Earlier this year I made it a goal to ride a bicycle from London to Rome. I'm not sure why really, maybe because nobody told me I had to.
Well, this week is my first mini test of that adventure. I'm cycling from Kendal, England to Edinburgh, Scotland over the next 3 days, about 162 miles. If you google it, and select terrain view, it makes my ego feel a little better to take 3 days to do what a TdF rider would do in 3 hours.
I'll be keeping a short blog which you're invited to read. Right now I'm waiting outside the station to embark - friggin' bomb alert. Dont worry Mom, it's just the nanny state at work.
However, I already managed to have an inauspicious start. On the ride to the station, I was closing in on a healthy, fit-looking male cyclist and thought to myself, 'ah, if I could overtake this guy, with fully laden panniers, that would be a major serving of humble pie to start his day' so I started peddling furiously. Closing the distance, I started smiling to myself. Within 50 metres, ha ha! 40 now, so I'm going as hard as I can on a decline. Just then, a chap on a fixed gear*, with his legs pumping wildly, overtakes me like nothing.
Right then. Humble pie served. Off to the north where I can compete with grannies getting groceries.
*if you don't know, a fixed gear bike is one with only one gear, which doesn't allow you to free wheel. So you only have one gear, for inclines/declines/straights. In theory, I shouldn't get overtaken by one, especially on a decline.
Day 1
Perhaps it says it all that I have very little inclination to write this report. It was a fine afternoon of cycling, but I'm just exhausted.
Just the facts to start. 37.58 miles today with an average speed of 12.8 mph. I was still standing in the saddle in the last mile, so that's a good sign. My avg speed came down a lot in the last hour, which is a bad one.
Along the ride, I think I had all the weather possibilties of the Lake District. Everything from glorious sunshine to fog to spitting rain to driving hail. At one point it was so thick I felt like I'd ridden into a lake - my iPod was convinced as it stopped working.
Somewhere in the midst of all this I was treated to a glorious beauty one can scarcely imagine on a small island with 70 million people. It reminded me of the rolling hills and farming communities of my youth. Of course, that's been invaded by a horde of strip malls which, regardless of their necessity, have the design sense of cotton candy. The Lake District has mercilessly avoided this fate. It's buildings all appear to be rugged and timeless, with a nonchalant austerity. Obviously, it enjoys a lot of tourism, so you'd expect a certain aplomb in the town centers. But I was cycling through back roads, too. Even in the farms and personal homes, which must be subject to the vagaries of economy like everywhere else, a touch of class prevailed. I was smitten.
Despite the weather, or maybe it appeals to my masochistic side, I could imagine living, or at least writing a book, here.
I now sit in a village pub enjoying an over-priced but aesthetically amazing evening.
Tomorrow is 62 miles including, if I remember right, a 22 mile long climb. Oh joy.
Day 2
Today started with all the promise of a legless rugby player. My Garmin sat-nav charger didn't charge my Garmin. Which is no big deal if you just have handy written directions, but I've come to be spoilt by my Garmin. It not only tells me when to turn left and right, which on these country lanes is a necessity, but also my heart rate, speed, distance, time, incline, gradient, reps and horoscope. None of these is that important, except my heart rate, but they become excellent motivational tools. 'I shld go faster on this incline' or 'Jupiter says to slow down'. So. I go online at the B&B and write down the succession of towns and villages I'd be riding through. Sorted.
Except that within 4 miles the wee slip of paper fluttered out of my pocket, gone with the wind. Ok. Not even handy written directions. I'm cycling through the border villages of England and Scotland with only the sun, which mercifully peaked through the clouds, to guide my internal compass.
I don't know how many miles I rode this morning but it was certainly more than the planned 34.
Along the way I was treated to more Cumbrian architecture with its seeming effortless endurance. It was a quality I would admire more and more as the day wore on.
Soon enough I was riding into Carlisle. Here is a city that shines as an example of how the Lake District's design sense has failed to gain universal adherence in Britain. Grotty, spongy and plain. Its saving grace was its shops, and I was able to replace the Garmin charger. Otherwise, I couldn't pedal through it quickly enough.
As I did, the ensuing climb began to loom in the distance. This would be my first attempt to traverse a mountain range, which is an elemental part of the London to Rome goal. These are tiny compared to the Alps, like a bear cub to his daddy. But they are still bona fide mountains, and I was going to ride across them.
FDR famously said, "we have nothing to fear but fear itself," and every year I appreciate the wisdom of those words more deeply. As I rode the 12 miles north of Carlisle for my appointed lunch break, I felt the tendrils of fear weaving their way into my legs, heart and mind. My legs were already deeply sore from the 70 miles I'd ridden before the lunch break - more miles than I'd ever done in a 24 hr period. And ahead of me lay a 26 mile ascent. No breaks. No free-wheeling. Every mile fought and sweat for.
That's fear talking though. And I could hear its insidious whisper with every revolution. But the secret to cycling, as much as I've been able to work out, is the same as everything else in life. Attack. Push forward. With patience and discipline, of course, don't go off crazily. As a hero of mine once put it, "Courage is the first of human qualities, because it is that which guarantees all the others."
Over lunch I resolved to pray/meditate over the idea of courage, and to attack the climb on every single wretched mile of it.
It was also over lunch that the driving sleet started pouring outside.
Upon arriving in Hawick, said by the locals as 'Hoik' with a pronunciation similar to the sound made by one bringing mucous from their throat to their mouth before spitting, my first question was where are the mountains? Either I possess hitherto unknown powers of self-hypnosis or those weren't mountains I'd just climbed. More like downs really. Yes, big hills. Yes, tiring. And yes, my climb to Hawick was a long slog, but the gradients were mostly about 3-4%. And despite what my trusty website planner had told me, only about 10 miles of it was a truly constant incline. I could freewheel and catch my breath over most of it.
So where did I get the idea they were mountains? From several Brits, that's where. Quite a few people I'd shared my plans had said, "Oh, crossing over the mountains, are you?" So either I've taken the non-mountain route, or these are only mountains by some kind of technicality, like being x feet above sea level.
So this afternoon's ride wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared before and at lunch. It's funny how often the fear is worse than the deal. One thing that helped was adopting the strategy to 'attack every mile' literally. As the Garmin had been charged over lunch, I could now track my distance, speed, etc etc. So for every mile ridden, I made sure to spend at least 20-30 seconds out of the saddle, attacking. It may not sound like much, but instead of looking at each hill with a foreboding 'oh dear, another one' I was thinking 'shall I attack here, or wait for a harder one'. The difference in the feeling while riding is immense.
The countryside is gorgeous and unspoilt, unless you count sheep shit. Its fumes occasionally threatened to tarnish some soulful vistas. Fortunately, the land here is so vast, or the wind so forgiving, it remains a splendid sojourn. The rolling hills and pockets of forests mingled with farms and streams really are my idea of heaven. If it weren't for the weather, which somehow avoided drenching me today, though I could see it unleashing on nearby hills, I could spend a few days relaxing here.
Arriving into Hawick, I couldn't have been more underwhelmed. Industrial, worn and insecure were my first impressions. Whilst not a mountain climb, I'd still cycled 112 miles to get here, and endured a reasonable slog. So quite unfairly, I expected the destination to somehow deserve the effort. It doesn't.
Fortunately, the B&B is exquisite. I have not only an en suite bedroom, but also an anteroom with sofas and a wide screen telly. So I watched Harry Potter, a surprisingly enjoyable film.
I'm now off to bed feeling very confident about the ride to Edinburgh tomorrow. Only 52 miles. Can't believe I just typed that. Surely a good sign.
PS The Garmin doesn't really do horoscopes. That was a joke.
Day 3
A cycling friend tells me the Norwegians have a saying, "There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing." Rubbish. If there are cycling Gods, and I now suspect there are, they viewed my post yesterday as derisive hubris and chose to redress the balance this morning.
Before leaving Hawick, for which I've changed my 3 words to tired, insecure and helpful (the people are just lovely), I noticed a warble on my front tire. I'd managed to shear some spokes on my front wheel! I found a local cycle shop to repair it, but didn't get a start on today's ride until nearly 11am.
This delay produced a head-on collision with a storm as I left Hawick. Perhaps this wouldn't have been so bad had I not finally found the 7-8% inclines I'd been promised. Add to that a 20-30mph headwind (actually felt closer to 40mph but I'm trying to be objective here) and you have the recipe for a gruelling morning. At times, I struggled to get the bike to 5mph! If it weren't for the winds, I'd have probably toppled over at the speeds I was going.
The rare descent provided little respite. On a 6% one, where I might expect to go 35mph quite easily, the headwinds kept my top speed to 20mph. To be fair, with the stinging sleet battering my face, I didn't want to go much faster. On occasion I'd be treated to a gusting cross-wind, which destabilised the bike. Combine that with the sucking currents produced by large trucks overtaking at 50mph, and you have a somewhat frightening cocktail.
I know what you're thinking. Whinge, whinge, whinge.
Well, after enduring this cacophany of joys for 16 miles, I stopped for lunch in the town of Galashiels. From what I could see through the shroud of clouds, mist, rain and fog, it's an attractive place that hasn't coped well with the new economy. As if to puncuate the idea, the one local I asked to suggest a restaurant advised I go to the cafe at Tesco's! Determined not to patronise such a chain, I found a warm, friendly and attractive local place. They dried me off, warmed me up, and even flirted with me throughout. Guess they don't see many yanks, but there's still something disquieting about the suggestive leer of an ugly woman. Fortunately, the attractive ones were flirting with me too. Or maybe I was just road-weary and they were laughing at this drenched idiot actually riding in this weather. But you choose your reality, eh? I say it was flirting.
I think I naively expected the weather to lighten up in the ride after lunch. In London, storms like this pass over in a couple of hours. Not in Scotland. Today became a cruel exercise in futility.
I cannot think how to accurately convey the dispiriting effect that riding into a strong wind, hour after hour, has on the psyche. Every move is countered. Every attack depleted. After several efforts at standing in the saddle and getting my speed up to something pathetic like 10mph, a huge gust, seemingly sent directly from the cycling gods, would knock me back to my pre-attack speed. Even when I was going downhill I was required to push, the wind stronger than gravity. And because I was drenched, and I mean soaked through, I often forgot to drink my water and became slightly dehydrated. Not good.
I later discovered on Scottish telly that major highways were closed due to the flooding. It was a bad storm even by Scottish standards.
At one critical stage, having ridden 36 miles at an average of 8mph, I stopped under the shelter of a bus stop to eat a power bar. And I don't know, I'll never know, but if a bus had come along at that moment...
So I can't say I attacked on every mile. I can't even say I looked up on every mile. It was a simple life lesson on what it means 'to endure'.
Finally, as the landscape changed with about 10 miles to go, the headwind almost vanished. It was euphoric. I had become so angry at the wind, I know - very silly, but somewhere in me I found a fierce desire to finish strong. Suddenly, finally, I was able to get out of the saddle and have it make a difference. I sang and hammered the pedals and rode into Edinburgh triumphant, at least in spirit. It was nearly 7 hours of riding on the day. I'd finished it.
Edinburgh warms the heart. It's mature, dynamic and globally provencial - one of Europe's great cities. I could walk around and just inhale the lively mojo of this place for hours, in fact I plan to.
So there you go. 165-ish miles in 3 days. I'm taking the train back to London on Sunday. Perhaps today's journal lacks salesmanship, but I'm inexplicably still determined to do London - Rome. If you fancy joining me for a prep ride, or part/whole of the real McCoy, let me know.
