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. 

LEL Day 3

Moffat control dorm - sometime before dawn

I don't remember exactly what time I had asked for my wake-up call, I'm guessing it would have been around 4:30am, giving me an hour or so to eat and get ready for riding again. Whatever time it was, I slept right up until the volunteers visited each of the mattresses on the same round of wake-ups. Still groggy with sleep, I lay for quite a few minutes before hauling myself up and gathering together my things - this time much more neatly organised in one small tidy pile tucked at the foot of the mattress.

Already rather slow to get up, and with the showers fairly busy, I decided not to waste more time. I ducked into the large disabled toilet next to the dormitory, and did a quick body wash with a combination of wet wipes, soapy water, and a couple of hand towels. For the first time I had experimented with sleeping in my contact lenses, which my optician had told me would be OK for several days if needed. It seemed to have worked well - my vision was fine, and my eyes now fully awake, weren't sore. Last order of business was a quick brush of the teeth, and a change of shorts after a liberal smearing of Sudocreme over anywhere remotely tender, and surrounding areas just for good measure. I was ready for food.

Today's breakfast delight was a sort of thick ham slice, but with the taste of sausage - a bit like the sausage patties in a McD's muffin. It hit the spot perfectly, and I was tempted to go back for seconds. I probably should have, but the coffee machine had my attention and got the return visit instead. Ready for the day, I made my way back to the hall to recover my shoes and head out to fetch the bike. I rode it back to the glass doors of the canteen hall, to save time visiting the water fountain with bottles. Whilst the Garmin was booting up, I quickly wiped down the chain and ran some fresh lube over it. I wasn't really sure of the benefit of this - the chain was now thick with road gunk, and was really in need of a decent clean. I figured the Teflon might add at least some lubrication to keep it turning and shifting.

Chores all done, I made a quick call home to Yoli before heading out. I had messaged the night before to let her know I was safely at Moffat, but it had been way too late to speak. I was about to set out for Edinburgh, the halfway spot where we turned southwards. It was exciting to be starting on N9, the last northbound leg on the Garmin and I was eager to share the news. I was very glad that Yoli completely understood this feeling, and the call left me uplifted as I rode out from the control, ready for the morning and day 3 of my LEL adventure.


Time of departure from Moffat  05:22 - a damp and misty dawn slowly breaking.

Backtracking to Moffat high street, the route then split from our ride in the night before, swinging to the right and taking us through the centre of town. The morning was damp, and once through the town the road immediately started to climb up into grey shrouds of mist hanging over the hillside in the still air. The volunteers at Brampton had mentioned that before Edinburgh we climbed up and over the interestingly named Devils Beef-Tub. A quick glance down at the route sheet clipped to my handlebar confirmed that this was in fact the start of that climb, which would peak at 403m somewhere up ahead. It didn't shed any light on what a "beef tub" actually was, or why Beelzebub had chose this patch of Scottish countryside to store his.

Not far outside the town a red traffic light stopped me at a single file section of road works. Sadly, with such poor visibility, the opportunity to admire views whilst paused was wasted. The interruption did have a concertina effect though, and starting out again I was suddenly not riding alone, quite a number of other riders were now around me. I noticed with amusement one of the guys was riding what looked like a largely standard Giant TCR Advanced. I made a mental note to tell my friend and training partner Penny about this. As someone already almost bitten by the audax and long distance cycling bug, I wasn't sure she would thank me for the revelation that her new race bike was clearly capable of these events.

As the altitude on the route sheet suggested, it was neither a long or especially strenuous climb to the top of the hill, and we were soon rolling along a ridge, and dropping down into a long and very lovely valley beyond. Although the roads were still wet, the mist and clouds were clearing and the views were breathtaking. In the valley to our right was a series of reservoirs, and at some point on the road we passed a sign denoting the source of the River Tweed. The river  started as nothing more than a narrow brook in the bottom of the valley, but it's waters grew rapidly as the road descended through the valley. Shortly before Broughton, the infant river swung away left and we parted company. My limited knowledge of this area's geography was sufficient to tell me our paths would inevitably cross again at some stage later that day - we would cut back south, whilst the river would continue it's way eastward to the sea at Berwick.

Somewhere along this stretch of road was a rather strange sight - an old slightly run-down building, covered in Save The Crook Inn signs and banners, and details of the next fundraising event. I wondered what the history of this building was to make it worthy of saving, and whether it was a private or local community project to save it. Either way, it seemed a simply delightful setting for a rennovated and revived inn to offer it's hospitality. I wondered if sometime I would come back through here touring with family and perhaps get the chance to stop in there for a meal or a stay. I knew Yoli would adore the scenery we were riding through, and very much hoped there would be a chance to share it with her some day. Definitely not in winter though - it was clear that this could be  a very bleak area in harsh weather. Wherever the road was flat, the surface was quite badly broken up, evidence I guessed that winters up here were icy cold. I was glad to be here in such pleasant weather, the early morning damp now having given way to a warm sunny day.

Leaving the open moorland behind us, we were joined by a busy road from the left, signposted Edinburgh in the direction we were heading, and Glasgow back the other way. With the same unfortunate timing from the Alston to Brampton section the day before, we hit this stretch of road at peak time. Clearly the Scottish rush hour drivers were not to be outdone by their southern counterparts. We were unfortunate enough to be surrounded again by an array of mundane cars, vans and lorries attaining speeds and cornering so hard they may as well have been racing around Silverstone. In my head, I started to write a book entitled It's All Your Fault Clarkson - the central premise being that half of the UK now thought they were The Stig, thanks to watching too many episodes of Top Gear. Clearly, it was not exactly a scientifically provable fact, or even a vaguely plausible premise, and the risk of being sued for libel was consequentially rather high. Whatever the real cause of the maniacal frenzy to get to work at all costs, I did think it was a shame that some of our riders had flown across half the planet from countries as far off as Japan, only to be nearly forced off the road by a succession of lunatic drivers in an unfathomable hurry to reach the boredom of their desks.

In a lay by to the right hand side of the road was a van, which judging by the throng of riders around it must be serving tasty delights such as bacon rolls and coffee. I was half tempted to stop, but the lure of Edinburgh and the halfway milestone was too great. On the road just beyond this, a new hazard was lumbering slowly into the road, whilst chewing on some grass. Someone had left the gate to a field open, with one cow already in the road, and two more about to follow. I gave the animal a wide berth, eyeing it carefully should it start and decide to charge me. It did occur to me that karma should really ensure one of the speeding drivers met this beast and ended up in the ditch. It's not nice to wish ill of others though, especially the poor cow.

The road continued largely straight although it rolled down and up considerably as we approached our destination. To my left I suddenly spied a very distinctive butterfly shaped outcrop of rock, I was pretty sure this was Arthur's Seat, a well know Edinburgh landmark and one which Yoli and I had climbed up on one of our first dates. Somewhere we have a self portrait, complete with cheesy grins and arms holding the camera to prove it. At the top of one hill, I was even more thrilled to see another familiar sight from that trip - the chimneys of a power station on the coast south of Edinburgh. It's hard to portray the romance and meaning of this sight to anyone else. On our last day in Edinburgh, we'd driven down the coast, and starving hungry had pulled over to buy chips from a van. They were perhaps the best chips we've ever eaten, and the backdrop as we sat eating them were those chimneys and that power station.

Countryside gave way to suburbs, and the road dropped steeply down to the suburb of Lasswade on the Esk. At the bottom, as we turned left, other riders were coming back past us and up the hill to the right. Clearly we were close to the control, and neither the ride there or back was going to be flat. We were quite large bunches of riders now, in both directions, and as we passed under the Edinburgh bypass the morning was starting to get quite hot, adding to the work of climbing the last hill, up and over before dropping down to the control.


Edinburgh - 09:31, distance ridden: 705km - HALFWAY!

We were here, in Edinburgh, halfway. It should have been a wonderful moment, but strangely it wasn't. It was hard to pinpoint why - perhaps because we weren't really in Edinburgh, we were in a school car park on the outskirts of the city somewhere. Maybe that was a factor, but the real reason was that halfway meant we had it all to do again. Except this time we would be starting out sleep deprived, with battered bodies and tired legs. And once we left this control, we would be tackling one of the tougher sections of the ride. It promised to be extremely scenic, but the climbs would be a test for the legs and spirit.

Putting that out of mind, I headed in to the control for sustenance to stoke the energy reserves. I forget what the hot dishes were, but remember there being a sizeable queue and none of them really grabbing me. So, after stopping by a table to grab sweet tea, I made for the other end of the counter, which still had cold breakfast food laid out. Filling plates with toast, and bowls with Weetabix I headed to the nearest vacant table, slowly slumped down and proceeded to stuff my face. The toast was especially good, smeared thickly with butter and marmalade, a whole packet per slice - double what I'd normally have lathered on. The tea was good too and, following what was rapidly becoming routine, as soon as the first cup was gone it immediately got refilled. Passing the counter again, I noticed that the breakfast items were now almost all gone - "just in time" I thought to myself, swiping what remained of the toast as I went by.

Appetite satisfied, I now desperately needed a loo before heading out. And that was where I really started to get frustrated. On the section of corridor with showers, practically every toilet was either flooded, blocked, had no paper, and in some cases all three. The control had been busy, and I imagined the volunteers must have been rushed off their feet, so I did my best to mention it politely and without any hint of grumpiness to one of the volunteers as I headed back to the canteen. Luckily, hidden away in a different corridor off the hall was another male toilet. Judging by it's super clean state, it had either not been found by many other riders, or had recently received a visit from someone on cleaning duties.

The food hadn't really lifted my mental slump as I stood outside filling bottles from the hose and preparing to ride out. I forget whether I called Yoli or just messaged her, but I let her know about my low spirits and got a cheery response back telling me half was done, keep going. My mood wasn't helped by the volunteer at the gate who, on seeing my C plate, chirped something along the lines of "you're a bit late aren't you, most of your group are long gone?". He was just being friendly, but it wasn't really the thing I needed to hear right at that moment. I told myself it may be true, but I had several hours in hand still over when this control would have closed for me. It didn't cancel out the sudden faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the distance though. I focused on the road ahead, and tried to banish the idea from my mind. There was plenty of time still.


Time of departure from Edinburgh 10:22 - spirits flagging.

The route initially doubled back on our path in, passing so many swathes of riders on their way in to the control that my right hand spent more time in the air waving to them than it did on the bars. It made for a couple of quite interesting wobbles on the descent back down to Lasswade. Once the paths had split again, the route took us predominantly upwards through a succession of urban areas, suburbs of Dalkeith I guessed judging from the fact that every left turn seemed signposted there. We briefly dropped down to cross a river on a bridge with single track traffic due to roadworks. It was a pretty little section, which then climbed back up again and took us onto A7. Luckily this was a shortish stretch as the road was extremely busy with trucks, buses and traffic. The road was wide, and in places even had a narrow cycle lane, so none of the traffic really bothered us, but it was noisy and not especially pleasant. The cycle lane wasn't always a good call either - being occasionally festooned with litter, broken glass and dog shit. It reminded me of home. I wondered if cycle lanes everywhere in the world were magnets for detritis.

The riding became immensely more enjoyable after we swung right off the A7, and found ourselves on green and pleasant quiet country lanes again. My mood lifted too. The weather and riding were good, we'd turned for home, and we were heading into a part of the route I had been greatly looking forward too. At this point I enjoyed some excellent company and conversation with a young guy who's name now totally escapes me - sorry! I remember his bike was blue, or at least I think it was, and he had Tri bars fitted, which was one of the topics we chatted about. The road swung right and started a long steady climb upwards. We both commented that it was a very pleasant gradient: steep enough to work the legs and lungs and climb at a reasonable rate; but not so steep as to make you out of breath and unable to talk. I remembered hearing that the route to Traquair was basically one big uphill, followed by a similarly long downhill. I mentioned this to my riding companion, with the thought that perhaps this was the uphill part.

Soon after we passed Vicke again, and I said "hi" and introduced her to my riding companion. She was making a steady pace up the hill, and after a short catchup on our respective progress we pushed on. On top of the climb, a patch of dark storm clouds finally caught up with us and a heavy downpour started. I stopped to put on my jacket, and another enjoyable stretch of riding company was over for the time being. It seemed likely we'd meet up again at some stage, judging by how often I was finding myself riding with the same people. The shower soon passed, and as the sky lightened the countryside all around  opened up - we were flying down a sweeping descent through some of the most stunning moorland scenery of the ride so far. I heard any number of birds of prey calling out over the moor, and by one gate a group of birdwatchers were stationed with telescopes. They'd only just set-up though, so couldn't tell me what the birds I was hearing were.

My shoulders and neck were starting to really trouble me again, and I pulled over to take an Ibruprofen. Vicke stopped briefly to check I was ok, having easily caught me with the 'bents much greater downhill speed. I started off just behind her, and we chatted a bit about the magnificent surroundings as our bikes whizzed along. Along that stretch, at least two or three groups of heavily laden touring cyclists passed us going the other way - clearly nothing to do with LEL, and probably curious why all of a sudden they were seeing so many other riders.

I was right about the previous hill being the "one big climb" of that leg, were were soon in the quaint little town of Innerleithen. I had also been right earlier that we would meet up with the Tweed again, crossing the now rowdy adolescent river as we rode through the town. On a sharp right hand bend not far from the control, I came across another 'bent, in fact the identical model to Vicke's, except this one was yellow. The rider immediately commented to me how odd it was to see his name on the back of someone else's bicycle. It transpired that Wobbly's (his YACF name) real name was RobW, the YACF nameplate mounted on the back of my saddle bag. After both enjoying a laugh at this coincidence I mentioned that I wanted to get to the control because of my neck, and sprinted ahead. Luckily, it was no more than a kilometre or so further on, and with massive relief I slid off the bike and into the control. My spirits were much improved over leaving Edinburgh, but my body was not.


Traquair - 12:57, distance ridden: 747km

There must have been a slight disconnect at the control desk - my brevet card showed the correct timestamp, but I found out later on that the rider tracking showed me as having arrived 2 hours later. Yoli and I had swapped messages by then, so she'd already figured out the mistake.

Formalities done, I began the now familiar forage for food. The principal goal this time being to hunt out the source of the amazing looking slices of cake I had seen everyone sitting outside eating. It didn't take long to locate them, and they were plentiful - the volunteers even urging me to take a couple of slices. Sadly, I had to pass on the Glenlivet. A tot of it would have been the perfect addition to my coffee, or even better taken neat. But I didn't dare risk it with the combination of pain killers and lack of sleep - it seemed an almost ideal combination for triggering a falling asleep on the bike incident.

I found a space at one of the tables outside, and joined the other riders enjoying slabs of the excellent cake. Susan, Leslie and Vicke had all arrived at the control and were also enjoying the hospitality, as well as being in various stages of sorting out bikes. It became clear that Leslie had suffered a nasty mechanical with her machine. It transpired she had sheared a chain ring bolt on the last section. There had been a rattle for some time, and on tightening the bolt it had broken in half. The consensus was that in fact the reason for it being loose was that it had already broken, and the attempt to fasten it had just revealed the lurking problem. It was a serious problem - the chain ring bears the full force of the pedal stroke, and Leslie being a strong out-of-the-saddle climber would generate a considerable load through the plates and their retaining bolts. Whilst still working at present, any further damage could end her ride.

A very helpful volunteer was contacting a bike shop in Longtown, but the call took a while and the outcome was uncertain. Between us and Longtown were at least three long, stress inducing climbs. The girls had little choice but to push on carefully, and I wished them luck as they started out. I polished off a second cup of coffee, and after the obligatory top-up of bottles was on my way not long afrer. I was seriously hoping the rumours of three more big climbs proved false. My neck was considerable more painful when working uphill, regardless of whether sitting or standing to climb.  


Time of departure from Traquair 13:21- cursing missing out on the whisky

My hopes were dashed within metres of leaving the control, the road immediately rose upwards. Clearly this was the start of the first of those three climbs. Soon after I found myself in the company of fellow riders from South Africa, the Cox brothers. At the timing of writing, I remember Grant's name but his brother's totally escapes me (thanks to the wonders of Facebook I was able to refresh my memory later, his name is Gavin). I had been introduced to them both in Market Rasen which makes it doubly embarrassing. Clearly my resolve to make more of a social effort at the start had been overtaken by the more basic needs of keeping body and mind going. As we rode along, I remarked to the guys that I would never moan about South African drivers again after the experience of those two stretches of road with rush hour traffic. The guys agreed, they'd had a couple of similarly scary experiences during the ride.

I had just learnt that one of the guys was nursing a loosened crank bolt that he couldn't get tightened when we caught up with Susan. It was worrying not to see Leslie, nothing ominous though - she'd pushed on ahead a short way, but was sitting spinning in her small blade rather than risking standing or using the outside blade and adding further to the strain. We chatted about how it would probably be fine to get to Brampton, where I remembered the mechanics seeming very well equipped and capable. Susan explained that the initial symptom had been a clicking as Leslie pedaled, and this was still worryingly present. We considered the risk that with the load now spread across only four remaining bolts, another could shear which in all likelihood would then cause the drive-chain to shatter damaging other components as it did.  It was concerning that perhaps the reason for it still clicking was a second bolt on it's way out. I suggested that maybe we could zip-tie through the hole in the plates. It wouldn't carry a huge load, but it might help keep the plates locked together and spread some of the load off the other bolts. Agreeing it was worth a try, we left the guys and sprinted off up the road to suggest the idea to Leslie.

When we caught Leslie she seemed open to any solution that may help, so we pulled over to the side of the road and whilst Susan hunted for zip ties, I looked for my Leatherman to cut them. Unable to find it in the mess of a saddlebag, and with the time pressure that Leslie would still need to find a mechanic with a bolt, I grabbed my multi-tool which had a sharp knife that would do. Playing around with the ties, the best option seemed to thread one each side and fasten them as tight as possible with the locking ring of the tie on the outside so as not to snag the chain path on the inner ring. I must confess, I was rather pleased with the finished job. A rider the girls knew, Victor, pulled alongside and inspected our handy-work and gave it a thumbs up too, with words to the effect of "yep, that'll hold fine".

I offered to stay riding with the girls as we set off again, but they declined - asking me rather to check when I reached Brampton to see if the mechanics had or could source a replacement bolt. Susan said the name to me twice, TA Cyclotourist, I'd never heard of it before but I knew I'd remember it. With that sorted we parted company again, and I rode on. One hill behind me now, there were still those two extra hills lurking somewhere on the road ahead. But for now, we were riding with lush summer meadows, babbling tarns, and patches of forest either side of the road. It was simply divine, albeit the road was quite narrow. Somewhat too narrow for one elderly couple, in their boxy new silver wagon. Impatience got the better of them, and rather than sitting behind a group of cyclists ahead until a passing place opened up, they pushed through with the offside wheel on the verge opposite. Unfortunately, they had not only misjudged the width of the road, they'd also missed or ignored the "sunken verges" warning signs. There was a sudden piercing screech of metal and plastic meeting tarmac at speed, accompanied by sparks, a burning smell, and the sound of parts breaking. I felt slightly sorry for them - these weren't the lunatic racers we'd encountered earlier, and yet they had clearly done some damage to their vehicle. I'd have happily stopped to help them inspect it, except they drove off, presumably embarassed by the whole thing.

I commented on the incident, and the lingering burnt smell to one of the riders near me. And yet
again, I've totally forgotten his name despite us riding the majority of the rest of this leg together. We had a lively and entertaining conversation too. From memory, I think he was also on a Titanium frame, or perhaps was aspiring too one, I forget exactly which. I do remember singing the praises of my custom Burls frame, and also how reasonably priced it was for a truly custom, made to measure frame. We rode the long straight of the high valley until it became clear we were soon going to need to climb out, in one direction or another.

My riding companion commented the river to our left was still flowing back past us, so the climb must be up ahead. I couldn't fault the logic, and sure enough we gradually climbed up and out of the valley, the road opening up to a spectacular view down a new valley, this time with a river flowing ahead and downwards to our right. At this point I have run out of new superlatives to describe the view, the vista before us was simply off the chart.

On the descent through the valley a couple of large, double jointed forestry trucks squeezed past us. There had been quite a few signs about this road being open and maintained thanks to the forestry industry so I guess we couldn't really complain. We were the imposters here enjoying the benefit of the road they were paying for. Without their industry, it's possible there'd be no incentive to keep this magnificent thoroughfare open.

As we reached the bottom of the valley, we came upon a sight I'd been looking forward too for the whole of LEL - the Buddhist temple at Eskdalemuir, almost totally out of place with the surroundings, but also strangely at home in such a tranquil setting. You couldn't really see the temple from the road, and my legs really did not want to detour. Fortunately Phil Whitehurst was less lazy than me and at least snapped a photo of the Buddha. It was something Yoli had asked me to do and I had totally failed at, through a combination of sore neck, needing a loo, low camera battery, and other weak excuses.

A few meters down the road, and a small greeting party signaled us to turn off right into the control, warning us of the loose gravel as we swung past.


Eskdalemuir - 16:03, distance ridden: 794km

As I headed in to the control, Susan and Leslie were just arriving at the mechanics station. One of them swung around with a big thumbs up. It seemed a remarkable piece of luck in such a remote place, but clearly they'd discovered a bolt that would do the job. Maybe TA Cyclotourist components were more common than I was aware of.

The control belied it's small, scout-hut sized presence with a wonderful welcome, clean loos, a table with some kids selling drinks and snacks, and a canteen that made up for it's limited dimensions with some of the tastiest looking and smelling food of the whole trip. The soup and pasta looked wonderful, and the bread was freshly baked and still warm. I was slightly sad not to have also had a pie, but with such limited space I understood their need to ration riders to one choice of main.

I sat enjoying my food, and I think was joined by my riding companion from the stretch to the control. I do remember all of us at the table commenting on the fabulous hospitality and food. Especially the bread. Juice and coffees downed, I stopped by the snacks table on the way out. It was only around 50km to Brampton, and I'm sure I could have survived on water and electrolytes, but coke and choccies were very tempting and it also felt good to be showing my support for their efforts.

Self and bike topped up, I swung out of the control. As I was leaving, I inquired roughly where I'd be likely to pick up a cellphone signal. Langholm seemed to be the consensus. It wasn't far down the road, and checking the time should be ideal for a call home.


Time of departure from Eskdalemuir 16:36

The route-sheet showed a warning for a stretch of road that had been discussed at length on Facebook and the YACF forums. The now infamous potholes near Westekirk Bridge. They were something of a disappointment sadly, many of them having been repaired. The road was a little rough, but instead of us taking to mountain biking territory we just juddered along for a few hundred metres of corrugated surface.

Even in my sleep deprived state, I knew we'd only overcome two of the three hills claimed for this route, and soon after the rough stretch I could see the road angling up the hillside to my left in one long rising traverse. It was actually a fairly easy and straightforward climb apart from the last two or three bends where the gradient pitched up sharply and had me spinning my small blade.

By the time I reach Langholm it was clear that the climbing was done, and it would now be a largely downhill run to Brampton. The pain from my neck was really becoming a bother by now, so it was a relief to stop for a call home and know that when I resumed riding after, it should be a less taxing stretch. It was great to chat with Yoli, she was having dinner with her parents and I got the usual brief chat with Ben too - "Hello daddy, yes, love you too" - followed with a faint "bye" shouted from a distance, the phone now back with Yoli. I needed to have a serious chat too. For the last couple of kilometers, my strategy for the rest of the ride had been worrying me, I didn't want to try for Barnard Castle today - my neck wouldn't take the climb, and the descent at dusk or after dark with an injured body seemed a needless risk. The problem was, I would arrive at Brampton very early, and my close time for the control was around dawn the next day. So I couldn't afford a nice long sleep there either. Whichever way I did it, there was some serious night riding coming, and I was going to eat into my current buffer of 4 or 5 hours by at least a couple of hours. I'd decided the best option was a quick sleep and a very early start from Brampton, this approach having the benefit of missing the rush hour on the road back to Alston. If timed right, the descent of Yad Moss should also be in the first light of dawn too, rather than racing down in the dark

I explained my ride tactics to Yoli, and that also now I'd need to keep pressing on, often riding and sleeping at strange hours of the day which would most likely disrupt our flow of calls and messages. She told me it was all fine, she understood. I'd got this far and needed to ride my own ride and get the job done. She also passed on some of the amazing messages of support the she had been getting from friends and club mates on Facebook and by email. A lump came to my throat when I heard how many people were following my progress, some quite literally studying maps and the rider tracking system. I might be riding solo often, but I was far from alone. I thanked Yoli for being so understanding and asked her to also say thanks to all those supporting me. My phone battery was not in great shape, so we hung up and I turned it off to save some battery life. Since turning for home at Edinburgh, that faint ticking had become louder. Time and ride planning were starting to become a constant companion in my thoughts.

The remainder of the leg I stood and charged as hard as I could. I just wanted to get to Brampton, eat and sleep. We followed alongside the A7, occasionally joining it, until a familiar sight came into view - Longtown, where our path had diverged off to Gretna Green on the route north. Somewhere just before there, we crossed the border and another stone block marking our return to England. My phone was off sadly, so I rode on towards the town and the bridge back over the Esk. We were just a few kilometers from Brampton, but the weather had decided we weren't going to get there dry. Fortunately at the first sign of storm clouds I'd donned my jacket, but the lashing rain which accompanied us into the control still managed to seep through. A small line of damp and soggy riders stood at the control waiting for our cards to be stamped.  The heavy rain confirmed my decision, I'd sleep out the storm here and start out early tomorrow.


Brampton - 19:38, distance ridden: 851km

I went to grab my drop bag, but before doing so asked the mechanic his opinion of my brake blocks. I didn't fancy descending Yad Moss in the dark without having them checked. He commented that they should be ok, but he could clean or replace them. I felt guilty asking them to waste time cleaning them with so many bikes to attend too, so opted for the quicker replacement option.

Back inside the control, I sat for a few minutes sifting through my bags replacing batteries, swapping clothing, and digging for new contact lenses. The AA and AAA batteries I was removing weren't dead, I just didn't want to replace them in the night if they failed. I asked around if anyone needed any, and was immediately relieved of them by another rider with a grateful smile. Finally I found my third card from Yoli and Ben. With a dying phone, this and the final card might be my main link back to home for the next couple of days. A smile immediately spread across my face. It was a picture of Ben eating mealie pap at a chalet in Die Hel on one of the last day's of this year's camping holiday.

I was intercepted by one of the volunteers on my way back across the car park, and the drop bag went straight into the back of a van destined for London. Any concern about waiting around for drop bags was clearly unfounded, they'd be home long before I would. As if to re-enforce the LEL efficiency, my bike was handed back to me before I'd got back inside - brake blocks already changed, and bike checked over. Amazing.

There was really nothing left to do but eat and sleep. I seem to vaguely remember a sausage of some form, and I'm certain there was pudding. The volunteers manning the dorm board quickly got me a bed allocated, with a 02:00 wake up time noted down. And with that I entered the dorm. It was the usual ritual, and I was quickly lying flat on my back, enjoying stretching out. Before I drifted off to sleep, I remember hoping that at least one of the film crews had thought to put a microphone in the one of the dorms, preferably this one. I have never in my life heard anything like it - the snoring and farting volume was off the chart. Closing my eyes, I could easily have imagined myself on the Serengeti. A million wildebeest would have struggled to compete with the human symphony around me. Sleep came easily, with an amused smile on my face.


Click here to continue to Day 4

Photos courtesy of author. 
Chain ring repar and Traquair and Eskdalemuir road photos courtesy of Susan Otcenas. 
Budda photo courtesy of Phil Whitehurst.

LEL Day 2

Pocklington control dorm - sometime after 4am

"Beep beep beep."

Sod it, I'd failed to get my alarm onto vibrate and had ended up being anti-social despite all best intentions. I scrabbled for the phone, and after an age silenced the intrusive beeping.  Rather embarrassed, I swept up my belongings and crept out of the dorm. The single toilet by the dorm door was predictably unpleasant after such a heavy load of visiting sleepers, but at least there was paper and the floor was reasonably dry.

Stumbling out of the door, somewhat bleary eyed, I made my way back to the control to grab a towel for a shower. The volunteer I met with mentioned something about towel suppliers letting them down - so I took what he offered gratefully without complaint. In the small hours of the morning, the last thing he needed was someone moaning at him. What I returned back to the showers with could at best be described as a large dishcloth, but at least they'd been generous enough to give me three of them.

The showers were at least fairly warm. It felt good to wash the sweat and grime off from the day before, get some fresh contact lenses in and clean my teeth. I was soon heading back to the control for breakfast. I passed Susan and Leslie on the way - their control skills were clearly still more efficient than mine, and they were getting ready to mount up by around 5am, just as the dawn was breaking. I needed sustenance before contemplating riding, and made for the canteen. A couple of bacon rolls and some sweet coffee later and I was also kitting up, and getting ready to start off again on day 2 of my LEL adventure. In my vague pre-ride plan, I'd be aiming for Moffat this evening, but a lot of riding lay ahead before. We were heading into the much hillier northern sections of the route, plus the small matter of legs which had covered my longest ever ride the day before. It was impossible to have any clear idea how far I might get.


Time of departure from Pocklington: 05:30 - just after first light. Plenty of time in hand, my "control close time" for Pock was not for another four hours.

It felt great to be riding through the quiet streets and out of the town in the early morning light. I'd actually planned to start my second day around dawn, and here I was doing just that. For a couple of kilometers I rode alongside a Welsh guy called Di, who was riding a fixed gear bike. I forget the exact nature of our conversation, probably something about how glorious the morning was. I do remember talking with him about choices of gearing for riding LEL on a fixed, but that was later in the morning when our paths crossed again.

The road took a U shaped loop around a pretty little village called Buttercrambe. On the exit of this loop the lanes became very narrow, and strewn with potholes, gravel and mud. I was immediately glad to have ended the previous day at Pocklington. Riding these lanes at night could have been treacherous, risking a fall or damaging a wheel in some unseen hazard. Soon after the poor surfaces came to an end, I found myself at the busy A64 crossing, together with a handful of other rides. Much had been made of the danger of this crossing on the forums in the weeks leading up to the ride, but the reality ended up a lot less fearsome. The traffic was moving fast, but at this hour of the morning the gaps were more than big enough get across safely.

With the A64 negotiated, a stone sign to the left of the road announced a section of the ride I had been greatly looking forward too: The Howardian Hills, an area of outstanding natural beauty (as noted on the sign). Riding through the grounds of Castle Howard in daylight was another good reason not to have pushed on the night before. I recognised the obelisk, it's peak glinting gold at the top of a hill ahead. I knew from visiting this area with my parents that beyond the obelisk the road dipped before rising up a stunning gated drive towards the stately home. The ride through the grounds was wonderful: I noticed the garden center that I'd visited with my Mum the last time we came here; and soon after the trees opened out and to the right were the lake and lawns where Mum, Dad and I had gone to a Jools Holland concert for Mum's 75th birthday.

Prettiness and memories aside, the countryside was living up to the second part of it's name: "hills". The road was now a long succession of short steep uphills, followed by racing descents. Through one dip, the gradient was marked as 17% - 1 in 6 in old money. At the bottom of the descent was a treacherous bend. The mud and gravel covering made it impossible (for me at least) to safely carry enough speed through the dip to make any dent on the equally steep climb out of the other side. I really wasn't in any mood to risk stalling out and failing to uncleat, and decided to give my legs a break and walk the short climb. To be honest, I barely took any more time to reach the top than if I'd spun up in my granny gear. I bumped into Kerri-Anne and Michael again on this stretch. It transpired they had stayed in a B&B close to here the night before, and commented on what a severe start to the morning's ride this was.

The rises and dips continued, including a delightful ride through the lovely village of Coxwold - another place I'd visited often with family. Soon after, the road started a long descent, flanked by a manor house wall and woodland to the right hand side, and open views across farmland and down into valleys on the left hand side. Based on the time,  I judged we were dropping down towards Thirsk, although not being a town I really knew I didn't recognise the scenery leading to it. At some stage, I recall catching the edge of the storm once again, the roads going from just being wet to actually riding along in light rain. By the time we joined the busy A19 for a short stretch, I was already wearing my rain jacket again.

It was a relief to be turning left away from the trucks and the traffic of the busy road, and very soon after swinging onto quiet roads again, the countdown signs began again: control 3km, 2km, 1km, and there it was. Thirsk School, the first control of day 2.


Thirsk- 08:48, distance ridden: 401km

Early signs were promising - a volunteer was posted out front of the school with a friendly welcome as a group of us rode in. Kerri-Anne and Michael were also in the bike park as I pulled up. We all made our way in to the control. The first thing I noticed was an extremely long line for food. Having eating at Pocklington, I wasn't desperately hungry, but I definitely fancied something to eat. Ignoring the queue for now, I turned through the doors to the right of the canteen to get my card stamped at the control. More friendly greetings and a "well done" accompanied the formalities.

As lovely as all the hospitality was, the food line was still there when I returned to the canteen, only now even longer. I really didn't fancy a long wait so early in the morning. Michael was also standing surveying the likely wait, and I commented that a tea room en route seemed a much better plan. I grabbed a coke from the machine for now, to supplement the couple of snack bars I still had left over in my jersey and bar bag, and headed back out to the bike.

To save time, I rode the bike to the water tables and filled up my bottles, topping the front one off with what remained of the can of coke after a couple of quick swigs to get me going for now. Before leaving, I remembered that I hadn't lubed my chain and the gears were still not quite indexing properly. I grabbed the dry lube and some wipes from my bag. I'd loved to have had time to clean it properly, but a quick once over would have to do. Also great would have been a mechanic or a free bike stand to trim the gears - but despite more friendly assistance, I couldn't find either at the control. Repeating the procedure from St Ives, I manually tweaked the barrel adjuster by eye to line up with the cassette cog, rode it twice around the circle, and satisfied it was marginally better, headed out of the control.


Time of departure from Thirsk: 09:07. Top marks for control efficiency, a big fat zero for leaving well fed and with bike serviced.

Just to compound my lack of supplies and not eating at the control, with my concentration to navigate through the town and traffic, I immediately managed to miss the Tesco store in the middle of Thirsk. For a couple of moments I thought about turning back, but riding solo again and with no lock to secure my bike I figured that plenty of water and limited snacks was a better position to be starting the leg, than wandering around swearing because some git had nicked the bike and ended my LEL.

The lanes wound, rose and fell, and my snacks soon dwindled with the exertion. First up was a pack of dried mangos, which were a delicious change from the usual snack bars, all of which were now gone. I was soon scrabbling around in my jersey for a small pack of peanuts, left over from the snacks on the way out of the Kirton control the day earlier. I made a mental note to make sure in future that at all times I had plenty to eat in my bar bag and jersey pockets. I wasn't especially feeling like heading into a tea room, sweaty and grimy as I was, but with no shops in sight it was beginning to look like that was my only option.

My dilemma was answered on an L bend through the next village. Pulled over on a small green patch to the side of the road were Susan and Leslie. They'd stopped to put sun cream on. It seemed like a very sensible idea with the storm clouds gone and sun out in full force, so I swung off the road and joined them. Also stopped with them was a fellow American rider, Vicke, on a rather splendid blue Bacchetta recumbent. We swapped stories about the amazing views that we would have missed  had we ridden on from Pock, and how busy the Thirsk control had been. The girls had stopped at the Tesco that I had missed, and as soon as she heard my woes of food supplies, Susan insisted I took a snack bar from her supplies to keep me going.

We rode as a group along the next section. One stretch of road near Richmond was closed, ironically it had been scheduled for resurfacing because of the ride, but the works were delayed and had yet to re-open. The upshot was that the diversion was onto an even narrower road, but still carried the same weight of traffic, making for some rather nasty incidents of trucks and cars passing close by at speed, with high hedgerows and blind bends ahead. It was rather odd to pass a blue velomobile on that stretch coming the other way. I did a double take at first, surely no one could be on their way back already. But there were no LEL signs evident on the sleek machine, so I presumed it was just someone out for a ride. I later discovered that it was in fact an LEL rider who had abandoned and was on his way back to Thirsk.

Our route passed under the A1M, and the signs northward to Darlington reminded me just how far we had come over the last day and a half. I'd just begun to hear about Vicke's former profession as a rodeo trick horseback rider, when we found ourselves alongside a training ring for horse races. We paused briefly so that the girls could get pictures of the horses training. The villages beyond all seemed to be built on the side of short steep hills, with broad swathes of green either side of the high street and babbling streams running along or across them.

Bouncing along a rough stretch of road through one of these villages, I started hearing an ominous sounding rattle somewhere on the bike. At first I couldn't trace it - there being no apparent synchronisation with my pedaling, or other movement on the bike. And then I noticed the front right mudguard stay was flapping loose. I called across to the girls that I had a minor mechanical, but was fine and they shouldn't wait.

I pulled over and rooted through the saddle bag  for my multi-tool. It was hardly worth the effort, the bolt's thread was stripped and was clearly going to be no more use at holding the stay in place. A childish grin spread over my face, and my next step was to send a gleeful message Yolandi. I was about to fix my first mechanical with a zip tie - the mark of a proper LEL rider. I might only be on day 2, but I was undertaking one of the rites of passage to becoming an official randonneur. I was cursing my packing though, the zip ties were scattered all over the place, and none of the smallest size found my hand as I groped around blindly in the bottom of the bag. In the end I made do with brute force, and simply hauled through a rather too large size with the pliers on my Leatherman.


It was rather a stop for such a simple fix but I was back on my way eventually, riding solo again. Shortly after, I came upon the next treat of the day: the "wooden bridge", made famous as an LEL landmark in Andy Allsop's book Barring Mechanicals. For some reason, I had it in mind that this was on the way up Yad Moss, but clearly I was confused over this part of the route. I stopped to snap a couple of pictures.

From here the road swung left and then right through a hairpin bend to climb sharply up from the river valley. It was a steep climb that had me spinning in my lowest rings up to the little village of Whorton at the top. I was tempted to stop again and send Yoli a picture of the town sign with a "hears a who?" tag line. Shame the spelling wasn't quite deserving of this.

The wind on this last stretch towards Barnard Castle was a tad too harsh for weary legs, and it was a slow grind into the outskirts of the town. A grand house appeared on our right, which the sign indicated was the Bowes Musuem. I later found out that it housed an art collection. Being something of a philistine, it explained why I'd never heard of it.

Barnard Castle was a picturesque and busy market town. It was something of a challenge negotiating the lunchtime traffic - I was eager to get to the control, and weaving through shoppers looking for parking places was both an unwanted and potentially hazardous delay. I'm afraid I rather missed out on the town's loveliness in my haste to get safely to the control out of the other side of the town. Up the last short hill I was passing riders coming back the other way. Clearly the next leg, and the turn towards Yad Moss, was back behind me somewhere.  For now though, that could wait, a left turn at the top of the hill brought the control and food into view. There might as well have been a McDonalds sign outside, I was starving.


Barnard Castle - 13:05, distance ridden: 468km

A day and a half in, and the routine of controls was already becoming automatic: fish out essential items from bar bag; switch off Garmin; shoes off in the entrance; get brevet card stamped at control desk; and then depending on order of needs, food and toilet. In this case, the urgency was to fill the void in my tummy. I forget exactly what I loaded onto my plate, I'm sure pasta was in there somewhere. I do remember vividly the volunteer telling me to try the rice and vegetables, "It's delicious". At least I think it was rice, although now I'm questioning my memory and wondering if it was couscous. Either way the volunteer was right, it was delicious, and along with the rest of the mountain on my plate it vanished faster than if you'd painted it pink and labelled it Somebody Else's Problem.

I was feeling pretty good considering the growing weight of kilometers behind me, and was eager to push on to a brace of LEL treats waiting on the next leg - Yad Moss and the cobbled main street at Alston. So for once I didn't linger, but headed straight out, stopping by the canteen again to scout for snacks for the road. Sadly, all hints of mobile food had been picked bare, but I was told about a Co-Op shop at the BP garage on the way out. I vaguely recalled seeing it on the way in. The water taps at this control were conveniently located under cover, near to the mechanics area, making it quick and easy to fill bottles and pay a visit to get my gears adjusted for the climbs ahead. The mechanics had a long queue of repairs, but were more than happy to let me use a bike stand for a few minutes to tweak the indexing. I'm no expert in this area, but I'm handy enough to get them reasonably well adjusted using the barrel adjusters. After a few shifts up and down the rear cassette, I was comfortable the shifting on both blades was good enough to tackle some hills. A quick wipe of the chain and the job was done.

As I was manouvering myself and bike out of the service area, I witnessed a simply jaw dropping act of generosity, and an enduring memory of LEL and Barnard Castle. One of the other riders had suffered a misfortune that he must have known was almost certainly ride ending: the lugs or welds of his down-tube had broken and it was swinging free, detached from the head-tube. It didn't take a mechanic to tell there was simply no way this was going to be repairable. But it did take a mechanic to solve the problem - one awesome individual mechanic. With barely a hesitation, he looked the chap up and down and said "You look about the same size as me, you can borrow my bike. I can manage without for a few days, just return it to Danial when you get to Louhgton". As if that weren't enough, the mechanic also proceeded to transfer the rider's seatpost, saddle and bags, using zip ties of course to secure the latter to the bike rack. After a few minutes getting the saddle height and ride position properly adjusted, the rider's LEL was back on track. I pedaled out of the control feeling privileged to be part of an event that inspired such acts of kindness.

Time of departure from Barnard Castle: 13:40. Better efficiency thanks to a much quieter control. I must be behind or ahead of everyone else, the latter seemed more likely!

Sure enough, the Co-Op was by the roundabout where I had vaguely recalled seeing it. Despite casting me a faintly disapproving look, a women I took to be the manageress allowed me to prop my bike up inside against the dairy counter whilst I shopped for bottles of coke, bananas, and snack bars. The checkout girl was rather more friendly, almost laughing at the state of me - and presumably the other customers she'd served today. At least that's how I recall it, although in reality she may have just been turning her nose up at the sight and smell of me. On the way out a guy nabbed me, and enquired whether I was "one of those crazy guys riding to Edinburgh". After a brief chat containing various expressions of admiration and incredulity, he hopped into an open topped black MGB and the classic engine sputtered and roared into life. I followed him off the forecourt and started out with anticipation on the next leg.

The first part of the leg was dominated with one thing - Yad Moss, another famous LEL landmark I had been looking forward too since reading Andy's book. Each time the road pitched upward, I wondered if we were starting the climb. But each time, the road rolled downwards again, until we reached another absurdly picturesque town, Middleton-in-Teesdale. My memory jogged by the name, I recalled from the book that once we left the town we'd start out towards High Force, and the slow climb up Yad Moss proper. Despite stuffing my face at Barnard Castle, I was still hungry. I decided to stop for a snack, and sat for a few minutes on a bench enjoying the sunshine and the bustle of life in the pretty town. The black MGB pulled up as I was stuffing my face with banana, snack bar, and swigs of coke. The driver smiled and nodded to me in recognition as he was parking and I was saddling up, to tackle the highest point on the LEL ride.

True to my recollection, a gradual steady climb rose up as we left the town, with the Garmin reading 20Km to the next marker. At this point, I should say mention that there was one distance indicator I hadn't bothered to disable, which was "Distance to Next", showing top right on the map display. Since these were largely random points on each leg and not specific Waypoints I had created, it didn't really affect my use of time to judge the next control. I never really knew what "Next" was at any given time, and so it remained irrelevant to me. This measurement had me intrigued - it was a long way off. It was too close to be the end of the stage, was it the distance to Alston perhaps? That also seemed unlikely. Surely it couldn't be the distance to the top of Yad Moss - all of the climbs back home were shorter than this, and most climbed considerably higher than the 598m we were aiming at. Franschhoek pass must be almost double that, and the climb is only around 7Km.

The road was initially tree lined, the River Tees falling away into the valley on our left as we climbed through a succession of hamlets: Newbiggin; High Force, so named because of an impressive waterfall; Langdon Beck and finally Harwood. At some stage, I think after Langdon Beck, we left the trees behind and rode up onto a stunningly serene and vast expanse of open moorland. We soon passed a very well known sight - the whitewashed barn - which had been photographed and posted on the LEL Facebook page. It suddenly felt strange to actually be here, riding past something that only weeks before I had been looking at and commenting on pictures of. Sheep grazed on the open moor, occasionally darting across the road, sometimes frighteningly close to other riders. The roadside also held a grim indication that not all motorists took heed of the large red Slow Down signposts, as we passed numerous ovine carcasses in varying states of decay along this scenic stretch of road.

The road was never steep, but the climb was almost continual. I was just beginning to work out that the Next marker must actually be the peak of the climb, when I spied the familiar bikes and orange jackets of Susan and Leslie up ahead. I forget whether I caught up with Vicke before or after that, but over the next few hundred meters we all came together as a group again. With our different climbing speeds, we each made our own way to the top of the moor, but were never more than a few hundred meters apart during the rest of the climb. Rather disappointingly, there was no sign or cairn marking the actual top, so we picked the closest marker pole to Next reading 0m, and declared our own summit. We had crested Yad Moss, and both the climb and views had totally lived up to expectations. Despite a fresh breeze, we'd also only had a brief if fairly heavy rain shower to contend with.

As I took out my phone for photographs and to message Yoli, I noticed a worrying sight. The phone battery was very low, and the buffer battery had just a single light blinking indicating a very low state of charge. I'd already noticed the phone was getting low back in Barnard Castle, and had dispensed with running Endomondo. Clearly that had not been enough, and I was still losing charge faster than the dynamo was replacing it. I spun the wheel a few times to check the buffer battery lights showed it was charging - they did, but clearly the amount going in was not enough. This didn't make sense - it had all worked perfectly on preparation rides. The only cause I could think of was that the buffer battery had failed. Whatever the cause, at this rate I'd be unlikely to have enough charge left for a call home that evening. I looked at the long downhill to Alston. It occurred to me that it could well be long enough to charge the phone if I fed it direct from the eWerk voltage converter. The USB voltage was the same as the buffer battery, but I knew from forum accounts that phones did not like the stop/start charging direct from the converter. There was a significant chance I might fry my phone battery. I made a snap decision, the phone was old and I'd been planning replacing it. The risk was worth it for a call home. I sent Yoli a message warning her I might be about to destroy my phone, but would call home if my emergency hack worked.

The buffer battery now removed from the circuit, the bike and I picked up speed as we descended towards Alston. I forget exactly where our group split up again. I was a much slower descender than the girls, and remember saying I'd keep going as they would be bound to catch up with me again. I'd guess they stayed for more photographs or some-such. The run down towards Alston must have been around 15km of wonderful free-wheeling, a perfectly timed break after the climb up. At the entrance to Alston, a sign indicated 14% gradient. Initially this was on tarmac, and then through the centre of the old town it ran onto the famous cobbles. Luckily, my tyre pressures were not especially high, but even so it was jarring on tired elbows. I should probably have been braver and sped through, instead I picked my way down gingerly. In hindsight, I should probably have ridden on the pavement, or better still stopped and joined the other riders sitting under the Market Cross in the middle of the town enjoying ice cream.

I didn't stop though, I rode on. And although I missed out on ice cream, the upside was that I did manage to get that call home. Shortly after the right turn towards Brampton, I pulled to the side of the road and was delighted to see the phone had indeed picked up charge nicely. It was great to hear Yoli's voice, and chat to Ben before bedtime and wish him a good night. There was a telecom engineer parked close to where I had stopped, and once again I had the now familiar "where are you guys going" conversation before setting off again.

Aside from a couple of short climbs immediately after Alston, and a short uphill stretch towards the end, the road to Brampton continued to be predominantly downhill, and fast. It wasn't just fast for those of us riding LEL. It was frighteningly fast for the drivers also using the lane, presumably going home after work judging by the hour. I lost count of the number of times a car flashed past at speeds well above the limit, and braked hard as they came up on a bunch of riders ahead, sometimes passing them on a blind bend without even slowing. I was certain we were going to witness an accident, or worse be involved in one. I thought of Yoli, and Ben, and for the first time since the start the risks of the ride occurred to me and I wondered if they were worth it. As if to confirm my fears, around the next corner was a broken down stone wall festooned in accident tape, with a car on it's roof deep down in the stream bed beyond. Despite the glorious weather and sublime scenery, I wanted this section to be over, safely, soon. Fortunately, our riding speed was such that rush hour ended well before we reached the control, and we had a peaceful road to ourselves again as we climbed up and over the last small climb before Brampton.

In one long downhill rush, I was at the control, just in time for dinner. As well as cycling and scenery, food was starting to dominate my LEL.


Brampton - 18:27, distance ridden: 550km

Parking the bike, I began to wonder about my provisional target for the day at Moffat. Time wise it certainly seemed possible, but I was now rather tired after the hills and really had no idea how tough the riding over the next leg would be. I quizzed the control volunteer who stamped my brevet card, and the canteen volunteers about the terrain to come. Reasonably flat, fast, and not that interesting seemed to be the consensus. That sounded like an almost perfect combination for riding at night, and I resolved to push on after sustenance and a visit to rummage my "northern" drop bag for supplies and treats.

By this stage I had begun to share the "LEL slow sit"  with many of my fellow riders. This basically consists of applying both hands firmly to the side of your chair, and lowering yourself slowly towards the chair seat so as to avoid any hint of impact when tenderised bum meets the hardness of canteen chair. It was like watching a human version of Lunar Lander - too much speed would end in disaster. As if we had exchanged a secret masonic handshake, a smile of recognition spread across the face of the other chap at my table, and riders nearby. I'm sure at least one of us said something along the lines of "remind me why we are doing this to ourselves?"

I simply have no clue what I ate at the control - but I am certain at least some part of it involved pasta. I think the pudding part may have been a chocolate muffin. Whatever it was, it was definitely covered in custard. And, with the next stage being a night time one, I would definitely have enjoyed at least two cups of hot, sweet, coffee. I'm also pretty certain I sat there sated for a few minutes, whilst the food and caffeine worked their way into my system, replacing some of the reserves used climbing over The Pennines.

Leaving the canteen, I visited the vending machine for coke, and a magnificent array of bananas and snacks, many of which got stuffed into my jersey pockets. With my desire to get to Moffat and actually sleep, and my new found interest in control efficiency, I wasted no time on niceties with the drop bag. It's contents were disgorged onto the tarmac next to my bike, and rapidly picked over. The partially depleted Lezyne light battery from the night before was replaced, a clean shirt went on, and clean shorts went into my saddle bag for later. The dirty shirt and the shorts from yesterday went back in the drop bag, sealed into a plastic bag to protect the remaining contents from their rather special odour. Coming rather too close to a strong whiff of Camembert, I realised the socks I was wearing also belonged in the plastic bag, and a fresh pair went on. Saving the best until last, the final order of business was the envelope marked Drop Bag 2 - another wonderful treat reminding me of my support back home.

After returning the drop bag, and filling water bottles (once again one with half coke to keep the night time noddies at bay), I struck out towards Scotland.


Time of departure from Brampton: 19:15. Not too bad at all really.


The volunteers hadn't misled me. The stretch from Brampton to Longtown was largely flat, straight and fast. It wasn't the most scenic stretch we had ridden by a long way, but it was pleasant and  the riding was easy, aside from a couple of close encounters with yet more lunatics in cars. I considered pulling over to the parked police car I was passing to inquire if they wouldn't mind finishing up their donuts and, I don't know, maybe doing something crazy like apprehending speeding motorists and saving a few lives. I decided they might not take the suggestion with the humour it was intended, and so rode on, leaving them to enjoy their peaceful evening picnic.

We joined the A7 briefly to wind through Longtown, and cross the River Esk. I knew from childhood holidays that we were now deep into border country, the Esk rising high on Scottish moors that we would be traversing tomorrow on our return southbound. Sure enough, as we exited the town a road sign to Gretna Green confirmed my instincts - there were no more towns between us and the border. Sure enough a few kilometers later, a large stone post announced our entry into Scotland. It suddenly felt an immense achievement - just yesterday morning I had ridden out from London, and here I was riding into Scotland in the last rays of daylight. On childhood holidays, my father would take two or three days to drive this far. I guess his reason for taking the journey slowly had more to do with the pain of driving long distance with alternately bored, hyperactive, or vomiting kids on the back seat.

I couldn't resist stopping for an obligatory photograph, along with pretty much every LEL rider who passed. In my case, it seemed quite apt that Vicke, having just finished having her photo taken, returned the favour and took mine. Riding off, she commented it was my turn now to photograph the next riders through. I also couldn't resist a message home with the photo, followed by a call. I was feeling on top of the world and going great, and I wanted Yoli to know that so she'd sleep well and not worry about my progress or spirits. I also asked her to post the photo and share it to William - it seemed appropriate I'd reach this milestone in his bike shop jersey.


Not far down the road I caught up with Vicke again, and explained to her the significance of Gretna Green - a border town made famous for runaway marriages in the days when parental permission for marriage was required under the age of 21, and was far from a certainty.  We rode together for a while as evening turned to dusk. We chatted about the vagaries of different Garmin models, the change or architecture since the border, recumbents, and I'm sure a range of other subjects. A significant topic of our conversation though was a fairly severe pain which was starting to spread through my shoulders and neck. Vicke commented that neck injury and pain was something she had battled, and which had prompted her switch to riding a 'bent. She also suggested I avoid staying static in one position too long, and make an effort to turn and look left and right even though at night time there was no real scenery to look at.

As the pain grew, I asked if she minded if I pushed on. My gentlemanly instincts told me I ought to ride along with her, but common sense dictated that with strong legs and a failing neck, I should use the former to power me through this leg and get to the control quickly to lessen the strain on the latter. Vicke was fine with that, and I charged ahead. Although the road occasionally rolled gently upwards, it was mostly flat, and I raced on - pushing my speed harder than I had at any stage of the ride so far. It occurred to me that my legs may complain about the exertion at some point ahead, but for now they obeyed, and the caffeine and adrenaline powered me onwards.

The town of Lockerbie came and went. I can still remember the news footage of the downed Pan Am flight 103. The images seemed totally at odds to the serenity of the peaceful town I was passing through in the dark of the night. Our route followed the path of the A74(M) for the rest of the leg to Moffat, crossing over the busy road repeatedly along the way. I guessed that the road we were on had been the original road before the multi-lane motorway had been built. It had all the hallmarks of being a former main road - wide and largely straight, and a road surface no longer receiving the same level of attention it's stature appeared to deserve. In a few places, it was worse than Alston's cobble stones. At the speed I was now traveling, I had to alternate between looking down the road for bends and other distant hazards, and looking directly in front of my wheels for potholes. At times I rode directly on the white line at the edge of the road, it being the smoothest part. I had the sensation of being a lone time trial rider, blasting my way towards the finish against the clock. It was exhilarating, and nicely diverted attention from the pain in my neck.

I seemed to alternate position with a couple of groups of riders. At times they were ahead of me, at other times I passed them again. Night time riding does funny things to your concentration, and speeds tend to wander in a way they wouldn't during the day with a speedo readout in front of you. Rather surprisingly, just outside Moffat I caught up with Susan and Leslie again. Vicke and I had commented we didn't expect to see them again today, and I hoped it didn't mean they'd had a mechanical. It transpired they hadn't, just a stop in one of the towns we had passed. We rode on together through the town of Moffat and into the control.


Moffat - 23:31, distance ridden: 624km

Over the past two days, I had covered more than double any previous training ride, and tomorrow morning I'd be in Edinburgh. I was stoked with my progress. Even with a few aches and the shoulder and neck pain acquired on the leg just completed, I'd hardly had a low point all ride. For such a mammoth challenge, it was going rather well. I wheeled into the bike park with an immense sense of satisfaction.

No sooner inside than I almost lost my shoes - a near disastrous outcome with more than half the ride ahead. I'd handed them to a volunteer, in the bizarre notion he would remember me and the shoes amidst the hundreds of others. And needless to say, on returning from having my brevet card stamped, I was confronted with a blank stare. What had I been thinking? Luckily, he did remember the last few pairs of shoes he had found niches for, and one of them was mine. I put the numbered ticket handed to me at the control in them - a remarkably ordered system compared to the "dump them somewhere vaguely memorable" approach from previous controls.

After my third or fourth hot meal of the day (I forget exactly how many), I approached the dormitory in the hope that this time there would be space. There was, and after noting down my wakeup time, I was squeaking and shuffling myself comfortable on the blow up mattress. Half a meter to three sides of me were the prostrate carcasses of fellow riders, and their cacophonous snoring and farting. I wondered how an earth I'd get to sleep. I also couldn't get comfortable initially, until I noticed that pretty much every other body was lying straight out. As someone who normally sleeps curled on their side, this did not seem especially likely to be successful, but the relief was almost immediate. Apparently after two days hunched over a handlebar, the chance to stretch out overrides any concept of normal sleeping posture. I was asleep in moments, presumably adding my snores and farts to the chorus around me.


Click here to continue to Day 3

All photos by author.