Journey's End ?- The Double Century          17 JUN 99                 

It seems ages ago now, but it is only 16 weeks since the furthest that I had been on a bike was to the pub and back. Now I was getting ready to start my first double century.
It started like that old Monty Python sketch where one of the four Yorkshiremen said that he had to get up for work before he went to bed. This was similar in that I decided to set off at midnight to take advantage of the cooler riding conditions and to keep out of the sun which would burn my skin, especially in mid June as the rays are at their most concentrated.   

After a false start where I had to return home to find out why I was stuck in second gear (I had strapped a water bottle to my down tube, which trapped the gear cable), it was off into the cool, still June night. I had intended to cycle through 10 counties on this trip and the second county was reached in 2 minutes, the first being the City and County of Kingston Upon Hull, What? Yes, It's been a county since 1440. So, as I crossed into East Yorkshire, that was two already. The third came up half way across the Humber as I crossed into North Lincolnshire.

Leaving the city.

I headed towards the giant oil refineries near Immingham and as it was pitch black quickly became disorientated. I had no map of this area, because you get a little bit of land and about three quarters of North Sea for your money, so I've never bought one. Eventually, I came alongside the Conoco refinery and was bathed in its eerie glow. Into Habrough and a fourth county was bagged, North East Lincolnshire. The night air was great to ride in, it was nice and cool and more important there was no wind. I could have done with a full moon though, as it was, my front lamp was too feeble to light up much beyond a narrow strip of road. Worried about the batteries I also decided to turn the lamp off until approached by oncoming traffic, of which there was very little.

A few miles onward and it was into the fifth county, Lincolnshire. Time now was now 0200 and I stopped for a drink near Great Limber, or the middle of nowhere, whatever. It was completely silent and a little un-nerving to be alone in the Lincolnshire countryside. But hold on, I could hear something. It sounded like a disco, but it couldn't be. Listening again, it was a shed full of farm animals somewhere, sounding like they were having a great laugh, though of course, they probably weren't.

I decided to switch from music to the BBC World Service and as the giant transmitter of Belmont was visible, the reception on FM was pretty good. Things got spooky when I rode uphill through several miles of forest in the pitch darkness, but listening to a programme about coffee harvests in Honduras took my mind off the weird surroundings. The thing was, the place was full of animals; rabbits, foxes and large birds that insisted on lolloping around on the narrow road. When they decided to move they weren't bothered if they got in my way.

Crossing the Rubicon, er Humber.

At 0300, Caistor was reached and an exhilarating 35 mph ride downhill followed, with no helmet, in the dark-stupid or what? Turning west towards Gainsborough and on reaching the charming village of Brandy Wharf, it was time for another stop. Somewhere around here I lost my sunglasses, which fell out of my coat as I was laid out eating a tin of fruit salad. The radio Walkman gave up the ghost around here when I was tuned to Radio 5. I think it was the constant banging that had loosened an internal wire, so it was back to the Minidisc and Mirage by Klaus Schulze. Now it was scary. This bleak, menacing hour-long piece seemed to encourage the increasingly overcast sky to get darker.

At Gainsborough at 0400, I sat on a town centre bench eating a chicken sandwich. I must have looked suspicious as I spotted the same police car drive past at least three times as I sat there. Must be little to do all night in this sleepy town. It was now light, although very cloudy and cold. Setting off, I had considered not taking a jacket as I thought I'd be too warm. I was glad I did take one now. All this time I did not look at the mileometer for fear of seeing some horribly low mileage on it and abandoning the trip, so these mileages described are from Autoroute. Now I had done 57 miles. I had kept the display on the number of hours travelled and my speed only. I reckoned if I rode for 16 hours, I would do the 200. I had spent four hours in the saddle, only 14 to go. Gulp!

Over the Trent and into the sixth county: Nottinghamshire. This road usually has lorries thundering along it and is quite narrow, so I was pleased that it was almost deserted. A quiet Retford was traversed and next was the deserted market town of Worksop, where I made a wrong turning and had to retrace my route, otherwise I'd have ended up in the middle of Sherwood Forest. My right knee ligaments were now playing up and it was necessary to make the left leg the dominant one, to relieve the pain. I was now worried that the previously suspect left knee would now be under too much pressure and crack, but it never did.

On to the Chesterfield road and the seventh county border was crossed: Derbyshire. That meant hills in my mind and sure enough, some energy sapping ones came in to view. It was time to turn north. It was now 0730 and time for another break. I came across a very nice spot on the beautifully restored Chesterfield canal at Shireoaks, not one weed was visible on the water. The weather was beginning to turn nasty and it started to drizzle. Typical, even in the middle of June I get rained on. There was a nasty uphill grind into the eighth county of Rotherham, South Yorkshire and the village of Thorpe Salvin, which almost made me give up. In fact, if I had seen that the mileage was only 85, I probably would have done. That's why I deliberately did not want to know.

Riding past waiting commuters on Kiveton Bridge station, I then had the ignominious task of pushing my bike up a what was for me impossible hill, past bus shelters full of staring teenagers on the way to school. I then found a small set of picnic tables near Dinnington and sat down. This was the absolute nadir of the trip. The skies were black and I was tired and cold. My right knee was killing me and my bum was sore as hell on the less than comfortable saddle. The tracksuit bottoms I had on were soaked .It was then I had serious thought about abandoning the trip. I could get to Doncaster and dump the bike and get a train back home, or better still leave it here and get a bus to Doncaster. I also abandoned thoughts of going to Pontefract to bag the tenth county of Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Oh well, 9 out of 10 isn't bad.

Taking a Break

I then changed the disc to Cyborg by Klaus Schulze. The 2 hour-long organ chords, drones and primitive VCS 3 synth oscillations bypassed my logic circuits and I entered an hypnotic state where any thoughts of abandoning tools were banished. Somehow, physical discomforts were ignored and I set off towards Tickhill and into the ninth and final county of Doncaster, South Yorkshire. It was 0930 and I was by now starving. I had visions of fry-ups, curries, sausages, anything greasy. I thought about Bawtry, the next town and mentally surveyed its main square for food. Arriving there, I settled for a small bakers where two hot Cornish pasties were ordered. 99 pence for two, are you sure?

The only place to sit down was on the many steps of the town war memorial, right in the centre. I got a few looks of disgust as I sprawled out, no doubt desecrating someone's grandparent. Now a long 16-mile grind to Thorne followed. The sun was coming out now, and it was warming up into a beautiful summer's day. I glanced down at the cycle computer, I had knackered it! The time display read 0.00.00. It could not show over 10 hours for one trip. The average speed was reading "error". It was trying to divide 116 miles by zero and had given up the ghost long before it had reached infinity. This was the first time that I had allowed myself to look at the miles and realised that was the
furthest I had ever ridden, more than the trip of just 4 weeks ago. My thoughts turned to the previously empty legs at this distance. Apart from the right knee, they were still going round, sort of.

Entering the wasteland of Thorne Moors, I couldn't believe it; the wind had changed to a northerly direction as shown by the cooling towers at Drax. There is always a blooming north wind here, must be something to do with the local terrain. It was 1130 now and the sun was blazing down from on high. My arms and face must be getting a battering from those UV rays. Crossing the Ouse back in to East Yorkshire and I'd travelled 128 miles. Time to put that north wind to my advantage by heading south to Blacktoft, with it's lovely riverside pub, where only 2 days before our family had been sitting on a bench on the river bank, watching the barges go by. Wish I could stop there now.

On any other occasion this would be a perfect ride, flat terrain, sunny day and a nice back wind, but with 130 miles gone, my legs were in trouble and I had run out of liquids. I had to head in to the wind again for the nearest village. In that five miles, I could go no faster than 10 mph. I drank some Red Bull and two Lucozades and refilled the water bottle. Heading along national cycle route 65, several road racers shot by. Yeah, but you haven't done 150 miles mate, I thought, mind you I couldn't keep up with them if I was fresh anyway. These guys looked serious.

After what seemed like eternity, I neared home. I estimated that I'd have done 168 miles by then. I would sort myself out, regroup and get ready for the attack on the last 32 miles. 32 miles, bloody hell. I can't do it. I staggered indoors. What was I going to do?  I'll get a bath and then decide. I got into the hot bath and noticed two dirty great bruises on my thighs. How the heck did they get there? I must be doing some damage to my legs somewhere. I was dropping off to sleep in that bath. Did I want to go on? No chance. I'll get straight to bed; it's only next-door. Hang on though, you're never going do this again, you can't stop. Eventually, I summoned some energy from somewhere. I'll do it in easy chunks, bit by bit. I got changed and stepped outside and sat on the infernal machine again and I went to town and back the long way. Arriving home, I looked at the display. 178 miles. Only 22 to go.

The problem with the saddle was so bad that I taped a car wash sponge to it. My pedals were now too far away. Back to town again, it was agony. My hands were killing me after resting on the bars all night and day. I cursed every pedestrian who pressed a pelican crossing button, every pothole and every traffic light. I let out a cry of pain when every rut in the road transmitted itself through an already shot body. I struggled to find some back wind to help. The Minidisc batteries had long since expired, the back up batteries were gone as well.
I headed up to Willerby and stopped on the hill. 188 miles. I can't go on. That's good enough, just tell people you did it, no one would be any the wiser (or be bothered).

Hang on though. 12 miles? That's Hessle, town and  then home. It's easy, done it loads of times. Piece of cake, man. There was a back wind to the riverfront at Hessle. I was going at 18 mph now, it was easy. There was still power there. Turning east towards town a nasty head wind arrived and it all changed. I had gone through more mood swings today than our lass on� (no stop it). Seriously, all during the ride, I had gone from sheer depression to ecstatic highs all in the space of a few minutes. 193 miles, easy does it, nice and simple, nothing silly. Just then I prodded the Minidisc, somehow it came to life . It was Klaus Schulze again and some energy returned. 195, 196. Into the town centre, full of people, all a blur. Heading home now, backwind again, 197, 198, 199. Go to shops and back, 200. Done it.
Shall I keep going to see what my actual physical limit is, or go for a sauna, curry, beer, sleep?

Physical limits? who cares. I arrived home to find my eldest daughter arguing with my wife about needing some ingredients for cooking. "Ah there you are, can you take Karina to Safeway's to get some Caster sugar and flan cases, please?" "But.." Oh forget it. I somehow dragged an empty carcass around the supermarket. Hmm, while I'm here I'll have that big chicken curry, naan bread, Palau rice, satay sticks and four bottles of Bateman's XXB. Imagining the feast I was going to have driving home set my mouth watering, I walked in through the back door. "I've got some sausages for you here" "But I've�" Grrr.
Anyway, did I enjoy it? No. Will I ever do it again? No. But I've more of an admiration for you people that do this sort of thing week in week out, you're all mad.
  Final result--200.34 miles in 16 hours 25 minutes .Average 12.2 mph. Thank you and goodnight.
 



   

Map of Trip

Journey's End ?
To be continued...