Bike: Hunter, a.k.a. Snaggletooth

Yes, this is an entry for two days. No it does not cover two separate legs or rides. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. To quote Mr Bennet, “Read on”.

Another grey dawn. I made myself some porridge for breakfast then did a better job of packing the Viscacha than I had yesterday. I hit the road at 8.00 am.

Morning followers

Then into Bristol I stopped at Mud Dock, but they weren’t yet open for breakfast. If I wanted to make Shrewsbury tonight I couldn’t afford to wait an hour for them to open then spend time over a leisurely fry up so I continued North. Bristol was a nightmare. I followed signs for the A38 to take me out towards the Severn crossing, but then the signs disappeared and my spidey sense of direction told me I was heading the wrong way. Eventually I reached a 5 way junction with no indication of which was I had to go. I could see the back of a sign, but it was only once I had made my lane and route choice that I could see I was on the right road.

I obviously did manage to find my way out of Bristol, and then over the Severn Crossing into Wales.

Severn Crossing

Then straight up the Wye valley from Chepstow to Monmouth. Many years ago Chipps Chippendale and I did an adventure race here. First of all we turned up late the night before and proceeded to hit the red wine. Then we canoed down the Wye from Monmouth to Tintern Abbey in a woefully under-inflated canoe, bumping our arses on the bottom of the river at every set of rapids. Then we ran, or more realistically, jogged and briskly walked from TIntern abbey back to Monmouth. All before cycling back into the Forest of Dean for some nighttime orienteering. It must be said we were hopelessly, embarrassingly rubbish. But we had a fun time being faux rugged and underneath our jovial lackadaisical attitude I think we both knew we could be properly rugged if required.

The spring weather — blowing blossom off the trees onto me — was now warm enough to finally dispense with both knee and arm warmers. Pleasant. Monmouth is a pretty town unspoiled, unfortunately for me, by fast food outlets. The Gatehouse pub was full of unspeakable tourists with unspeakable children “Tarquin, how many times must I tell you it’s pasta not spaghetti”. And they wouldn’t be able to serve me (in an mainly empty pub) for thirty minutes. Then an old boy having a drink advised me to walk 30 yards across the river to The Green Dragon. They were offering Sunday lunch for £6.50 or two courses for £7.50. I call that a result.

So I ordered roast beef with all the trimmings and rhubarb crumble with custard. The Gatehouse was full of tourists, the Green Dragon was full of locals. In my pink lycra I was quite out of place. While I waited and sank a pint of Guinness I saw that the regulars had a paper. Seeing it was the Sunday Sun I asked if there was any coverage of the world track championships. There are some advantages to the Murdoch empire sponsoring Team Sky. There was a picture of Victoria Pendleton in a torn skinsuit after crashing in her heats.

“If she wants anyone to apply ointment, I’m available”, I joked. “I don’t know why red-blooded males follow rugby or football when us cyclists get to look at women like that”, I added.

“Or that nice Chris Hoy!”, chuckled a woman in her early 60s, and everyone in the bar had a good old laugh.

The £7.50 two course Sunday lunch was exactly as you’d imagine a £7.50 two course Sunday lunch. Not gourmet, but more than passable and above all it had quantity.

The weather was once more dull by the time I’d left the pub, replete. As I cycled dead north heading for Hereford I passed a family out cycling. Dad made polite chat and asked what I was doing — I don’t suppose it’s every day you see loaded up singlespeeders. I told him I was cycling Lands End to John O’Groats.

“Do you have satnav?” he asked, ignoring the AA Road Atlas strapped to my bars.

“Oh, no. I just turn left at Bristol then keep going”, I replied.

But in all seriousness all I did need was my atlas. No batteries to worry about and reasonably waterproof.

I pushed on, stopping only to snack on a 1/2 lb lump of cheese in Hereford. While perusing the foods on offer in a service station in walked Gary Crayons, a friend from Preston, and said Hello! He was on his way to a four day holiday in the Forest of Dean and had stopped just to say hi when he’d seen my bike. Completely random and a lovely surprise.

I was working out my average speed and estimated time home in Preston tomorrow trying to work out where to stop tonight if I was to get there at a decent time. Shrewsbury was a good target, Whitchurch would be better. The wind was behind me though and I made good time up through the borders along the A49 which I could follow all the way home.

At Ludlow I switched to night riding mode, aiming to get to Shrewsbury. It was here that I was sure the rear wheel was starting to drag. It seemed to spin freely enough if I picked it up.

I hit Shrewsbury just after 9 o’clock, and full of hunger headed for Pizza Hut. The idea of Pizza Hut is that I can stock up on calories by taking advantage of the unlimited trips to the salad bar. All the potato salad and dressing I can eat. Also, I could get portions of proper fruit and veg.

I left Pizza Hut just before they closed at ten and, feeling much perkier, decided to make for Whitchurch. Arriving shortly after midnight I was still feeling good and decide to carry on. I figured I was still 70 miles from home so would’t get home until late afternoon at best. Could I pull a long one?

I decided to keep going. By now the main traffic on the roads was class 1 HGVs, who I must say were all really good. I would hear them behind me for ages, then the road ahead would be lit up, then they would come thundering past me, not slowing down, but crossing the white line to give me as much room as they could manage. I’m sure that two flashing rear lights, with one at head level made all the difference. The only other traffic was posh sports cars. I figured it must have been Premiership footballers flitting between affairs. Unlike Somerset everyone coming the other way used dipped beam. I had been wondering if it was me, was my LED Maglite not enough for drivers to see. Tonight confirmed that it wasn’t me, it was the drivers in Somerset just being shit.

Just outside Cholmondely it started to drizzle, then properly rain. I didn’t fancy bivvying down in this, and I knew that I had the legs to get from here to Preston. My mind told me the rear wheel was definitely dragging, but I put it down to losing my sense of what constituted a level road. By Cuddington the blackbirds started to wake up. Ten to bloody three and they were starting to shout like little feathered football hooligans. The blackbird may have a pleasant warble, but I’m convinced that it’s mostly just “Come and have a go if you think you;re hard enough” style bluff and bluster.

By Warrington I was properly wet. My Endura jacket was doing it’s best, but when it was as wet as this water does soak in at ends of sleeves, and base.

Traffic had completely disappeared by now, and I was alone on the roads up to Wigan. Several hours of blackbird warbling while being subjected to pissing rain was starting to have an aversion therapy effect, much like Alex in A Clockwork Orange.

Riding out of Wigan towards Eccleston I had my first realisation that I’d just dropped off. Come on Nick. Only two hours from here, tops. The rain still did not relent, but the eastern sky lightened until eventually I was riding in full daylight. The little tweeting blackbirds were really really infuriating me now. Finally I hit the ring road into town. I’d done it.
I made the last two miles to home.

Cold fingers fumbled with house keys and I let myself in. It was 7.30 am. Although I’d stopped for two proper meals that was a 23½ hour leg. I was soaked to the skin, and unusually for me cold to the bone. I stripped off in the kitchen and threw wet kit into the washing machine, made my way upstairs, wrapped myself in the duvet and went instantly to sleep.

Distance today: 208.95, Bristol – Preston
Distance so far: 470.54 miles

Bike: Hunter, a.k.a. Snaggletooth

I was woken in the night by the sound of rain. Inside my sleeping bag I was toasty warm. Too warm and generating condensation. So, warm, and slightly damp. And clammy. Not good.

By 7 o clock it was obvious I was going to have to get moving. As I broke camp it was clear that the clouds that had spent yesterday evening glowering on the horizon had now decided to make their presence felt. Basically, I was inside them.

As soon as I got out of the bivvy bag I was shivering. There was no point in just wearing a windshell today so it was straight into the waterproof. Due to lack of visibility I decided to run both rear lights just for safetys sake.

A couple of miles down the road and I found an open garage and hot tea. Plenty of sugar helped lift my mood. Next planned stop was Bude for breakfast. My route for the day was going to be the “Atlantic Highway”, running up the coast of Cornwall and Devon. We used to camp near Bude as kids. Given the proclivity of campsites even then our financial circumstances meant that we camped in farmers fields. So long as they had a cold water tap and a dusty outside toilet, in which you had to always check for long-legged spiders, we had enough. I don’t know if kids these days would be happy with the lack of amenities but we had football (which I hate), badminton (ditto) and frisbee (worst of the three). Thankfully we were also allowed holiday books; Tintin, Asterix and Roald Dahl stand out in memory.

Near Widemouth Bay the horizon looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recognise and farms in the distance.

Eventually Bude was reached. Morrisons supermarket on the outskirts of town had an outside covered eating area, unused in the wet, but somewhere I could spread out my stuff to dry. Inside I took advantage of cheap breakfast while being able to keep an eye on my stuff. I can recommend the pot of tea, as you get unlimited refills of hot water, so you’ll get at least two decent pots and a vicars. By the time I’d also had the porridge and the fry up I was replete.

Drying out courtesy of Morrisons

The next leg to Barnstaple should have served as a warning for the day. Uphill to the headwaters of the Tamar; you know, the river that comes out in Plymouth. Typically it started to rain again just after I’d decided during a sunny spell that I could discard the waterproof.

There was obviously a reliabilty trial on, and coming the other way was a selection of vintage and not so vintage cars. All had a slight spattering of mud and spare tyres mounted on the boot.

At Barnstaple, 50 miles, I stopped for more protein and fat in the form of KFC. I had just finished working out which pieces of the two piece variety meal to ask for t get the most calories when I watched a couple polish twice as much as I was eating each. Wow, I bet they weren’t going to burn off 7,000 calories in the day either.

Lynmouth descent

More up and down before the excellent Alpine descent into Lynmouth. I was passed on the climb to the stop by a bunch of Satans Slaves. I had been hoping to swing wide on the corners to get an easier gradient but I wasn’t going to get in the way of these bad boys. And after the excellent descent was the horrible 1 in 4 climb out. If I wasn’t loaded, or had been bothered, I could probably have ridden it. But years of 24 hour racing experience have taught me that sometimes it’s better in the long run to get off and just walk. As I reached the top I was congratulating myself on missing the clouds and bad weather hanging over Exmoor to my right when, yes, the weather closed in.

I was just admiring the warning signs for the Fell ponies, definitely doing passage, when I came across a horrible scene. A Volkswagen Golf had crested a rise in the road and hit a pony. Even worse, the owner was already there, and the vet had been called to come and out the poor horse out of it’s misery. I made sure I was wearing bright clothing and had my lights on in the fog.

The descent into Porlock was fun. I managed to catch the car that had passed me before the descent started. Not bad going on wet corners, complete with glistening fuel spills. On knobblies.

At Minehead I snacked and set too crossing the Somerset levels. In contrast to yesterdays night riding experience Somerset was awful. Fully one in two cars coming the other way didn’t bother to dip. Do they not fit dip switches to tractors? By 11.30 I was near Bristol airport. There was little point in continuing and trying to find somewhere to sleep in the city, so I found a quiet spot and called it a day. To reach Bristol had been another 50 miles compared to my 1993 route. To have made it in the same time wasn’t bad on a singlespeed I thought.

Distance today: 142.83 miles, Camelford – Bristol
Distance so far: 261.59 miles

Bike: Hunter, a.k.a. Snaggletooth

The night was cold and fitful. I’d only had four hours restless sleep when the first end-to-enders arrived to start their journey. The Easter weekend is a popular start date as people get ten clear days run at the trip for the cost of only four days holiday. I must say this first bunch were overly cheery.

An hour later at 7:30 another couple turned up. Their support crew actually asked me “where are you going?”, before realising the stupidity of his own question and doing a facepalm.

“I can’t believe I just asked that.”

As they finished their obligatory photos in front of the sign I realise that I too had better make a start. So I rolled up my sleeping bag, mat and bivvy bag, packed, and took my photos.

Start

Once the camera was away I uttered the now traditional phrase to start any long trip, courtesy of Tim Cahill and Garry Sowerby, thanks to their book Road Fever describing their record breaking drive the length of the Americas.

“Let’s see what this baby will do.”

Time of start, 8:20 am.

Things hadn’t yet warmed up and the run into Penzance was freezing. As well as the six riders who had already set off in front of me I counted two more in the car park, saw two bikes on the roof of a car heading for Lands End, and saw clean rider with panniers heading that way too. So at least a dozen LEJOGers setting off before 10 o’clock by my reckoning. I wondered how many would make the trip by next Saturday, giving themselves Sunday to get back home. John O’Groats promised to be busy!

I stopped at the Cornwall Cycle Centre in Penzance to try and meet up with Mike Mulroy, erstwhile organiser of Velocake, who’s Maglia Rosa I was rocking for the first few days of my trip. Unfortunately the shop was closed and I missed Mike. Fortunately the pastie shop was open so there was compensation. It did feel slightly wrong not then going surfing and suffering pastie and seawater burps as I had the crap kicked out of me by Cornish surf.

From here my path diverged from other end to enders as I made my way South, as South as you can get on the mainland to The Lizard. I’ve ridden an end to end before so I wanted to get some other extreme points this time. The windsock at RNAS Culdrose confirmed I had a headwind. What with hanging around in Penzance for Mike, and only running a singlespeed – though I will concede the knobblies were pumped up hard – it was lunchtime by the time I reached The Lizard.

Start, take 2

However it would have been rude not to take tea and scones and jam at the Polpeor Cafe. So that’s what I did. I already had 35 miles under my belt, but being as South as South can be and with all riding to be undertaken now heading North I felt as if I was behind some imaginary schedule. My last end to end had finished in Okehampton on day one, a distance of 100 miles. I was well down on that.

Tea

After polishing off all the butter and jam I set off for the North coast, Newquay. The windsock at RNAS Culdrose confirmed that whilst I had partaken of tea the wind had changed direction and I was cycling into, yes, a headwind.

I passed through Redruth which I was glad to see was “World Capital of Cornish Tin Mining”. Well, that stopped those sleepless nights, tossing and turning wondering where in the world might be capital of Cornish tin mining. At least I knew now it wasn’t somewhere like Coober Pedy.

At 4:51 pm precisely, and I know this because I checked my watch, I passed a sign on the A3075 for Healeys Cornish Cider, sorry, Cyder, Farm. Home of Pear Rattler. I was just rueing the fact they’d only be nine minutes from closing when I passed another sign saying “open until 6pm”. I promptly did the cycling equivalent of the ShakeAway walk* and headed towards the farm. Bless ‘em they even fetched me a cold one out of the fridge.

TK-421 clamours for his share

From there it was but a few miles to Newquay for the first of two Cornish traditions.

Firstly there is “tattoo sleeves” at Fistral Beach for an appraisal of the surf conditions. Named for the advert for some small Peugeot or other. The tide was in and it was as flat as the proverbial witches tit. All in all, disappointing.

Secondly there is the “bloke in a dress run”. This is named for our first weekend here and the man dressed as one of the Pythons pepperpot ladies getting gradually more and more hammered all weekend with his solitary mate. It is amazing how many stag does think that getting the groom to put on a dress is in some way original. Unlike tattoo sleeves this tradition delivered. On the main drag I saw not one, but two blokes in dresses. One in a sailor suit with slightly too short skirt revealing fat, pale, thick, but bandy legs. This one even had people less familiar with Newquay following him and taking pictures. The second was trying to look cool and David Beckhamesque in a sari. He almost carried it off. But not quite.

The worst thing about being in familiar territory is knowing the roads. I had thought of going up the coast road to Padstow via King Surf, maybe even stopping to catch some waves with them. It was too late in the day to meet them now. If I went to see them tomorrow the trip would be well behind my imaginary, yet self-imposed, target of 100 miles per day. And finally I knew how hilly that coast road gets. Very, er, coastal, with lots of descents and corresponding ascents.

So instead I left Newquay out on the A39, the Atlantic Coast Highway, which would get me through Cornwall and Devon. I settled into a nice rhythm. Dusk fell, and I decided I needed to get past the horrible section of the A39 between Camelford and Wadebridge. It’s a narrow, damp feeling valley, even on a Cornish summer day. First time on the trip riding at night and Cornish drivers were really good. Running two rear lights, one at high level on the back of the helmet helped. I explored some side roads looking for a suitable bivvy spot. Despite scratching the backs of my calves – scratches that are still there BTW – I didn’t find anywhere suitable.

Then just outside Camelford itself I spotted an open gate. I checked that the field didn’t contain livestok, wasn’t under plough or crop, then made my way up the headland far enough to be out of sight from the road and settled down. A quick check in with loved ones to let them know I had stopped and was safe and very quickly off to sleep.

Distance today: 103.87 miles, Lands End – The Lizard – Camelford
Distance so far: 118.76 miles

* The immediate change in direction of someone realising that there is a ShakeAway milkshake outlet in the vicinity. The nearest thing is Mexican Buzz Lightyear dancing during the credits of toy Story 2.