It was about 3am on the Saturday morning, closing in on 36 hours of pedalling, when issues began to get attention-grabbing. The finer factors are sketchy, however It was me and one other man, I keep in mind that a lot. We have been within the wilds of Kent, driving by means of a claustrophobic part of bridlepath, a sunken holloway lit by the highly effective lumens of our lights. I began to flag and signalled for my driving companion to rein within the tempo – he had been gunning it for a lot of kilometres now and I used to be starting to marvel the place he’d received his legs from. “Hey, wait, I’m falling off the again right here!” He ignored me and saved driving, quick. I pressed the difficulty: “Mate, I’ll allow you to go, that is too sizzling for me.” Nonetheless nothing.
I received out of the saddle and chased him all the way down to inside just a few ft of his rear wheel. In a slightly weird sequence of occasions, my driving companion then proceeded to fragment into numerous tiny particles and dissolve into the night time sky. With that, he was gone. Both this man actually wasn’t within the temper for a chat or I used to be hallucinating. I ended my bike and slapped myself onerous throughout the face. Coming-to from some type of reverie, I deduced that my erstwhile driving companion had by no means existed. I used to be alone within the darkness with a mind working as successfully as a thrice-used teabag. And issues weren’t about to enhance…
I used to be driving the Nice British Escapades, a 500km off-road extremely occasion held over the second weekend in June and organised by Kevin Francis, who additionally designed the Nice British Divide, one of many nation’s flagship ultra-cycling occasions. I exploit the time period ‘occasion’ advisedly – technically, this isn’t a race however 310 miles only for the hell of it. So why the hell was I doing it? Nicely, at 46 years previous, my top-end efficiency isn’t going to threaten the enterprise finish of any leaderboards, however the advantage of getting older – aside from getting enthusiastic about backyard centres – is that endurance efficiency isn’t vastly compromised. Kind-one muscle fibres rule for the middle-aged; we’re very a lot the tortoises to Era Z’s fast-twitching hares. The Escapades would swimsuit my aged efficiency traits, or so I hoped.
I might be driving by means of two nights throughout a number of the hardest terrain in south-east England. I used to be assured I had the bodily capacity, however mentally this is able to be above and past something I’d tried earlier than – to not point out the logistics. Sure, the Nice British Escapades can be a real take a look at of my middle-aged mettle. This was an opportunity to see how far I might cycle in a single sitting, and if I received by means of it, how I might measure up towards the remainder of the sector.
At St Martha’s Church, 110 miles begin to take their toll
(Picture credit score: Future)
Soggy begin
Two full nights lay forward of us, however only a few clicks out of the beginning gate at Patrixbourne my ideas weren’t on darkish forests however on the tropical rain clouds at the moment emptying their contents over my head. Opposite to current climate forecasts, all 103 individuals of the Escapades have been bearing the brunt of a vehement downpour. There we have been in our slickest summer time apparel getting soaked to the pores and skin. Many round me laughed on the ridiculousness of the scenario – how else might we react? Crying would’ve solely made us wetter. After two hours of being subjected to Mom Nature at her most scornful, the solar slowly emerged by means of dispersing clouds. However alas, we weren’t handled to its heat for lengthy, and simply as Rochester, Kent, some 50 miles into the journey, materialised on the horizon, the final gentle of the day ebbed away and we rode into the primary night time of the Nice British Escapades.
I had packed gentle. Ludicrously gentle. My sleeping gear consisted of, nicely, nothing. My ideas previous to driving have been that if I had nothing to sleep on, I might not try sleep, thereby saving time. My contingency plan – within the occasion my physique demanded sleep – amounted to hypothermia and, as a really final resort, loss of life. Because the night time sealed off the world save for the trail lit by my helmet and handlebar lights, I adopted the well- trodden North Downs Manner west in one thing resembling cruise management.
By this time, the sector had nicely and really fragmented. I noticed nobody forward of me and nobody behind me. Sometimes I’d catch a flicker of a again gentle in a distant woodland however for now I used to be very a lot alone – simply tapping away on the pedals making sluggish however regular progress. At 3am – simply earlier than descending the zig-zags of Field Hiil – I went to take a drink from my Camelback and was rewarded with nothing however a dry gurgle. If an ultra- driving handbook existed, the primary line on the primary web page would learn one thing like: “On no account run out of meals and water.” Reaching into my again pocket for a fistful of Haribo solely to rustle an empty packet, I discovered that I had contravened rule one and dedicated the cardinal sin. Fortunately, nonetheless, this was an space I knew nicely, and if my calculations have been right, the night time porter on the lodge on the backside of Field Hill would simply be coming- to from a doze. Time to present him one thing to do…
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Fortunately he let me in, and I necked a carafe of water within the foyer. The bleary-eyed porter checked out me like I’d misplaced my thoughts. I needed to clarify that I’d solely briefly misplaced it, however I wasn’t certain both of us have been within the temper for existential chit-chat – nor was he amenable to my request for a fast sausage and bacon butty with lashings of HP sauce. So I took my go away and headed again out onto the path. It was whereas making my means throughout Ranmore Frequent, because the beginnings of the daybreak refrain began to permeate the air, that the oh-so- acquainted feeling of bonking overtook my physique. And to make issues worse, I’d simply received a puncture.
It’s in an hour of want that you simply uncover the very best of humanity. Living proof: having managed to plug the aperture in my tubeless set-up, I hooked up the adapter to the valve, went to take the primary stroke and fairly inexplicably pulled my pump aside. So there I sat. Deflated, bereft and really hungry certainly. 5 minutes later, nonetheless, the cavalry arrived. I’d ridden with Francis Barnett earlier than, through the Pennine Rally, when our paces had appeared carefully matched, and likewise right here: after 110 miles of Escapades, he was simply minutes behind me. “How’s it going?” enquired Francis, handing me a pump.
“Middling to honest,” I replied, “however I’ve balls-ed up my fuelling once more.” “Would you like a double cheeseburger? “ he requested.
I continued pumping, laughing on the absurdity of his supply. Who the hell carries a double cheeseburger round with them? He held it out to me, the McDonald’s- emblazoned wrapper rustling as I incredulously took it from him. Was this too a hallucination? Had I fallen asleep within the woods and entered a trailside reverie involving quick meals? I saved a detailed eye on Francis, ready for him to show into Ronald McDonald as I took my first chew. As squashed and mangled because it was – Francis had picked it up 60 miles again, in Rochester – this was the very best burger I’d ever tasted. Likewise, Francis was promoted there after which to the very best particular person on the earth.
Tackling the South Downs in Haribo-powered zombie mode
(Picture credit score: Future)
How you can trip the Escapades
About: Beginning simply outdoors of Canterbury, Kent, the route rapidly picks up the North Downs Manner till it alights 120 miles later close to Guildford in Surrey. The course then meanders south, linking byways and bridleways by means of Haslemere, Hindhead and over the Satan’s Punchbowl in direction of Blackdown. Selecting up the acute undulations of the South Downs Manner at Graff ham, West Sussex, riders head east into East Sussex and to Eastbourne earlier than a collection of lanes and cycle paths ultimately deposits all who’ve made it this far again into Canterbury.
Trip highlights
Rochester: Rochester makes the map highlights by advantage of the presence of a McDonalds. It is a final likelihood to refill on savouries earlier than driving into the night time.
St Martha’s Church: By the point you attain this little chapel, you might really feel the will to pop in for a fast prayer. St Martha’s comes after some 110 miles of robust driving and is located on the summit of a steep hill.
Amberley Mount is arguably the steepest slope on the South Downs Manner. It stands tall, trying to repel anybody who dare scale its precipitous gradients.
Firle Beacon is the longest climb on the South Downs Manner and comes simply because the 200-mile mark ticks over.
The Cuckoo Path offers riders the possibility to see if they’ve something left within the legs. The 14-mile cycle path is fl at, a really welcome respite from the SDW’s brutal gradients.
Kebabs and carnage
It was 11am when the South Downs first emerged on the horizon. By this time I’d been driving for 18 hours straight and lined 160 miles. In accordance with my tracker, I used to be at the moment trundling alongside in fifteenth place. The Nationwide Park’s neatly nibbled contours have been a really welcome sight, marking simply over half-distance. The South Downs ridgeline, although not as spectacular as Snowdonia or as visually placing because the Lake District, is for me traditional British countryside at its very best and stays my favorite place within the UK.
However now, hike-a-biking out of Graffham on a slope so steep {that a} misplaced foot would see me tumble again to the village in a ball of Spandex and bicycle baggage, I didn’t admire the South Downs Manner. My leg energy had already been restricted to Zone 2 on the very most, and the following 75 miles to Eastbourne have been repeatedly undulating. There was no different possibility. I must eat my means again to Canterbury. This was not a motorcycle trip. It was a quest to redefine the bounds of human calorie consumption. Having stocked up on the little comfort retailer in Graffham, my cheeks bulged with Haribo as I traversed the South Downs Ridgeway. Because of my relative heft, nonetheless, and the power it required to heave my ample body up and down the climbs, it wasn’t lengthy earlier than I’d put paid to half a dozen packets. This was proving fairly a pricey train…
Driving by means of the midsummer warmth – up Amberley Mount to Washington, from the Satan’s Dyke to Ditchling Beacon and past – it was attention-grabbing to notice that there was not any bodily or psychological ache current. I used to be absent-mindedly propelling myself throughout the panorama looking for out sustenance; it was all very Night time of the Residing Lifeless. Nevertheless, after lastly reaching the dogleg the place the South Downs Manner meets the 100-mile residence straight again to Canterbury, I discovered myself revitalised, pressing, with a contemporary sense of objective. I remembered that this occasion really had an ending.
Now driving with Adam and Tom (actual riders, not illusions) who have been additionally euphoric to have left the godforsaken gradients of the South Downs, we made a pledge that the primary city we got here throughout would bear witness to an unprecedented feeding frenzy. We needed sizzling savoury meals and by god we needed it now. We have been at the moment sustaining positions 12-14th and a strong hit of salt would replenish some much-needed electrolytes. The poor individuals of Polegate, th en, didn’t know what had hit them when quarter-hour later we rampaged by means of city from chip store to chip store looking for each final portion of halibut that remained at 9pm. Ultimately we chanced on the motherload, a kebab store, which glistened with a utopian aura amid a parade of retailers – angels sung, a harpsichord performed, the spinning stick of thriller meat turned in beautiful circles. We levitated in direction of it. It was feeding time on the zoo. Pure savagery. Excessive bodily and psychological fatigue mixed with an unlimited quota of meals can finally lead solely to at least one factor. Sleep. We have been now some 32 hours into the trip and though I took a catnap coming down Ditchling Beacon – it’s genuinely wonderful what just a few fi ve-second snoozes can do the necessity to lie down was now pressing. So after driving an additional 15 miles up the Cuckoo Path, my acquaintances determined that this was the one plan of action and promptly handed out in a ditch. As for me, having nothing to sleep on, there was no different possibility than to trip on.
It was about now that I began driving with the chap who rudely turned out to be a figment of my creativeness, the fi rst of many hallucinations. After he’d taken his go away, I slowly navigated my means round Bewl Water – feeling like I might have drunk the entire reservoir, such was the eff ect of the salt from the quick meals frenzy in Polegate. Nevertheless it was 3am and the world was shut. I sat down on the pavement and took inventory. The air in my again tyre was slowly ebbing away, there was no battery left on my cellphone, and I used to be on the verge of consuming from a puddle. Self-preservation prevailed: I set my Garmin for essentially the most direct path to the fi nish and pedalled crestfallen into the rising solar.
My Nice British Escapades got here to an impromptu halt in a spot aptly named Wye, in Kent, at 6am. My again tyre was now flat, my pump was nonetheless damaged – and Wye had a practice station. So with 280 miles on the clock, and 38 hours of driving time beneath my belt, sitting in twelfth within the rankings, I known as it quits with simply 20 miles to go. Am I disillusioned? Sure, in fact – however classes have been learnt and expertise gained. The actual fact I used to be driving in direction of the sharp finish of the race (sorry, trip) has cemented my perception that, relating to endurance, age is only a quantity. This was an journey, a life-affi rming, rip-roaring roister round England’s rural south-east, and you’ll wager a bivvy bag to a barn dance that I shall be again to proper a 20-mile fallacious subsequent yr.
