I’m a bit bored at work so thought I’d put something up about a wee excursion I had recently.
Backstory: My dad died of cancer a year ago. Stupid shitty disease bugged him for the third and final time in 9 years. At the second time in 2013 I said I’d run a marathon to raise some money – the 6 month training program ran nicely in parallel with his 6 month chemo schedule so we’d both go through pain together and come out smiling. Well, he did but distance running wasn’t for me or my knees. Roll on 3 years and I still owe my sponsors from that some suffering so decided to ride from home in Edinburgh to his local in Chesterfield for a pint – only 309 miles, or so I thought. An idea which, when suggested to my dad previously, he said was silly.
So the plan was to ride the 309 miles which google maps said it was over 72 hours – start Thursday lunchtime, finish Sunday lunchtime. with a rough schedule of 50,100,100,50 mile days. I’ve never ridden over 100 miles in a oner before so carrying my camping gear (and using it) on consecutive days was going to make this a challenge.
The route consisted 99% of NCN routes and I know there are mixed opinions on these, but when one leaves from my doorstep it is a great feeling to roll out of my garage and onto a network of cycle routes that will take me within spitting distance of my target pub over 300 miles away. The forecast I’d woken up to was for gales and heavy showers, the latter clearing by lunchtime which held true. The westerly gales blew me along the East Lothian coastline in blustery, sunny conditions. It was easy going and I was pleased to arrive at camp 1 in time to set up, shower and have a leisurely stroll before dinner in the pub.
For day 2 and 3, I had planned for an 8am depart every day with 9-10 hours in the saddle to arrive 6-7pm and a similarly leisurely evening. This is context setting…
Day 2 was glorious to begin, I’d been looking forward to riding South through the sunny Northumbrian coast and it turned out to be just that. By late morning I was feeling quite smug about the whole thing and afforded myself a late lunch stop in Craster for famous crab sandwiches. At this point, about 230pm, numbers started not to add up. I had done over half of my planned mileage but looking at the Sustrans maps it seemed I still had 70ish to do until my next camp just South of Sunderland. Something was wrong, I blamed my map interpretation but got moving with an underlying but disbelieving sense of urgency.
For the next couple of hours I theorised on the mileage discrepancy and realised that Google maps, despite saying it will use NCN Routes, will not follow these to turn for turn. If it can save a few miles by staying on a road rather than send you round attractive towns and villages, it will. The damage was done, however, and my religious obedience of the blue and white signposts had added over 20 miles onto my morning. I wasn’t going to make camp for 6, maybe between 7-8 but that’s with Newcastle and Sunderland to navigate… in the dark.
And then my pannier fell to pieces, a victim of the less-than-smooth paths I’d taken. This was at 6pm still north of Newcastle, by which my anxiety levels were sufficient to consider booking into a B&B. I’ve never ridden like this on my own before, having to do all the thinking for myself was really proving a challenge – but that’s what this was about, so the B&B idea was swiftly deleted and the pannier bodged back together. To be safe, I called the campsite. I was already late but needed some reassurance that my pitch was waiting for me – the owner was on her way out for the evening so had emailed me instructions already and left me a 50p for the shower. This was comforting beyond belief.
The next comfort was finding the ferry across the Tyne still operating at 730pm, saving me more miles round the bridge. Next up, Sunderland – an assault on the senses after such a serene, beautiful morning; the amusements were in full swing and lined the cycle path all the way in. Loud, bright, rowdy, brutal. For fear of not finding food in a quieter spot, I stopped for fish and chips amongst all this – hungry but anxious, it was hard to eat.
At this point, I had to reality check. Here I was in a UK city surrounded by facilities, but for how I felt I could have been in remotest India. I like to know where and when I’m sleeping for the night and for the past 7 hours I’d been living off nervous energy – it was madness really, but this kind of trip was all new to me. Leaving the bustle of the amusements sent me into the quiet, dark, Friday night outskirts of Sunderland – now I really was a bit scared which wasn’t helped by a gang of lads who lined the path as I came through. My bright helmet light seemingly backing them off, distancing themselves from their bong.
I was using my phone for navigation, pulling it from my pocket as needed and that was turning out to be a lot. At one wrong turn, turning the bike round slowly I stumbled and dropped my phone. Having cracked many a phone, this was a slow motion moment when panic instantly set in – without my phone, I would literally be lost. The relief to find it still working was huge.
At 9:55pm after 13.5hours on the bike and 127 miles, I rolled into the campsite. Behind me, a lady got out of the car that followed me in. It was the owner… “You ARE late” she said. She doesn’t know how close she came to being hugged.
I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed, despite lying awake and cold for an hour in the early hours. I wanted to crack on before any chance of the impending fatigue kicked in. The morning consisted largely of cross country, gravel tracks. All I could think was when will my pannier collapse again – a good old zip tie fix was keeping it together. I had Stockton on Tees to navigate around midday. Despite the previous day’s blunder, I went blindly into the day’s route finding and immediately felt the pressure of taking time to find an expedient route versus just keep riding. I made a promise to prepare my routes better in the future but soon enough found myself spat out into the outskirts of the North York Moors, which loomed grey in the distance.
I found myself amongst a bunch of sportivers approaching the hills and stopped to take advantage of their mechanical support to check my pannier. After being invited to eat their food, too, I was asked where I was heading. “York” drew sucks of air through teeth, its a fair way to there. “Well, I’m heading to Selby from there”. Selby ?! Ahaha, good luck! I withheld my final destination of Temple Hirst, being still South of Selby.
The grey hills lived up to the picture they painted and it rained hard for a good hour or more. Because of the rain, I neglected to check the route at a crucial junction – the blue sign very clearly pointed left. After 10 minutes descending a typically rocky and now very wet track, all I could see was moorland with no obvious exit point. Checking my phone for the route, the sign had lied and pointed me in exactly the wrong direction. On a remote North Yorks moor, no one can you scream. Conscious of the previous day’s schedule, I was as much concerned about the half hour I’d waste on this wrong turn as I was annoyed at having to climb back up where I’d painfully descended in the still pouring rain.
The rain had halted by the time I decided to stop myself for food and a ridiculously good pot of tea. I was just onto the next paper map so could judge my destination. 40 miles to go and it was 330pm, things weren’t as bad as they’d felt for the past 2 hours and from this point in, the going was relatively sublime. Smooth, flat roads were very welcome after the hills and gravel paths, meaning also I could get a good head of steam and dry out.
In contract to the previous day, navigating and riding into and through York was a dream and a magnificent example of what the NCN can be. Right through to Selby on the Trans Pennine Trail, the traffic-free paths were smooth and easy going setting my confidence of reaching camp by 8pm. A slightly longer than expected, but in time for last food orders at 830pm.
A suggestion from STW, the Sloop Inn was quite a place. A tremendously camp barman, a drunken campsite warden, everyone drinking there clearly worked there or was related to someone who did. It was a great bit of comedy relief after two days of next to no interaction with anyone. The “campsite” itself consisted of a field with a loo. It was enough.
Day 3 consisted of one big decision – stay on the NCN from Doncaster for an extra 10 – 20 miles or hit the roads for a direct route to Rother Valley. Battling with traffic seemed an unfitting way to finish this trip, so when I was woken at 530am by the campsite cockerel with built in snooze function, rolling out in the hazy 7am sunrise helped the decision to take the long way round.
Another slap on the back for NCN. With the thought of riding through some lesser thought of areas of South Yorkshire, I was intent on doing it out of principle. But the National Cycle Routes have a habit of showing off a place for its best and I would never have expected a route through Doncaster, Rotherham and Barnsley to be so glorious. Helped by the sun shining, of course, but the ability to negotiate the area in such surroundings is a credit to the work Sustrans do (in my opinion).
Coming into Sheffield, the route became harder to navigate and being so close to home, frustration began to creep in and snowball itself as increasing wrong turns resulted. Eventually, at a junction only a couple miles out I asked a fellow cyclist by where he was heading and gratefully followed his wheel to my rendez vous at Rother Valley.
It had been a hugely emotional 3 days for me. When I had imagined meeting my sister and friends at Rother Valley it choked me up. I had also received considerably more sponsorship, despite regarding it as suffering owed. Through the countless wrong turns, dark streets, wet hills and frustrated navigation, the reason for doing it really kept me going where I might otherwise have given up. When I finally saw my sister, it was relief and I babbled away recounting tales from the trip for longer than I should.
The final leg was along Route 67 to Chesterfield where I lived for most of my life (just, still). A final flourish for the NCN, it took me to within less than a mile of my Dad’s local in Holymoorside, the Lamb Inn. A friend had joked on Facebook “a nice boozer, when its open”. I had talked for too long at the Valley – the pub had closed minutes before arriving… Fortunately the Bull’s Head round the corner was open and served up a great first pint – poor thing didn’t stand a chance.
The idea that Dad had called silly wasn’t quite silly. Chatting away over a (few) pint(s) with family, it had clearly been a great adventure for me but also the physical, emotional and mental challenge I’d wanted it to be…. and all for the cause of raising funds for Bloodwise.
Told you I wasn’t busy, this went on a bit longer than expected…. The few pictures I have might follow but can’t be accessed from work.
