This was an attempt to finish a failed Bristol - Hull  ride in JUN 00 where I had to abandon in Newark on Trent due to fatigue and the night closing in. In the intervening 5 years I've clocked up more than 25 000 miles of bike riding and am now confident enough to finally nail this sucker which has been gnawing away at the back of my brain on and off for these past few years! 

Looking back, I did everything wrong. I ate the wrong foods, rode the wrong bike and wore the wrong clothes. I foolishly carried a huge rucksack around and had ordinary flat pedals with no clips. Still, it goes to show that you can have the lightest bike and fanciest kit, but without a burning desire to achieve your goal you're sunk before you've turned a wheel.

So with a lightweight bike, proper padded shorts, cycling tops, clipless pedals, plenty of base miles and the right sports drink and food at least now there's a sporting chance of finishing the ride this time. Last year's century was the last occasion I rode into 3 figures, but having done a double century in the past I know what was in store. A bloody hard time!

The main problem with the last ride was that I was at my limit of 155 miles when the cold night descended all of a sudden (although being 2130 it wasn't entirely unexpected or anything!). When I did the double century, I set off at 2200 so that when dawn broke at 0400, I knew I would finish in daylight which is a big boost - so with this theory in mind I wanted to head out of Bristol in the early evening. The snag with this is that all of the shops (what few that exist anyway) along the Roman Fosse Way would be closed. My secret buried supplies planted 5 years ago had gone, so I'd have to carry enough food and water to see me through the night.

The solution was to carry a waist bag like this:

With the two bottles on the bike in their cages and these two in the bag, I could carry four bottles of water as well as my chosen food, the Science in Sport Go Bar. Although you get pig sick of eating the same banana flavoured sugary gloop for hour after hour.

The 1357 Hull - Doncaster train was boarded and the small cubby hole set aside for bikes was eventually found unusually in the middle of the train. The connection with the 1455 Doncaster - Bristol service was met with only two minutes to spare and the new Virgin Voyager train was found at the other side of the station. These trains have four hooks mounted in the ceiling which you hang your front wheel on. The back wheel then fits in a slot on the wall. The bike still sways about from side to side a lot though.

Luckily, a spare seat was found right next to the cycle storage bay. Unfortunately, it was a "quiet carriage" and although I didn't care about it blocking mobile phone signals since I wasn't carrying one, it also stopped AM/FM radio signals from getting through, as the windows were coated with some sort of cloaking device. Apparently, there were some radio sockets dotted about, but I never found one to stick my jack plug in. Since I was due to arrive in Bristol at 1800, I thought I'd take out a small loan and visit the buffet car before we got to Birmingham. 

What a disappointment! It was like our works food vending machine; fizzy drinks, crisps, chocolate bars, sweets etc. The stuff you get in Accident and Emergency to save the Chavs from starving to death. No sandwiches at all. I picked up a small bottle of water and a tiny piece of flapjack - �2-20. The flapjack had a strange yellow liquid oozing out of it which turned out to be Dorset Farm butter. Strangely though, it wasn't that bad after it got past my taste buds. Still, the passengers boarding at Birmingham got nothing, the apologetic "team leader" mumbled something about the relief, so-called catering crew not turning up for work. They didn't miss much though.

At 1811 I scrambled off the train before it set off for Temple Meads with me still in it. Having taken no map or GPS with me, relying on a hazy memory of last time, I quickly lost my bearings, so resorted to the trusty boy scout sun position routine to head vaguely North East. Back in radio contact with the rest of the world, I was stunned to hear the Aussie cricket team had been hammered by Bangladesh and were to be beaten by England, as it turned out, in Bristol the very next day, so the England team was chuckling away not far from my current location. At a petrol station in Chipping Sodbury I took on the first proper food of the ride; two floury chicken tortilla wraps and a litre of water. Petrol stations are far better than ordinary shops or supermarkets in that you can keep an eye on your bike through the window, meaning you don't have to carry a lock. There's usually not much of queue either.

After finding the A46, it was then a case of joining the Fosse Way in the guise of the A433 and soon Tetbury's dramatic church spire hove into view. Local attractions included "Festival and Fireworks" and a big bash at the local Polo Club (with Prince William in attendance), so lots of "Old Money" types were turning up in flash motors wearing smart clothes, no doubt about to make small talk on their successful careers, new cars, property prices and the fact that Jessica has just won a place at Oxford. Well so what? I went to Oxford - and I think we won 2-0. Anyway, would I want to be in their world of corpulent (not a spelling error!) luxury and wealth as opposed to having the mental and physical fortitude to tackle this ride alone? In short, would I swap Go Bars and PSP22 for canap�s and Champers. Not a chance! Maybe. 

35 miles in, Cirencester was reached and the Fosse Way was now the A429. Last time there were several hills where I had to get off and walk, including a 14% at Fosse Bridge. This time I didn't want to get off at any hill, so I kept the advice of expert climber Roberto Heras on a BBC website in mind:

 "The silent night has turned to a night of fear" 
   - not tonight Roy thanks! By the way Roy, "10538 Overture" is a rip off of "Dear Prudence" by The Beatles.

100 miles were up as the A5 was crossed, but I took the wrong turn and ended up curling away back south until the A426 was stumbled across with its signpost to Leicester. I had consumed too much water thinking that Leicester was not far off and so was nearly out of ammo by the time the big city was reached. The first BP garage was open but the guy behind the counter wouldn't let me into the shop. He didn't know what tortillas were either, but suddenly the penny dropped and he brought out two chicken tikka fajitas and two litres of Volvic. After explaining that I wasn't on a fishing trip he was stunned when I showed him the 120 miles on the speedo.

Having no map was a big problem now. The busy ring road gave a selection of options, none of which rang a bell seeing as I was looking for one with A46 - Newark as an exit. After running out of choices I was now being spat out of the south end of the city. I couldn't backtrack as it was all one way and so I found myself coming back into the city past the same pubs. Normally this would have been the absolute nadir of the ride. 130 miles in, a century more to go, at 0400 in a strange city, in the middle of a 3 lane one way ring road going round and round in circles. 

The nearby railway station would have usually been full of the Sirens Of Lorelei; flooding the mind with visions of an easy way home, comfy seats with pastries and coffee on tap. Strangely though, this time the Sirens were muted. Even the little voice in my own head was sitting in the corner with its mouth taped up. Maybe I had remembered reading these inspirational words from a book called "Cycling Past 50". Although it referred to age rather than miles, it still did the trick.

There was nothing for it but to find a map - luckily another petrol station was open and after shelling out 5 quid for a pocket map, it turned out I should have headed in the direction of Melton Mowbray - pork pie capital of the world. The A46 to Newark, once it was found, was the worse bit of the ride, 32 miles of 70 mph dual carriageway with long uphill drags. Even though the traffic was light, I found myself looking behind to see what was coming up all the time. In practice, the traffic gave plenty of room, although they did have an empty road in which to do so.

It was very tough going now, so I whiled away the miles playing Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen Tour de France commentary clich�s in my head. "And he will turn his pedals until he can turn them no more", "You can say what you like about this man Paul, but this is one tough bike rider", "And he is suffering now like he's never suffered before in his life and will the summit please appear now".

At 160 miles the bus shelter that I spent the night in after packing 5 years ago was reached. Since it could be more or less guaranteed that plenty of shops would now be open, I donated a water bottle to the shelter's bench as a thank you. The Sun was rapidly ascending in the sky and so a cotton cycling cap was put on to keep the rays off the face. Newark was reached around 0700 and at the north of the town a petrol station appeared on the main Lincoln road. More water and a wonderful bacon and cheese turnover with a tall strong coffee were bought. 

I laughed out loud as I thought about last night's Polo set, who would be nursing hangovers as they leafed through the Times Educational Supplement and Observer Property Guide this Sunday morning. Did their Krug and Beluga taste as good as this salty bacon turnover and hot strong coffee? No - they can't possibly have and it's only cost 4 quid.   

Soon the A1133 to Gainsborough was reached, but alarmingly there was a sign stating that the road was closed due to a level crossing being repaired. There was no way I was going to detour through Lincoln, so I vowed to carry the bike over the barriers if need be. As it turned out, the workmen after joking that I'd have to go back, let me through the pedestrian's cut through. Soon after, a couple of roadies emerged from a side road just ahead of me. One of them kept checking behind, so I said hello and rode up to them. 

"Oh, I thought you were somebody else" he said. After I told him I'd done 190 miles by now, they offered to give me a pull. His mate in the US Postal Service kit rode in front of me as he chatted alongside. I told him about the level crossing affair and he commented that they were dangerous as they were at an angle to the road. I said that we had a set the same in Hull and he was well aware of them as his mate had crashed there and BBC TV's Look North had resolved to get them sorted out. Unfortunately, the rail people blame the council and the council blames the rail people. So nothing gets done. He also mentioned he'd ridden Land's End - John O' Groats a few times using the Fosse Way.

It was much easier having someone to ride with and all too soon they turned off left to cross the Trent. Still, they'd helped pass half a dozen miles or so. It was getting very hot now, almost 30 degrees C and the water intake was much higher than planned. The number of loo stops on the ride could have earned me a dozen ASBOs had any police been around, but at least it meant there was enough water being taken on board in this extreme heat. In Gainsborough, 200 miles were up and I wanted to take a photo of a plaque on the side of the Trent bridge as it was opened by a R.A. Kidd, which happens to be the name of my line manager as well. Getting off the bike I realised the right leg was seizing up solid and it was barely possible to walk.

Thinking there was a fuel filling station to the north of Gainsborough, I ignored the ones in the centre and was dismayed to find there was none. The village of Blyton was only 5 miles away and I knew it had a village shop as I'd used it before. No Mexican food here, so a chicken salad sandwich had to do. Chatting to some old boy with his Sunday papers, I commented (wishful thinking) that I had only 20 miles more to do. "Oh No- it's bit further than that" he said. He was right - it was nearer 40.

Another wrong turn piled on even more unwanted miles as I was drawn towards Scunthorpe against my will. The heat was now intense and I was busting for a pee in the town centre. A local park had a clump of trees where I decided to take a chance just as a young child was walking by. Luckily there were no adults around and I got away with it. Yet more water was bought along with another tortilla as one of the final climbs of the day was attempted. Funnily enough, for some reason it was actually less painful on the right leg to climb a hill than it was to ride on the flat or walk.

In front was another roadie who again said that he thought I was someone else that he knew (as if there are dozens of cyclists with yellow Campagnolo jerseys wearing pink and blue Lampre caps about!). I think that this must be the "chat up line" of bike riders. He was just setting off from Scunthorpe on a 50 mile loop and was concerned about some violent thunderstorms that might brew up. I told him the news coming into my left ear on BBC Radio 5 was that they had already started in Scotland and were heading south. There were no crackles in the earpiece from local lightning though I told him. He passed a few miles with his tales of touring with SunTour microdrive chainsets before I had to visit the bushes yet again and he kept going.

Emerging from the bushes, half a dozen roadies came past and said Hello. I soon caught them up as they seemed to be riding at a slow pace. There was now only 10 miles to go with one of the worst of the day's climbs out of South Ferriby to come, but sat at the back of this paceline of riders, it would be easier. Just before the climb however, they all stopped at a shop for supplies. I joked with one of them that I was hoping they'd help me up the hill and it turned out they were from the Rotherham and Barnsley area - so with 230 miles up, the last hill was tackled, which was every one being seen off without having to get off and walk.


At the top of the hill, with the Humber Bridge in sight, the police were diverting traffic away from the fast descent to the riverbank. This was due to the Hull Rotary Club's 13 mile half marathon. With the temperature now 32 degrees they sure picked a tough day and indeed nearly every "runner" was walking up the hill. There were some people who shouldn't really have attempted this run, with lots of "man breasts" on show - still, they're giving it a go. On the bridge it was an art in itself picking my way through the entrants, trying to aim for the spot they weren't suddenly going to sway into. Here's one runner's account of that day.

I felt like unscrewing the speedo and showing them the 230 miles on it and saying "Do you think you're suffering pal - what about this?" With only 5 miles left to go, the right leg was as good as useless now and home couldn't come soon enough - finally turning into my street I was overcome with emotion and started sobbing for a bit until I pulled myself together and punched the air with delight. 

A meal of rump steak, Dijon mustard, sweetcorn, green beans and jacket potato was waiting in the microwave which, had I been a snake, I'd have unhinged my jaws and shoved the whole plate down my gullet in one go and spat the plate back out. After a quick kip, the words of Lance Armstrong came into my head after he had won the penultimate stage of a Tour de France, which had assured victory in Paris the next day. When asked if he'd be having any beers tonight he replied - "Everyone knows how much I like beer, so we're having beers tonight - definitely having some beers tonight"

235.0 Miles in 16 hours 39 mins.
Average speed 14.5 mph.