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.

LEL Day 1

Forest Gate B&B, Bell Common - around 05:00

The beers had helped me sleep, a little, but I'd still woken a couple of times in the night, each time listening to the tropical storm lashing down outside exactly as forecast. I was lying staring up at the ceiling. I had very little to do: throw my cycling gear on; lug the already packed rucksack across the gravel drive to drop it in the garage, fetch my bike, eat some breakfast and cycle 15 minutes to the start. I could easily have stayed in bed another 15 minutes and not even been close to late, but the pre-ride nerves were jumping in my stomach. With enormous reluctance I left the last comfortable bed I would be likely to enjoy for the next five nights, and made a start.


I vaguely remember eating some breakfast, and I'm sure I checked my bike and bags a number of times, the rest is largely a blur though. The nerves had escalated to such an extent that I even managed to ignore Michael saying good morning to me from the door of their room above the garage opposite the main B&B building. If Emmerentia hadn't chided me, we could well have parted on the misunderstanding that I'd deliberately snubbed him, not ideal with the likelihood of our paths crossing on the ride to come.

As the clock ticked around to 5:50am I just had to get on the road. I still had plenty of time, and Emmerentia would have been literally 5 minutes behind me, but I just couldn't wait around any longer. I charged down the lane towards the start, mild panic starting to set in as my watch approached 6am. How strict were they going to be on need to be there 15 minutes ahead of our start time, which was rapidly approaching? Luckily the side gate to Davenant School was still open, and after stopping just before it at totally the wrong gate, I found the correct entrance and avoided the detour loop around the housing estate. Needless to say, I was there in plenty of time, my 06:15 start group were only half assembled.

I'd just had time to visit registration and learn that we didn't actually need to have our brevet cards stamped on the way out, when Emmerentia also arrived. Her cousin had arrived to see her off, and hadn't even finished asking me if I knew where she was before she pulled up to where we were standing. He'd clearly spotted my South Africa cycling jersey, and figured I might know her. By now my start group were assembled and looking ready to go, but I was all over the place. My bike and kit were ready, but I just wasn't. I quickly asked the marshals if I could drop back to 6:30am and start with Emmerentia. Starting the ride with a friend seemed exactly what I needed to calm my nerves and work me into the ride. I was told it was no problem, as long as I didn't mind effectively losing 15 minutes before I'd even started. To be honest, it hardly seemed to matter - riding with Emmerentia, a significantly faster rider than me, we'd make that back over the opening stage anyhow.

After a last sip of coffee from her cousin's flask, Emmerentia and I rolled off to the start. I'd parked my bike right under a bird's roost, and now had a copious dollop of bird crap sprayed over my Garmin and bar bag. Remembering that it's supposed to be lucky to have a bird anoint your hat, I took this as a good omen - a white dove had sent me on my way with a small blessing on my navigation and luggage. I did wipe it off though - the next few days would be tough enough without a bout of bird flu. I messaged Yoli with something along the lines of "here we go", and started Endomondo so that the live tracking feature would let her follow my progress.

All of a sudden things became much more familiar - we were funneling into a start chute system, much like any other bike ride. At the entrance to this, two girls noted down the rider numbers from our frames. I was told I could head off immediately, since my start group had already gone - and there was a look of some surprise when I explained I was going to drop back and start in group D with Emmerentia. I knew I'd kick myself if I missed my finish time by the 15 minute margin I had already given up, but it seemed so remote and unlikely I waved the thought from my mind. As we pushed bikes to the front of the D chute, a video camera appeared in my face, and a voice said something like "you must be Rob Walker, I'm Exit Stage Left" (his user name from the YACF forums - ESL for short, real name Damon). I forget exactly what words I spoke into the lens, but I do seem to recall ESL also commenting about my decision to start in a later group, and also that my accent sounded more British than South African. As he moved on to film other riders, the marshals opened our start chute, and waved us through to begin our ride. This was it, the months of dreaming about LEL were over, it was finally here, the clock had started and we were on our way. In no more than 116 hours we would need to be back at this same spot, or be logged as a DNF. That was not a prospect I wanted to dwell on.

Loughton - 06:30, distance ridden: 0Km

We hadn't even reached the front gates of the school before I heard something rattle onto the tarmac behind me, and voices from the riders behind calling out that I had dropped something. Emmerentia's cousin sprinted up carrying my lock, which had bounced off as we crossed the kerb onto the school drive. I started to fiddle with putting it back in place, and then realized it was just going to become an annoyance and eventually get lost. I handed it back to him, muttered something about him scoring it off me, swung around and pedaled quickly up to where Emmerentia was waiting so we could get our ride underway properly. I'm not sure how I figured a lock with no keys would be of use to him, but LEL was waiting and it was time to get riding.

The route went back past our B&B at Bell Common, before swinging right into Epping high street, and soon after turning off left somewhere before we reached the centre of town and the restaurant we'd eaten at the night before. From here on in, we were into uncharted territory - albeit I was sure I would recognize some parts of the route from living and traveling around the UK. Over those early kilometers we saw a good cross section of the weird and wonderful machines taking part: recumbents, with their riders casually laid back as if pedaling from a sofa; fully enclosed velomobiles rumbling noisily along, sometimes at great speed on the descents, their drivers keen for the slightest breeze wafting through their sweaty fiberglass boxes. Even some of the bicycles didn't exactly seem suited to such a ride: small wheeled, folding Bromptons; and later on we'd encounter at least a couple of tricycles. Oddest of all though were three riders on EliptoGo machines - basically a gym stepping machine with gears and wheels. We passed them stopped on a hill no more than 20 or 30km from the start, and Emmerentia and I commented on how brave they were - and how tough it would be to complete the full 1,400 kilometers standing up with no saddle to sit on. Stopped by the side of the road already with some issue or other, it seemed improbable they would make it all. Their brave endeavour made my challenge seem positively ordinary.

A lot of the lanes we were now traveling were fairly narrow, and traffic often passed quite close. It seemed we both felt more comfortable safely out of the way of any incidents by leading the head of our small bunch, and we sat there comfortably pacing along through a steady succession of left and right turns, as we wove through small villages and towns. Emmerentia mentioned she was starting to feel nervous about not having a GPS, with the route involving so much navigation and little in the way of signage. For now though, my GPS seemed to be keeping us on track perfectly.

At 99km, this leg of the ride was the longest. Even without a mild dehydration from the beer the night before, I knew it would be a struggle for me to make that distance on two bidons of water with the heat forecast for the day. So I was fairly sure we'd need a mid way stop at a shop or petrol station to top up. For now though, we were motoring nicely, pushed along by a friendly tailwind which at time saw our speed up around the 30Km/h mark without really requiring any effort. With typical sod's law, I emptied the last bottle just after we'd passed one of the few shops so far on the ride, in an insanely picturesque village which I seem to recall was Barrington. I was left hot and parched for a few kilometers. We stumbled across a campsite attached to a mini-golf course. The latter seemed rather closed down - no signs of a clubhouse, shop, or fridge full of nice cold drinks. At least being a campsite though, it had drinking water and toilets, both very welcome by this stage.

Just prior to the campsite stop one of the "trains" of faster riders had blasted by us, accompanied by a resonant bass drone from their deep section wheels. Once again I was amazed by how lightly equipped some of the bikes were. These riders were on light carbon race machines, and none of them had more than a tiny under seat bag for spares or supplies. At least a couple of them only had a single bidon. They had to be one of the groups with a support crew following, or else extremely confident. For a short distance they broke up our group. Emmerentia stuck with them for a few corners, as did the two German guys we'd been riding along with since pretty much the start. I was beginning to blow a bit, and there was no way I wanted to try and stick with a fast pace so early on. So I'd already dropped off, and soon after Emmerentia fell back to stay with me.

And here I'm afraid, my recollections of that first leg start to get patchy. I remember Emmerentia and I rode together for the rest of the leg, but aside from that only a couple of little details come back to me. Somewhere we went down a descent called Chapel Hill, and through a lovely little village with a shop on the corner. In fact, I think this was before the campsite stop because I remember looking at the shop wondering if they had water, but it looked still closed at this hour on a Sunday. We also crossed over the London to Cambridge bike ride along the way too, although being an early group all we saw were the marshals and none of the riders. I read some of the later guys enjoyed hearing the marshals calling out "Edinburgh riders go left, Cambridge riders stay right". What must those folks on their fun ride have thought of this bunch of mad cyclists riding to Edinburgh. I'm sad to have missed out on that potentially wonderful bit of humour.

One other view I vaguely remember from the early section of the ride is looking out at beautiful old buildings either side of water - I remember commenting that it looked like a mini Bruges. I think this may have been on the approach to St Ives, which is built on the banks of the River Ouse, although I could also have confused this with Spalding on the next leg, which is also built around waterways.

Apart from crossing a few trunk roads, for most of the first leg we had been riding relatively quiet lanes. As we reached St Ives though, we turned onto busier roads on the outskirts of town. We wound around the town a fair bit, until finally the Garmin track started showing the waypoint flag marking our destination. We turned left into a housing estate, and at the top of a gentle rise was St Ivo School - not only the first control of LEL, but my first ever Audax control.

St Ives - 10:35, distance ridden: 99km

As we dismounted, I recovered the brevet card from my bar bag. It was exciting to be about to receive my first ever control stamp. There was no queue, and it was all done rather quickly, a smile and a cheery greeting, and we moved on to scout for food. I may have missed it, but I didn't spot any hot food - it was probably there, but for now a couple of cheese and tomato sandwiches, some snacks, juice, and a cup of sweet tea actually seemed to fit my appetite. At this stage, the experienced audaxer in Emmerentia showed through. I had barely sat down to eat, whilst she was already finished and keen to get going again. I've read many times about efficiency at controls, and clearly this was something Emmerentia had learned, and I had yet to master. Our very different riding speeds were starting to show on the approach to St Ives too - and it was clear this was a perfect natural break where we should start to ride at our own pace. Emmerentia double checked I was OK with this, which I certainly was - I'd never really expected us to ride together at all, so it had been an unexpected pleasure to travel the whole of the first leg together. The German guys we had ridden with were getting up to leave, and Emmerentia grabbed her chance - asking if it would be OK for her to ride with them. It was a good choice, they rode a similar pace, and at least one of them had a GPS for navigation. We bade farewell, and set about our own individual LEL adventures.

Mine started by relaxing in the canteen - I knew it wasn't good form to linger at controls, but I was enjoying the break and some time to update Yoli on my progress. Eventually I hauled myself up, grabbed a banana and some snacks for my jersey pockets, and headed back to my bike to top up the water bottles. Having trained the last few months without energy drinks, I had a simple plan for hydration: one bottle plain water; the other alternating between Rehidrat Sport and High Five zero tabs. Both of these being basically just electrolytes, although the Rehidrat has a very small amount of sugars in it too.

I also quickly visited the mechanic, who did a crude on the spot adjustment to my rear shifter indexing - it hadn't been changing cleanly on the way up from Loughton, despite having been perfect the previous day. My guess was it must have got knocked somewhere, perhaps when parked for registration or at the B&B. I switched the Garmin back on, selected N2 on the menu of tracks, and mounted up. I did a couple of test loops of the circle at the school entrance, stopping for a minor additional tweak. Satisfied the shifting was serviceable, I rode out to start my second ever leg of an Audax ride.

Time of departure from St Ives: 11:02.

The second leg to Kirton was slightly shorter at 81km. Being almost dead flat across the Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire fens, and with a tailwind, it looked likely that we would continue to make good time. There was, however, the rather worrying thought that we might have to battle back along these same lines into a headwind, and with 1,200km in our legs. Unfortunately that was exactly what the current weather forecast was predicting. Whilst the terrain may be flat, it would be merciless in a strong headwind. There would be nowhere to hide. By this stage I was riding solo - and enjoying the freedom of making my own pace. When I'd left St Ives control I couldn't shake the feeling that I had left something behind. I realised as I pedaled my way into this leg what that something was - I was riding lighter and feeling easier. I had literally left a behind a weight that had been on my shoulders - the pressure of trying to ride at someone else's pace. I know Emmerentia will understand that feeling and hopefully not take offence. It had been great to ride together, but there's nothing tougher than riding above or below your own natural pace for any distance. I could now plod along at my own steady pace without fear of holding anyone back.

I may have been riding at my own speed, but it was pleasing to see that it was still way ahead of any average speeds I had been basing my calculations on. I wasn't pushing myself either - I could easily chat with a number of groups of riders when we joined up for short stretches along the way. A procession of Fenland towns came and went: Ramsey St Mary's; Whittlesey; Thorney. A few of the names seemed familiar, perhaps from holidays with my parents. Shortly after Thorney, a large building loomed up from the surrounding flatness. It wasn't immediately obvious what it was - logic said it was an old church, but from the angle we were approaching it looked like a giant masonic spaceship. As we approached the town of Crowland, the angles sorted themselves out and it was clear it was the ruins of what a signpost announced as
Crowland Abbey. I briefly tried to find a photogenic view of it from our road, but it was partly obscured. In the middle of the town were the ruins of a beautiful old bridge, and this time I did manage to snap a quick picture.

My sightseeing had split me from the guy I had been riding with, so I pedaled slowly through and out of the other side of the pretty little town. The road crossed a narrow bridge, and a sharp right turn after the bridge deposited us into Holland. We were now riding a very narrow road along the banks of a dike. I guess "navigation" would probably be the more correct word, since the waterway was actually a man made channel for the River Welland. It was simply lovely, although the road was so narrow that cars had to drive on the grass verge to pass us. Luckily the cars were few, making it easy to enjoy the serenity of the setting - ducks, geese and swans on the water, and an occasional barge chugging along.

The wind continued to push us along, at times even meandering along solo I think my Sigma was reading over 30Km/h. And that was without raising my effort levels into anything close to the red zone. The banks of the Welland swung away to the right, and our route carried on straight into the town of Spalding. We were still in Holland, only this time it was Amsterdam with a canal for a main street. Or maybe it was more like those Cotswold villages with streams through the middle of the town: Bibury; Bourton on the Water; or one of the Slaughters. Whichever it was, it was very quaint.

There is not much I remember in detail about the stretch from Spalding to the approach of the next control. Not that the rest of the leg wasn't pretty - I recall green lanes along field side dikes, and greeting the occasional person out cutting their lawn or walking their dog. But no real features stood out to me compared to the previous stretches. It was fast and easy riding though, and the control came up in no time: Middlecott Schoool in Kirton. My second ever audax control - not quite the same level excitement as St Ives, but still a milestone to be savoured.

Kirton - 14:23, distance ridden: 180km

If my control efficiency had been lacking at St Ives, I was now positively dithering. There was quite a queue for tea and food as well, slowing things down even more. A wonderfully friendly volunteer actually went and refilled our cups of tea whilst we were in the food line, the first cup having disappeared without trace. Despite loading my tray with a hot main course, and pudding with custard, I didn't feel hungry at all. I knew this was a very bad sign for an audax rider, and something which I simply had to overcome. With no energy drinks in my bottles, the food in front of me was the only fuel I would have to meet my energy needs. Luckily, Yoli back home knew the importance of this too, and continued her encouraging text messages of "Eat, Eat, Eat" on my phone. I took a couple of small bites, and washed it down with some blackcurrent juice. It didn't help that the school hall was hot as well. I quickly shed my UV arm protectors, and at the same time someone opened a door and a lovely breeze wafted in. My mood and appetite started to pick up.

What happened next, as I attacked my plate with a renewed interest, was truly surreal - the sound of Dancing Queen wafted over us from the stage . A school hall on a Sunday afternoon, filled with cyclists sweaty from the first 180km of a colossal ride, stuffing their faces with lashings of food, were now being treated to the brass band's ABBA set. It worked though. It made me smile, and then laugh out loud, and then turn to the riders seated near me and check this was really happening. Before long, the whole table was laughing, and we were all taking pictures, and messaging back home. Being efficient at controls might be important, but this was priceless, and the boost to my spirits was worth way more than the extra minutes I'd spent there. I think Yoli enjoyed the moment back home too - a brief if somewhat bizarre experience to connect her with my ride.

Finishing up, I located my shoes in the piles outside the school hall, and headed outside. A quick check over the bike, and bottles filled, I struggled for a moment to find get a cell signal so I could let Yoli know I was on my way again. The Garmin sprang back into life, and my third ever Audax leg began. I could feel the steady routine of riding, controls, and eating slowly working it's way into my psyche.






Time of departure from Kirton: 15:25. Control efficiency getting worse, enjoyment factor growing.

My memories of the leg to Market Rasen are very sketchy. I remember chatting with another rider about possible sleep strategies. It looked like the next control was going to be way too early for a proper sleep stop, but Pocklington was another 90km beyond that control. One possibility was a short sleep stop, and then push on. Another option might be a Travelodge or B&B. Happening to pass one seemed quite unlikely, although on one of the long straight Fenland roads we did ride past just such a low cost, no frills hotel. I was getting ahead of myself though - a golden rule of audaxing is don't think beyond the next control, so I refocused my mind on the leg at hand.

The wind continued to blow, mostly from behind, but occasionally from the left as the roads swung slightly westward, tracing our arcing path up the country. On the early stretches of the leg, we traveled a long straight section of road following the line of the River Witham a couple of fields away to our right hand side. At the end of this straight the road and river met, and we were in Holland again, once more riding along the banks of a dike, barges motoring along the waterway beside us. A tranquil scene which would have made a perfect backdrop for a relaxing summer holiday, if only we'd had the time to stop and enjoy it.

Riding along the river, we had started to catch up the remnants of the storm clouds from the night before. Left, right and ahead were small patches of darkened sky, a few of which showed tell tale blurs of rain sheeting down from them. It seemed inevitable that we would collide with one of these showers before long and get our first LEL drenching. The road swung left away from the river and then back right, onto a main road for a brief stretch to cross back over the river. As it did so, as if by magic a garage forecourt appeared over the bridge. With the first drops of rain falling, I pulled under it, joining half a dozen or so other riders who had also decided to take shelter. The little shop beckoned, so I tucked in to a bag of cheese biscuits and topped my front water bottle up with coke as the shower blew over. Noticing the time, I made a quick call home - I wanted to make sure I spoke to Yoli and our young son Ben before his bed time, which would probably be past when I reached the next control. It was wonderful to hear his and Yoli's encouraging voices on the end of the phone, even for just a few brief minutes. They were rooting for me to keep going. It's not that I hadn't been enjoying myself up to this stage, but something had been missing - maybe a mild hangover from the beers, or just early ride nerves. Either way, the call home and the caffeine in the coke perked me up and I was eager to be riding again.

Mounting up, we pushed on - through Woodhall Spa, and the lanes afterwards gradually became more winding, with slight gradients. We were starting to leave the flatness of the fens behind us. I wondered if we would be heading towards the Linconshire Wolds. I remembered my father talking about them being on the south eastern border of Yorkshire, which was definitely the next county we would be entering somewhere after the next control.

Whilst riding, I had been keeping all distance indicators switched off on my GPS and Sigma bike computer. Instead, I had adopted a routine of making a rough estimate of my arrival time at the next control based on distance and expected average speed. Having done this, I tried to forget about distance and just enjoy the scenery and riding for the rest of the leg. So far it had worked superbly, giving me a remarkably accurate idea of when to expect the next control, but at the same time keeping my mind off how far we were riding. So it was very welcome, but not exactly surprising when the signboards started to count down our arrival: 3Km, 2Km, 1Km, and we were there. Market Rasen - my third ever Audax control, and a perfect time to stop for dinner.

Market Rasen - 18:37, distance ridden: 246km

The debate from earlier was answered even before I'd dismounted and headed in to get my brevet card stamped. Not only was it way too early to be considering a sleep stop, but I wasn't even remotely tired. So, I followed another of the golden rules of audaxing - I wasn't riding or sleeping, which meant I should be eating. I headed to the canteen line, and loaded my tray with roast dinner and pudding with custard. Despite having a similarly large hot meal three hours ago, I was starving. At the drinks station, I opted for coffee and sugar. The next leg would see us riding into the dark, so it seemed sensible to go with the caffeine option.

"Eat eat eat" read the text from Yoli, which as luck would have it was exactly what I was doing at the time the message came in. A second cup of sweet coffee was needed to help the wonderfully stodgy pudding down though. With 3 legs down it struck  me that I was now close to the distance of my longest preparation ride. The next leg would see me head off into unknown territory fitness wise.

Fully fed, I sought out the drop bag room. So early in the ride, it was quiet. In truth, most of my bag contents were spares or contingencies more likely to be needed on the the journey home. On the way back from the drop bag room, I was accosted by two girls who had spotted my South Africa flag jersey. It was Gillian and Michelle, who excitedly introduced themselves and diverted me to a table to where the other SA riders were sitting. It was great to meet them, and there were clearly no hard feelings from my failing to meet up with them the day before. It was also an amazingly fortunate piece of timing - in a few more minutes my jersey would have been changed, and I would be a much more anonymous and hard to spot figure.

Greetings and summaries exchanged on our rides so far, I made my excuses and headed for a quiet corner to root around in the drop bag. First on the agenda were the practicalities of a clean shirt and shorts. The shirt could go on now, but the shorts would just about cram into my saddle pack with the space left by removing the leg and arm warmers. I'd been cautioned about the dangers of riding a second day in the same shorts - sweat turns to chaffing salt crystals, a lethal combination on a saddle sore backside. Also, there was a chance of rain on the next leg, and sleeping in wet shorts really did not appeal. The top I could deal with, since I had a thermal vest in the saddle pack that would do for sleeping in if needed.

The second, and infinitely more interesting item buried in the drop bag was an envelope from Yoli marked Drop Bag 1. I was excited to see what delight lurked inside. The envelope contained a card with a stack of mice holding a TA-DAAAH sign, and inside were words to congratulate me on finishing my first day (and a note that Ben had chosen the card). The message may have been a little early, but I had at some stage debated sleeping here, so the confusion was understandable. It was a precious and motivating message from home either way, and in around 90km the words would be true hopefully. I called Yoli to thank her for the card and let her know I'd soon be on way to Pocklington.


I returned the drop bag for the southward journey through here, refitted my saddle bag, topped up my bottles, sparked up the Garmin and headed out for my fourth ever audax stage, and the last of today.


Time of departure from Market Rasen: 19:53. Seriously, an hour and sixteen minutes? If my control efficiency got any worse that fifteen minutes late starting wouldn't matter because I'd need an extra week to get around!

During the early part of the leg, we wound through a town - I think it may even have been Market Rasen as we set off. I heard a "Not another Rob!" comment from a group of riders alongside me. I forget the exact exchange, but it was along the lines that they'd already got one of those and he was grumpy enough. It transpired that he was a Robin rather than a Robert, and he was riding with his daughter Georgina. I'd often wondered if Ben and I had a cycling adventure at some stage in our future, and the thought came back to me now.

The roads were wet and we were splashing through puddles as the lanes wound onwards. The showers had clearly continued to fall whilst I was at the control. The smell of damp woodland enveloped us as we rode through a tunnel of trees. It was magical. The terrain continued to become more rolling, every now and then the road became steep enough to push me down onto the small blade and granny rings. With each rise, the shadows grew longer as the fields each side of the road became bathed in the deep orange glow of the evening sun.

A little before dusk we caught up with two American riders, with "Oregon" written on their jerseys. After introducing myself, one of the girls told me her name was Susan.

"Wait, you're not Susan Otcenas are you?"  I asked, a little amazed. It turned out she was. We'd swapped a number of Facebook messages over the preceding months. I knew from reading her entries that Susan was a seasoned randonneur, as it turned out was her riding companion Leslie. It was great to meet up and ride with someone I'd bantered with online. We chatted and swapped stories about our riding, our bikes, some of the routes we rode back home. At some stage, I shared my guilty secret - that despite some decent training, at that very moment I was now officially on my longest ever ride, and heading towards my first ever imperial double century.  I'm not sure if they were surprised or shocked, but I suspect somewhere inside they must have wondered if I would have the legs to finish this ride. Somewhere deep inside, I wondered if I would have the legs to finish this ride.

As we rode along we were joined by a recumbent rider. I think his name was Graham, although I confess in the excitement of the day I may have got that wrong. Emmerentia and I had actually ridden with him right at the start of the day too (at that stage he gave me his YACF name, gone from memory now). Just ahead, occasionally obscured by hills or trees, were three sets of red lights in the sky. One of these was clearly a pylon or mast on the distant horizon. It took me a moment or two to figure out the first two sets though. And then it came to me, we were closing in on the Humber Bridge. My heart jumped, and I immediately mentioned it to Susan and Leslie. Graham confirmed it, the bridge was just a couple of kilometers ahead. I was excited - crossing the bridge in the last of the daylight would be magical, and it also meant we were already almost half way to Pocklington. 

The residential streets leading to the bridge were quiet, but on the side lane leading to the bridge we had a small greeting committee of volunteers directing us up onto the east cycle path of the bridge. The moment was too cool to waste, and we all stopped to grab a photo.

Graham had said something about there being a big climb the other side of the bridge, an option being to risk a possibly busy bypass to avoid it. Not really being sure of this, Susan, Leslie and I stuck to the official track, which wound back on itself under the bridge and through a sort of bridge-side park. It was dark and deserted, and faintly eerie. Oddly, I don't think we ever found the steep climb which Graham had mentioned, and we didn't see Graham for the rest of the leg either - we held back for a while, but eventually presumed he had taken his bypass option.

After a few kilometers of suburbs we headed out onto country lanes again, only this time it was fully dark. I'd lit my dynamo powered front and rear lights quite a bit earlier, and at some stage just before the bridge I had powered up the Lezyne front light too. Both came into their own now, and together with the lights from Susan and Leslie's bikes the road was positively floodlit. None of us had problems making out the road ahead, which was very good news since at times it became a risky mix of potholes, gravel, puddles and mud. Using brakes or carrying too much speed through any one of those sections could have easily ended in a nasty fall.

Villages came and went, each progressively quieter than the last as evening turned to night time. Pubs closed and people retired to their homes. The lanes rose and fell progressively as we pushed into Yorkshire and our destination ahead. I was enjoying my first night time audax riding.

"Pffftt ... darn it"

I was close enough to hear the air leak out as Susan's tire punctured. Dumb luck, we were less than 10km from the control. Another American rider, I think his name was Jonathan from California, was stopped at that very spot, I think also dealing with a puncture, or perhaps just having a snack break. It seemed all the debris on the road must have hidden some glass or other puncture inducing sharps. Susan insisted I push on to the control. I checked several times before doing so - it felt wrong to be leaving them at this stage, but Jonathan was already setting about helping change the tube.


Pocklington - 00:17, distance ridden: 336km

Very soon afterwards I was at the control getting my brevet card stamped, and once again filling my tray with food. Jonathan must have been quick because I'd barely lifted a fork before I saw Susan and Leslie also sitting down to eat. The board for beds was in the middle of the canteen, and the situation did not look optimistic. Some riders were already sleeping on the floor of the canteen. There didn't seem much point worrying, so I went and got a couple of glasses of milk, and washed an Ibruprofen down with them. I wasn't in any huge amount of pain anywhere, but I knew tomorrow would be a different story and anything to help keep inflammation down was worthwhile.

Even though it was past midnight, I'd already messaged Yoli when I'd arrived. I took out my phone again, closed down Endomondo and recorded a few highlights in the notes for the ride. It was nice to think they would be automatically posted to Facebook, keeping friends and club mates back home updated with how I was doing. And I was doing great. I sat in the canteen for a few minutes with a stupidly smug expression on my face. I had a few aches sure, but nothing significantly worse than my preparation rides. I'd completed my first day of LEL, ridden my furthest ride ever, and made it to the control I had been aiming at despite some serious concerns about the distance from the last control. Time for bed.

Bed as it happened, was a blanket on a wooden floor and my rolled up rain jacket for a pillow. No mattress, as all of those were booked. I was disorganised - I'd brought way too much stuff into the dorm, and it was scattered all around my sleeping space. There was a serious risk of me not gathering up some essential item the morning after, so I tried to rationalise where things were stashed, the two main locations ending up being my helmet, and the back pocket of my jacket. I would definitely need to refine this process at the next sleep stop.  There was no wake up system, so I set an alarm on my phone. I realised how anti-social this would be, and so set the phone to silent assuming this would also include the alarm. With that I tried to sleep. It took a lot of tossing and turning until it suddenly dawned on me that the most comfortable position was with all my sore parts directly on the floor. The pressure seemed to almost have a massaging effect, and despite being on a hard and bare wooden floor, I surprised myself by drifting off to sleep.


Click here to continue to Day 2

All photos by author.