They say it’s uphill to Scotland. Feels like it…
111.3 Miles, 9,809 ft of Elevation / 179.2 Km, 2,990 m of Elevation
Start: 06:57 Finish: 16:44 Moving Time: 8hrs 16mins
Ride Across Britain: 11% Complete
In setting up this blog I significantly overestimated my ability to write gripping prose while shattered.
But here goes.
We got a bus to Land’s End on Friday 3rd September, set up at Base Camp and went for a photo with ‘the sign’ (normally £7, free for us).
A girl saw the line of cyclists and shouted up:
“Well done!”
“We haven’t done it yet, we’re going the other way round!”
Her friend, disbelieving:
“Where are you going?”
“John O’Groats”
“Where’s that??”
At 5.30am on Saturday 4th September, Freddie Mercury belted out of the PA system, summoning hundreds of bleary-eyed cyclists out into the mist.
“I want to ride my bi-cycle, I want to ride my bike”
We shuffled into the main tent and the smell of bacon met our nostrils. One enormous breakfast later and we joined the start line, released in groups into the wild, propelling ourselves through the first glorious hour of two hundred and sixteen before reaching the tip of mainland Scotland.
Families of riders dotted the route and children waved. The race photographer overtook, perched on the back of a motorbike to catch our clean, smiling faces.
The first past of the stage took us through foggy, windy downs. Giant wind turbines loomed and turned slowly, a grim reminder of the monotony of every pedal stroke to come. Cows and sheep watched us pass, nonplussed. A buzzard pinwheeled across the sky. We said hello to fellow riders.
Our first pit stop came after 50km (30 miles), in a car park perched at atop a fierce climb. The queues moved quickly as taps blasted out fresh water and rider picked bars, gels or cakes.
The sun finally broke through the clouds as we stopped for an unexpected road closure. A hour passed and the whole field backed up at the top of a steep descent, 30 of us stuck at the bottom.
Rerouting 950 cyclists is no simple task and requires police approval. It duly came and we forced ourselves back up the steep hill to rejoin the main group and take a long, hot detour to the next pit stop.
As I talk about hills here I may run out of adjectives and repeat myself ad nauseam. In Cornwall and now Devon they are numerous, relentless and unkind, despite revealing bucolic vistas.
Gazing in wonder at the scenery just about lasted the evil climb up to beautiful village of Minions. By the long drag up to Okehampton I was not in the mood to look to my right at the splendid Dartmoor National Park.
The sun beat down, everything hurt and to continue to pedal was to enter a trance state in a fight against the body’s screams to stop. Seeing other riders around you cope – including many older than me, a man on a BMX and a couple on a tandem – was a strong incentive.
We rolled over the line exhausted, and at dinner heard with trepidation the briefing for day 2: longer and possibly harder than day 1.
The Cycling Eagle 