ancient field boundaries, something I had commented to Emmerentia about over that first leg, except here those turns seemed much more geometrically defined. The route wound past the training track we had stopped at, horses still out being exercised by their owners, and on under the A1M and back through the pretty little town of Middleton-Tyas.

I forget exactly where, but at some point on this stretch I finally warmed up. I stopped to remove my jacket, also taking the opportunity for a pee, and a quick snack on the provisions I had snagged from the Barnard Castle control. I'm not sure why it seemed so humorous at the time, but I messaged Yoli with the pictures right and left, and the caption of "picnic LEL style". I seriously doubt she found it nearly amusing as I had, although she did ask me about the Bourbon biscuits. These had been a childhood favourite of mine but apparently their delights never reached South Africa children.

Around another of the ninety degree road swings, somewhere after the diversion for the unfortunately timed road repairs, I heard a familiar voice. It was Wobbly, although I forget if he had caught me up or I had caught him. Either way, our relaxed pace and the quiet roads into Thirsk gave us more of a chance to talk than we'd had further north near Traquair. We chatted on a range of topics through the leafy lanes - Wobbly's experience of traffic had been rather kinder than my own, he'd found very few incidents of cray driving. A significant part of our conversation was around PBP. I had mentioned that LEL may have taken away some of the physical adventure of PBP in terms of how my body might cope, but it hadn't removed my interest in being involved in the oldest bike ride in the world. Wobbly shared his experiences of several PBPs (I forget exactly how many), and his views confirmed the other aspects which still inspired me: the sight of all those riders taking part, especially their chains of lights; and above all the amazing welcome and hospitality in the villages. It was great to hear all of this again first hand. It was great to enjoy such good company over the last few kilometers to the control.


Thirsk - 10:58, distance ridden: 1,000km

Safely parked up, I asked Wobbly to snap a picture of me clocking up my first ever 1,000km on a bike. I was proud to have completed it, and to be wearing my club shirt to honour the occasion. It's a good job that the photograph doesn't really convey how grimey and bad smelling I was by this stage.

Formalities completed, we headed inside to have cards stamped and scout out food. The canteen was as deserted on this visit as it had been busy on the way north - distance, variety in riding speeds and sleeping plans having now spread out the field of riders. Food was in plentiful supply, and I was sorely tempted by the sight and smell of a delicious looking curry. I prevaricated for a few moments, before deciding that whilst tasty and filling, it may not be the wisest choice with long hours of saddle time ahead. Instead, I opted for the more predictable but probably safer option of pasta, fruit, cake, and of course sweet tea.

Learning from my mistake at this control northbound, I made sure to stock up on supplies before leaving the control. Jersey pockets and bar bags stuffed with crisps, bananas, and cereal bars, I set off again, ready to tackle the last significantly hilly leg before the terrain gradually smoothed out southwards.


Time of departure from Thirsk 11:38

It didn't take a lot of mental calculation to realise that my sleep stop today was unlikely to be anywhere further north than Market Rasen. With the thought that I would see the Humber Bridge again today, and be back-tracking along lanes ridden on my first day, it was tempting to start thinking towards London. My body may have been tired and sore. My neck may still be causing a fair degree of pain, but to be back well within the limits of that first day and with a full day's riding time available it suddenly all seemed relatively straightforward. I had to force myself to stop thinking ahead, and focus on Pocklington and the leg at hand.

Luckily the riding soon became arduous enough to banish thoughts beyond the immediate road in front of me. Immediately after we'd crossed the A19 again, the road started to pitch upwards back over the Howardian Hills. I remembered enjoying long stretches of free-wheeling down into Thirsk, but hadn't quite appreciated how long and steep some of those descents had been. Just the opening salvo back to Coxwold had me sweating and gasping, and cursing my foolishness for even contemplating the word "straightforward" on a ride of such dimensions. Being a 17% slope, I had never intended to attempt riding up out of the other side of the muddy dip where I'd met Michael and Kerri-Anne on the way up, and dismounted as soon as the trouble rose up ahead. A couple of other riders were much braver than me, although at least one smiled and agreed with my comment that I'd conceded to my legs pleas to give them a break. Somewhere just before or after this was an interesting little stone circle to the side of the road, fenced off and marked with a plaque. As on the way up though, I totally failed to either photograph it or even stop and read what it was all about. Hill climbing and sightseeing score for this stretch: zero!

I did though manage to snap a picture of Castle Howard on the return route, albeit it's rather dim and distant in the picture. Very shortly before this, I'd stopped at the top of a sharp climb to gather my breath and transfer the contents of my jersey pockets into my stomach. I'm not sure what exact landmark had caught my eye, but some feature must have stood out from the way up and I knew it was pretty much the last of a seemingly endless procession of steep ups and downs. Exhausted, I stood shaded from the hot afternoon sun by a leafy forest, my bike propped against a gate. The crisps and banana did not last long, but it was enough to put some energy back in the body, or so it seemed.

The slight slope back to the roundabout in the middle of the Castle Howard is just out of sight at the top of the road in the picture above. Which is a shame, because this was the exact spot my LEL took it's most dramatic shift. Despite it's gradual gradient, I found myself spinning my lowest granny gear, and struggling even in that. I was fairly sure I wasn't dehydrated, but took a small swig of both plain water and electrolyte bottles just in case - it was pretty hot, and maybe I hadn't been drinking enough. My head was foggy, and I couldn't put my finger on the root cause - I knew I'd been eating well, and the gas tank didn't feel empty either. Not dehydrated, not out of energy, but here I was slumped on the bike and struggling. I tried to ignore it and just push on.

There were a few small rollers still to get over, the first back up to the obelisk, after which there was the hazardous crossing of the A64 to negotiate. It was much busier at this time of day than the early morning on the way up, but negotiating it was still not that unpleasant. The next few kilometers took us back along the narrow, potholed and gravel and mud strewn lanes around Buttercrambe, and gradually something else became evident. My neck was not just painful any more, it was excruciating. It was affecting everything, but most significantly my riding position, which had become hunched over and slogging. The relief of probably the last climb of any real substance, also brought a much less welcome apparition: a sharp pain that would dominate every moment and pedal stroke from that point forward. It was as if someone had wrapped a steaming hot towel around my throat and was tightening it to the point of throttling me. My neck muscles quite literally gave way and my head nodded forward. I could hardly summon the strength to look up and see the road ahead.

Pocklington was less than 15Km ahead, but I wasn't sure I could make it. For the second time that day I was almost in tears, but this time they were from pain. For the first and only time of the ride, I switched one of my handlebar displays over to indicate distance. I needed something to hang onto to show that I was making progress, to count me down to the control and some relief. I kept hoping for one of my riding friends to come by, heck, I kept hoping for any rider to come by. I just wanted someone I could ask to stay with me until the the control. I wasn't entirely sure of my safety riding alone. I wasn't entirely sure I wasn't going to pass out if the pain got much worse. No one did come past me, but eventually, at the pace of a snail, the kilometers counted down. Finally I reached the outskirts of town, and managed to guide myself to the control, largely on auto-pilot I suspect since I have no recollection of any details apart from agony, and the sight of the gutter. Over the course of one leg my LEL had gone from the elation of crossing 1,000km to abject despair. I wished I could take back the word "straightforward" and break it's curse.


Pocklington - 15:39, distance ridden: 1,063km

Everything about my arrival at the Pocklington control southbound followed pretty much the same routine as every one of the previous controls: brevet card stamping; food; tea; phone call home. The only difference was how I was feeling. For the first time on the ride I was in real pain, and my spirits had hit a properly low point. I forced myself to focus. Despite the feeling, my ride wasn't over yet, and when I described how things were to Yoli, I also laid out to her the only plan which made any sense: eat; take pain killers; get some sleep to rest muscles and recover some strength; and avoid making any decisions until after I had woken up and assessed things. I wasn't sure I would be able to carry on, but that wasn't a decision I needed to make yet.

This time, the proper dorm at Pocklington had plenty of space. I hadn't realised it was actually over the road from the main school, although now the rows of bikes parked some way distant from the control that I had noticed coming in northbound made sense. There were actually two bike parks, a few hundred meters apart. I headed across, parked my bike, and was shown to a mattress in the hall. I was one of only a handful of riders sleeping. Despite being broad daylight, my body clearly needed rest. I barely had time to stretch myself out before I was unconscious. Whilst I was sleeping, a rather weird thing happened. Phil Whitehurst for some reason snapped a picture of the Pocklington wake-up board. Without realising it, or even knowing my rider number, he also captured my wake-up time recorded there - bed -1D, 6pm, C71. We'd swapped many messages online, had failed to meet in real life, and now our paths crossed again, but only in the most unlikely virtual sense.

I woke twenty minutes or so ahead of my wake-up call, gathered up my bag and possessions, and padded quietly over to the dorm volunteers to let them know I wouldn't need my wakeup. Before exiting the dorm, I took a quick detour to the bathroom. I didn't want to waste time showering, but I did have a good freshen up with a decent splash of water, wet wipes, and Sudocreme for the vitals. I'm not sure if it was the sleep, cold water, or minty taste of toothpaste, but I left the dorm in considerably better spirits than I had entered it a couple of hours earlier.

My saddle had tell-tale drops of water all over it, and the roads had a glossy sheen - it had rained heavily whilst I had been sleeping. The sky was still grey, and it looked very much as if more rain was to come. I rode back to the main control to top up with coffee. I don't recall what the state of the canteen food was, but my appetite was not huge, so I grabbed a couple of cups of coffee and some snacks for the next leg. I seem to also remember there were some muffins or cakes that I washed down with the coffee before setting out. When I had arrived at the control earlier I'd heard comments about "the bulge" - the main plug containing several hundred riders, with only a control or two separating them. When I had arrived I was ahead of the bulge, but I sensed that I was now either in it, or even towards it's tail. Not that it really mattered, all that was relevant was that although still painful, my neck was sufficiently recovered to ride on. And with it, my spirits had lifted too. I headed out of the control into the damp, dark, grey evening light.


Time of departure from Pocklington 18:07

The prospect of a wet night time ride to the next control didn't really worry me. In fact, the cooler air was something of a relief. I knew it would be easier to deal with riding through pain if I wasn't also hot and bothered. At some stage I remember seeing Vicke again at the control, although I forget if she was arriving or preparing to leave. I'm not even sure if it was as I was heading out, or crossing from the dorm to get coffee. I do remember somewhere through the main part of Pocklington seeing a rider who'd had a minor incident with a car. It wasn't clear what had happened, but they were exchanging details and one mirror of the car was hanging loose, suspended by it's electrical wiring. It seemed as if the rider and their bike were unhurt, and the situation appeared in hand so I carried on.

Not long after leaving the control, Vicke and I met up again along the road. By that stage the rain was setting in properly, the roads were covered in water, and rush hour traffic was becoming busy, throwing up regular spouts of spray and dirt as watery tail lights rushed passed us. It wasn't especially pleasant, but fortunately it was fairly short lived too. I gave up trying to ride in my Rudy Project shades. Despite them being photo-chromatic and clear in the dim twilight, the rain was making them just too blurry to see the road ahead clearly. A wet, and occasionally gravel spattered face was preferable.  Coming up to a natural stop at a T-junction, Vicke offered to dig out some Codeine for me. In fact she had two packets of different strengths, both of which I gratefully accepted - taking the stronger one immediately. Vicke mentioned being a little nervous about a wet, night time stage with a long way still to go to the control. I was nervous about the state of my neck. Riding the rest of this leg together seemed a perfect solution for both of us.

Although the main hills were behind us, the road still continued to rise and fall. I remember clearly the pylons with their red warning lights from the journey northbound, and that from their it was mostly downhill to the Humber Bridge. I'm not sure Vicke was entirely convinced of my recollection, but the uphills were a slog on the recumbent, so I think it was a relief there might be at least some respite ahead. DFs (diamond frames) and 'bents (recumbents) don't make natural riding companions, the former being fairly fast uphill and slower downhill, the latter being the reverse. With my poor physical condition though, I was slow enough uphill and managed to hang on through the downhills to make the riding work. Before long we were in the outskirts of Hull and crossing a notable main road roundabout that presaged our run down into the park around and underneath the bridge approach.

I'd remembered there were public toilets in the park, although I was somewhat sceptical they would either be open or in any way usable as I watched over Vickes 'bent and she made over to them. No comment was passed on their condition on her return, but they had at least been open. After finding our way around one set of car park railings, involving a detour into the bus rank for me, we were confronted by a very locked gate barring what I seemed to remember as the circular route up onto the east cycle path. We stood confused for a few minutes, and conferred with several other riders who came by. It was obvious our only choice was the west cycle path, but I couldn't remember if that had an option to rejoin our route southward over the other side. For some reason, I had in mind the west path involved a different route from there. I put this out of mind. It didn't really matter whether it did or not, clearly the west path was the only option on this night back over the bridge so we had no choice but to wind up the path to our left which soon rose out of the woodland and onto the bridge.

At the top of the path, we saw what would have awaited us had we tried to take the east path - a couple of guys were precariously climbing over high railings. Their bikes were safely over, but the personal equipment needed to sit comfortably on their saddles seemed at considerable risk of being impaled. Somehow they made it over, and we all started over the bridge together. One of the riders we joined was one of the Cox brothers, I don't recall now if it was Grant, Gavin or both. The crossing was no less stunning than northbound, but in the rain and grey it wasn't quite so photogenic. Looking down, there was a large green buoy that I took to be a channel marker, although it looked as if someone had painted a small boat to create it. Over the far side was what looked like the remains of a brick works. I wondered if it was a remnant from the construction, or an industrial site that pre-dated it.

Before long, we could see a circular path winding around and under the bridge. It was a relief that my memory of the route had been wrong. As we wound under the bridge, we passed a local gathering of youths and their souped up cars. Despite being quite a crowd and a line of maybe twenty vehicles it wasn't at all threatening. In fact I seem to remember friendly greetings and banter as we passed, especially at the sleek and unusual site of Vicke's 'bent - not something I suspect was often seen pedaling through this part of the world.

The few turns through the town alongside the bridge were almost the last in daylight, and before long I had both my dynamo light and Lezyne headlight on. I had already warned Vicke that the rolling hills would not be done until Market Rasen, but I'd forgotten quite how long and rolling some of them were. At some stage we stopped for a snack and leg stretch by a farm gate, and were joined by a couple of other riders whose names escape me. One of them was also riding a 'bent, a German guy I think. They rode with us for quite a way, but we got split up by one of the rises or bunches that came through in the gloaming. If I hadn't been in the tail when I left Pocklington, I was pretty sure I was now. As at the control though, it didn't really seem to matter. Switching the distance indicator back off, I'd gone back to my process of arrival time estimation, which had us on track to be at the control around midnight. That should allow time for food, shower, and sleep, and still be away with a couple of hours in hand and a relatively short last day of riding.

The road rose and fell, the last showers of rain passed over, and the time ticked down to our arrival. The codeine had not removed the pain, but it was significantly eased. I'd also found a few unusual ways of holding my handlebars that allowed me to sit much more upright and take the pressure off my neck - steering with finger tips was one of the better ones, as was just wrapping a couple of out stretched fingers around the bar. At times too, I also sat forward off the saddle and half resting on the top tube, which allowed me to arch my back almost straight and remove most of the effort of holding my head up

"Clunk!"

Sod it. A moments lapse of concentration and I'd failed to steer around a puddle hiding a sizeable pothole. Nothing seemed broken in my drive chain or wheels, but something had come loose. What was it? I switched my headlamp on, which had hardly been needed so far on the ride. Glancing down, it wasn't long before I spotted it. The mount for my Garmin was clearly visible, and the Garmin itself was not. It had been rock solid through many awful roads, but finally had found a bump large enough to shake it loose - something I had read at least one other rider complain of with this device and mounting.

"Crap, I've lost my Garmin, it's flown out" I called out to Vicke, and circled back. I guessed I must have traveled around 15 to 20 meters beyond the point of hearing the noise. There were a couple of likely looking potholes around that spot. I scanned the grass verge - nothing. The headlamp was just not bright enough, so I unclicked the Lezyne headlamp, leaving the bar extender now completely empty. The side of the road was now floodlit brilliantly, but my frantic scanning was revealing nothing. The grass was quite long, it could be sitting hidden down in there anywhere - as hard to find as a wayward drive into the long rough. I was beginning to panic. I might have had printed route sheets, but part way into a night stage was not really the point at which I wanted to start having to use them. I calmed myself, told myself to search more thoroughly and methodically. Almost immediately, I saw a dull grey rectangular shape nestled a few centimeters underwater in the silt at the bottom of one of the potholes. I couldn't believe my luck at finding it, but I also wondered just how waterproof these supposedly rugged devices really were. Could they survive a heavy fall followed by total immersion for the 15 or 20 minutes it had taken me to find it? I didn't wait long for the answer - the moment my hand started to raise it up, the puddle lit up dimly from the faint glow of the screen backlight.

"I've got it, it's still working!" I called out. All I needed was it to stay working for the next few kilometers to the control. If needed tomorrow, I could navigate by route sheet in daylight.

The Garmin did stay working. Market Rasen was not far, and with one last hill out of the way we rode into the outskirts of the town. I remember joking to Vicke that maybe the "Rasen" in the name came from the fact that the town was raised up from the surrounding countryside. For all I knew perhaps it was. The left turn into the school was a welcome sight for both of us. For Vicke, the wet night time ride was done. And for me, I'd managed to keep going through the pain and get one more leg further along. We'd reached the control.


Market Rasen - 23:38, distance ridden: 1,153km

Inside the control, I realised how wet it had been. My shoes and socks were soaking. With nothing that could be done about that, I got my card stamped and went for food. The roast dinner looked a bit grey and unappetising. Remembering a fish and chips counter from the journey north, I went around the end of the canteen counter and to my delight it was still there. I loaded up, also adding pudding and custard from the adjacent station. Vicke joined me at the table and commented the fish looked the better option. To be honest, it wasn't the best I'd ever tasted, but with liberal ketchup, it more than hit the spot, especially the chips.

Afterwards I checked the bed situation - plenty of space was the response. Vicke booked hers straight away, but I fancied that shower I'd promised myself. Stopping by the bag drop, I made for the shower. A communal shower with only cold water was not really the indulgence I had hoped for. Rather grumpily I donned the last of my five shirts - The Sufferfest. With the pains of my body, it seemed even more apt now than when I had packed it imagining the possible exertions of the ride. Only the fourth and final card from home was enough to cheer me up. Yoli had already let slip it was a card Ben had handmade, but that did not diminish the surprise or the smile.

After a quick brush of teeth, I returned my drop bag and went to get a bed. Or rather not. I had made a fatal error by not reserving a bed earlier - all the beds and blankets were gone. To make matters worse, it seems I could have booked one, and then gone and showered. I kicked myself for such a basic mistake. For a moment I was lost, not sure what to do. Eventually I wandered back to the bag drop area. They had gym mats on the floor, and already several riders were asleep on them. There were no blankets, and no system for wakeup calls, but the mats were surprisingly comfortable. If anything, they were actually nicer than the blow up mattresses.

The drop bag volunteer was extremely helpful, and a few minutes later came by to confirm what wake-up time I wanted. He was making a plan for a manual system for wakeups.  They'd also found blankets too. Things were looking up. Moments later, things started to look down, in a big and rapidly downward way. I started to feel slightly light-headed, a feeling which spread rapidly into a full-on feeling of nausea and faintness. I rolled over a couple of times, desperately hoping I'd find a position that would ease it. I failed. Eventually I realised I couldn't just lie there, with a significant chance of either passing out, being sick, or worse both. I'd always regretted not being able to play the guitar, and I had no intention of meeting the same end as Hendrix but without ever enjoying his talent.

I dragged myself and my bags up and went back to the drop-bag table. I explained my condition to the volunteer and asked if he minded me sitting propped against the wall behind the control desk, so he could see if I passed out. He inquired a few times about how I was doing until eventually I gave in and said I thought maybe I needed to see a first aider. Very soon my blood sugar was being checked and confirmed OK - I think I may have mentioned something about it and made them think I was diabetic. That misleading risk out of the way, the first aider checked my pulse, arranged me some sweet coffee, and from somewhere magicked up a large and extremely comfy duvet to wrap myself in. By now, I was certain this was the end of my LEL and muttered something to him about "London-Edinburgh-Market Rasen" not having quite the same ring. I remember very clearly his reply that it was still a heck of an achievement, and not to give up until I'd had some sleep, he'd seen a number of riders in my condition and many of them had managed to carry on after a good rest. They were kind words, but I really couldn't see any way I would be able to continue. I looked at the sea of yellow drop bags around me. I'd used the words "gutted" many times in the past, but this quite literally felt like having my insides ripped out. My spirits and LEL collapsed around me.

The first aider watched over me for a while, and before leaving organised another volunteer to keep an eye on me so I could sleep. At some stage before drifting off I noticed something - the new jersey was a slightly tighter racing fit, and my stomach was so swollen it formed a bloated bump restricted under the stretched material. I unzipped it, and a huge wave of relief spread over me and the nausea abated a shade. With the imminent risk of covering the wooden gym floor in vomit averted, I slipped into unconsciousness.


Click here to continue to Day 5

Photos courtesy of author. 
White barn and Barnard Castle photos courtesy of Susan Otcenas. 
Barnard Castle dorm photo courtesy of  Michele Bonicelli
Pocklington dorm board photos courtesy of Phil Whitehurst.