At the End of the World

In some ways this day was the hardest. Partly that was because of the wind,
but partly it was because as soon as we got off the Thames ferry in Gravesend we thought we were home. We thought it was just a quick hop, skip and a jump and we'd be finished. In fact it was still another 60 miles. But it was good to be back, in the rolling hills and woodlands, among the oast houses and orchards. We stopped in Headcorn for lunch before pushing on for the coast and Dungeness. When we got to within sight of the power station the landscape changed and, as in Caithness right at the beginning, it felt like we'd reached the end of the world. Which gave the ride a pleasing symmetry: from world's end to world's end. And at the end there was a cluster of people waiting for us and cheering, with bunting, champagne and cake. At the end of our long 900 mile odyssey, they were there to welcome us home. Thanks to everyone who helped and supported us on our way, who's put us up or ridden with us, sponsored us and encouraged us. It was fabulous.

And This Was How It Happened

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All week we could feel the excitement mounting. In every village and every town we passed through there were flags and pictures, posters and notices for street parties and barbecues. And now the day itself was here, the day of the Royal Wedding. We started off with Luke, my nephew, who's not only a keen cyclist, but has the ability to be the next Lance or Eddy, unlike us washed up wannabes. He demonstrated this by riding out with us in the morning. He gamely accompanied us, leading us through bunting-bedecked villages and on to the rolling hills of the Essex borders. He accompanied us, but wasn't really with us; as soon as he spotted a hill he was like a cheetah after antelope, leaving us struggling in his dust. By the time he turned and headed back home our legs were spent and we had to find a café to recover. We stopped in Thaxted, a pretty little medieval village near Saffron Walden. Inside the café the Royal Wedding was playing on three screens. A group of families at the back were being served burgers and chips whilst they watched. They cheered whenever William or Kate appeared. Some of their children waved plastic flags and dressed as princesses. Outside other children rode up and down on BMXs. Across the road medieval oak-framed houses fluttered with union jacks. The road, and all roads that morning, were empty. The sun was sultry, and we sat at a table outside and talked to another cyclist who was travelling the other way, to Cambridge. And this was how it happened, this Royal Wedding, in the heart of the English countryside.

Wind

In the afternoon we entered the flat fenlands of eastern England. The wind whipped across the fields and made our progress by turns torturous, by turns divine. When it was behind us we barely needed to pedal. Like Anthony Hopkins in ' The Fastest Indian' we only had to concentrate on keeping our machines under control in a straight line. But when it was against us we were more like Scott of the Antartic, fighting for every inch of ground gained. The wind played with our minds, and you'd find yourself repeating random snatches of songs, or conversations, or jokes, just to keep yourself sane. Me, I sketched out lists and complaints, against the confused state of the National Cycle Network, against the lacklustre cafes we'd visited between Thurso and here, and against the slow death of the British village. The day's destination arrived not a moment too soon. We made ourselves at home and, when my sister Julie got back from work, spent the evening eating and drinking, talking and laughing, and almost forgot that there were still two days and 150 miles to go.

The Beast of Bilsdale Moor: Photographic Evidence

The photo I loaded yesterday was of the top of the hill. As a result some doubters out there have suggested that the Beast doesn't actually exist, that the light must have been bad, and that we must have mistaken a common or garden domestic hill for the Beast. Fortunately there is some photographic evidence that will scotch these rumours. The attached photo is of the head of the Beast. Note how the road just seems to end. It's at that point that it goes down at a 90 degree angle to the plain below. Behold the Beast!

Finding the Salient Feature

We hit the Humber around noon. In front of us the sullen brown water churned despondently. We looked over to the monumental Humber Bridge and wondered why it was ever made. Sure, it was good for us and our current needs, but it seemed a little over the top as a solution to the problem of connecting one sparsely populated rural county with another. Apparently the Bridge is so wide that the two towers aren't quite parallel due to the curvature of the earth. When it was built it was the largest suspension bridge in the world, and is still the longest that allows bikes. All this to connect Grimsby and Hull. Or Hessle and Barton-upon-Humber. The countryside either side of the Bridge is perfect for fast, purposeful cycling. The rolling Wolds are criss crossed with wide, well maintained roads but little traffic. Olivier, however, still had a problem with Lincolnshire. 'It lacks. . .' he said, when we'd stopped for a bisuit break by yet another enormous field, 'any salient features.' He had a point, but was proved wrong when we got to Lincoln itself. In a sparsely populated county, in a small medieval town, they had managed to created a traffic jam the size of Manchester. The traffic entwined and engulfed the city, clogging the narrow streets and gridlocking junctions. There wasn't even room for bikes to snake past. There were simmering, stationary streams of cars pouring into the city as well as pouring out. It was an awe-inspiring sight. I had a Doodleart poster in the 70s that had imagined a very similar scene, with a future city of flyovers filled with stationary cars. It had been entitled, in that slightly preachy, heavy-handed 70s way, 'Progress?' Well, Lincoln at rush hour might not be Progress, but as a salient feature, it was world class.

Olivier and his Knees

The Beast of Bilsdale Moor

'So are there many hills on that road?' I asked Richard, when I phoned him from Stockton. We were in a bike shop, getting Olivier's wheel replaced. I was phoning my mum to say we'd be there by mid-afternoon. Richard, her husband, had answered the phone. 'Um, one or two. . . ' he replied. What he really meant was, 'abandon hope! You're about to enter a world of pain! The world will turn vertical, a place where farmers only keep their sheep fixed to the hillside with velcro, and shepherds use climbing ropes and crampons.' Sure enough, an hour later we were coughing up blood, wheezing and sweating, leaning forward on our front wheels just to keep them on the road. We should have known it would be like this: the clues had all been there on the map. The tell tale chevrons, the snaking track of the road and, worst of all, the sunburst of a viewpoint close by. Wherever you see that sunburst you know there's a massive great hill in the offing. By the end 'the Beast' defeated us, and we walked the last part. Once over the Cleveland Hills the road was glorious, swooping and turning as it descended into Helmsley. The Beast had been tamed - or, perhaps more accurately, had tired of toying with such poor, defenceless prey - and left us to meekly crawl on to the welcome and comfort of Edstone.

Blossom and the Angel

Last night we looked at the map and balked. Not only did the distance ahead of us seem huge - it spanned three pages of the road atlas - but we had the terrible choice of either climbing to the moors, or fighting our way through the confusion of the Tyneside conurbation. Worse still, the weather on the TV seemed to suggest that the North of England was the only part of the UK that was guaranteed rain. We went to bed filled with trepedation.

But in the morning things looked better. The sun was breaking through the low cloud, and we decided to turn away from the moor and hug the coast. The wind was at our back, and the Northumberland Coast was empty and beautiful. Through the morning we navigated the complex of villages and suburbs to the north of Newcastle, and by lunchtime we were sitting by the riverside, in the shadow of theTyne Bridge. Things weren't so bad after all.

Coming out of the city, the cherry blossom blew down from the trees that lined the road, gathering in the gutter and eddying as cars rumbled by. It was like riding through confetti. And then, through this swirl of spring celebration, the Angel of the North rose on the hill above us. It was so unexpected but welcome, familiar but grand. We stopped and stood beneath it, like all the others there, sucking their ice creams and craning their necks. No one was sure what they should do, what their response should be, but all of us gathered at the feet of the Angel were happy just to be there, in the spring sunshine, with this towering,  other worldly being. Somehow it felt like it had been watching over us, and had provided this good day, against the odds.

The Gorge

Half way up the other side of the gorge I started to question the whole enterprise. We weren't riding the bikes, you understand: we were carrying them, fully loaded with panniers, up the side of a cliff, with no certainty that there'd be a road the other side. An hour earlier we'd fallen in with a group of cyclists who had insisted that, no, the road wasn't a dead end, as the map suggested, but led on to a cycle path that crossed the river. However, when we got there there was nothing but an overgrown field, a rickety metal walk way, and a scrabble up the other side. Olivier had got a puncture and we'd been left behind by the other cyclists before we descended the gorge, and we were facing it alone, unsure if this was even the right route to take. Cursing, we took the plunge and crossed, as bare foot local children playing in the river below looked up at us with questioning eyes. On the other side of the gorge we had to navigate a rape field before finding the civilisation of tarmac again. Back on course we crossed the Tweed, into England, and stopped for tea at a honey farm. It had a café in an old Routemaster bus. The day was taking yet another surreal turn. Amazingly, one of the group of cyclists from earlier was there. 'Did you get over the bridge alright?' he asked, innocently. We weren't sure whether to laugh, or poke him in the eye, but in the end tea and cake were more important and we left him be. The day ended as it began, with rolling countryside, good roads and sunshine. Euan had been with up since Dunbar, and he'd steered us along by the stunning coast road. In the afternoon we'd hit the hills - and the gorges - and the final one before the hostel nearly killed us. But as we crested it Lindesfarne, Bamburgh and the coast were before us and there was a fast descent into Belford. All the hills, all the bad advice and all the gorge climbing bike carrying, all of it, was forgiven.

A Thought for Jacqueline

. . . So which of us should be Jeeves and which Wooster? Perhaps best not to answer that. . .

A Poem for David Coombe

A poem for David Coombe, patron of the Arts, and lover of poetry. 'There once was a cyclist from Kent/Whose talk was very well meant /But when it came to the hills/His legs would stand still/And his passion was suddenly spent.' Not looking at anyone in particular, David. . .

Rain

I'd never been so wet. Even when I'd swum in the sea, and been pulled under by the waves, and tossed and turned so
that I didn't know which way was up, and I was gulping salty water. Even then, I wasn't as wet as I was now, crossing the Forth Road Bridge. When we left Pitlochry the rain had just been a smudge, a suggestion. Round about Perth it was no more than a distraction. But by the time we got to Fife it was biblical. It cascaded down the streets and turned the pebbledashed houses a grim dark grey to match the sky. It needled our faces on the descents and poured off our helmets on the climbs. As we crossed the Bridge we looked west and could see hope on the horizon. There was a smear of aquamarine below the storm clouds. Through the leafy, well-healed suburbs of Edinburgh it slowly dried out and we felt the warmth of the sun on our backs. We cut through the centre of town, and it looked glorious. Ridiculous, spectacular, golden and gorgeous. We hummed along Princes St and down towards Leith Walk. At the youth hostel I clutched the pen and tried to sign in as I registered, but my hand was cold from the rain. I smiled apologetically, leaving them to decipher the scrawl and went to have the hottest, strongest, most powerful shower known to man. After a meal and a couple of pints at Robbie's I felt human again, and ready to face tomorrow. As long as it doesn't rain.

' Touch Not the Cat'

'Touch not the cat but a glove.' That's the motto of the Macpherson clan, which we discovered when we took a detour and stumbled on a memorial to a Macpherson who'd played a major part in the Jacobite Rebellion of 1755. The day up until that point had been sublime: a leisurely trail through stunning scenery with the sun on our faces and the wind at our backs. Sure, Olivier had popped a spoke early on, and we'd trawled the bike shops of Aviemore for a replacement, without luck. 'Touch not the cat,' I warned Olivier, as we stopped by the memorial to take in the view across the valley. 'Touch not the cat but a glove.' But would he listen? Although I didn't actually see him getting friendly with any felines, it's the only explanation for the swift change in the weather. Within 10 minutes the calm had been replaced by a howling head wind. Olivier's gloveless cat shenanigans had obviously unleashed forces in the universe beyond our ken. All afternoon we struggled to make progress, up and over the hills, through Dalwhinnie, and on to the erratic cycle path that shadows the A9. On the outskirts of Pitlochry we stumbled, like characters from Ice Cold in Alex, on a café/knitwear shop, built on a monumental scale. All the customers looked at us in horror, but we calmly had afternoon tea. It was delicious. By the time we got to Pitlochry itself the cat-curse had abated somewhat, enough to let us check in to the hostel and check out the local shops. The Pitlochry economy seems to rely quite heavily on knitwear. Even shops that are predominantly - say - newsagents or stationers can't help but stock a few jumpers. Well, at least it's not vets or pet shops: Olivier will be able to resist the urge to touch any cats. Glovelessly.

The Road from Hell

The road was toying with us. It was playing good cop/bad cop, and was acting both parts. One minute it was all solicitous friend, attentive to our every need. Is the tarmac too rough for you? Here, have a freshly laid, teflon-flat ribbon of bliss. Too much traffic? I'll just remove some of these cars. At other times it was like a brisk civil servant, efficiently and fairly fulfilling it's duties. This is a trunk road, and the traffic must move quickly. But there's room for all, and all have a right to use it. And then at others it was like a monstrous harridan, malicious and vindictive. And powerful. Stop your moaning! Think you've got problems? Well here's a motorway, peopled by nothing but salesmen in a hurry and timber-carrying articulated lorries! It was all terrifying and unsettling, but in the end the road took pity on us, and gifted us a cycle track, that took us gently home. Home tonight is a youth hostel on the edge of the Cairngorms, beatiful in its Germanic love of wooden interiors, and the universal hostel owners' love of passive-aggressive notices. 'Please eat your meals in the kitchen. Thank you.' 'We are not on mains water so our water is extra precious. Please have a quick shower.' 'Please dry yourself in the shower cubicle or the rest of the floor gets too wet. Thank you.' You get the sense that if you stay still too long you'll get a similar notice attached to you. 'Please move as other hostel users cannot make use of this space. Thank you.' Despite - or maybe because of - the iniquities of the petulant road we managed 105 miles today. I say 'because of' as its erratic behaviour made us seek out different routes. At one point we headed for the semi-racist Nigg (which got me thinking of Blazing Saddles), to get the ferry to Cromarty, and cut through the countryside on a less beligerant road. We went 10 miles out of our way, only to find a notice at the ferry point saying they were sorry, but the service wouldn't start again until June. So we had to trudge back and make our peace with the road from hell. Hopefully tomorrow will be less challenging. But tomorrow takes us into the heart of the Cairngorm mountains. . .

Hot Fuzz!

How do you explain the atomic ride to two sceptical policemen on the look out for terrorists? The answer: badly. They'd come up to us as we were taking snaps of each other outside the dounreay site, by the entrance sign. We smiled a lot and tried to look innocent and foolish, which wasn't a great stretch of our acting abilities. Mentioning fukushima was, in retrospect, a mistake, as it made us look even more like eco-warriors. One of them was noting all our drivel down. '. . . and it's also the centenary of Rutherford discovering . . .' I began. 'Rutherford' wrote the sidekick. The chief cut my explanation short. 'Yes, Yes, on your way now,' he said, waving us off and turning away. The road to dounreay had hugged the north atlantic coast, but we turned inland after leaving the police. We went through the heart of the Sutherland grouse moors, and either side of the road mountains stretched brown and black with charred heather. It was erie, alien. When we stopped it was completely silent, save for Olivier bleating about his panniers. Although it was a relatively short day both of us were exhausted when we reached Helmsdale, but there was one more surprise left for us: the hostel was shut. I felt like crying. The idea of food and a shower was all that had kept me going for the last 20 miles. Luckily, like the grail beacon in monty python, a B&B across the road shone the way. It was run by Maggie, who bustled around and made us feel completely at home, even offering to cook up the pasta we'd brought with us. I felt like crying. Again. What can i say? After the train, the policemen, and the moorland cycling, it felt like it had been a long day.

On the Thurso Train

On the thurso train the time seems to slow./We're 1 hour in but 3 still to go./The landscape's okay, but, hey, y'know, /on the thurso train with 3 hours to go.

murmur on the orient express

Imagine trying to get to sleep in a coffin strapped to a roller coaster. No: imagine trying to get to sleep in a coffin inside a washing machine strapped to a roller coaster, and you've got some idea of what it's like trying to get to sleep on the caledonian sleeper. Whilst i love the service in theory, and was excited last night as we strapped the bikes on board, found our 'berths' (Olivier's new word of the day), and pretended it was the orient express, my excitement had paled somewhat in the middle of the night as the train jolted - again - and the mystery rattle rattled - again. I did get some sleep, eventually, but was woken by the guard bringing us coffee. Now we're trundling past aviemore and it's misty outside. We're not in kansas anymore. . .

in London

London, and the city's as wild and loud and dirty and beautiful as ever. The low gold sun blanks the side of the british library, and crackles like a sparkler on the towers of st pancras. I'm sitting outside euston, killing time. It's the ugliest station, but here, in the warm evening with the milling crowds and smell of coffee, it feels buzzy and good. At one side of the square there's a stall trying to sell electronic cigarettes. The salesman explains the benefits, with exaggerated gestures. The statue of stevenson looks on, disapprovingly. I watch the departures board and wait for Olivier.

Fukushima

As well as marking Rutherford's centenary, the Atomic Ride is also raising awareness of all things nuclear, particularly in light of what's happening in Japan. Here's a good summary of how things stand with Fukushima, from the Guardian's Ian Sample.

The Day Dawned

Well excitement's running high with at least one member of the Ward household. I spent last night packing, but also marking out on a big map of the UK exactly where we'd be at different times over the next 11 days. Looking at it like that, it suddenly seems quite daunting...

I think I've remembered everything, but I do have a niggling feeling that I've forgotten something vital. Train tickets? Wallet? I'll only find out what it is when I need it most...

Rutherford's Gold Foil Experiment

One of the things the Atomic Ride is doing is marking the centenary of Rutherford's discovery of the true structure of the atom. Here's a video of a modern recreation of his experiment. Now pay attention: I'll be asking questions at the end.

The Atomic Theory of Bicycles

For anyone interested in bicycles, or atoms, or - even better - the interaction of bicycles and atoms, then Flann o'Brien's masterful The Third Policeman is a must. The plot, and ideas, are too varied and complex to outline here, but one concept which the Policeman comes up with is the the cross over, at atomic level, between bikes and their riders. Sergeant Pluck explains all to the confused narrator:

Do you happen to know what takes place when you strike a bar of iron with a good coal hammer or with a blunt instrument?'

‘What?'

‘When the wallop falls, the atoms are bashed away down to the bottom of the bar and compressed and crowded there like eggs under a good clucker. After a while in the course of time they swim around and get back at last to where they were. But if you keep hitting the bar long enough and hard enough they do not get a chance to do this and what happens then?'

‘That is a hard question.'

‘Ask a blacksmith for the true answer and he will tell you that the bar will dissipate itself away by degrees if you persevere with the hard wallops. Some of the atoms of the bar will go into the hammer and the other half into the table or the stone or the particular article that is underneath the bottom of the bar.'

‘That is well-known,' I agreed.

‘The gross and net result of it is that people who spent most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of each of them and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts who nearly are half people and half bicycles.'

I let go a gasp of astonishment that made a sound in the air like a bad puncture.

‘And you would be flabbergasted at the number of bicycles that are half-human almost half-man, half-partaking of humanity.'

As a result, a man who is more than half bicycle can be spotted as he spends a lot of time leaning with one elbow on walls or standing propped by one foot on kerbstones. Hopefully that won't happen to me and Olivier, though 11 days over the rocky roadsteads of the Atomic Ride could be dangerous...

The Dearth of Cycle Maps

Planning for the Atomic Ride has made me realise what a dearth of good cycle maps there are in the UK. I don't mean the well meaning maps produced by Sustrans, or local councils to try and encourage families to do a five mile tour of local sites of interest. I mean real, useable, everyday maps that highlight all the roads that are good for cyclists: that are quiet, well-tarmacked and (preferably) non-hilly.

When we went to Belgium last summer it was like a cycle map nirvana. Large scale maps were available with roads classified according to cycling provision, whether it be on road or off road, busy or quiet, beautiful or beastly - or both.

I went along to Waterstones and asked what they had. There was, of course Ordnance Survey, but I'd need an extra trailer to carry all the maps we'd need between the north of Scotland and south of England. Otherwise it was 'Cycle Rides to Pubs in Kent', or similar. There was one that claimed to be a cycle planner for the whole of the UK, but was no bigger than a standard OS map, which meant that they could only really fit in the motorways and trunk roads. Hmm.

In the end I went down the road to the more down at heel 'The Works' remainder bookshop. There they had a large scale ring bound motoring atlas. Whilst it didn't have special cycling routes, it did have all minor roads, and made some effort to show where the hills were. It also showed speed cameras, but something tells me we won't be too bothered by the speed police. And it was only £1.99.

I took it home and carefully ripped out and kept only those pages that detailed the parts of the country we'd be going through. So long Cumbria! Goodbye, Western Isles! Arriverderci Cornwall! Auf Weidersen Wales! I've ended up with a Blue Peter-style bespoke cycling atlas. I just hope that we don't get lost too close to the edge of any of the pages...

Books by Weight

Following on from the last post on getting kitted up, I've been trying to work out what the best book to take on the Ride would be. Obviously War and Peace would be out, but then so would - I don't know - Dear Zoo. Ideally, you need a book that is engaging and easy to read at the end of an exausting day, but also short. Or, rather, light.

I remember when I worked at Waterstone's Booksearch, there were some booksellers who would sell books 'by the yard', for pubs and hotels that wanted the authentic look of full bookshelves, but didn't care about the content. I guess I'm wanting something similar, but by weight rather than length. And less is definitely more.

So pretty much anything by Muriel Spark would be good. Heart of Darkness: good. Whitsun Weddings: good. Anything by Ivor Cutler: good. A Man without Qualities: bad. Clarissa: bad.

In the end I've gone for a bit of a compromise, and taken the book I'm currently reading: Ebony Tower, by John Fowles. Engaging enough, but in an old 1970s/80s Pan reprint, which means small. Have you noticed how these days books are always on the large size, and even novellas get the full trade paperback treatment? Doubtless part of the obesity epidemic. I'll make sure to tip off the Daily Mail.

Anyway, another plus of the Ebony Tower is that, because it's a knackered old thing, it can be abandoned along the way if it turns tedious. Which is always possible with Fowles.

Kitted Up

I spent yesterday evening working out what we should take with us on the Atomic Ride. This wasn't as easy as you might think. Sure, well padded shorts and plenty of chamois cream were pretty high up on the list, but trying to predict every eventuality was tough. It's not like Spring is the most predictable of seasons, or there's much in common weatherwise between northern Scotland and the southeast of England.

Couple this with the fact that we want to be practical on the bike, but not look like twats off it, and the pile of clothing soon mounted up. I also had to factor in all the potential mechanical breakdowns we could have. I could almost build a whole new bike with all the spares I'm taking.

By midnight I was surrounded by kit, like William Boot in Scoop, needing only a collapsable canoe and cleft stick to complete the look.

Still, five days to whittle it down to managable proportions. Maybe I should go to the other extreme and take nothing but a Swiss Army penknife? I'll carve myself some clothes along the way...

Atomic Prologue: Downland Spring Sportive, 10 April

Have you ever come across Mamils? Middle Aged Men In Lycra. These curious beasts have become more common lately, and are never happier than when they’re together in large herds, sucking in their bellies and secretly eyeing each other’s cycling equipment. And not smiling. Whatever you do, don’t smile. It’s not aerodynamic.

Fortunately, opportunities for them to congregate are increasingly common, and Olivier and I joined them – as the Mamils we are – for the Downland Spring Sportive on Saturday. This was our chance to test out our levels of fitness, and we used it as a prologue to the Atomic Ride. Would we make it round the 70 mile circuit of Kent’s hilly terrain, or would we limp home, battered and beaten by those three monstrous sisters: the Lympne, Hythe and Peene Hills?

It was a beautiful morning, and we arrived slightly late, the majority of Mamils having made an early start to avoid the embarrassment of being overtaken. Olivier was overdressed, and faffed around with layers of clothing, whilst I ate all the complimentary tea and biscuits. Leaving Downland we headed north up the Whitstable Road, clicked along the way by the sportive photographers, who massaged our egos into thinking we were les champions de monde.

Through the Shepherd Neame country between Wye and Faversham, the sun glinted on the cowls of the oast houses, and we were overtaken by a muscle bound peleton. Luckily gravity worked against them on the hills, and all that muscle pulled them backward, leaving us to shimmy by and get the imaginary polka dot jerseys. Out of Wye and down on to Romney Marsh, we got sucked into the slipstream of a peleton that was steaming along at 30ish. It was dreamlike and effortless.

We stopped for food at Ruckinge, before tackling the mighty 1 in 1 Lympne Hill. This was only the prelude to Hythe and Peene, and by the end we were barely going at walking pace. However, the road levelled after we’d crested this, save for some aftershocks, and we cruised back to Canterbury via Stelling Minnis.

Exhausted, we punched our time cards and made for the pub. Purely to replenish liquids, you understand. In the end we came 21st out of 102: a very respectable result, and a good foundation for the nuclear spring to come.